Mistaken for a Lady (11 page)

‘I wanted you to open up to me. I was eager to know everything about you—your hopes, your dreams, everything.'

Silence. Tristan's breath warmed her cheek. ‘You were very young, my heart.'

Catching his chin, she pressed a light kiss on his mouth. ‘I was sixteen and appallingly ignorant. Papa had overprotected me. In part, because he was getting old and his mind was no longer as sharp as it was.'

‘This isn't news.'

‘Tristan, sometimes all it takes for someone to grow up is to have someone trust them. As you have trusted me with your confidence tonight.' She kissed his mouth again, drawing back when he would have pulled her more tightly against him. ‘Finally, things are changing and I, for one, am glad. You're talking to me at last. I know how hard you find it.'

‘Hard?' His voice was tinged with surprise. ‘Talking is easy, it's picking your friends that's hard.'

Francesca wasn't fooled. Her handsome husband normally remained tight-lipped. With his upbringing, it was hardly surprising. He'd been fostered so young, and then his parents had died before he'd been able to win his spurs and return home. Her throat tightened.

‘You would call Sir Roparz a close friend?'

‘Certainly.' His voice was warm. ‘He's my right-hand man at des Iles. He's more than a friend, he's my steward there.'

‘And you tell him everything?'

‘Francesca, what's this about?'

‘Does Sir Roparz know why you hate your father?'

He went rigid. ‘What can you mean?'

‘I'd like you to talk to me as intimately as you would talk to Sir Roparz.'

A warm hand ran with slow deliberation up and down her shoulder. ‘I've been far more intimate with you, Francesca.'

‘That's not what I mean and you know it. There's something about your father you won't tell me, something that angers and distresses you.'

Silence.

She kissed his cheek. ‘You can confide in me. Tristan, whatever happens in the future, I won't betray your confidence. Tell me about your father.'

He lay still as stone before sucking in a great breath. ‘How did you know?'

‘It's obvious that something is very wrong, you turn every question. Tell me. Please.'

She felt his fingers in her hair and his soft sigh on her face. ‘I don't hate my father, you are wrong about that.' She heard him swallow. ‘However, it's not a pretty tale and it will be quickly done. Mother died, as you know, of sickness. In under a year my father followed her, this you also know. However, my father's death wasn't natural. I'll be blunt, Father killed himself.'

Francesca's breath left her. Count Bedwyr had killed himself? She made to speak and he stopped her with a light touch on her mouth.

‘I'm nearly done. Roparz was Father's squire back then and it was he who found him. The castle steward, Sir Izidor, and Lord Morgan dealt with it. They covered up the manner of my father's death and swore never to breathe a word of how he had really died to anyone. Roparz, bless him, did the same.'

‘Oh, Tristan.' Francesca hugged him to her and tried to imagine how he must have felt. ‘I am so sorry.'

He pulled back. ‘Suicide is a mortal sin, you can't tell anyone.'

‘As if I would!'

‘Father was buried at my mother's side, he would lose his right to rest in hallowed ground if the Church discovered what he had done.'

She gave him another hug. ‘I understand.'

‘It's a secret that's been well guarded. Sir Izidor went to his grave without telling me what had really happened.'

‘It was Lord Morgan who told you how Lord Bedwyr died?'

A slight movement told her Tristan was shaking his head. ‘Roparz told me. We were fifteen. Lord Morgan was furious with him, but I—well, I've always been grateful Roparz told me the truth.'

Heart twisting for the sorrow Tristan had hidden for so long, and for the shame he undoubtedly felt, Francesca wound her arms tightly about him. ‘Thank you for trusting me with this confidence, I feel truly honoured.'

‘Sleep, Francesca.'

Nodding, Francesca closed her eyes, though she knew she wouldn't sleep for a while, Tristan's revelation had shocked her to the core. Count Bedwyr had killed himself. What a burden to lay upon his son.

Against the odds, it wasn't long before she felt Tristan's body relax. It would be good to think that unburdening himself to her had given him some ease.

* * *

The warrior monks, as Francesca came to think of their new escort, kept themselves to themselves. They were going to be Benedictines and it was strange seeing them with swords belted about their dark habits. Two of the novices rode in the vanguard, ahead of Tristan and Francesca, whilst the other three brought up the rear, behind Mari and Bastian. They were most diligent, their heads were constantly turning this way and that as they studied the passing countryside. She assumed they were watching out for Sir Joakim and his companions. They rarely spoke, except to Tristan. In many ways they acted as though they were on retreat.

A little over a week later, they were riding along a forest bridleway in this manner when Francesca looked about her with a dawning sense of recognition. Her pulse quickened, they were in the heart of the Brocéliande. This path led directly to Fontaine Castle.

Here, the trees were gnarled and twisted and as old as time. Above them, the spring sun sent bright shafts of light through the greening canopy. On the path, a thick layer of beech mast softened the clip of the horses' hoofs to a muted thud. Streams bubbled up out of the ground, rushing and splashing as they twisted in and out of the trees before vanishing as suddenly as they had appeared.

The last time Francesca had ridden along this bridleway it had been in the opposite direction. She'd been part of Lady Clare's entourage, on the road that had led eventually to Tristan's Champagne manor. She'd been dazed with shock and very distressed.

Francesca was distressed today, albeit for a very different reason—Count Myrrdin was ever in her mind. Soon she would be saying farewell to the kindest man in the world. She knew she wouldn't be grieving alone, of course, he was a lovable man and his death would bring sorrow to many. Knowing that did nothing to lessen the pain. Her eyelids prickled and she turned her head so Tristan wouldn't see the glaze of tears in her eyes.

If it wasn't for Tristan's calming presence, she would doubtless be undone.

These last few days had revealed Tristan in a gentler light. It had also given her space to think, to attempt to sort through the confusion she always felt when in his company. A confusion that was born out of a deep and insatiable attraction to his person. It was an attraction she must repress for Tristan's sake. She needed to think and she needed to think calmly.

Which was impossible to do at night. Each night, Tristan insisted that they share a bed. It had been the same at every stop on their route—Chartres, Nogent, Laval, Rennes... There was no rest for either of them until he had pulled her into his arms, and she couldn't think rationally with Tristan's body warm and tempting against hers. His musky masculine scent—familiar and impossibly seductive—invaded every dream. No, lying in Tristan's arms wasn't conducive to rational thought.

Which meant that Francesca tried to do most of her thinking in daylight, as they covered the miles to Count Myrrdin's castle. Her thoughts were circuitous. In short, her days were almost as frustrating as her nights. The more she thought, the more confused she became.

Tristan's declaration that he would keep her as his wife was breaking her heart even if it wasn't entirely surprising. Tristan had a highly developed sense of honour. However, he must see that as far as their marriage was concerned he wasn't doing himself any favours by prolonging their association. Over and over the thought came back to her, Tristan le Beau, Comte des Iles, should marry as befitted his station. Keeping her as his wife couldn't be in his best interests. Nor was it in the best interests of his county. She couldn't understand why his political interests seemed to weigh less with him, at the time of their wedding they wouldn't have done. Or would they? Had she misjudged him?

Back then, he'd been aloof, a proud lord driven entirely by political ambitions. He hadn't appeared to have a sentimental bone in his body. Or so she had thought. Now, with his confession about his father's tragic death echoing through her mind, she was coming to terms with the fact that she had misread him badly. Tristan was deeply affected by the way in which Count Bedwyr had died. He was profoundly ashamed and the turning of the years had erased none of the shame. Tristan loved his father, she was sure of it—why else would the manner of his death still give him grief?

She had misjudged him. Tristan was neither cold nor distant, he simply wasn't used to allowing people close. His friend Sir Roparz might be the exception, although with Tristan away from des Iles for most of the last two years, he can't have been much in his company.

Lord, she'd been a poor judge of the man she had married. Furthermore, it would seem she'd been equally wrong about him cutting her out of his life without a thought. He had written to her. A cold man, a man with no emotions, wouldn't have bothered. He had said he would honour his wedding vows.

If only she had more to offer him than one small manor.

If only she had given him a child. That would have made all the difference, she was sure. She bit her lip. Was she barren? It was possible they had simply been unlucky. Perhaps—if they resurrected their marriage—she could yet give him an heir.

‘We're almost there,' Tristan said, drawing rein to peer through the budding trees. Their monkish escort kept close.

In the depths of the wood a cuckoo called. Francesca affected not to have heard it, though the sound had her fingers stiffening on the reins. When the cuckoo called a second time, she flinched. She glanced sharply at Tristan, saw him hide a grimace and knew that she wasn't the only one who had heard the cuckoo. Worse, that grimace told her that Tristan knew about the name-calling she'd had to endure after Lady Clare appeared in Fontaine.

She lifted her chin. ‘People call me that, you know. I am your “cuckoo countess”.'

Another grimace. ‘I heard the whispers,' he murmured. ‘Hoped perhaps you hadn't.'

She gave a wobbly smile. ‘Whispers travel a long way, they got as far as the market at Provins.'

His hand reached for hers and squeezed lightly. ‘Ignore them.' Releasing her hand, he gestured down the track. ‘Look.'

Between the trees, the lichen-encrusted walls of Fontaine Castle were starkly visible. Solid and heavy, they appeared to grow out of a forest clearing. A castle planted in the depths of the Brocéliande. Like the forest, it looked as though it had been there for ever.

A fist formed in Francesca's stomach as she stared at the towers and ran her gaze over the guards stationed on the walkway. ‘It's been two years and it hasn't changed.'

The glint of a helmet caught her eye, a guard was marching along the walkway in the direction of the gatehouse.

Tristan tracked the guard's progress and cleared his throat. ‘This is strange for me too. The last time I was here, I was steward.'

Francesca stared at him, she'd been so lost in her thoughts that she'd forgotten that returning here wouldn't be easy for Tristan either. As Count Myrrdin's steward, Tristan knew the castle inside out, from the cellars to the topmost turret. He'd assumed that one day Fontaine and all its lands would become his.

Tristan glanced meaningfully at her. ‘Count Myrrdin's standard is flying,' he said, nodding in the direction of the gold-and-green flag which hung limply from one of the towers. ‘That surely is a good sign, he must yet be alive.'

Casually, he dragged off the piece of sackcloth covering his shield. Francesca stared at his insignia—three black cinquefoils on their silver field. Her throat closed, clogged with so much longing and pain she almost moaned aloud. If only everything could be as it had been before, when she and Tristan were newly wed and Count Myrrdin was in good health.

Tristan signalled to Bastian, who unclipped a staff from his saddle. No, not a staff, Bastian whipped a cloth casing from one end and Tristan's pennon slowly unfurled.

Once again, the cuckoo's call floated through the trees. A chill ran down Francesca's spine as, tense in every muscle, she turned towards the gatehouse. Their arrival had been noted and Tristan's colours recognised. The portcullis lifted. Sergeant Léry stood under the arch, a grin of welcome lighting his dour features.

Two warrior novices spurred towards the drawbridge. Francesca gathered up her reins and urged Princess after them.

Chapter Eight

H
ooking up her skirts, Francesca hurried up the winding stairs to the landing outside Count Myrrdin's bedchamber.

Tristan had been dreading this moment. Were they too late? Sergeant Léry had muttered, for Tristan's ears alone, that the village priest, Father Alar, had been summoned. Which meant that it could only be a matter of time.

Tristan held in a sigh, he'd been praying that reports of Count Myrrdin's frailty had been exaggerated and he sensed Francesca had been doing the same. Sadly, it appeared their prayers weren't going to be answered.

The door was slightly ajar, Francesca pushed it open and paused on the threshold. The man she called Papa was lying in a large canopied bed propped up on a bank of pillows. White hair straggled in every direction. Behind the snowy beard, the count's face was shrunken and his skin as pale as parchment. His eyes were closed, and the veins on his eyelids looked like blue threads. Tristan caught his breath. They were too late, surely they were looking at a corpse? Then he marked the slight lift and fall of the count's chest. Count Myrrdin lived, although not, Tristan thought, for long.

A man and woman sat on either side of the canopied bed. The woman must be Lady Clare and the man her husband, Sir Arthur Ferrer. Lady Clare had her head buried in her hands and Father Alar stood to one side of her, head bowed in prayer.

Sir Arthur got to his feet, he was tall and well built with dark hair. Silently, Tristan gripped the man's arm before transferring his attention back to the bed.

Lady Clare had Count Myrrdin's gnarled hand fast in hers—she was stroking it, apparently trying to straighten fingers which had curled into a claw. A wisp of red hair peeped out from beneath a snowy veil.

Seeing that Francesca had eyes only for Count Myrrdin, Tristan met Lady Clare's enquiring look with a quiet smile. ‘Lady Clare?' He bowed his head. ‘Tristan des Iles, at your service.'

‘Count Tristan, thank you so very much for answering our plea and bringing my sister home. It is good of you.' She gently touched Francesca's hand and Francesca managed a nervous smile.

Tristan moved to the foot of the bed. ‘I left for Provins as soon as your message reached me and we rode with all speed. How is he?'

Lady Clare's veil trembled. ‘It varies, my lord, but then that is how he has been for some time.'

Tristan made a non-committal sound, he knew exactly what she meant. Even when in full health, Count Myrrdin's later years had been marked by periods of lucidity, interspersed with periods of what a charitable man might call vagueness. ‘He is changeable.'

‘That's it exactly. He rallies occasionally, but overall he's fading.' Lady Clare went on stroking her father's hand. ‘Today is not a good day. Papa hasn't woken and we cannot rouse him. Another day he might open his eyes; he might take a little sustenance. Sometimes he speaks. Sadly, those days are becoming rarer.'

Lady Clare went on talking. Something about being thankful that she had had a chance to get to know her father before his illness had become worse.

Tristan stepped closer and as Clare smiled bleakly at him he could study her eyes for himself. They were extraordinary—one was grey, one was green. He had been warned what to expect and he knew he shouldn't be staring, except he couldn't help himself. He glanced swiftly at Count Myrrdin and then back to Lady Clare. Tristan had only once seen eyes like that in his life and the sight of them removed any doubts he might have had as to her parentage. Count Myrrdin had the same rare eyes, he was unquestionably her father. And as for the red hair tucked beneath Lady Clare's veil—Count Myrrdin's countess, Mathilde, had been famous for her flame-coloured locks. Sitting in front of him was unquestionable proof that Francesca had never had any right to the Fontaine lands.

A wave of sadness swept over him. Seeing Lady Clare in person gave him new insight into how distraught Francesca must have been.
If only I had been here to help her.

Lady Clare went on talking, referring to Francesca as her sister, which was good of her. She seemed a kind woman. Francesca had mentioned liking Lady Clare, and from what he had seen, Tristan agreed with her judgement. Had it helped Francesca when Lady Clare had been sympathetic? Or had that merely made matters worse? Francesca must have been deeply wounded by the injustice fate had meted out to her. In her shoes, Tristan would have been livid. It was never easy discharging anger against someone one liked, Lord, Francesca must have been utterly confused.

He glanced at Francesca, whose face was, if anything, paler than her beloved Papa's. This was likely to be a trying vigil. Francesca was so focused on Count Myrrdin, he doubted she had even seen Father Alar. When she did, it would knock her back, for she would realise how close Count Myrrdin was to his end. Tristan was glad to be on hand.

Count Myrrdin's chest lifted. Up and down. Another breath. Another. The breaths weren't forced or strained, though they were undoubtedly weak. Praise God, Count Myrrdin didn't seem to be struggling. During Tristan's tenure as steward of Fontaine, he had come to know the count well. For all his eccentricities, he was a warm-hearted, likeable man. He didn't seem to be suffering and for that Tristan was relieved.

Tristan's own father had died in very different circumstances. Alone in the stables. Tristan could picture him fighting for breath. What had been going through his father's mind at the end? Irritably, he pushed the question aside—it was irrelevant and unanswerable. He forced himself to hold Lady Clare's gaze. ‘My lady, I am truly sorry to see your father so ill.'

‘Thank you.' Lady Clare seemed to recollect herself and gestured at the tall knight. ‘Count Tristan, this is my husband, Sir Arthur Ferrer.'

Tristan and Sir Arthur withdrew a little and exchanged greetings. Sir Arthur was personable and had an easy manner, Tristan liked him on instinct. When the introductions were over, Tristan saw that Francesca was deep in conversation with Father Alar.

She was white as a sheet. Tristan strained to hear what they were saying, and when he heard the priest utter the dreaded words ‘last rites', he moved to join her. She was twisting her fingers together. Gently, Tristan took her hand. She didn't react, Father Alar had all her attention.

‘Have you offered him the last rites, Father?' she was asking.

‘Yes, my lady.'

She seemed to sag. ‘It will be soon, then.'

Father Alar's smile was sad. ‘I fear so.'

Tristan guided her to the nearest stool and she sank on to it.

‘Father Alar, you are certain?' Francesca's voice trembled. ‘How do you know?'

‘My lady, I have witnessed many people go to God.'

‘Will it be tonight?'

The priest spread his hands. ‘One can never know exactly, it will be as God decides.'

Francesca's eyes were dry, she had yet to shed a tear.

Lady Clare came round the bed and Tristan stood aside to allow her to put her arm about Francesca's shoulders. ‘It is good to see you, Francesca,' she said. ‘I have missed you.'

Francesca's face relaxed and she reached up to squeeze Lady Clare's hand. ‘It is kind of you to say so, my lady.'

Bemused, Tristan shook his head at the obvious affection between the two women. If he hadn't seen it for himself, he wouldn't have believed it. Francesca had told him that she liked Lady Clare and he'd thought she was deluding herself. Yet here they were, embracing with what appeared to be genuine warmth. Women. He'd never understand them. How could you feel liking for someone who had effectively robbed you of your birthright? Yet here they were, exchanging kisses.

‘I mean it, Francesca,' Lady Clare said, shaking her head. ‘I'd hoped to see you before now.'

Francesca's grey eyes were trained on Count Myrrdin. ‘I am sorry, it was hard to come back.'

‘Well, I am glad you have arrived, Father has been asking for you.' Lady Clare straightened, crossed to her husband and put her hand on his arm. ‘Come, Arthur, Lady Francesca and Lord Tristan will wish to say their farewells in private.' At the door, she looked back. ‘Father Alar? A word, if you please.'

As the door closed softly behind them, Tristan sat on the stool on the other side of the bed, opposite Francesca. Her eyes were bright, shiny with tears that had yet to fall.

‘Tristan, you don't have to stay.'

He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I do.'

And then it happened. Count Myrrdin took a deep breath, a muscle twitched in his wasted cheek and his eyelids lifted. ‘Tristan? Tristan, my boy, is that you?' His voice was faint, like the whisper of dry leaves.

Tristan leaned forward. ‘Yes, my lord, I'm here.'

Francesca's eyes filled. Her mouth was working and she had her hand to her throat—she was probably too choked to speak.

‘Tristan, my boy, I must see Francesca, will you fetch her for me?'

‘She's here, my lord,' Tristan said. He felt pretty choked himself, Count Myrrdin was the only person ever to have called him ‘my boy' in that manner, his father never had.

Francesca reached out to take the count's hand. ‘I'm here, Papa.'

‘Where have you been?'

‘I am sorry, Papa. If I'd known you were ill, I would have come sooner.' A large tear trickled down her face.

Eyes stinging himself, Tristan stood abruptly. ‘If you need me, I'll be outside.'

Francesca leaned forward to adjust the count's pillows, he doubted that she heard him. When he left the bedchamber, she was carefully smoothing the count's straggling white hair.

* * *

Dawn.

Two throne-like chairs had been found for Lady Francesca and Lady Clare and hauled up to the bedchamber. Cushions were piled on to the chairs and there they passed a restless night, taking it in turns to hold Count Myrrdin's hand when he was asleep. Whenever he was awake, they tried to encourage him to drink. It was a losing battle.

‘Papa? Would you try some ale?' Time and time again, Francesca held a cup to his lips.

Time and time again, the white head turned away.

She bit her lip. ‘Some wine, perhaps?' Francesca's stomach cramped, the count's face was so drawn he had to be thirsty. She would swear new wrinkles were forming in his aged skin even as she watched. ‘What about milk? A posset of some kind? Papa, you ought to drink something.'

All was to no avail, Count Myrrdin simply shook his head. Though he refused to drink, his aged face lightened whenever he looked her way.

Francesca did her best to hide her anxiety. She kept a smile on her face and made it as bright as possible. Occasionally, she caught Clare's gaze and saw her own worry mirrored back at her.

‘He's tired,' Clare murmured. ‘Perhaps he will drink tomorrow.'

Count Myrrdin closed his eyes and seemed to fall instantly asleep.

‘Perhaps.' Francesca yawned.

‘You should rest,' Clare said. ‘You must be exhausted after so many days on the road.'

Francesca stretched and shifted a cushion to a more comfortable position. ‘I'll rest here, I don't want to leave him.'

As she reached to take the count's hand again, she noticed how still he was. His fingers felt cold, so cold. She started to chafe them when something in the quality of his stillness caught her attention. Her eyes widened and she stared at his chest, waiting for it to rise.

Nothing. No movement. No breath. Nothing.

‘Papa?' Her fingers shifted to his wrist and she searched for a heartbeat. ‘Papa?' The back of her neck prickled. Aghast, her gaze met Clare's.

Tight about the mouth, Clare pressed her fingers to the pulse point on the count's throat. ‘Oh, no.' She held the palm of her hand before his mouth. Slowly, she sat down.

Francesca's heart thudded as she and Clare looked at each other. Francesca forced out the words. ‘He's gone.'

‘Aye.' Clare's throat convulsed. ‘God bless him, he's gone.'

* * *

It had been a sad and wearisome day, one made even more wearisome because hardly anyone in Fontaine had had any sleep. Tristan spent much of it in the chapel, supporting Francesca as she and Lady Clare took turns to stand vigil over Count Myrrdin's body. The rest of the time he passed at the high table in the great hall, waiting for Francesca to emerge from the chapel.

Tristan found himself in the unusual position of being an onlooker in a castle where he had once stood in command. A man of action, he wasn't comfortable in the role of an observer, he wasn't used to it. He drummed his fingers on the table and stared gloomily at a platter of bread and cheese. Lord, he felt restless. He could see Bastian at the far end of the hall, the lad seemed to have befriended one of the castle grooms.

Tristan glanced at the doorway that led to the chapel. He should have asked Francesca how long she would be. He hoped she wasn't planning on staying in there all night, she was exhausted.

It was odd how events had turned out. After their wedding, everyone had expected that Fontaine would one day be his. He'd never imagined he would be sitting in the hall watching Sir Arthur Ferrer command the Fontaine knights.

Tristan didn't begrudge the man his advancement. Clearly, Sir Arthur—shortly to become Count Arthur—knew what he was about. It was obvious from the easy way Count Myrrdin's retainers deferred to him that they trusted Sir Arthur's judgement and that he was popular here. Good. Fontaine needed a sound man at the helm.

Tristan watched Sir Arthur despatch envoys to Rennes with news of Count Myrrdin's death and nodded his approval. The succession of Fontaine had been rearranged after Count Myrrdin had acknowledged Lady Clare as his true-born daughter, and it was vital that Baron Rolland ratified Sir Arthur's appointment as Count of Fontaine quickly. A clear line of command had to be established. Tristan didn't think there would be any objections. Given that Count Myrrdin had been ailing for some time, Sir Arthur was, to all extents and purposes, already in command.