of her skin. Heart jumping, Clare set her hand on the planks and peered through a knot-hole.
‘Who’s there?’
A cream-coloured tunic stretched across a wide chest. A silver cloak pin held a green cloak in place. ‘Good day, ma dame. Sir Arthur Ferrer at your disposal.’
Nell’s champion. Clare glanced at Nicola and heard a light snore. Nicola usually had trouble sleeping and Clare was loathe to disturb her. Sir Arthur was surely no threat. Last night she had learned that he had indeed been sworn to Count Lucien before he had taken charge of the Guardians. Sir Arthur had known Geoffrey. She could surely speak to him outside the house, it would only be for a moment. Telling herself this knight couldn’t possibly know what had brought her to Troyes, she lifted her cloak from its peg and unlatched the door. She was unveiled—no matter, this wouldn’t take long.
‘Good morning, Sir Arthur.’ She gave him a quick curtsy. Sir Arthur’s hair was brown, thick and glossy. He was wearing his sword, but there was no sign of his squire or the grey destrier. At a guess, he had walked from the garrison as it wasn’t far. ‘My apologies for not inviting you in, sir, but there’s only one chamber and Nicola is sleeping.’
‘Geoffrey’s mother?’
‘Yes, she sleeps so poorly, I don’t want to wake her.’
Clare paused, hoping he would state his business at once. With a sinking heart, she saw his dark gaze shift from her eyes to her hair. Swiftly, she pulled up her hood. Lord, but her looks were such a curse. If there was anything that proved that God must love irony, it was her colouring. He gives me every reason to want to escape notice and then curses me with dramatic red hair and odd eyes.
‘Did Count Lucien ask you to visit, sir?’
His eyes held hers. ‘What is your name?’
‘I am called Clare.’ If Clare had ever been christened, she had never known it. Clare was the name she had chosen for herself after she had fled Apulia.
‘Clare,’ Sir Arthur murmured, studying her eyes. He shook his head. ‘I thought your name might mean something, but...’
‘Mon seigneur?’
A muscle flickered at the side of his jaw. ‘I am a knight, mistress, not a lord.’
‘Sir?’
‘Never mind.’ His thumb tapped the hilt of his sword. ‘Your accent is unfamiliar, you were not born in Troyes.’
‘No, sir.’
The dark eyes looked at her. Then, to her astonishment, he crooked his arm at her. ‘You will walk with me a while.’
Clare hesitated. She was reluctant to walk abroad with a knight from the garrison, she didn’t trust men, but she recognised a command when she heard one. Telling herself that a knight once sworn to Lord d’Aveyron would hardly carry her off in broad daylight, she laid her fingers lightly on his arm and he drew her down the street, towards the square. She began to pray.
Dear Lord, let Paolo have been mistaken. If the slavers were in town and saw her...
‘I cannot be long, sir. Nell might come back and—’
‘Nell?’ The handsome face relaxed. ‘The little girl who gave me her favour?’
‘Yes.’
‘We won’t go far. There is a matter I must discuss with you out of earshot of Geoffrey’s mother.’
There was a thudding in Clare’s ears as her fears rushed in on her. Was this about Geoffrey? Or had Sir Arthur discovered her secret? Had her master in Apulia discovered her whereabouts?
Slavery was not permitted in Champagne. It was the reason Clare had come to Troyes. But she had learned from what had happened to Geoffrey that injustices still abounded. She lived in dread of the knock on the door, of the moment when she learned that the slaver known as the Veronese had found her.
I will never go back. Never!
‘Sir Arthur, you...’ she took a deep breath ‘...you are Captain of the Guardian Knights, are you not?’ Nicola had told her as much last eve, when Clare had brought an overexcited Nell home. The child had talked non-stop about ‘her knight, Sir Arthur’. It was a wonder any of them had got any sleep.
Sir Arthur nodded and Clare kept telling herself that she had nothing to fear from him. It wasn’t easy convincing herself. This man was a stranger and, until Geoffrey had brought her to his mother’s house, strangers hadn’t shown her much kindness.
The square opened out in front of them, it was almost deserted. A few hens were scratching in the dirt outside the tavern; two women were folding sheets in front of one of the tall, wood-framed houses; and a boy was staggering under the weight of a huge bucket, slopping water as he went.
‘Were you married to Geoffrey?’ Sir Arthur asked, bluntly.
Clare blinked. ‘No.’ Geoffrey had been good to her, more than good. He had offered to marry her, thinking marriage to him would protect her in the event that the Veronese ever found her, but he had understood her reluctance. Marriage was, to Clare’s mind, only a small step above slavery. In any case, Sir Geoffrey of Troyes had no business marrying a runaway slave. Even if she had wanted to marry Geoffrey, she would have refused him. As she would refuse any man. Marry? Never.
‘He was your lover?’
Squaring her shoulders, Clare met that dark gaze directly. ‘I fail to see why I should answer that, sir. It is none of your affair.’
His lips twitched in amusement and her breath caught. When he lost that stern expression, Sir Arthur was heart-stoppingly attractive.
‘Perhaps you are in the right. My apologies, ma dame—or should I say ma demoiselle?’
‘As you wish, sir.’
‘Ma demoiselle, it shall be then, ma demoiselle Clare. At yesterday’s tournament, a man approached you at the stands. Would you care to tell me what he said?’
‘He... I...I do not know him well, sir.’
‘That tells me nothing.’ The dark eyes never left her. Sir Arthur drew his eyebrows together. ‘It seemed to me you were afraid of him.’
Clare bit her lip. Instinct was telling her that she could trust this knight, but that didn’t mean she was ready to confess to being a runaway slave.
And it certainly didn’t mean she was ready to tell him what had happened between her and Sandro...
‘I believe the man to be a merchant from abroad,’ Sir Arthur was saying. ‘I would be grateful if you could tell me what he said.’
‘His name is Paolo, Paolo da Lucca, and he is indeed a merchant. He said nothing of note.’
Sir Arthur’s face became stern. ‘Ma demoiselle, I should like you to tell me what you know of him.’ The broad shoulders lifted. ‘Otherwise, what must I think but that you are hiding something?’
Briefly, Clare closed
