Mistaken for a Lady (22 page)

At night Francesca was able to cling grimly on to hope, for he held her in bed, kissed her forehead and told her to sleep. Unfortunately, he didn't confide in her. And, apart from a chaste goodnight kiss, he didn't touch her again. Even the passion they had once shared seemed to have vanished, like smoke in the wind.

Each night, Francesca would tell herself that as soon as Tristan had finished his interrogation of Sir Joakim, he would find time for her. She knew he wanted heirs. And whilst passion alone was no longer enough, she was getting to the point where if passion was all Tristan had to offer, she would try to make the best of it.

What had he said?
Wedding vows should last for life.

It seemed he intended to be faithful. Was she wrong to want more from him than mere passion? She'd hoped for a soulmate. Despite her hopes, it was becoming clear that Tristan's idea of a good marriage didn't chime with hers. Perhaps it never would.

Each dawn she woke to find he had left their bedchamber, and wherever she made enquiries as to his whereabouts, she received the same answer:

‘Sir Roparz, where is Lord Tristan?'

‘Interrogating Sir Joakim, my lady.'

She would try not to frown. ‘Surely he can't
still
be interrogating Sir Joakim?'

‘I'm afraid that he is.'

After several days when Francesca received a similar response, she came to a decision. Tristan had to be made to see that his insistence on scouring Brittany for every last outlaw was a form of escape. If he didn't want more from life than that, their marriage was at an end.

Just because I am far below him in rank, he thinks I will accept everything he does. Well, he is about to find otherwise.

She marched into the steward's office. ‘Sir Roparz, I would like to speak to my husband.'

‘He's dealing with the outlaws, my lady.'

She made her voice firm. ‘I need to speak to him without delay. Where is he?'

‘In the dungeon.'

‘I should like you to take me.'

His eyebrows shot up. ‘To the dungeon? My lady, I can't do that.'

‘I am sure that you can.'

‘The dungeon is no place for a lady.'

‘Nevertheless, I am asking you to take me.' Her foot tapped. ‘At once, if you please.'

Sir Roparz searched her face and nodded. ‘Very well. It's cold down there, you will need a cloak.'

* * *

The entrance to the dungeon was beneath the guardhouse. The door was oak, dark with age and banded with iron, it looked strong enough to withstand attack from a horde of Vikings. Sir Roparz spoke to guards stationed at either side of the door and a large key was produced.

Francesca shivered. ‘Lord Tristan is locked in the dungeon?'

‘He's not prepared to run the risk of Kerjean escaping.'

The door grated open. Francesca braced herself, she'd never been inside a prison and she wasn't sure what to expect. She wasn't sure what to expect from Tristan either, he was a loyal warrior of the duchy and Sir Joakim and his cronies had been causing havoc for years.

A flight of roughly hewn steps ran sharply downward. Peering in, Francesca could see the faint glimmer of a torch at the bottom.

‘Follow me, my lady. Please take care, the steps are slippery.'

At the foot of the steps, a tunnel sloped downward—the dungeon had been hewn from the rock upon which the castle was built. Dark walls glistened. As they descended, they passed studded door after studded door, the place was literally honeycombed with cells. Torches hissed and spat. As Sir Roparz had warned, the air was chill.

At the end of the corridor, the final door was ajar, Sir Roparz came to a halt outside it. Tristan was talking inside, his voice echoed round the rocky walls.

‘Kerjean, if you refuse to give me proof, you will rot here until Doomsday.'

‘Damn you, le Beau,' Sir Joakim said. ‘I've told you a thousand times, I have no proof. I was simply told your father served the alliance.'

‘That is your final word?'

‘I can't help you. Hell burn it, le Beau, what is the point of this? The alliance is finished. You, of all people, should know that.'

‘Very well, you will remain here. You will be fed and watered, but you will never see the light of day. All that could change, however, once you tell me what I want to know.'

‘It matters not to me,' Sir Joakim said, in a dull voice. ‘I am a dead man either way.'

Francesca moved to the doorway. Sir Joakim was slouched on a stone ledge, chains about his wrists and ankles. His beard had grown, he looked dirty and dishevelled, but he didn't appear to have been beaten, in truth he looked surprisingly hale.

Tristan turned her way and his face went blank. ‘This is no place for you, my lady.' He took her wrist in a fierce grip, walked her back into the tunnel and scowled at Roparz. ‘What possessed you to bring her here?'

Francesca tugged her wrist free. ‘Don't blame Sir Roparz, I insisted he brought me.'

‘You shouldn't be here.'

Francesca looked pointedly towards the cell. ‘Nor should Sir Joakim. Tristan, your part in this is ended. Send Sir Joakim to Baron Rolland, let him deal with him.'

Tristan gave her a look so cold, she shivered. ‘Kerjean and his men remain here until I am done with them.'

Dread filled her. Francesca had heard about the lengths some men were prepared to go in order to extract information from their enemies. Prisoners would be flogged, they'd be put on the rack. Surely Tristan wouldn't resort to torture? Not Tristan. ‘Tristan, I should like to speak to you, and preferably not down here.'

‘Very well.' His voice was curt. Efficient. ‘Roparz, lock up behind us, will you?'

Francesca hurried along the corridor and up the steps.

‘Where are we going?' Tristan asked.

She didn't hesitate, the sun was shining and they needed to be somewhere they could talk without being interrupted. ‘Your mother's garden.'

She swept on, through the bailey and on to the sloping path between the castle walls that led up to the garden terrace. Tristan followed in silence, she didn't need to look back to know that her discovery of his mother's garden had surprised him.

Reaching the door in the wall, Francesca shot back the bolts, turned the key and stepped out into the wind. Above her, the gulls cried and wheeled.

Tristan followed. His expression was stony, though the eagerness with which he drew in a lungful of fresh air told her that he was secretly relieved to be out of the dungeon.

He nudged a pot of mint with his boot. ‘I'd forgotten about this place.'

‘I was told your mother loved it.'

‘So she did.'

Stepping up to him, Francesca laid her hand on his sleeve. ‘Tristan, what are you doing in that dungeon?'

He frowned down at her, jet-black hair ruffled by the wind. ‘You know what I am doing. Kerjean accused my father of being a rebel, I intend to prove him a liar.'

‘I thought their cause was dead and that Kerjean and his men are merely outlaws.'

Tristan shrugged. ‘That is true, up to a point. Kerjean would need a great deal of money to revive the rebel alliance.'

‘He would also need a great deal of support from powerful men. That's why he wanted you to join them.'

Tristan nodded.

‘Tristan, Sir Joakim made that accusation to get under your guard. He succeeded.' A muscle twitched in Tristan's cheek, Francesca ignored it. ‘I can see what he said has cut deep, but you might need to accept that you will never know the truth of it.'

‘My father was a cold man, not a traitorous one. I won't have him slandered.'

She looked up into his eyes, they were full of shadows. ‘Even at risk of your soul, Tristan?'

He stiffened. ‘What do you mean?'

She focused on the wall behind his head. ‘You've been interrogating that man for days and you're getting nowhere.'

‘He'll break in time, everyone does.'

She drew back, frowning. ‘And how will you ensure that he breaks? You heard him—he has nothing to lose. Sir Joakim knows he will be accused of treason and there is only one penalty for that.'

‘Death.'

‘Exactly. Even if Sir Joakim knows more that he has told you, it's obvious he has no intention of helping you. Are you planning to put him on the rack?'

His eyes went wide. ‘I beg your pardon?'

Thank goodness, her question had shocked him. Which must mean that he hadn't been planning on using torture. ‘Well, it seems to me that you have set out on that path.'

‘Lord, Francesca, I wouldn't torture the man.'

‘Wouldn't you? Are you sure? You're refusing to send him to Baron Rolland, and he is refusing to speak.' She spread her hands. ‘It seems like an impasse to me.'

‘Francesca, I must know about my father. Surely you understand?'

She leaned towards him. ‘Why? Why must you know?'

He looked at her as though she had grown two heads. ‘I would have thought it was obvious, this touches on my honour.'

‘You are saying that if your father sided with the alliance, then
your
honour is in question?'

‘Yes.'

‘I don't see why you must shoulder responsibility for your father's deeds.'

‘You're a woman, you wouldn't understand.'

Anger flared, a scorching burn in her belly. ‘No, likely I wouldn't. Tristan, I know you for a man of honour.' She drew in a calming breath. ‘I love you, Tristan.'

His hand caught hers, his eyes held some deep emotion. Yearning? Longing?

‘Francesca—'

‘Let me finish, I beg you. Tristan, I loved you from the beginning. I think I told you.'

‘You did.' His voice was husky, his gaze wistful. It gave her strength. And hope.

‘Tristan, back then my love was untried, we didn't know each other very well. I love you more truly today, I know you for an honourable man. You are honest and hard-working.' She gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘Indeed, sometimes you are a little too hard-working for my liking, but I accept that as your nature. I will always love you. And I have to tell you that my love will not change, whatever we discover your father did.' Reaching up, she lightly touched his mouth. ‘Tristan, you say you want to keep me as your wife. Yet you know nothing about my family. What if one day you were to discover that my mother was a thief, and my father a murderer? Would you want me then?'

Tristan slid his arms about her waist and pulled her tightly against him. ‘It makes no difference to me what your parents were. You are not a thief and you are not a murderer. You are Francesca. You are my heart.'

Triumph filled her. Tristan did love her! He wasn't ready to see it, his obsession with his father's honour was blinding him to all else, but she was certain he loved her. If only she could set his mind at rest concerning his father, they could finally get on with their marriage.

‘Tristan, would you hold a man guilty for his father's sins?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Then you should give yourself the same courtesy. Tristan, whatever your father did, you are not your father.'

A small smile played about his mouth. ‘I see I married a clever woman.' His smile faded and he rested his forehead against hers. ‘My heart, I accept what you say, but I cannot rest until I know the nature of my father's involvement with the rebel alliance.'

Chapter Sixteen

T
ristan couldn't tear his gaze from Francesca. He could see the silver and gold flecks in her eyes and her smile held a warmth he knew was reserved solely for him. As he looked at her, his uncertainties about his father were in some way diminished. His wife was a sorceress, a beguiling, clever sorceress and he blessed the day that she became his bride. He could so easily have chosen another woman. Yet this one, the woman who brought him nothing save her beautiful self, held the key to his heart.

It had been mere chance that he had chosen her. Lord, he'd been lucky, the idea of life, of a future without her was unbearable. Torture. How she did it he had no clue, but sometimes simply being in Francesca's company set the world to rights. Was it a weakness to desire her company as much as her body? He'd always thought so.

‘Tristan?' Her voice cut into his thoughts. ‘What happened to Sir Joakim's accomplices, are they in the dungeon too?'

‘Naturally.'

‘Have you questioned them?'

‘I've been concentrating on Kerjean.'

‘I take it he isn't inclined to talk?'

‘No.'

Her expression became pensive. ‘As we were leaving the island, I noticed that one of the outlaws looked quite a bit older than the others. He might know the extent—or not—of your father's involvement. Why not interrogate him?'

Tristan straightened. ‘That is a good idea.'

She tipped her head to one side. ‘I'm surprised you didn't think of it yourself.'

‘I should have done, if I hadn't been blinded by fury.' He touched her cheek and gave her a crooked smile. ‘I was obsessed with the idea of proving Kerjean's guilt. I wanted him punished for having the temerity to plan your abduction. You, my heart, are my weakness.'

‘I am your weakness?' She laughed. ‘You make it sound as though I am some kind of affliction.'

He caught her hand. ‘Perhaps you are. When I think about what might have happened to you had I not gone to that blasted revel, my thoughts scramble. That should not happen. I need to be master in my own mind.' He shrugged. ‘You are my Achilles' heel.'

She put her hand to her breast and her eyes danced. ‘Tristan, you really know how to woo a woman.'

Bemused, Tristan simply looked at her. Contrary to his expectation, Francesca seemed pleased by what he had said. Surely no lady would be happy to learn that her husband could not command his thoughts for thinking of her? Women. What a mystery they were.

Determined to focus on the matter in hand, he took a deep breath. Except—blast it, when Francesca smiled at him in that manner, his mind filled with thoughts that had little to do with interrogating outlaws and everything to do with taking her in his arms and kissing her until the world was lost to them. He cleared his throat. ‘I shall interview the other rebels shortly.'

She squeezed his hand. ‘I shall come with you.'

He felt a frown form. ‘Francesca, I am not going to resort to torture.'

‘I know that, you dolt.' Looking down at their hands, she interlaced her fingers with his. ‘This is important to you, I'd like to be present.'

Firmly, he shook his head. ‘You're not going back into that dungeon.'

‘Thank heaven for that, it makes my skin crawl.'

He smothered a laugh. ‘The dungeon's not meant to be pleasant, it's a deterrent.'

Grey eyes studied him. ‘What will you do, have the outlaws brought up to the solar? I suppose you have enough guards to interview them there.'

His lips twitched at her assumption that he would agree to her being present. ‘Francesca, I never said you might witness the interrogation.'

A line formed in her brow. ‘I need to be there.'

‘Why?'

Lifting his hand, she kissed it. ‘Because I love you.'

He had no answer to that. And before he knew it he found himself agreeing to her request. ‘I don't think the solar is the right place, the steward's office would be better.'

When Francesca tipped her head back and gave him a smile that took his breath away, Tristan realised that if his wife wanted something and it was within his power to give it to her, he would do so. Lord, it would seem he could deny her nothing. She who gave him his strength was truly also his weakness.

* * *

Dust motes flickered in a shaft of light pouring through the windows. Tristan sat behind the steward's desk with Francesca at his right hand and Roparz on his left, quill in hand.

In front of them, heavily chained and hedged in by guards, stood the older of the outlaws. He was about fifty years of age, and his face and shaven head bore many scars. Yet it wasn't the scars so much as the lack of expression in the man's eyes that bore witness to a life filled with violence and shattered dreams. His name was, apparently, Albin.

‘And you were witness to this meeting with my father?' Tristan was asking. He was more pleased than he could say that he'd taken Francesca's advice and had Albin brought up from the dungeons. They'd been questioning him for half an hour and what Albin had told him had relieved his mind. He wanted confirmation, before witnesses, that he had it right. ‘It must have happened years ago, my father died when I was a squire.'

Roparz's quill scratched its way swiftly across the parchment, everything that was said was being carefully recorded.

‘Aye, my lord, it was years ago, all right. Sir Joakim's sire, Sir Gregor, thought Count Bedwyr might be persuaded to join us. He was wrong, your father would have none of it.'

Thank God.
Tristan exchanged a swift smile with Francesca before turning back to the outlaw. ‘And were there other witnesses to my father's refusal of Sir Gregor's terms?'

‘None that are alive,
mon seigneur
.'

‘Albin, as you see, my steward is recording what you say. Are you prepared to repeat this before Baron Rolland?'

Albin's eyes flickered. ‘What's in it for me?'

Sir Roparz looked up. ‘What's in it for me,
my lord
?'

Tristan lifted an eyebrow. ‘You have family, Albin?'

‘A wife. No children, my lord.'

‘I can't promise you your freedom, that will be Baron Rolland's decision, but I can promise that your wife will be cared for.'

‘Thank you, my lord.' Albin hesitated, chewing his lip.

‘There's more?'

‘Aye.'

‘Go on.'

Albin shifted and his chains clanked. ‘If you've a mind to sue for mercy on my behalf, I'll tell you. Otherwise...' He shrugged and folded his lips together.

Tristan kept his gaze steady. ‘I have already said I will speak up for you. I will ensure your wife is provided for. More than that I cannot do.' He leaned back in his chair. ‘Albin, you might like to consider that the more helpful you are at this stage, the more persuasive I am likely to be on your behalf. And the more generous with my aid to your wife.'

Albin's mouth worked. Eyes fixed on Tristan, he took a wary step backwards. His chains rattled. ‘It...it concerns Countess Suzanna, my lord.'

Tristan's brow furrowed. ‘My mother?'

‘It wasn't sickness that killed her.'

Tristan leapt up and was round the table in an instant. Dimly, he heard Francesca's gasp of dismay, and the scrape of Roparz's chair as he too pushed to his feet. Tristan glared at Albin. ‘Of course it was sickness, my mother caught a chill.'

The grizzled head shook. ‘No, my lord, she did not.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘Countess Suzanna was murdered.' Albin's voice sounded rusty, he licked his lips. ‘There were those in the alliance who believed that your father needed a little persuasion before he would come round to their way of thinking.'

Tristan struggled to find words. ‘My mother was murdered?' Albin had to be lying—his mother had caught a chill and had died soon after, everyone knew that. The man had to be lying.

‘My lord, Countess Suzanna was murdered.'

Hollow inside, Tristan glared at Albin, but he wasn't really seeing him. He was thinking back, racking his brains to try to remember the little he'd been told of his mother's death. ‘Lord Morgan said she died of a chill.'

‘My lord, she was poisoned.'

Tristan's mind reeled. ‘Someone got into des Iles—is that what you are saying?' He grabbed the front of Albin's tunic. ‘
Jésu
, how was it done?'

‘It...I don't know exactly. I was Sir Gregor's sergeant back then, and a comrade and I overheard him talking. Your mother was killed to try to force Count Bedwyr into siding with the rebels. That's all I know.' Albin's throat worked. ‘Benedig—my comrade—had a very loose tongue, he died shortly afterwards and I always wondered why. I wouldn't have put it past him to attempt to use what we'd heard to feather his nest.'

‘Benedig was silenced?'

A shrug. ‘I imagine so. Leastways, his death gave me pause. Until now, I've not breathed a word to anyone.'

Tristan felt stunned. The idea that his mother had been killed as an attempt to force his father into joining the rebels would never have occurred to him. ‘Does Kerjean know his father is implicated in my mother's death?'

‘No, my lord, Sir Gregor took the secret to his grave.'

Wheeling about, Tristan let out a huge sigh. Francesca looked as stunned as he was, and her grey eyes were full of fellow feeling. A lump formed in his throat.

‘Roparz?'

‘My lord?'

‘I need to think. Get this man back into the dungeon, will you?'

‘Yes, my lord.'

‘And see that he has a decent meal.'

‘Of course.'

Tristan stalked out of the office, his thoughts in complete disarray.

* * *

Francesca waited as long as she could before going in search of him.

Tristan wasn't hard to find, she knew exactly where he'd be and there he was, sitting on the stone bench in his mother's garden. Francesca didn't know what she was going to say, but if he needed comfort, she wanted to be there for him.

He looked up, eyes bleak.

She gripped the door. ‘If you don't want company, I can come back later?'

Slowly, he shook his head. ‘Stay. Please.'

Crossing the terrace, she settled beside him on the bench. She could smell rosemary, he had picked a sprig and was twirling it in his fingers. Setting the sprig aside, he took her hand and their fingers laced.

‘I am so sorry, Tristan.'

His smile was tight, his blue gaze seemed to look into her soul. ‘I must confess, Albin's statement about my mother—
Jésu
, I never saw that coming.'

‘How do you feel?'

‘I am not sure.' His chest heaved. ‘Mother—murdered. I can't seem to accept it and yet in a dreadful way it makes complete sense.'

Francesca leaned her head on his shoulder. A bee, buffeted by the wind, was buzzing around the pot of chives. As she watched the bee moving from purple flower to purple flower, an extraordinary thought came to her—one that would explain much about Tristan and his warped relationship with his father.

‘Tristan, has it occurred to you that your mother's death might explain why your father kept you at arm's length?'

His muscles tightened. ‘How so?'

‘Albin implied that Lady Suzanna's death was part of Sir Gregor's plan to draw Count Bedwyr into his net.'

‘Aye.' He gave a puzzled frown. ‘Go on.'

‘What if that wasn't the whole truth? What if your mother was killed to show your father what he stood to lose if he didn't join Sir Gregor?'

He gave a harsh laugh. ‘What more was there? My mother's death destroyed my father, she was his world.'

Francesca gripped his hand. ‘Yes, I am sure that is true. I had heard how your father adored her.' She drew in a breath. ‘However, I think there was more for your father to lose, much more.'

He made a sound of exasperation. ‘For pity's sake, speak plainly.'

‘There was you, Tristan. Your father had you.'

Tristan sat there, eyes holding hers. He didn't move a muscle. The bee buzzed among the chives, a gull shrieked over the cliffs and Tristan simply stared at her.

Francesca tore her gaze from his and leaned on his shoulder. ‘You were the real target, I feel sure. By killing Lady Suzanna, Sir Gregor was warning Count Bedwyr what might happen if he didn't fall in with their plans. You, Count Bedwyr's heir, would be killed.'

She waited, watching the bee and listening to the gulls.

At length, he sighed. ‘That version of events could be true, although with only Albin as our witness, I don't suppose we shall ever verify it.'

‘Your father must have been at his wits' end after your mother died, no wonder he wouldn't allow you to attend her funeral.'

Tristan gave her a sharp look. ‘He thought I'd be safer in Vannes?'

‘Exactly, by keeping you at arm's length, he hoped to protect you.'

Tristan shook his head and swore softly. ‘The devil of it is we shall never know for sure what my father thought.'

Francesca gave a sad smile. ‘That is true, but it must help to know that Count Bedwyr's apparent coldness could have been born out of love rather than indifference.'

‘Love,' he murmured, staring at the pot of rosemary with troubled eyes. He drew in a lungful of air. ‘Francesca, we have learned that my mother was murdered and my father threatened by outlaws and rebels. This could cast my father's death—his mortal sin—in a new light.'

She gave him a gentle smile. ‘I was wondering when you would come to that, it could indeed. It's entirely possible that your father, threatened at every turn, decided that the best way to protect you was to remove himself from play.'

Tristan's face drained of colour. ‘My father died to save me? He sacrificed himself?' He rubbed his brow. ‘Lord, what a turnaround. I wouldn't have thought it possible, and yet—it is plausible.'