Carol Townend - Mistaken For A Lady

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.