mother, leaving her to give birth alone. It was common enough. And after that, anything might have happened—her mother might have died, or she might have abandoned her baby. And then, by some tortuous means which Clare had never hoped to unravel, she had ended up enslaved. Her memory began in her master’s house in Apulia, a place which by any reckoning was a world away from Brittany. She remembered nothing before then.
And here was Sir Arthur telling her she might be the daughter of a Breton count...
Quietly, she hugged herself. For the first time, she was on the brink of learning the truth of her background. She had somewhere to go and reason to hope that she might be able to stop looking over her shoulder. Was she going home at last?
Of course, there was much to overcome. What would her father think of her? Sir Arthur was clearly so honourable he couldn’t imagine a man refusing to acknowledge his daughter. Clare’s experiences had taught her otherwise—Count Myrrdin de Fontaine could easily reject her. Not to mention that his true-born daughter—this Countess Francesca—might resent the appearance of an illegitimate sister. Countess Francesca might hate her.
Her path was strewn with obstacles, yet, for the first time in an age, Clare had hope and somewhere to go.
Sweet Virgin, let Count Myrrdin be my father. Let him acknowledge me.
Sir Arthur was making his way back through the tables, bearing a jug of wine and some clay cups. As he took a seat on the bench opposite, he nodded briefly at her. Filling a cup, he slid it towards her.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Sir Arthur was good-looking in the rough-hewn way of the warrior. Nell’s knight. His nose had a slight kink in it, likely it had been broken at some joust. His brown eyes were striking, dark and penetrating. Though Clare hardly knew him, she had already seen kindness in those eyes. Kindness was a rare quality, particularly in a knight. He had handled Nell with great tact when she had offered him her favour—a lesser man might have mocked the child.
This evening, Sir Arthur’s hair was ruffled from his ride, thick glossy strands caught the light. His mouth—Clare’s gaze skated past when she found herself staring at it—was nicely shaped, even if at the moment it was unsmiling. A haze of stubble darkened a square jaw. If she were to choose one word to sum him up, it would be the word strong. Except it didn’t do him justice. He was so tall, so large—the width of his shoulders... Sitting opposite him, Clare felt tiny.
Sir Arthur was Captain of Count Henry’s Guardian Knights and it was incredible to think that for the next few days he would be her escort. Saints, she had a knight as her escort! How strange life was. For years she had needed help and lately two knights had ridden to her rescue. First her Good Samaritan Geoffrey, and now Arthur. Sir Arthur, she corrected herself. Of course, Geoffrey had turned out to be less than perfect, but Sir Arthur—covertly she studied him—Sir Arthur seemed to be cut from different cloth.
He tossed back his wine and poured another. Still unsmiling.
He is displeased. Count Henry has asked him to be my escort and he resents it.
The thought was upsetting. Did Sir Arthur think it beneath him to have to guard a girl who might be Count Myrrdin’s by-blow? She dreaded to think how he would react should he discover that she was a runaway slave from Apulia. ‘Sir?’
The dark eyes turned to her, and her stomach swooped. His rough-hewn looks were dangerously appealing and she was reluctant for him to know it.
‘How long will it take for us to reach Fontaine, sir?’
He grimaced. ‘This is the worst time of year for travelling, so it’s hard to be precise, much will depend on the weather. But I would imagine it will take several days.’
‘Several days?’
‘Three weeks. Maybe even a month.’ An eyebrow lifted. ‘If you can ride, it won’t take as long.’
Clare bit her lip. ‘I don’t ride, sir.’
‘I didn’t think you would, but Count Henry has lent you a Castilian pony from his stables. If you’re willing to learn, you may try her out tomorrow. Otherwise, you’ll have to ride pillion with me.’
His tone was so brusque it left her in no doubt that if that were to happen, he would be most disgruntled. ‘Very well, sir, I will try the pony tomorrow. Sir Arthur?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You would rather have remained in Troyes? It displeases you to take me to Brittany?’
He toyed with his wine cup. ‘I have duties in Troyes.’ He shrugged. ‘However, my liege lord has commanded me to take you to Brittany and I must obey.’
Her heart sank—there was no doubt, he misliked having to escort her to Fontaine. Was it because she was baseborn? Or was there more to it than that?
Beneath the table, her hands balled into fists. This man had been kind to her. And his diligence in looking for her after she had sent him that letter had been ill rewarded—he’d been given a commission he resented. ‘I am sorry you have been inconvenienced.’
He glanced pointedly at her damp hair. ‘It’s not the best time of the year to be on the roads, as you have already discovered. Hopefully, we will complete the journey in good time.’
He stared into the fire, and a small silence fell.
Clare sighed. It was a pity he viewed her as a nuisance, but there was little she could do about it. And she was bursting with questions. She unballed her fists and reached for her wine cup. ‘Sir?’
‘Ma demoiselle?’
‘I will be quiet if you wish it, but there is much I would ask you...’
‘Please...’ he gestured at her to continue ‘...I am at your disposal.’
‘Sir, you said that Count Myrrdin is a widower. When did his wife die?’
‘I am not certain, but I believe she died giving birth to their daughter, Countess Francesca.’
Clare leaned forwards. ‘If I am acknowledged, Countess Francesca will be my half-sister. How long has she been married?’
‘I believe she married a couple of years ago.’
‘To the Count of the Isles?’
‘He is also known as Tristan le Beau.’
Grasping her wine cup, Clare absorbed this. Tristan le Beau—Tristan the Handsome. Another great lord whose name she was clearly meant to recognise. It meant nothing to her. ‘And like my father he is a count,’ she murmured. ‘A Breton count?’
‘Count Tristan has lands in Brittany and in the Aquitaine.’
So, if Sir Arthur was correct, she was to have a sister—a countess!—with lands in Brittany and the Aquitaine. She opened her mouth to ask more, but the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the young lad whom Clare had seen earlier. He turned out to be Sir Arthur’s squire, Ivo. By the time introductions had been made, a serving boy had appeared. Steaming bowls of mutton stew and several slices of wheat bread were placed in front of them.
Clare’s mouth watered. She’d missed the noonday meal, and couldn’t recall when she’d last eaten meat. Her stomach growled.
‘I’m starved,’ Ivo said, reaching for his spoon.
Murmuring agreement, Clare bent over her stew. The questions were piling up, but she was reluctant to discuss her altered circumstances in front of Ivo. One last, practical question sprang to mind and it refused to go away.
Sir Arthur, where will I be sleeping tonight?
* * *
With his belly full and his bones warmed through, Arthur set down his spoon. Clare had looked half-dead when he had found her, a pale, bedraggled waif with her hair plastered against her head. No longer. Colour was creeping back into her cheeks and tight curls were springing