‘Couldn’t you speak to André before you speak to Sir Raphael? Please, Gawain.’
* * *
What it was to be a man of influence, Elise thought. An hour had passed with a flurry of messages winging back and forth between her pavilion and the garrison. Poor Aubin must be worn out with all the toing and froing. But the upshot of the messages was that Gawain had apparently secured lodgings for Vivienne and the babies—not in his nearby manor, but in a house in the Rue du Cloître.
It seemed there would be space there for Elise too. Since Gawain had explained that he was betrothed, his reluctance to have her lodging in his manor was entirely understandable. However, knowing why he refused to entertain her there hadn’t made Elise feel any better. She felt sick to her core, but it was obvious that ensconcing his former lover and his love child in the family manor would not endear him to his future wife.
Elise wondered whether she would be able to stand living in town—she was bound to feel confined. However, stand it she must if she and Pearl were to stay together.
Thus it was that Gawain and Elise returned to Troyes, to the Rue du Cloître.
Mouth dry, Elise found herself standing in the street gazing at a small house. It was the only stone-built house in the street. A Romanesque arch was filled with a heavy wooden door. Rather ominously, it was studded and banded with iron.
A large key was produced and they went in. Despite the afternoon heat—the town was sweltering—it was cool inside. Cool and dark. Gawain flung back a shutter and hinges groaned. A spider scuttled across the floor and on to the hearth. It vanished into a crack in the plaster. There were bars on the windows. Elise took a shaky breath. There was also dust on the floor, enough for her to draw a circle in it with her foot. Her nose wrinkled. ‘What is this place?’
‘It’s been empty for some time. I believe Count Henry uses it as a storeroom from time to time.’
She eyed the bars. ‘Are you sure it isn’t a prison?’
‘Quite sure.’ Gawain dragged his hand through his hair. ‘Elise, we were lucky it was free. The town is bursting at the seams because of the fair.’
‘I know. Thank you for securing it for us. I really didn’t want to be kept from Pearl.’ She made her voice bright. ‘And it’s not very dirty—nothing a broom and a few pails of water won’t fix.’
A narrow stairway led to an upper chamber. The window there—it was also barred—looked out over the Rue du Cloître. Elise could see the top of the cathedral over the roofs of the houses. She would be able to hear the cathedral bells mark out the hours. She sighed. There would be rules here in Troyes, and they would be almost as stringent as the Rule at the convent. She thought she had escaped all that. She thought wistfully of the freedoms of Strangers’ City. ‘I wish you’d let us stay in the pavilion.’
‘You’ll be safer here.’
Elise nodded. What Gawain wasn’t saying was that the Guardian Knights could keep more of an eye on them here. It was close to the garrison. And however much he denied it, the barred windows put her in mind of a prison rather than a storeroom. At least there was plenty of room. Their pallets and the babies’ cribs would easily fit in. The upper chamber even had a fireplace.
‘Not that we will need a fire upstairs at this time of year,’ she said, thinking aloud as they made their way back downstairs.
‘It’s acceptable?’
‘Thank you, yes.’ Understanding that he was doing his best for them, she forced a smile. ‘Given you insist on tearing us away from the encampment, I really am grateful not to be separated from Pearl.’
He was looking at her mouth and her heart stuttered. It hadn’t been easy for her seeing him again—telling him about Pearl; fighting not to be separated from her. But it wasn’t easy for him either. Gawain’s expression was tense—there was a tightness about his lips that she’d never seen before. She was responsible for it. Seeing her again, learning about Pearl just as he was about to meet Lady Rowena. I hope that woman appreciates her good fortune.
‘My lord, I am truly sorry to put you to all this trouble.’
‘It is no trouble,’ he said, turning for the great oak door. ‘My sergeant will see the house is swept out, and then Aubin and the men can shift your belongings over here. It shouldn’t take long to settle in.’
* * *
The sky was streaked with crimson and gold, the light was going. Swifts were screeching through the air over the tents and pavilions of Strangers’ City. Pennons hung limp, as though they too were wilting in the heat.
Gawain glanced at Aubin. Their horses were stabled back at the garrison and he and his squire were sitting on cross-framed canvas stools outside the ale tent. They were trying to look as though they belonged there, so their tunics bore no insignia. Gawain had ordered Aubin to wear a short sword.
Gawain kept his gaze trained on the purple pavilion. No one had gone near it. André de Poitiers had yet to return.
‘He’s late,’ Gawain murmured. Aubin nodded, but said nothing. Gawain had told the boy not to address him by his title and he suspected he was afraid to open his mouth.
The swifts hurled themselves through the sunset. Campfires flickered into life, the glow of the fires warring with the violet twilight.
Once again, Gawain glanced towards Elise’s pavilion. He swore under his breath.
Aubin looked at him.
‘No fire,’ Gawain muttered. ‘With Elise and Vivienne in the Rue du Cloître, their fire isn’t lit. If the lute-player notices, he might become suspicious. Especially if he has something to hide.’
For the women’s sake, Gawain hoped his fears regarding André de Poitiers were unfounded. Sadly, his instincts were telling him otherwise—André de Poitiers was up to his neck in trouble. Captain Raphael had come to the same conclusion and consequently the Guardian Knights were out in force. Every half an hour or so, the chink of harness and the plod of hoofs alerted Gawain—and everyone within earshot—that they were on patrol.
‘They’re far too conspicuous.’ Gawain grimaced. ‘I’m convinced a more covert approach is called for.’
He was sipping his ale—watery as it was, it was welcome in the heat—when Aubin dug him in the ribs. ‘Over there.’ His squire spoke quietly. ‘At the end of the line.’
Between the lines of tents, a woman was striding through the dusk. As she passed a fire, the glow silhouetted her shape—her gut-wrenchingly pretty and familiar shape. Elise!
Gawain gripped his ale pot. ‘What the blazes is she doing here?’ She should be making herself at home in the Rue du Cloître. ‘Blast the woman.’
Elise paused by the ropes of a makeshift paddock that was full of mules and donkeys. Gesturing for a groom, she slipped something into his hand. Gawain felt himself tense. What was that all about? Vivienne had mentioned travelling in a cart. If they had a cart, they probably kept a mule. His tension eased. Likely Elise was ensuring the animal was cared for in her absence.
He saw her pat the boy on the shoulder and tracked her progress as she made her way to the purple pavilion, now almost lost in the gathering dark. He was on the point of rising when the shadow that was Elise bent to pick something up. She went to the nearest campfire, where another woman was crouched over a cooking pot. Then she was back at the pavilion, a light in hand.
The cooking fire. She was lighting the fire so André would assume everything was as it should be. Gawain couldn’t fault her for that. None the less, her presence in the camp disturbed him. Undoubtedly she’d come back to keep an eye on André. She would never admit it, but she must suspect him of wrongdoing.
A patrol went by. Gawain studiously avoided looking at the lead rider as they passed the ale tent, but