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‘We should leave at first light.’ Her face was drawn and pale.
‘I need sleep, Francesca. As does Bastian.’
‘Bastian?’
‘My squire. Rest assured though, we shall leave in the morning.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We will travel light. And fast.’
‘I understand.’
* * *
Francesca sat on the edge of the bed, watching Tristan devour the bread and meat a servant had brought up. She was curious about the differences between the man she had married and the man she saw before her.
He had altered in some as yet indefinable way, that much was plain. It had been two years. He had known battle, faced death. He had seen friends slain. And he had also, or so she had heard, become quite the courtier. There was a disturbing edginess to him and she wasn’t sure she liked it—a hardness that she hadn’t noticed before. Had he always been this way? Had love—no, it had surely been lust that had flared between them, not love—had lust blinded her to his true nature? She didn’t love him, she couldn’t. To love someone you had to know them and it was becoming painfully clear that she didn’t know Tristan at all.
It wasn’t going to be easy sleeping with him. Did he really expect her to join him in bed?
‘Tristan?’
He looked up from his meal, a handsome stranger with blue eyes that were hard as sapphires. ‘Aye?’
‘We don’t have to share this chamber. I could quite easily bed down in the solar with the other ladies.’
He tore a chunk off the bread and frowned at some cheese on a platter. ‘We stay together.’
‘Why? Because I am not a lady?’
He narrowed his eyes on her and for a moment she thought she had disconcerted him. Then she realised her mistake—he hadn’t expected to be questioned. Doubtless his men obeyed him in a trice. No one would dare question Lord Tristan le Beau, Comte des Iles.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Tristan, I assume we are to seek an annulment. If it is unseemly for a man and woman to lie together when they are not wed, surely it is unseemly for a man and woman to lie together when they are planning on dissolving their marriage?’
His expression hardened. ‘We stay together.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to know where you are. I want to know what you are doing.’
She frowned. ‘Even at night, when I am sleeping?’
‘Even then.’
‘You don’t trust me, why? Tristan, please tell me what’s wrong.’
A muscle flickered in his jaw. He didn’t answer, he simply turned his attention to the food, leaving Francesca to her thoughts. Clearly, the kiss he had given her was an aberration. An annulment was obviously what he wanted, she had to free him so he could make a proper marriage. The pity was that he had kissed her before he had told her his reasons for coming to find her. Her foolish heart had soared, for a wild moment she had thought he’d come for her.
What a simpleton, to allow a kiss to affect her so, she should have known better. She shook her head, she must not let him upset her. Particularly when she was planning to move on with her life. It was a pity he’d kissed her though, that kiss merely proved that she was a fool if she thought she’d find it easy to marry someone else.
Tristan had come to escort her to Fontaine because Count Myrrdin was dying. That was what mattered. He would take her to Brittany and after that they would part.
Saints, in the past hour so much had changed. Count Myrrdin was dying and by Tristan’s account he might not be alive when they reached him. A lump formed in her throat. Francesca loved Count Myrrdin, she’d always hoped to return to Brittany and she had assumed that he would be there to greet her. From what Tristan had said, it looked as though she’d best pray for a miracle.
Quietly, she rose from the bed and turned her back on her husband as he finished his meal. She placed her mask on a side-table next to a jug of water and a basin. She unpinned her veil and began to undress.
After their marriage, Francesca and Tristan had slept naked, that wasn’t going to happen tonight. She was conscious of Tristan’s eyes on her as she pushed her shoes under the bed and drew off her gown. She left her undershift on.
She washed quickly, flicked back the bedcovers and got into bed. Rolling on to her side, she presented Tristan with her back and waited.
She heard the clack of a knife being dropped on to the platter. She heard a splash—wine being poured?—no, he was using the water in the ewer. She waited some more.
Clothing rustled. The bed dipped.
‘Goodnight, Francesca.’
‘Goodnight, my lord.’
Tristan yawned, shifted on the mattress, and the room went quiet.
The hours crept by.
Francesca could scarcely believe she was lying in bed next to the husband she had never expected to see again. One who apparently trusted her so little that he wasn’t prepared to allow her to sleep in the solar. She fixed her gaze on a candle, watching as it slowly burned down to a stump before flickering out. The shadows moved in. Tristan was surely asleep, his breathing was low and even and he hadn’t moved in an age.
She sighed, carefully rolled on to her back and stared into the darkness. Wary of touching him, she was trying desperately to lie still. He had looked exhausted and was plainly in need of rest. His face was leaner than it had been, and there was a drawn look to it that she’d never seen before.
Sleep came and went in fractured snatches. One moment she was staring into the darkness, listening to Tristan’s breathing, and the next a heavy weight was resting on her shoulder. Tristan’s head. They had moved together in sleep. His foot was hooked about her calf and his hand was warm on her waist. He was naked. At least she thought he was. She couldn’t be sure and exploration was simply out of the question.
Softly, she eased away. More of the night drifted by with her listening to his breathing.
The second time she woke, she was on her side facing him and his breath was warm on her face. This time his hand was on hers, almost as if he were holding it.
With a slight huff, she freed herself and rolled away from him.
On her third awakening, light was creeping round the shutters and the shadows were retreating. She was on her side with Tristan’s body wrapped tightly around hers as though he would protect her until the end of time. Yes, he was definitely naked.
Half-asleep, she lay there unmoving. Her undergown had ridden up and she could feel the rough brush of his legs against hers. She could smell him, a musky masculine scent that brought back bittersweet memories—legs tangled in rumpled bed linens; lingering kisses; warm caresses that sent fire shooting through every vein.
Heavens, what was she doing? Their marriage was over.
She knew it, and so too did he.
Chapter Three (#ulink_0a4762cb-e47d-529a-ba20-2ddc5cb79b10)
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.’
* * *
