Mistaken for a Lady (2 page)

Chapter One

May Day 1176
—the market town of
Provins
in the County of Champagne

T
ristan spurred through the Lower Town, his squire Bastian at his side. It had taken them many days to reach his Champagne manor and he'd expected to find Francesca at home when he'd arrived.

Not so. On his arrival at Paimpont, his steward Sir Ernis had told him that Francesca had gone to a revel at Count Henry's palace. A
masked
revel, of all things. On May Day. It could hardly be worse.

Did she have any idea how rowdy the revel might become? How bawdy? Tristan had thought Francesca innocent. Overprotected. It was possible she had changed. These days it was possible she made a habit of attending such events.

With a sigh, Tristan had called for hot water and a change of horses and he and Bastian had hauled themselves wearily back into the saddle.

Tristan had urgent news for Francesca, terrible news that would knock her back. Count Myrrdin of Fontaine—the man she thought of as her father—was on his deathbed. Count Myrrdin wanted to see Francesca before he died and Tristan had been charged with bringing her back to Fontaine.

Tristan's head was throbbing after so long on the road. His eyes felt gritty and his guts were wound tighter than an overstrung lute. Telling Francesca about Count Myrrdin's illness was bound to be a challenge, he wanted it over and done with. The news was bound to distress her. None the less, the sooner Francesca knew that the man she thought of as her father was on his deathbed, the better. She needed to prepare herself for the long ride back to Brittany.

Would it distress her further when she learned that she must make the journey with the husband she'd not seen in nigh on two years? Impatient with himself, Tristan reined in his thoughts. Since separating from Francesca he'd learned to his cost that thinking about her wreaked havoc with his emotions. She affected his judgement and that he couldn't allow. He was a count with responsibilities. Emotions were dangerous, emotions wrecked lives. Allow strong emotion to take root and good judgement flew to the four winds.

He was here to take Francesca to Count Myrrdin.

He was here to solicit for an annulment. A wife who hadn't troubled to answer any of his letters, a wife who hadn't troubled to reply when he'd invited her to visit des Iles, wasn't the wife for him.

He glanced at his squire. Bastian was young and doubtless worn out. Tristan's territories in the Duchy of Brittany lay many miles behind them, they'd crossed several counties to reach Champagne. ‘Holding up, lad?'

‘Yes, my lord.'

‘You didn't have to come with me this evening, you could have stayed at the manor. One of the grooms could have come with me.'

Bastian stiffened. ‘I am your squire, Lord Tristan, it is my duty to accompany you.'

In the Lower Town the market square was clear of stalls, although something of a holiday atmosphere ensured that the taverns were doing a brisk trade. Indeed, the entire population seemed to have spilled out of the narrow wooden houses and into the streets. Men were wandering about, ale cups in hand; girls had braided flowers into their hair. The atmosphere was relaxed. Festive. And all in honour of the ancient festival of Beltane. Tristan knew what that meant, he wouldn't mind betting that every full-blooded male in Provins had one thing on his mind.

He folded his lips together. He'd been told that Francesca had gone to the revel attended only by a groom and her maid. If things got out of hand, would she be safe? His brow was heavy as they trotted through the evening light and made their way up the hill towards the palace. Swifts were screaming in the sky overhead, a welcome sign that summer was on its way, a sign that should have lifted his mood.

Tristan stifled a yawn, Lord, he was tired. His stomach rumbled and his skin itched—that quick wash at Paimpont hadn't done much to remove the dust of the road, he could feel it clinging to his every pore, he was longing for a proper bath.

What would Francesca do when she saw him? She wouldn't be expecting him.
Bon sang
—good grief—he'd left her in Fontaine thinking his service to Duchess Constance would last a couple of months, and they'd ended up being separated for two years. Two years. Francesca was bound to have changed. It was a pity, the girl he had married had been a sweetheart. He gripped the reins as, against his will, his mind conjured her image. She'd been a sweetheart with candid grey eyes and long dark hair that felt like silk.
What is she like these days?
He wasn't sure what to expect or how he would feel when he saw her. Merciful heavens, what did it matter? When she'd fled Brittany without even setting foot in his castle at des Iles, she'd made it plain she didn't see herself as his wife.

The trouble was that now he was on the verge of seeing her again, it was impossible not to think about her. Impossible and painful. By refusing to enter his county, Francesca had, in effect, deserted him. And despite his best efforts, his pretty young wife had managed to occupy most of his thoughts over the past months. In truth, ever since he'd heard that Francesca had been ousted from her position as Count Myrrdin's daughter, he'd had no peace.

Francesca had left Brittany at the worst time. With the duchy infested with rebels, every county had been in a ferment. The council had called on Tristan for support and he'd not been able to go to Francesca. He'd felt bad. Worse than bad. And, given that she had not made any attempt to contact him, far worse than he should have done.

Initially, Tristan hadn't wanted their marriage dissolved. A knife twisted in his gut and he cursed himself for his foolishness. He'd been captivated by Francesca's innocence and apparent liking for him. He'd been overwhelmed by the startling physical rapport that had sprung up the moment they'd set eyes on each other and had clung to the hope that once the dust from the rebellion had settled, they might make their marriage work. He'd ached to see her. Still did.

Tristan had been told that Francesca had fled to his manor in Champagne as soon as she'd learned she wasn't Count's Myrrdin's daughter—his retainers had sent word when she had arrived.

What he didn't understand was why she had chosen to leave Brittany. Francesca loved Brittany, it had been her home. She loved the aged Count Myrrdin, and surely that wouldn't change even though it had been proved she wasn't his daughter?

Had she fled because Lady Clare—Count Myrrdin's true daughter—had made difficulties for her?

Or had she gone because she couldn't bear to live on in her beloved Fontaine knowing it would never be hers?

It had hurt that Francesca had left the duchy rather than wait for him to complete his duties. So many months had passed and she'd not answered a single one of his letters. That hurt too. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, surely he shouldn't feel this way?

Now, with Francesca continually ignoring his letters, Tristan refused to waste more time. He needed to apply for an annulment. He needed a sound political marriage. He needed heirs.

He hardened his heart. The plain truth was that Francesca hadn't taken refuge in his castle at des Iles as he had invited her to. She had fled the duchy. Her silence was yet more proof that she wanted nothing to do with him. Silence was a form of desertion. And desertion was definitely grounds for annulment.

Somewhere in the depths of his memory a pair of candid grey eyes—Francesca's eyes—smiled back at him. Her smile had been warm and genuine. Or so he had believed. A knife twisted, deep inside.

He set his jaw. It was time to have their marriage dissolved. Francesca wasn't an heiress. Their marriage had brought him nothing but grief—the confusion he'd felt at their parting refused to dissipate. At times it felt very much like pain. Perhaps that wasn't so surprising. He had liked Francesca very much; her lack of response to his letters really rankled.

Bastian was staring at the gatehouse outside Count Henry's palace. ‘Is that the palace, my lord?'

‘Aye.'

Bastian gave him a troubled look. ‘What will you do for a mask, my lord? Didn't Sir Ernis say a mask was obligatory?'

‘Never mind, Bastian, I have the very thing.'

* * *

Francesca's mask was green to match her gown. Standing in a stairwell just outside the palace great hall, she held her veil to one side while Mari tied it into place.

‘Thank you. Are you ready, Mari?'

‘Yes, my lady.'

Giving her veil a tweak to ensure it flowed neatly over the ties of her mask, Francesca stepped into the hall. A wave of noise and heat rolled over her. Unprepared for either the press of people or the warmth, Francesca recoiled so swiftly that Mari—who was following close behind—walked into her.

‘I'm sorry, my lady.'

Francesca's eyebrows lifted. ‘Saints, half of Champagne must be here. It would be hard to imagine there's room for anyone else.'

A manservant bearing a tray of goblets shot past the doorway faster than she could have believed possible, he nimbly sidestepped a small child playing with a grizzled wolfhound and narrowly avoided an upturned bench.

Behind her mask, Mari's eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, my lady, isn't it exciting? May Day always is the best of the festivals.'

‘It's a pagan celebration,' Francesca said. ‘It's not an official one, it's not sanctioned by the Church.'

‘All the better, we can really enjoy ourselves.' Mari nudged her in the small of her back. ‘Well? Don't you think we need a goblet of wine?'

Straightening her spine, Francesca pushed into the throng. The twanging of a lute floated down from the minstrel's gallery. A drum beat softly in the background.

Truth be told, Francesca had no wish to take part in the revel, she wasn't in the mood. She'd only come to please Mari, who had been talking of nothing else since Sir Ernis had so foolishly mentioned there was going to be a masked revel at the palace.

Mari was more of a companion than a servant and, despite her outspoken manner, she was a loyal supporter. It would have been churlish to deny her and Francesca had known Mari wouldn't dream of coming without her. So, despite not being in the mood for frivolity, she'd been persuaded to come.

Mari's mask made her smile. It was a dazzling and complicated arrangement of peacock feathers, gold thread and ribbons. The feathers danced and waved about Mari's face as she squeezed through the press, tickling people as she passed them.

Francesca's mask was far more modest. She had ignored Mari's blandishments that a young lady like herself, one whose husband had clearly given up on her, ought to set about attracting new interest. She had cut a simple mask out of some backing, covered it with a remnant of green fabric from her gown and edged it with some glass beads she'd found rolling about in the bottom of her sewing box.

‘My lady, you really must make the most of this revel,' Mari muttered from behind her. ‘You need to think about your future. Your marriage is over, and if you want children, you will have to marry again.' Mari glanced pointedly towards the ceiling, where row upon row of knights' colours hung from the beams. ‘Look at all those pennons. There are plenty of knights here tonight, you could take your pick.' She lowered her voice. ‘Find a new husband.'

‘Mari, please.' As Mari's words shivered through her, Francesca was gripped with a horrid suspicion. Had Mari insisted on coming to the revel, not for her own entertainment, but because she wanted Francesca to choose a new husband?

Well, that day might almost be upon her. Her separation from Tristan was bound to be formalised soon, even so, she wasn't ready to start husband hunting. Not until she had heard from Tristan himself.

The long silence probably meant that she would at any moment receive notice that he had asked the Pope to annul their marriage. Tristan had good cause to do so. She'd failed him in the most damning of ways, she was a nobody, a nobody who had not provided him with an heir.

Determined not to give the knights' colours another glance, Francesca kept her gaze trained on the trestle tables arranged around the walls. She had come here tonight so Mari could let her hair down. As to her future, she had already discussed moving to Monfort with her friend Helvise, she would think more about that another day.

Francesca forged on, heading for a tray of goblets next to the wine racks. Heavens, she'd never seen tables so laden—great platters of venison, mountains of pastries, honeyed almonds... Unfortunately, her stomach felt like lead and she doubted she could eat a bite.

It would help if she could forget how she had enjoyed Tristan's company. The trouble was that every time Mari spoke about Francesca's plans for the future, Francesca found herself dwelling on her brief time with Tristan. Until she had discovered she wasn't related to Count Myrrdin in any way whatsoever, she had been so happy.

My life has been a lie. None of it was real.

Tears rushed to her eyes and the tray of goblets seemed to waver in a mist. Blinking fast, she stiffened her spine. She knew what she had to do. She must step aside and allow Tristan to make a more propitious marriage. With a noblewoman. With an heiress who would give him heirs.

Francesca reached for a goblet and wrenched her mind away from Tristan. ‘Count Henry is generous,' she said brightly.

Mari was staring wide-eyed at a stand that was bowing under the weight of so many wine barrels. Her peacock feathers shivered. ‘
Dieu du ciel
, God in heaven, Count Henry's steward must have raided the stock of every wine merchant in Champagne. That rack will surely break.'

‘I am sure the barrels will soon be empty.' Francesca handed the goblet to Mari as one of her maid's peacock feathers flicked across the face of a large man with a shock of white hair. The man sneezed.

Francesca took another goblet. When she turned back, wine in hand, Mari was gone.