Lord Gawain's Forbidden Mistress. Carol Townend
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le Fay, couldn’t possibly be a nursing mother. Blanchefleur never looked at men. The personification of innocence, she kept them at arm’s length. Blanchefleur was aloof and pure. Untouchable. She didn’t have a heart; she broke them.
Elise hadn’t actually chosen Blanchefleur le Fay for her stage name. Extraordinarily, the name had evolved, possibly helped by the fact that she wore a white enamel pendant shaped like a daisy. Blanchefleur was mysterious. She was otherworldly and exotic. Famed throughout the land, Blanchefleur was fêted like a princess in the great houses of the south. Blanchefleur would die before she did anything as down to earth, as sinful, as having a child out of wedlock.
Briefly, Elise had thought about taking on another persona, one that would allow her to be more open about being a mother, but Blanchefleur had been good to her. Blanchefleur was a good earner and Elise was reluctant to let her fade into obscurity. Real ladies—noblewomen—had wet-nurses, so why shouldn’t she?
But there was no escaping that it had hurt to give up feeding Pearl herself. It felt like a betrayal and her whole being ached—even now, several weeks after the birth. She hadn’t expected to feel so bad.
Vivienne had been the obvious choice for Pearl’s wet-nurse. Vivienne had joined their troupe back in the days when Elise’s father, Ronan, had been alive. Vivienne wasn’t a singer and she hated performing, so she cooked and cleaned and helped them pack up when they moved from town to town. She acted as Blanchefleur’s maid.
The three of them, Elise, André and Vivienne, had lived together for years and recently—as recently as last winter when Elise had been away in Champagne—Vivienne and André had become lovers. Crucially they also had a newborn—baby Bruno was only a few days older than Pearl. Elise was lucky to have Vivienne as Pearl’s wet-nurse. Without her, earning a living for her and Pearl would be doubly difficult.
* * *
Winding the cherry-coloured ribbon neatly round her fingers, Elise tucked it into her purse and smiled at the stallholder. ‘Thank you, I love the colour.’
‘It’s silk, ma demoiselle.’
‘I can see that.’
The ribbon was perfect. It was strong enough to act as a new lacing, and it was only slightly longer than the old one. It would seem André had been right when he’d said she had regained her former figure. Elise could get into both Blanchefleur’s gowns, and the cherry-coloured ribbon would be perfect with the silver silk of her favourite one.
Flicking her veil over her shoulder, Elise grimaced as she pushed through the crowd. The heat in the market square was unbearable. It was like an oven in town, far hotter than in the campsite at Strangers’ City. The rows of narrow wooden houses trapped the warm air. Elise felt smothered. She couldn’t wait to get back to the pavilion and take off her veil.
She elbowed her way clear of the press round the stalls and had almost reached the shade beneath the Madeleine Gate when she heard hoofbeats.
‘Stand back,’ a man in front muttered. ‘Horses coming through.’
It was a knight and his squire. The knight was not wearing his chain mail. He was wearing a cream-coloured tunic edged with red-and-gold braid. None the less, there was no mistaking him as a knight. Only a knight would sit so confidently on so large a horse. He was turned the other way, laughing at something his squire had said.
Elise’s breath stopped. The knight had fair hair, just like Gawain’s. His horse—an ugly black-stockinged bay—seemed familiar. And the knight’s squire—her heart seemed to shift in her chest—that red tunic, that golden griffin emblazoned across it, there was something different about that griffin, but...
The knight turned his head. Gawain. Her heart turned over. It couldn’t be, but it was. Elise jerked back and peered through the screen of people in front of her. Gawain.
Her mind raced. Gawain wasn’t supposed to be in Troyes! Elise wouldn’t have dreamed of coming back if she’d known he was in town. Why was he here?
Everyone knew that Gawain’s uncle, the Count of Meaux, had died and that Gawain had inherited. Gawain was supposed to be safely in the Ile-de-France, settling into his new county. This could be very awkward. That man gave me a daughter and I never told him. Lord, what shall I do?
Elise watched him ride through the arch, a strange cramp in her belly. Gawain’s hair was fairer than it had been last winter. Sun-bleached. His face was bronzed and more handsome than she remembered. The cramp intensified. She hadn’t wanted to see him.
He’s supposed to be in Meaux.
How could Blanchefleur le Fay perform with Gawain in town? If he came to the palace when she was singing, he’d be bound to recognise her. And then the questions would start. And the recriminations. He would find out about Pearl, and then...
Briefly, Elise closed her eyes. She really didn’t want to face him. And it wasn’t just because last year when they had met she’d parried most of his questions about her life as a singer. She’d told him as little as possible. She wasn’t sure how he would react when he learned that Pearl was his. What if he wanted to take Pearl from her? He wouldn’t do that, surely?
The new Count of Meaux and his squire turned away from her, the crowd parting to let their horses through. Elise stared at Gawain’s back, at his wide shoulders, and wondered whether he was the type of man who would want to bring up his child. If only she knew him better. Most knights would gladly wash their hands of any responsibility for their illegitimate children. She looked through the crowd at his fair head, heart beating like a drum. A count might do anything he wished.
Dear Heaven, Gawain—here in Troyes. This changed everything.
Lord, he was looking over his shoulder. Her heart leaped into her throat. He was looking right at her! Shrinking back, she trod on someone’s foot.
A woman scowled at her. ‘Watch it!’
‘My apologies,’ Elise muttered.
Turning away, she stumbled into the Rue du Bois.
Her mind was in chaos, but one thought dominated. Gawain Steward, Count of Meaux, was in Troyes, and he had seen her. Heart pumping, she kept her head down and pushed her way through a group of merchants talking by the entrance to one of the cloth halls.
‘Excuse me. My pardon, sir.’
‘Elise? Elise!’
Gawain was about twenty yards behind her and the air was full of noise—the braying of a mule, the honking of a goose—yet she heard the jingle of harness. Hoofbeats. She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes fixed on a small girl clinging to her mother’s skirts. What was the point? She couldn’t outrun him. True, the street was busy and she might dive into an alley, but there were children here and that brute of a horse was trained to barrel its way through anything. Someone might get hurt.
Drawing in a deep breath, she turned. Her mind was a complete blank. She didn’t have the first idea how she would greet him. Lord Gawain, what a pleasant surprise. I trust you are in good health. By the by, I had a baby. I am hoping she will have your eyes. Heavens, she couldn’t say that. She didn’t want to tell him about Pearl. She needed time to think, but it didn’t look as though she was going to get it.
‘Elise? Elise Chantier?’
Elise stood quite still as he approached, steeling herself not to back away from that great bay. The animal might look ungovernable, but Gawain could control him. She craned her neck to look up at him.
‘Lord Gawain!’ She dropped him a curtsy. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
There was a creak of leather as he dismounted and gestured at his squire to take the reins. He offered Elise his arm. ‘Walk with me.’
Elise tipped her head on one side and managed a smile. ‘Is that a command, my lord?’
He was taller than she had remembered. Larger. The sound