Читать книгу Mistaken For A Lady - Carol Townend - Страница 13

Chapter Three

Leaving Tristan to sleep off the rigours of his journey to Champagne, Francesca dressed with a heavy heart and slipped down to the great hall to find Mari. The tables were up for breakfast and Mari was sitting with a group of women at one of the long benches. The peacock mask lay on the table next to a basket of bread, it was a little the worse for wear with the longest feather bent out of true.

‘Good morning, Mari.’

Mari jumped to her feet with the energy of a woman half her age. ‘Good morning, my lady. I’ll fetch some fresh bread.’

‘There’s no need. Mari, I need to speak to you. I take it you received my message that Lord Tristan is here?’

Mari picked up her mask and moved with her to the side of the hall. ‘Aye, Sir Gervase told me.’ She gave Francesca a long, assessing look. ‘You’re not happy—what’s happened?’

Francesca took a steadying breath. Mari had spent most of her life in Fontaine; she was bound to be upset when she heard of Count Myrrdin’s illness. ‘Lord Tristan brings worrying word from Brittany.’

The peacock feathers trembled. ‘My lady?’

‘Count Myrrdin is gravely ill.’ Francesca touched Mari’s arm. ‘It’s so serious that I gather he is unlikely to recover. He has asked to see me. He wants to see Lord Tristan too, we are to journey back to Brittany together.’

‘Count Myrrdin is dying? Oh, my lady, that is terrible news.’

‘Lord Tristan and I will set out this morning, before noon.’ Francesca blinked back tears. ‘Do you wish to accompany us?’

Mari gripped Francesca’s hand and nodded fiercely. ‘Of course. In any case, you will need a maid.’

Francesca managed a smile. ‘I should warn you, the journey is going to be rushed and likely very tiring. Sadly, as I understand it, we don’t have much time.’

Mari gave her a doleful look and a tear tracked slowly down her cheek. ‘Count Myrrdin,’ she murmured, voice choked. ‘One of the best.’

Francesca’s eyes prickled. ‘Aye.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Mari, we need to get back to the manor, to pack. We shall be taking one saddlebag each.’

‘Just one, my lady?’

‘We will reach Fontaine more quickly if we travel light. Come, we should get back to the manor. If you are still hungry, you can eat there.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ Mari glanced towards the stairwell. ‘What about Lord Tristan?’

‘He’s exhausted. We’ll let his squire know what we are doing and they can join us at the manor when Lord Tristan is ready.’

‘Very good, my lady.’

Seeing Sir Gervase enter the hall, Francesca moved towards him. ‘I’ll bid farewell to Sir Gervase and join you in the stables.’

* * *

An hour later, Francesca was back in her bedchamber at Paimpont, kneeling before one of three travelling chests that were lined up against the wall. She felt as though she was being pulled in two.

Count Myrrdin was dying. It was hard to accept. The count was getting on in years, so it shouldn’t have been such a shock, yet shock it was. All this time Francesca had been fondly imagining that she would return to Brittany and see him again. She’d never imagined that meeting would take place at his deathbed—assuming they got there in time. How horrible, she’d taken Count Myrrdin for granted.

And then there was Tristan, here in Champagne. It was only beginning to sink in.

All in all, Francesca felt utterly dazed. It was only the second time in her life that she had felt quite so stunned. The other time had been when Lady Clare and Sir Arthur Ferrer had arrived at Fontaine bearing news that Francesca was not Count Myrrdin’s daughter. Afterwards, Francesca had drifted about in a dream, doubting everyone and everything.

Lady Clare was Count Myrrdin’s real daughter. Francesca, despite her upbringing, was no one.

Paralysed by uncertainty, Francesca had no longer known how to behave. Who was she? What was she? She’d been brought up as a lady, but she wasn’t a lady.

Enquiries had been made as to her parentage, but every trail was long cold. In the end, she’d had to resign herself to the fact that her background would remain shrouded in darkness. She was no one. In a sense, it would have been better if they had discovered her to be a peasant, at least she would have had parents.

I am no one. Sometimes Francesca had found it hard to string a sentence together. Uncertain what was expected of her, and with no sign of her elusive husband, she had hidden herself away at her manor at St Méen with only Mari for company. It had taken a visit from the new Lady Clare to winkle her out.

Lady Clare had been wonderful. So understanding. The new lady of Fontaine had had a hard life, and she was quick to make it plain that she wasn’t going to make difficulties. Lady Clare had asked Francesca to think of her as a sister. And it had been Lady Clare who had urged Count Myrrdin to let Francesca keep St Méen. By rights it should have devolved to Clare as the count’s true-born daughter.

Notwithstanding Clare’s kindness, Francesca hadn’t found it easy to adjust to her change of status. She’d felt wounded. Her mind had been in a tangle. Sensing that she needed to recover somewhere where there were no reminders of her past life, she had come to Champagne.

Heart like lead, Francesca fingered the cold metal edge of the travelling chest. There was no time for shock today, though in truth that was what she felt. She stared blankly at the chests. They contained everything she owned and before the revel she had spent days packing in preparation for her departure from Paimpont.

Having had no reply from Tristan, Francesca had concluded that she was no longer welcome here. She had been ready to leave—if Tristan had brought his news a couple of days later, he would have found her gone.

Some weeks since, after much heartache and soul-searching, Francesca had decided that Judgement Day would come before Tristan deigned to answer her letters. She had contacted her friend Helvise, a friend she’d met in the Provins marketplace, and told her she was ready to go to Monfort. Helvise came from a humble background just as she did, and when Helvise had confessed to feeling overwhelmed regarding the running of a small manor outside the town, Francesca knew she could help. Francesca might not be a real lady, but she had been trained to run a castle and answering Helvise’s questions had been child’s play. And when Francesca had offered to move to Helvise’s manor so she could teach her all she knew, Helvise had jumped at her offer.

Francesca had realised that if she continued to live in Tristan’s manor, she would never be free of him. She would for ever be waiting for him to ride into the courtyard. Why, if she had a silver penny for every day she’d caught herself wishing he would sweep her up on to his saddle-bow and carry her back to Château des Iles, she would be a rich woman.

The scales had fallen from her eyes, she had waited long enough. She wanted a real marriage. God willing, she wanted children. It was possible she and Tristan had simply been unlucky. Of course, she only really wanted Tristan’s children, but if she couldn’t have them with him, much as it grieved her, she’d find someone else. There was no point being married to a man one never saw. Beginning a new life with Helvise had seemed the perfect solution, there was great comfort in being needed.

Helvise must be told of this change in arrangements.

I must repack, and quickly. Count Myrrdin is dying and I must go to him.

Heart heavy, Francesca reached into the trunk and shifted her neatly folded crimson gown to one side. Red fabric was costly and worn only by nobles. The gown wasn’t suitable for the ride to Brittany, and even if it had been, these days she didn’t have the gall to wear it.

She riffled though the chest. Whatever happened, she must remember one thing—the only reason Tristan had come for her was because he was honouring Count Myrrdin’s deathbed wish to see her again. Would Tristan have come to Champagne if not for the count’s last request? She doubted it.

Tristan had mentioned the need to travel light. She would need a couple of her most serviceable gowns; a couple of cloaks; a spare veil; a pair of shoes in addition to her riding boots; one good gown; an extra shift...

Mari clumped into the chamber, a saddlebag over each shoulder. ‘Ned found these for us, my lady,’ she said, as one of the bags slid to the floor with a clunk. ‘He suggested that you use that one, it looks fairly new.’

‘Thank you.’ Francesca pulled the bag towards her and eyed it doubtfully. It didn’t look large enough to contain everything she would need, but it would serve. ‘You’re happy with the other one?’

‘Yes, my lady. Here, let me help.’

Francesca waved her away. ‘You have your own packing to do, I can manage.’

Mari nodded. Halfway to the door, she sent her a wry smile. ‘Will we be returning to Champagne, my lady?’

Francesca sat back on her knees. ‘Of course, we can’t disappoint Helvise.’

Mari eyed the small pile of clothes Francesca had set aside for the journey. ‘Aren’t you going to take a few of your good gowns? Won’t you need them in Fontaine?’

‘Mari, I am no longer the Fontaine heiress, it wouldn’t be right. In any case, Lord Tristan insists we travel light. Sir Ernis will look after our things, I am sure.’ Thoughtfully, Francesca ran her forefinger along a line of stitching on the saddlebag. ‘Mari, we shall have to send word to Helvise that our plans have changed and our visit to Monfort will be delayed. Don’t let me forget.’

‘Very good, my lady.’

* * *

Tristan was in the manor gatehouse, issuing last-minute instructions to Sir Ernis before their departure.

‘Ernis, as we won’t be a large party, all we shall need in the way of food is a small supply of bread and cheese. Some ale and a couple of flasks of wine—you know the sort of thing. We can’t carry much, we simply need something to tide us over in case we don’t happen upon an inn when hunger strikes.’

‘Of course, my lord. We had chicken last night—I could ask the cook to wrap some in muslin for your noon meal.’

‘My thanks. Have someone give it to Bastian, he will be in charge of provisions.’

A clattering of hoofs drew Tristan to the doorway. Ned was mounted up and heading out of the gate. Thinking it a little unusual that a groom should be riding out alone at this hour, Tristan caught his eye and the lad reined in.

‘My lord?’

‘You’ve an errand in Provins?’

‘No, mon seigneur, I’m headed for the manor at Monfort.’ Ned patted his saddlebag. ‘Lady Francesca has asked me to deliver a letter.’

‘She’s writing to someone in Monfort?’ Tristan waved the boy on his way and glanced thoughtfully at his steward. It was natural to expect Francesca to have made friends during her stay in Champagne. All Tristan knew about Monfort was that it lay a few miles from Provins, he hadn’t been back long enough to name all the landowners. ‘Ernis, who holds Monfort?’

‘Sir Eric, my lord.’

Tristan leaned on the door frame and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Sir Eric fostered at Jutigny with Count Faramus de Sainte-Colombe. He married the count’s daughter, Lady Rowena.’

Tristan drew his eyebrows together. ‘And my wife is writing to de Monfort because...?’

Sir Ernis cleared his throat and developed an intense interest in the toe of his boot. ‘I...I don’t think Lady Francesca is writing to Sir Eric or Lady Rowena, my lord. I expect she is writing to one of his servants.’

Tristan’s eyebrows lifted. ‘She’s writing to a servant?’ Ernis looked up. With a jolt, Tristan realised that his steward was deeply uncomfortable. ‘Can this servant even read?’

‘I have no idea, my lord. Her name is Helvise and I believe she is Sir Eric’s housekeeper. My lord, she met your wife in the market and they became friends. I don’t know much about it except that Helvise has a child and you know how Lady Francesca loves children.’

Tristan felt a twinge of guilt, he hadn’t known. ‘And?’

‘Lady Francesca was planning to visit Monfort.’

‘To help with the child?’

‘It is possible. Helvise is unwed,’ Sir Ernis said. ‘I also heard that Helvise has asked for advice over changing some of the domestic arrangements at Monfort. Lady Francesca has offered to lend her a hand.’

‘It sounds rather irregular.’

‘My lord, I do not think there is cause for alarm. I have met Helvise and she struck me as an intelligent, honest woman.’

‘That is something, at least.’

‘If you are concerned, mon seigneur, perhaps you had best speak to Lady Francesca. All I know is that about a week before the revel she asked for her travelling chests to be taken into her bedchamber. She and Mari have been packing for days. I would have told you about this in my next report to Sir Roparz, but since Lady Francesca hadn’t actually gone and might change her mind, I saw no reason to say anything.’

Tristan hooked his thumb over his belt. Francesca hadn’t mentioned having plans to visit Monfort. However, she and Tristan hadn’t been together long, and after he had told her about Count Myrrdin’s illness, doubtless everything else had been pushed from her mind. What was she up to? Planning to start a new life in Monfort or—Sir Joakim Kerjean’s face flashed into his mind—was she thinking of remarrying?

Dieu merci, at least the journey to Fontaine would get her away from Kerjean.

‘Thank you, Ernis, I shall be sure to ask her. Now, about your reports, you may send them direct to me from now on. We shall be riding to Fontaine, where we shall doubtless stay for a few days. After that you may reach me at Château des Iles.’

Sir Ernis smiled. ‘I should think you’ll be glad to remain in one place after so long in the train of the prince.’

Tristan murmured assent. ‘I can’t deny it, I’ve been living the life of a wandering knight and am heartily sick of it. It will be good to have the same roof over my head for more than a week.’ His smile faded. What the devil was he going to do with Francesca? With luck, he would soon prove her meeting with Sir Joakim had been mere coincidence.

And then? Back at the palace, Francesca had hinted that she expected an annulment, what would she do after that? If she wanted children, she would need to marry.

He grimaced, there was a bitter taste in his mouth—the idea of Francesca remarrying didn’t sit well with him. Why, he couldn’t say. She had walked out of his life and was no longer his responsibility. In truth, he’d long ago come to the conclusion that the feelings she stirred in him—so all-encompassing they bordered on the obsessive—lessened him. They clouded his judgement. They weakened him.

Except that now he’d seen her again he realised that he couldn’t simply wash his hands of her. This was Francesca, for pity’s sake. What was he to do, have their marriage annulled and forget her?

It wasn’t possible. He’d thought he could do it and that it would be relatively easy, but that was before he’d seen her with Kerjean, before that surge of jealousy had ripped through him. He couldn’t forget her. Not Francesca. He would always want her. The emotions she stirred in him, though unwanted, made him feel truly alive.

Impatiently, he shoved his emotions to the back of his mind. What mattered was that on their wedding day, he had accepted responsibility for her and he wasn’t one to shirk a duty. Tristan had felt that way before he knew of Count Myrrdin’s illness and now, knowing Francesca would shortly be on her own in the world, his resolve had strengthened. If Francesca wants to remarry, I shall have to ensure she marries well.

What would happen to her otherwise? She had no one else to watch out for her and clearly, despite the months that had passed, she remained an innocent. The softness of her lips under his, the way she had melted against him. Lord, it had been a grave error kissing her. He would have to ensure she married well. To a sensible, honourable man. Then, with Francesca safely remarried, he would see to his own nuptials.

It shouldn’t be difficult finding Francesca a husband. Yes, he’d find her a husband, it wouldn’t take long. After all, she was stunningly beautiful; she had a kind heart; and she was extraordinarily gifted in the bedchamber. Except...

Lord, that rendezvous with Sir Joakim was back in his head. He didn’t seem to be able to shake it.

‘Sir Ernis?’

‘My lord?’

‘Have you heard of a Breton knight, name of Joakim Kerjean?’

‘Can’t say that I have. Why?’

‘Sir Joakim was at the revel last night and I was wondering if he was a regular visitor to Provins.’

‘My lord, I have no idea. If you wish, I could make enquiries.’

‘I’d be glad if you would. Be sure to forward any intelligence about him to me at des Iles.’

‘Certainly, my lord.’

Tristan had sworn to protect Francesca, and if Kerjean thought to put himself forward as one of Francesca’s suitors after their marriage was annulled, it was Tristan’s duty to ensure the man was honourable.

In a sense, it was a pity Tristan couldn’t remain married to her himself, that way he could really keep an eye on her.

Of course, he would have to overlook the fact that she’d run away after the revelation that Lady Clare was Count Myrrdin’s true-born daughter. That didn’t present many difficulties, Francesca had been so young and the circumstances had been unfortunate in the extreme.

What rankled most was her lack of response to his letters. He’d agonised over it, telling himself that likely she was ashamed that the revelations about her birth meant that she brought him the most meagre of dowries. Yet to go on not answering—it was hard to set that aside.

He grimaced. The scales were starting to weigh against her. Had last night been the first time Sir Joakim had met her? He found it hard to believe otherwise, but he couldn’t stop wondering. How well do I know her? Has the charming girl become a calculating woman?

Tristan gripped his steward’s shoulder. ‘My thanks for your continuing loyalty, Ernis.’

‘You are welcome, my lord. I shall see to it the food is packed and given to Bastian.’

Tristan left Ernis and strode briskly across the yard. He wanted to see the main bedchamber before they set out. He’d not seen it in years and what Ernis had said about Francesca’s plans to visit Monfort had roused his curiosity.

As Tristan passed through the hall, he noticed for the first time the polished side-table and the smell of beeswax. He paused to take stock. There were changes since his last visit. Hundreds of miles from his county in Brittany, Paimpont was his most outlying manor. It had always looked rather run-down. Unlived in. Tristan’s father had neglected it and Tristan had always intended to make up for that. Yet events had conspired against him and somehow he’d never been able to give Paimpont the attention it deserved. Yet now—the floor was strewn with fresh rushes; the cloth on the trestle table was crisp and white; and a jug of wild flowers sat in the centre, next to a polished silver candle stand. The hall had never looked so welcoming. His mouth went up at a corner. This wasn’t the work of Sir Ernis. Clearly, Francesca hadn’t been idle.

Upstairs, Tristan pushed through the bedchamber door and blinked at the travelling chests lined up against the wall. They weren’t locked. Frowning, he flipped back the lid of one and peered in. Surely, these were her best gowns? Dropping to his knees, he turned them over. Here was the lavender gown she had worn on their wedding day. And this, surely this was the brocade cloak he had given her? Opening a cream leather pouch, he drew out a silver circlet set with amethysts. He’d given her this as his wedding gift.

Replacing the circlet where he’d found it, he shoved back another lid. Her Bible was tucked in between two other gowns; a coral necklace was wrapped in a woollen shawl. He recalled her telling him that Count Myrrdin had given her the necklace when she’d been a child. He opened the last coffer and found yet more of her treasures. A bone-handled eating knife; a beaded necklace; a scrap of finely worked embroidery. Francesca’s belongings, reduced to three travelling chests. His frown deepened.

The trip she’d been planning had been more than any visit, she’d been leaving for good.

Well, not if he could help it, not with so much unfinished business between them.

He rubbed his chin, struck by a strange thought. Perhaps he should shoulder some of the blame for Francesca’s disappearance from Brittany. He’d never told her how much he appreciated her. And in not wishing her to be frightened by the dangers posed by the conflict between King Henry and his sons, he’d not explained how vital it was that the duchy had his support.

He’d kept other things from her too, important personal matters. He’d never told her about Esmerée—his mistress before his marriage to Francesca.

Naturally, Tristan had ended his relationship with Esmerée before he’d met Francesca. Indeed, Esmerée was now happily married to Tristan’s greatest friend, Sir Roparz de Fougères. None the less, perhaps he should have told Francesca about her. His only excuse was that Francesca had been so young when they’d married. She’d been so innocent. And so adoring. Tristan had never had anyone look up to him in that way and he’d been afraid of destroying it.

Should he have told her about Esmerée? His relationship with Esmerée had been purely physical, there had never been that disturbing sense of recognition and belonging that he’d felt with Francesca. He’d not seen any reason to mention past liaisons to his innocent wife.

He grimaced, he’d been deceiving himself, there had been consequences to his relationship with Esmerée. Esmerée had given birth to Kristina—his daughter and only child—and the moment she had done so, he should have told Francesca.

I should have told Francesca about Esmerée and I should have told her that I have a daughter.

However, it wasn’t that simple. Tristan intended to acknowledge Kristina as his, but the continuing unrest in Brittany had been to blame for his silence. If the rebel alliance had got wind of the fact that the Count of the Isles had an illegitimate daughter, Kristina’s life might have been put in jeopardy. Thus far only three people knew the truth—himself, Esmerée and his friend Roparz.

However, with the alliance broken and peace more or less restored, the need for discretion regarding Kristina was no longer so urgent. He was free to tell Francesca about her.

Except what was the point in him telling her? With them both considering divorce, did it matter?

He closed the chest with a thud and swore under his breath. It mattered. For some unfathomable reason he wanted Francesca to know about Kristina.

Obviously, he couldn’t tell her immediately, she had enough on her mind with Count Myrrdin’s illness. Soon though.

Yes, he would tell her about his daughter after she had bid farewell to Count Myrrdin—Papa, as she called him.

Tight-lipped, Tristan pushed to his feet and went to the top of the stairwell. ‘Ernis, are you still in the hall? Ernis!’

Heavy boots sounded on the boards below. ‘My lord?’

‘Secure Lady Francesca’s coffers and have them sent on after us, will you? No need to send them to Fontaine, they can go directly to des Iles with your next report.’