Lord Gawain's Forbidden Mistress

DUTY, HONOUR, TRUTH, VALOUR

The tenets of the Knights of Champagne will be sorely tested in this exciting Medieval mini-series by

Carol Townend

The pounding of hooves, the cold snap of air, a knight’s colours flying high across the roaring crowd—nothing rivals a tourney. The chance to prove his worth is at the beating heart of any knight.

And tournaments bring other dangers too. Scoundrels, thieves, murderers and worse are all drawn towards a town bursting with deep pockets, flowing wine and wanton women.

Only these three knights stand in their way. But what of the women who stand beside them?

Find out in

 Carol Townend’s

LORD GAWAIN’S FORBIDDEN MISTRESS

available now

AUTHOR NOTE

Arthurian myths and legends have been popular for hundreds of years. Dashing knights worship beautiful ladies, fight for honour—and sometimes

lose

 honour! Some of the earliest versions of these stories were written in the twelfth century by an influential poet called Chrétien de Troyes. Troyes was the walled city in the county of Champagne where Chrétien lived and worked. His patron, Countess Marie of Champagne, was a princess—daughter of King Louis of France and the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine. Countess Marie’s splendid artistic court in Troyes rivalled Queen Eleanor’s in Poitiers.

The books in my

Knights of Champagne

 mini-series are not an attempt to rework the Arthurian myths and legends. They are original romances set around the Troyes court. I wanted to tell the stories of some of the lords and ladies who might have inspired Chrétien—and I was keen to give the ladies a more active role, since Chrétien’s ladies tend to be too passive for today’s reader.

Apart from Count Henry and Countess Marie, of whom we have brief glances, my characters are all fictional. I have used the layout of the medieval city to create my Troyes, but these books are first and foremost fictional.

Lord Gawain’s Forbidden Mistress

Carol Townend

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAROL TOWNEND

 was born in England and went to a convent school in the wilds of Yorkshire. Captivated by the Medieval period, Carol read History at London University. She loves to travel, drawing inspiration for her novels from places as diverse as Winchester in England, Istanbul in Turkey and Troyes in France. A writer of both fiction and non-fiction, Carol lives in London with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at

www.caroltownend.co.uk

To Melanie with love and thanks for always being there. (I won’t embarrass us both by counting the years in public!)

Contents

Cover

Introduction

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

August 1174—an encampment outside Troyes in the County of Champagne

Troyes was bursting at the seams—the summer market was at its height and every inn and boarding house was packed to the rafters with merchants and housewives. Tumblers and singers jostled for the best spots in the market squares. Mercenaries and cutpurses roamed the narrow streets, searching for the shortest route to an easy profit. Indeed, so many people had descended on the town that a temporary campsite had been set up in a field outside the city walls. The encampment was known as Strangers’ City, and line after line of dusty tents filled every inch of the field.

One tent stood out from the rest. Slightly larger than the others, more of a pavilion than a tent, the canvas was dyed purple and painted with silver stars.

Inside the purple pavilion, Elise was sitting on a stool next to Pearl’s cradle, gently waving a cloth back and forth in front of her daughter’s face. It was noon and even for August it was unusually hot. Elise wriggled her shoulders. Her gown was sticking to her and it seemed she had sat there for hours. Thankfully, Pearl’s eyelids were finally drooping.

Voices outside had Elise narrowing her gaze at the entrance to the pavilion. André was back, she could hear him talking to Vivienne, who was nursing baby Bruno in the shade of the awning.

Elise waited, gently fanning Pearl. If André had news, he would soon tell her. Sure enough, a moment later André pushed through the tent flap.

‘Elise, I’ve done it!’ he said, eyes shining. He put his lute on his bedroll. ‘Blanchefleur le Fay has been booked to sing at the palace. At the Harvest Banquet.’

‘The palace? You got a booking at the palace already? Heavens, that was quick.’ Elise bit her lip. ‘I only hope I’m ready.’

‘Of course you’re ready. I’ve never heard you in better voice. Count Henry’s steward was thrilled to learn Blanchefleur is in town. The Champagne court will love you.’

‘It’s been a while since I performed—I was afraid that I might already have been forgotten.’

‘Forgotten? Blanchefleur le Fay? That’s hardly likely. Elise, it’s the booking of a lifetime. I can’t think of a better setting for Blanchefleur to step back on stage.’

Elise glanced at Pearl. Asleep. Carefully, she folded the cloth she’d been using as a fan and smiled to hide her disquiet. ‘You did well, André. Thank you.’

‘You might look a little happier,’ André said, watching her. ‘You’re nervous about singing in Champagne.’

‘Nonsense!’ Elise said, although there was a grain of truth in André’s remark. ‘But I mustn’t disappoint them.’

‘You’re afraid you’ll see him.’

Her chin lifted. ‘Him?’

‘Pearl’s father, of course. Elise, you don’t need to worry, Lord Gawain’s not in Troyes. He left to claim his inheritance.’

‘You’ve been listening to the gossip.’

‘Haven’t you?’

Elise grimaced, but it would be futile to deny it. Maybe she shouldn’t have listened, but where Gawain Steward was concerned that seemed impossible. His image never left her; even now it was bright and clear, a powerful knight with a shock of fair hair and a pair of smouldering dark eyes. ‘It’s odd to think of him as the Count of Meaux,’ she murmured. ‘He had no expectations of inheriting.’

‘Oh?’

‘I gather there was bad blood between him and his uncle. I know no more than that.’

André shrugged. ‘Well, he’s count now, so they must have resolved their differences.’

‘It would seem so.’

Elise was pleased for Gawain’s good fortune. In truth, she was pleased for herself. Gawain’s inheritance was her good fortune too. Blanchefleur le Fay had wanted to sing at the famous court in Champagne for years. Even the difficulties of her last visit here hadn’t killed that ambition.

After Pearl’s birth, when Elise had realised that Blanchefleur must make a truly spectacular return or risk fading into obscurity, she’d been inspired with the thought that she might stage her comeback at the palace in Troyes. It would be something of a coup to sing before Countess Marie herself. The daughter of the King of France, no less!

There had been a few ghosts to fight before Elise had been able to return to Champagne. She would never forget that her sister, Morwenna, had died near Troyes. However, nothing Elise could do would bring Morwenna back. In any case, if Morwenna had been alive she would be the first to agree that the Troyes court was the ideal place for Blanchefleur le Fay’s triumphant return.

And then there was Gawain, and the fear that she might run into him. What would she say to him?

He is the father of my child and he doesn’t know...

But then Elise had heard that Gawain had become Count of Meaux and that obstacle at least had been removed. Gawain was miles away, claiming his inheritance in the Ile-de-France. The coast was clear.

‘What’s he like?’ André asked.

‘Hmm?’

‘Lord Gawain.’

Lord Gawain.

 ‘He was a plain knight when I knew him. Striking. A warrior. But he was also kind. Protective.’

Last year, Elise had been both surprised and flattered to have been the object of Gawain’s interest. It was even more astonishing when one stopped to consider that not once had she used Blanchefleur le Fay’s wiles on him. No, she’d simply been the shy and retiring maidservant, Elise.

‘Yet you fear him. You were anxious not to meet him.’

Elise glanced at Pearl, biting her lip. ‘I’m not afraid of Lord Gawain. I just wanted to avoid any...complications.’

‘Complications?’

‘André, Pearl’s father is a count. I have no idea how he might react when he learns he has a daughter.’

‘You’d prefer that he didn’t find out.’

‘Frankly, yes. The fact that Gawain is a count will not change his character. He is a dutiful man, a man of honour. I befriended him as a means of entering Ravenshold.’

André frowned. ‘What about Lady Isobel? I thought you’d become her maid to get into Ravenshold.’

‘So I did, but my friendship with Lady Isobel was untried. There was a strong possibility it might come to nothing.’

‘So you kept Lord Gawain in reserve.’ Eyes shocked, André looked at Pearl. ‘I thought—knowing you—he’d be more than that.’

‘I like the man, of course,’ Elise said hastily. In truth, she had more than liked him. She might have befriended Gawain out of desperation, but she hadn’t had to feign the attraction. Passion had flared up between them without any effort on her part. Sparks had been flying from the first. ‘I’m not certain he will forgive me. You see, I did deceive him.’

Elise bit her lip. Deceiving Gawain had been both the hardest and the easiest thing she had ever done. She had flirted with a man—she’d never felt comfortable flirting, but it had been astonishingly easy with Gawain. It had been fun, of all things. Initially, she’d done it hoping to discover how her sister had died. Before she had come to know Gawain, she had told herself that uncovering the truth about Morwenna’s death was all that mattered. But she had quickly realised that she’d been deceiving herself as much as Gawain. The liking between them had been strong. Too strong. They had ended up as passionate lovers even though she’d come to mistrust everything she felt for him. Was it really possible to feel so much for a man, and so quickly?

‘It’s a relief to know I won’t see him,’ she said. ‘Particularly since he is the grand Count of Meaux. André, he lives in a different world.’

‘The world of the court.’

‘Just so. We might entertain there, but it is not our world. But for you to have secured a booking so soon! It’s wonderful.’ She grimaced. ‘Except for one thing.’

‘Oh?’

‘Blanchefleur’s gowns.’ Elise gestured at her stomach and tried to push Pearl’s father to the back of her mind. ‘Last time I tried them, they were still a little tight.’

‘Rot! You’re as slim as you were before Pearl came along.’

‘You, sir, are a flatterer. Those gowns aren’t decent and Blanchefleur wouldn’t dream of appearing in a loosely laced gown. Remember, the world at large likes to think of her as innocent. They believe she’s been on retreat in a convent. The gowns—’

‘Try them on again, Elise, I am sure they’ll fit. What about buying new ribbons?’

Butterflies were dancing in Elise’s stomach. Nervous, excited butterflies. She drew in a breath. She had dreamed about performing at the Champagne court for years, and she’d be mad to let a few nerves spoil her chance of singing at the palace. Reaching for André’s hand, she gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Very well,’ she said, brightly. ‘New ribbons it shall be. Will you keep an eye on Pearl for me while I go to the market?’

André looked regretfully at her. ‘I’m sorry, Elise, you’ll have to ask Vivienne. I’m meeting friends at the ale tent. We’ll be going back into town.’

‘Don’t worry, that’s fine,’ Elise said.

Vivienne was Pearl’s wet-nurse. Deciding to ask Vivienne if she would feed Pearl had been one of the most difficult decisions Elise had ever made. But it was unavoidable if she was to continue singing, because Elise’s

alter ego

, Blanchefleur 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 and colour of the busy street faded as she looked at him. At those deep brown eyes—how could she have forgotten those grey flecks? Or those long eyelashes? And his nose, that aquiline shape was so distinctive. Elise had loved his nose. She had liked to run her finger down it as a prelude to a kiss. His mouth... As her gaze skimmed over it, she felt her smile freeze. His mouth was tight. He looked...not angry, exactly. He looked weary. How strange. He didn’t look like a man who had just inherited a vast estate.

‘Walk with me, Elise.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Gawain glanced at his squire. ‘Meet me in half an hour, Aubin. Outside the castle gatehouse.’

‘Yes,

mon seigneur

.’

* * *

When Elise put her hand lightly on his sleeve, Gawain, Count of Meaux, let out a relieved sigh. Gawain had been looking for Elise and he was pleased—far more pleased than he ought to be—to have found her. He set off in the direction of the Preize Gate. ‘It will be quieter once we get clear of the streets round the market,’ he said.

Elise smiled and nodded and pushed her veil over her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed. It was too warm for a cloak and Gawain could see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath her gown. He frowned. There was something different about her. Her eyes were the same, and her face...but something was different.

‘I didn’t expect to see you, my lord. I thought you were in the Ile-de-France.’

‘You heard about my uncle.’

She nodded and looked away. ‘I expect you will be leaving again soon.’

Something about her tone grated. Gawain frowned thoughtfully at her profile. ‘That would please you?’

Her colour deepened to crimson and he imagined he saw a flash of guilt. What could she have to feel guilty about? Last winter she had enjoyed their time together as much as he had. There was no question of that. He couldn’t have misread her so badly.

She is hiding something.

‘Not at all, my lord,’ she murmured. ‘It is good to see you.’

Gawain decided not to probe. If she wanted to keep things from him, that was up to her. There was, after all, no real connection between them. Once he had reassured himself that all was well with her, he could forget all about her. He had his own life to lead. He was about to meet his betrothed, Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe. ‘You found the ribbon you were looking for?’

She shot him a startled glance. ‘You’ve been to the pavilion.’

Elise was walking discreetly at his side. There were several inches between them and Gawain didn’t like it. He was taken with the impulse to wind his hand round her waist and bring her closer. Instead, he gave her a curt nod. ‘A friend mentioned seeing you in Strangers’ City.’

She was silent for a space. ‘A Guardian Knight, I assume. I’ve seen their patrols.’

He nodded. ‘When I found your tent, the woman who lives with you told me you’d gone to buy ribbon.’ Gawain put his hand on her arm. ‘Elise, how have you been? Is all well with you?’

‘I am very well, my lord.’

‘That is good to hear. Did you find the success you were after?’

‘My lord?’

‘Your ambitions as a

chanteuse

.’

The colour went from her cheeks. ‘I...I haven’t done as much singing as I thought I would.’

‘Oh?’ Gawain watched her whilst he waited for her answer. It struck him that they were addressing one another as though they’d only just met. A potter hurried past leading a donkey laden with pots. The man would never suspect that they’d been lovers. Elise hadn’t answered and Gawain leaned in. The scent of her—a heady combination of musk and ambergris and warm woman—hit him like a blow to his stomach. He almost groaned out loud.

Elise.

 She had been the perfect bedmate.

‘You left without warning,’ Gawain heard himself say. The words were out before he could stop them.

Dark eyes watched him. Large and unfathomable. She’d never been an easy woman to read. Except when they were in bed. She’d been a rare joy in bed. And not only that—she’d had enough experience to know which herbs to take to stop her conceiving. Yes, a rare joy indeed. But this woman staring up at him was unfathomable. ‘I had to leave.’ Slender shoulders lifted. ‘My time in Champagne was over.’

‘Because you’d found everything you needed to know about your sister?’

‘Yes, my lord. Once it was clear that Morwenna’s death had been an accident, I had no reason to stay.’ She smiled. ‘I had to get back to my singing. And my friends expected me to return. My life is with them.’

‘So you had no reason to stay.’

Those unfathomable eyes didn’t as much as blink. ‘Sir—my lord—what are you saying?’

Gawain took Elise’s slender wrist and tugged her off the street and under the eaves of one of the houses. A peculiar tightness was centred in his chest. He couldn’t account for it, although he suspected it had something to do with Elise.

‘There was nothing lasting between us,’ he muttered.

‘Gawain, why are you looking at me like that?’

‘God forgive me,’ he said, pulling her close. One arm slid round her waist and the moment her body was aligned with his, Gawain’s tension eased. Better. He caught her by the chin and tilted her face up—her mouth lay a mere inch away. He breathed in the subtle fragrance of musk and ambergris. Better still. Did she taste the same as she had done last winter? She’d been sweet as honey. His eyes fixed on her lips.

‘Gawain?’

His mouth met hers in a whisper of a kiss. There’d been nothing between them, yet he hadn’t wanted her to leave. And until this moment he hadn’t realised how strongly he’d missed her. How much he’d enjoyed his time with her.

‘Elise,’ Gawain muttered, as he came up briefly for air. She tasted just as sweet. Enchanting. And then he was kissing her again. Hungrily. Eagerly. She was more of an armful—more womanly—than she had been last winter. He liked the difference. A thrill shot through him as their tongues touched. It felt as it had always felt with Elise, that she had been made for him.

He slid his hand down the curve of her buttock and lifted his head with some reluctance. ‘

Mon Dieu

, Elise. I know we made no vows to each other, but you didn’t even say goodbye. I worried about you.’

She was breathless and it was pleasing to see the roses back in her cheeks. She wasn’t unmoved. He hadn’t liked to think that she’d found it easy to walk away without as much as a backward glance.

‘I...I am sorry, my lord.’ She eased back, fingering her mouth, which was flushed from his kiss. ‘Was...was that a farewell kiss?’

As Gawain released her, he noted with surprise that it went very much against the grain to do so. Lord, this woman was a trial to him. She had been from the beginning. A quiet shy woman who had him in knots without even trying. He would have liked to continue kissing her, but of course he shouldn’t have kissed her in the first place. It hadn’t helped. It had made him long for more, which was impossible. He must think about his future. He was going to marry Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe. However, it was hard to think about Lady Rowena, whom he had never met, when Elise was looking up at him with that dark, hard-to-read look in her eyes. She fascinated him.

He leaned his hip against the corner of the house. ‘You may call it a farewell kiss if you wish. Elise, I came to find you because I need to know you are well. That woman you live with—’

‘Vivienne. She’s a good friend.’

‘You’ve known her for long? Is she a

chanteuse

?’<