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The bolt scraped and the latch clicked. Light filled the chamber as Sir Gervase crossed the threshold, a lantern in hand. Glancing over his shoulder—half the palace seemed to be congregated in the corridor—Sir Gervase pulled the door firmly shut. His mouth curled into a knowing grin.
Francesca’s heart ached and her cheeks were on fire. It was obvious what she and Tristan had been doing. In truth, it looked as though they had done far more than kiss—her veil and mask lay in a corner and Tristan was adjusting his belt.
Sir Gervase’s eyes danced. ‘Tristan, you devil.’ He gave Francesca a puzzled look. ‘Who is this lady?’
‘This, Gervase, is my wife, the Countess Francesca des Iles.’
* * *
By the time they left the chamber, Francesca had put on her veil and her mask was firmly in place. Tristan’s appearance had her mind in a shambles. Not only that, she was mortified, it was obvious that Count Henry’s steward thought he had interrupted a passionate tryst. Grateful that the mask would hide the worst of her blushes, she let Tristan take her hand in a firm grip and march her through a boisterous and nosy crowd. Grinning onlookers stood aside to let them pass.
Tristan didn’t trouble to replace his helmet, everyone knew exactly who he was. There were several sniggers and, out of the corner of her eye, Francesca saw a lewd gesture.
Someone hissed. ‘Tristan le Beau.’
‘Aye, but who’s the woman?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Francesca didn’t want to hear the rest. It was plain the entire palace thought they’d been making love in Sir Gervase’s office. It was beyond embarrassing. Determined not to catch anyone’s eye, she stared at the floor as she was swept along the passageway. Only when they neared the entrance to the great hall did she lift her head. And there, leaning against the doorpost, was the yellow-haired knight who had tried to kiss her. He’d removed his mask and was watching Tristan, mouth thin, eyes cold.
Tristan’s grip tightened on her hand. The yellow-haired knight unfolded his arms and slipped into the hall ahead of them. At once a ring of dancers encircled him, swallowing him up.
‘How have you been, my lord?’ Sir Gervase was speaking to Tristan. ‘How do matters stand in Brittany?’
‘All is well, sir, save for a few loose ends,’ Tristan replied absently. He was looking towards the dancers, a deep crease in his brow. ‘Sir Gervase, who’s the man with the yellow hair?’
‘His name’s Kerjean, I believe, Sir Joakim Kerjean.’
The men talked as they made their way across the hall towards the stairwell and Francesca found she couldn’t tear her gaze from Tristan. It had been so long since she had seen him and it had been too dark in the chamber to see whether he had changed. Saints, he was just as good to look upon as he always had been. In the brightly lit hall he was achingly familiar. So handsome. That raven-black hair was as thick as she remembered; his shoulders were pleasingly broad, and through his tunic she could see hints of the well-honed muscles that she’d felt in the gloom of Sir Gervase’s office. As for his eyes, that clear sapphire blue was as beautiful as it was unmistakable. How could she even for a moment have imagined she’d seen them elsewhere? That other knight’s eyes were nothing like Tristan’s.
‘Loose ends?’ Sir Gervase was saying, with a puzzled frown. His brow cleared. ‘Ah, the trouble in Brittany. I would think there are always loose ends.’
‘True enough, there’s been trouble for decades. Thankfully, the rule of law has prevailed.’
Sir Gervase grunted. ‘That’s good to hear. My lord, what about Prince Geoffrey? Do you think he will make a match of it with Duchess Constance?’
‘I believe he will. The prince seems to have the interests of Brittany at heart and he’s genuinely fond of our little duchess. I see no reason why they shouldn’t marry when she is older.’
‘So all is well.’
‘Aye.’
Smiling, Sir Gervase gripped Tristan’s arm. ‘Count Henry will be pleased to hear you attended the revel.’
‘I haven’t seen him, he’s away?’
‘Count Henry is dining with a deputation of Apulian merchants.’
A torch was flickering at the foot of the stairs, Sir Gervase waved them on. ‘It’s at the top, I’m afraid, the very last bedchamber. It’s not large.’ He grinned. ‘If you’d given me more notice, I’d have found you something grander. We’re bursting at the seams tonight.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Have you just ridden in? I’ll send someone up with food and wine, if you wish.’
‘My thanks, I would appreciate that. Francesca, are you hungry?’
‘No, thank you.’
Sir Gervase looked at Tristan. ‘Do you want someone to find your squire?’
‘No need, the lad is exhausted, we shall manage very well. Thank you.’
Francesca stepped forward. ‘Sir Gervase?’
‘My lady?’
‘Sir, my maid Mari is in the great hall enjoying the revel. She will worry when she can’t find me. I would be grateful if you could ask someone to search her out and tell her I am with Lord Tristan and that I shall speak to her at breakfast.’
‘How will I know her?’
She smiled. ‘You won’t be able to miss her. Her mask is decorated with the longest peacock feathers in Christendom. When I last saw her, she was dancing.’
‘Her name is Mari, you say?’
‘Aye, Mari de Fontaine.’
Sir Gervase bowed his head. ‘Consider it done, my lady.’
‘Thank you.’
With a smile, Sir Gervase returned to the great hall.
Tristan glanced thoughtfully at their linked hands. Uncurling his fingers from hers, he stood back. ‘After you, my lady.’
Francesca went cold. His voice was curt and he was no longer meeting her eyes. ‘Tristan, what’s the matter?’
He looked down at her and gave her a tight smile. Her heart dropped to her toes, his smile was counterfeit and his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, weren’t smiling at all.
‘Tristan?’
‘After you, my lady.’
Swallowing hard, Francesca picked up her gown and started up the stairs. What was going on? She didn’t know what to think. Tristan’s kiss had felt like a kiss of welcome. And his voice, the voice that spoke so warmly to Sir Gervase, was utterly changed. She cast her mind back. What had she done? She couldn’t think of anything. Had Sir Gervase given him ill news? She thought she’d been attending to their conversation, however, it was possible something had slipped past her, she had been staring at Tristan much of the time.
Pausing halfway up a twist in the stairs, she turned. ‘Tristan, have I done something wrong?’
He looked blankly at her. ‘I don’t know, have you?’
What a strange reply! And to deliver it in that surly tone, it was as though he loathed her. Francesca searched his face, hoping to see a trace of the warmth she thought she had felt in the downstairs chamber. The torchlight shone full on his face, yet it revealed nothing, he might as well be wearing a mask. His blue eyes looked stony. Remote. Had she imagined the warmth? Had she wished it into being in some way?
With a sigh, she continued up the stairs. Brittany was far away, he must be exhausted. ‘How long did your journey take?’
‘A little over a week.’
She shot him a startled look. ‘Saints, you must have galloped full tilt the whole way. Did you sleep at all? When I travelled to Troyes with Lady Clare, we took ages.’
Tristan didn’t reply and they continued up the stairs.
Francesca gave a sad, reminiscent smile. Tristan never knew when to stop, he had exhausted himself. She used to watch him in the practice yard at Fontaine, sparring with Sir Brian and the other household knights. He’d dance round his opponent, sword flashing, darting this way and that as though his armour weighed little more than a feather.
Except—she frowned—she’d seen Tristan exhausted many times, yet not once did she recall him being surly. And she certainly didn’t remember him using that cold tone on her. What had she done?
She should never have kissed him. That was undoubtedly the problem. He had kissed her and she should have known better than to respond. Before their marriage, Mari had warned her never to forget that she was a lady. Ladies were expected to be quiet and modest, Mari had said. They must remain unruffled. Detached. Even if a lady came to love her husband, she must never tell him. And she must certainly never initiate their joining in the marriage bed.
All of which had sounded so easy before Francesca had met Tristan le Beau. The attraction between them had been overwhelming. She had felt such joy and she could have sworn it was mutual. It would have been easier for Francesca to fly than to pretend a coolness towards her strong and virile husband. She had loved joining with him in their marriage bed. She had loved talking to him long into the night. In short, her foolish sixteen-year-old self had tumbled head over heels in love with him.
No wonder Tristan had never replied to her letters. She had forgotten her training as soon as they married and in so doing had lowered his opinion of her. She’d been too eager. She hadn’t been ladylike. And with Lady Clare taking her place at Fontaine, Francesca’s true colours had been revealed to the world. I am not a lady, our marriage is over. I mustn’t let a handful of kisses delude me into hoping otherwise.
And if discovering that she was in truth no lady wasn’t bad enough, today she had behaved like a loose woman. The Count of the Isles needed a real lady—one with impeccable bloodlines and lands to bolster his holdings and revenues.
Tristan’s kisses meant nothing—he was ambitious, he needed a dynastic marriage.
How stupid she’d been down there in Sir Gervase’s office. She’d lost herself in his kiss. A kiss which had made her long for things which were not hers and never could be.
Tristan wanted a real lady. Francesca couldn’t excuse herself by saying she’d been overcome by passion, she should know better. She couldn’t even claim it had been the sight of his handsome face or his powerful body that had weakened her knees. It had been far too dark for her to see very much. Being in his arms had simply overwhelmed her.
Her mistake had been that she shouldn’t have let him know it. Mari would be well within her rights to call her a halfwit. She had forgotten her training and in responding with such heat she’d simply confirmed her lack of breeding. She’d made matters worse.
At the last turn in the stairs, they came to a studded oak door. Leaning past her, Tristan opened the door.
Candles were burning in wall sconces. The bedchamber was, as Sir Gervase had hinted, cramped. There was a decent-looking bed, a long, shuttered window and not much else.
* * *
Confirmation of Sir Joakim Kerjean’s identity had hit Tristan like a blow to the gut. Shaken by a bewildering combination of fury and anxiety, he’d barely heard anything else Sir Gervase had said.
Sir Joakim Kerjean was the very man who’d been asking after Francesca at des Iles. What had the man been planning when he had pulled her into the palace corridor? Had they spoken before this? Had she become his mistress?
Tristan cast his mind back to the moment he’d come upon them outside Sir Gervase’s office. He wanted to believe that Kerjean had lured an innocent Francesca into the corridor. He wanted to think that she had been cornered by an unwelcome and unexpected admirer. She had certainly slapped the man smartly enough. Unfortunately, it might not be as simple as that. Tristan must keep his mind open to all possibilities, however grim he might find them.
Think, Tristan, think. Francesca was still his wife. Their marriage was in tatters, yet he couldn’t help but be fond of her. That kiss had proved—as he feared it might—that their passion for each other wasn’t completely dead. And what Tristan was feeling now—the anger, the rush of loathing towards Kerjean, the terrible uncertainly that scattered clear thought—it felt very much like jealousy. Jealousy would not help here.
Think. When Tristan had followed them into the corridor, both Francesca and Kerjean had been wearing masks. The most harmless possibility was that neither of them knew the other’s identity, they had met by mere chance. In light of the enquiries Sir Joakim had been making in des Iles, the idea that Tristan had stumbled upon an innocent flirtation seemed extremely unlikely. Sadly, the idea that they had met by mere chance must be dismissed.
Tristan tore his gaze from Francesca as she looked about the bedchamber and forced himself to remember exactly what he had seen from the gallery. Kerjean had taken her by the hand and he’d been pulling her towards that corridor. Had she gone willingly? It might not have been an assignation.
He was starting to feel distinctly queasy. It had certainly been ill-advised of Francesca to allow Kerjean to lead her away from the safety of the crowd in the great hall. Perhaps what Tristan had witnessed had simply been a mild flirtation on her part, one that had got out of hand.
A far more disturbing possibility was that Kerjean had set out to entrap her into becoming his mistress. What were the man’s long-term intentions? Marriage? If Kerjean believed Francesca was alone in the world, he might consider her easy prey.
Think, Tristan, think.
Francesca had slapped Sir Joakim’s face. She had been turned away from Tristan, she couldn’t have known Tristan was about to interrupt them, yet she had slapped the man’s face. Tristan ached to believe that slap was proof of her innocence. Kerjean, on the other hand, had been facing Tristan’s way, Kerjean had seen him coming. Suppose the man had told Francesca to slap him to make their meeting appear innocent?
Tristan shoved his hand through his hair. What was wrong with him? He felt as though he was losing his mind. This only ever happened with Francesca. She clouded his thoughts in a way no one else ever did. In truth, after they were married, Tristan had feared that he was coming to be ruled by his emotions. He’d feared his judgement was at risk, and when the council had summoned him to Rennes to help contain the rebels, it had almost been a relief. He’d hoped that a separation from Francesca would clear his mind.
And here he was, after scant moments in her company, as confused as ever. It was profoundly unsettling.
Could he be jealous? If so, he was letting it get the better of him. No more. This was Francesca, she would never take a lover, not whilst she was still married. She would never betray him in that way, it wasn’t in her nature.
Swearing under his breath, Tristan pushed Kerjean to the back of his mind. I must tell Francesca about Count Myrrdin and I should tell her without delay. Tristan wanted to break the news of Count Myrrdin’s illness to her kindly. The count had been a father to her and she loved him—news that he was on his deathbed was bound to distress her.
‘Francesca?’ Tristan gave her a guarded look. ‘You’d best brace yourself, I bring ill news from Fontaine.’
Grey eyes met his. Candid grey eyes. Wary eyes that had silver and gold flecks in them. Tristan had been attracted to her eyes from the first, surely she could not look at him in such a way if she was hiding some deceit?
‘From Fontaine?’ She lost colour. ‘What’s happened?’
Tristan took a deep breath. ‘With your permission, I’ll tell you straight. There’s no prettying this.’
She swallowed and clasped her hands. ‘Please do.’
‘It’s Count Myrrdin. He is sick, Francesca, mortally sick. He’s asked that you and I attend him.’ A hand reached towards him and fell back. Swearing softly, Tristan reached for it and enfolded it in his. It was icy, she was in shock. He took her other hand.
‘Papa—the count—is dying?’ Her voice was faint, a whisper of pain.
‘I’m afraid so.’ Gently, he stroked her hand.
‘How did you hear? Lady Clare?’
‘Aye, she sent word to my steward Sir Roparz, it was waiting for me when I arrived at Château des Iles. Francesca, the count is fading fast and it is his dying wish to see you.’
She bit her lip, dragged her hand from his and started to pace. ‘I have to go to him. Tomorrow.’ Agonised grey eyes held his. ‘He wants to see you too?’
‘He does.’
‘Are you planning on escorting me to Fontaine?’
‘Of course, we shall go together.’
‘Thank you.’ She walked to the bed, stared down at it and heaved a great sigh. ‘So this was why you came to Provins. To tell me Count Myrrdin is dying.’
‘That is one reason, yes.’
She nodded and said nothing, leaving Tristan to wonder what was in her mind.
‘Francesca, once I had the news, I rode as swiftly as I could. I ought to tell you that even if we leave tomorrow, even if we travel lightly and ride like the wind, we might not reach Fontaine in time.’
