Mistaken for a Lady

Prologue

October 1175—Paimpont Manor

in the County of Champagne

Francesca set her quill aside with a sigh. Her maid Mari was setting logs on the fire, muttering darkly under her breath. Mari had been with her for years and her familiar face was creased with lines. Despite the age gap between them, Francesca considered Mari her friend as well as her maid. ‘Mari?’

‘My lady?’

‘Will you hear what I have written?’

Mari stabbed at a log with the poker. ‘If I must.’

‘I would appreciate your views.’

Mari scowled and the poker clattered on to the hearth. ‘I don’t know why you want to read it to me, you will send it to Brittany whatever I say.’

‘Be that as it may, I value your opinion.’ Francesca’s gaze lingered on her signet ring, the ring Tristan had given her on their wedding day. A lump formed in her throat. Tristan’s features remained clear in her mind—the startling blue eyes; the thick, jet-black hair; that firm jaw. Tristan was the most handsome of men, so much so that he was often referred to as Tristan le Beau—Tristan the Handsome. Unfortunately for Francesca, his image hadn’t faded with time, she hadn’t been able to forget him.

The wrinkles about Mari’s mouth deepened as she came to the table and looked sourly at the vellum. ‘My lady, if you valued my opinion, you wouldn’t be writing that letter in the first place. It’s a waste of ink, the man’s not worth it.’

Francesca took a slow breath. ‘The man, as you call him, is Count Tristan des Iles. He is also presently my husband. I beg you to remember that.’ Mari muttered something that might or might not have been an apology and Francesca continued. ‘I am not asking you to give your opinion of Lord Tristan, Mari, you have already made your views very plain. I would like your opinion on the letter, not my husband.’

‘You want him back,’ Mari said. ‘My lady, he never replied to your other letters, what makes you think he will reply to this one?’

Foolish hope. Francesca ran her forefinger over the three cinquefoils stamped on the face of her ring, conscious of a sharp ache in her chest. It was depressing how fresh the pain was, even after almost two years. Tristan. She tried to forget him by day, but each night he returned. He came to her in her dreams, night after restless night. Dark-lashed blue eyes would be smiling deep into hers, strong arms would reach for her and those clever, wicked fingers would work at her lacings and slide her gown aside...

Hoping she wasn’t blushing, she looked at Mari. ‘What if my letters never reached him? It’s possible.’

Mari snorted. ‘One letter might go astray, but you wrote several, they can’t all have got lost.’

Francesca bit her lip. Mari was adamant that all she would hear from her husband was silence, yet Francesca had to make one last-ditch attempt to reach him. Yes, her marriage to Tristan had been an arranged marriage, but she was sure she hadn’t been the only one to have felt the shock of delight on their wedding day. Mari had never understood that.

Tristan and I liked each other, we truly liked each other.

Sadly, that liking hadn’t had a chance to turn into lasting love, at least not on Tristan’s part. First, he had been called away to keep Brittany whole for the little duchess, and then Lady Clare had arrived at Fontaine and Francesca had been ousted as the Fontaine heiress. Francesca had been brought up believing herself to be Count Myrrdin’s daughter, only to discover that she wasn’t even his distant relation. She was a nobody and she had, albeit unwittingly, married Tristan under false pretences.

Francesca had at one time been certain that the feelings she had for Tristan were genuine. She had been confident that Tristan had liked her because after their marriage he had been the most attentive of lovers. She’d assumed that one day he would love her back. Which was why she was determined to send this final letter. They’d never had a proper chance to get to know each other.

‘Mari, if Count Tristan doesn’t reply, I shall know beyond doubt that our marriage is over.’

‘You said that the last time you wrote to him. He didn’t reply.’

Francesca’s nails dug into her palms as a deeper fear surfaced. I never gave him a child. He needs an heir and I failed him. Was that why he’d never come for her? Did he fear she was barren? ‘I need to hear from my lord himself as to his intentions.’

Mari made an exasperated sound. ‘You’ve not seen the man in almost two years; your previous letters went unanswered—what more do you need to know? There is nothing to stop you starting afresh, there hasn’t been since you left Brittany.’

Francesca took a deep breath. ‘When Lord Tristan and I separated, Brittany was in chaos. The duchy needed him.’ She stared at the stick of sealing wax on the table—it was silver to represent the silver field on her husband’s shield. ‘It needs him still.’

‘My lady, he’s your husband. He could surely have spared a couple of weeks to make sure you were well?’

Francesca found herself taking her husband’s part, even though she knew it would do no good. She and Mari had been over this many times. Mari wouldn’t budge from her stance, in her mind Tristan had neglected Francesca.

‘Mari, you’re forgetting the politics. My lord holds large swathes of land in the duchy and for that honour he is duty-bound to support the duchess. The duchess is a minor—she depends on Count Tristan and other lords loyal to Brittany. Too many noblemen are careless of their responsibilities. Not so Tristan. The duchess and the duchy rely on him.’

Shaking her head, Mari pursed her lips. ‘There is no hope, you’re besotted. You were besotted when you left Fontaine and you’re besotted still. He isn’t worth it.’

Francesca pushed to her feet and stalked to the fire. It wasn’t easy to speak calmly, but she managed it. ‘Until our marriage is actually dissolved, Lord Tristan remains my husband.’ Fists opening and closing, she paced back to the table.

‘My lady, he should have come for you last year.’

‘For heaven’s sake, that wasn’t possible. The English king had laid waste several Breton counties and the council was relying on my lord to defend the local people.’ Francesca stalked back to the fire. The flames were taking hold, licking around the edges of the logs, rimming them with gold. Irritably, she twitched her skirts and turned to head back towards the table.

‘Count Tristan left the duchy, or so I heard.’

‘My lord went to England on behalf of the duchy. He had Duchess Constance’s interests to protect.’

‘And his own, I’ll be bound. All that man thinks about is politics.’

Francesca was painfully aware that her maid had put her finger on it—Tristan did put politics before all else. Politics and duty. And as his wife, she had failed in her main duty—she had not provided him with an heir.

Sadly, she reached for the vellum and rolled it into a scroll. ‘I can see you don’t want to help.’

Mari put out her hand. ‘I’m sorry, my lady. Please, read your letter.’

‘Thank you. Bear in mind this is the last time I shall write him.’ Unrolling the scroll, Francesca began.

Right worshipful husband,

I write to you from your manor in Provins.

I pray that you are in good health and that you have suffered no hurt since my last letter. Word has reached us that the skirmishes that broke out between King Henry of England and the rebel lords have come to a satisfactory conclusion. I trust that the negotiations between the King, his son Prince Geoffrey and the rebels will result in a lasting peace and I live in hope that you may at last be relieved of some of your duties.

I would like to ask you about our marriage. You must feel you married an impostor and for that I can only apologise. On my honour, I had no intention of deceiving you. By all that is holy, I swear that I did honestly believe myself to be Count Myrrdin’s daughter. Like you, I believed myself to be heiress to the lands of Fontaine.

Please know that I am anxious to hear your plans regarding our marriage. Is it to continue? Dearest lord, it has long been my earnest wish that our marriage might stand, but since I have not heard from you I can only conclude that you wish our marriage to be annulled. If that is so, please know that I will not stand in your way. You married the heiress of the County of Fontaine, only to discover that far from being an heiress, I am not even nobly born.

Most worshipful husband, I trust you understand that I was not aware of my true status until Lady Clare arrived at Fontaine and proved to be Count Myrrdin’s true daughter.

I am not a lady. I bring you no lands and no revenues, save those which may be drawn from an insignificant manor at St Méen. As I mentioned in my last letter, Count Myrrdin and his true-born daughter, Lady Clare, have graciously allowed me to retain it.

My lord, I beg you to inform me if our marriage is to continue.

I will be greatly saddened if you decide on an annulment, but I will understand. Noble lords need to marry ladies who match them in title and estate. However, if you decide to keep me as your wife, let me assure you that although I come to you virtually empty-handed, I bring with me a warm heart. I hold you in the highest esteem.

I beg that you give our marriage—and us—another chance.

My lord, I would be grateful if you would let me know your mind. You are ever in my thoughts.

Your respectful and loving wife,

Francesca

Francesca met Mari’s eyes. ‘Is it clear?’

‘You don’t style yourself lady in the letter.’

Francesca stared blindly at the vellum. ‘I hold no title in my own right, I cannot presume. If Lord Tristan dissolves our marriage, I will truly be no one.’

‘You’ll always be a lady to me,’ Mari said firmly.

‘Thank you.’ Francesca gave a faint smile. ‘Well? Does this letter pass muster?’

‘You will send it whether or not I agree. My lady, Lord Tristan’s neglected you for too long.’ Mari shook her head. ‘In my opinion you’re better off without him.’

Francesca felt her expression freeze. ‘Mari, please understand, Lord Tristan cannot act at whim, he has the interests of Brittany at heart.’

Mari’s mouth twisted. ‘Lord Tristan’s a man, isn’t he? To my mind, it’s a crying shame when a man can’t put his wife before all else.’

Francesca looked sadly at her maid. ‘Lord Tristan is more than a man, he’s a count. I knew what I was marrying.’ She gripped the letter. ‘I only wish he could say the same of me.’

‘Send the letter, my lady, it will be good to know his intentions. Where is Lord Tristan at present, do you know where to send it?’

Francesca’s chest heaved. ‘Not exactly, but if I send it to Château des Iles, it’s bound to reach him sooner or later.’

‘That may take weeks.’

‘Thank you, Mari, I am aware of that.’

Throat tight, Francesca reached for the silver sealing wax. Would this be the last time she used her husband’s seal? If Tristan wanted their marriage dissolved, she would have to accept it. She pushed away the memory of those smiling blue eyes. Lord, even now she could actually feel the texture of his dark hair as she ran her fingers through it. Longing was a sharp ache, a spear in her vitals. Tristan, come for me, please. Bending over the table, she sealed the letter. Blinking hard, she picked up the quill and ink and crossed to the wall cupboard to put them away.

Tristan would do as he pleased, and if he did not want her, she would have to face it. At least she would know. She would make a new life for herself. First, she would go to the manor at Monfort. Her friend Helvise had asked for advice on running the place and she had agreed to help. Francesca might not have the right bloodlines, but she’d been trained to cope with a castle, a small manor was well within her competence. And after that?

She might marry again, she had always wanted children. There was a chance that with another man she might be more lucky. She shivered. The thought of bedding anyone but Tristan wasn’t pleasant.

First, however, her marriage had to be given one last chance. The letter had to be sent. Today. And if the worst came to the worst, if Tristan didn’t reply, she would force herself to forget him. She had lived in limbo long enough.

‘Mari?’

‘My lady?’

‘Please ask a groom to saddle Princess. I need fresh air.’

Chapter One

May Day 1176—the market town of Provins

in the County of Champagne

Tristan spurred through the Lower Town, his squire Bastian at his side. It had taken them many days to reach his Champagne manor and he’d expected to find Francesca at home when he’d arrived.

Not so. On his arrival at Paimpont, his steward Sir Ernis had told him that Francesca had gone to a revel at Count Henry’s palace. A masked revel, of all things. On May Day. It could hardly be worse.

Did she have any idea how rowdy the revel might become? How bawdy? Tristan had thought Francesca innocent. Overprotected. It was possible she had changed. These days it was possible she made a habit of attending such events.

With a sigh, Tristan had called for hot water and a change of horses and he and Bastian had hauled themselves wearily back into the saddle.

Tristan had urgent news for Francesca, terrible news that would knock her back. Count Myrrdin of Fontaine—the man she thought of as her father—was on his deathbed. Count Myrrdin wanted to see Francesca before he died and Tristan had been charged with bringing her back to Fontaine.

Tristan’s head was throbbing after so long on the road. His eyes felt gritty and his guts were wound tighter than an overstrung lute. Telling Francesca about Count Myrrdin’s illness was bound to be a challenge, he wanted it over and done with. The news was bound to distress her. None the less, the sooner Francesca knew that the man she thought of as her father was on his deathbed, the better. She needed to prepare herself for the long ride back to Brittany.

Would it distress her further when she learned that she must make the journey with the husband she’d not seen in nigh on two years? Impatient with himself, Tristan reined in his thoughts. Since separating from Francesca he’d learned to his cost that thinking about her wreaked havoc with his emotions. She affected his judgement and that he couldn’t allow. He was a count with responsibilities. Emotions were dangerous, emotions wrecked lives. Allow strong emotion to take root and good judgement flew to the four winds.

He was here to take Francesca to Count Myrrdin.

He was here to solicit for an annulment. A wife who hadn’t troubled to answer any of his letters, a wife who hadn’t troubled to reply when he’d invited her to visit des Iles, wasn’t the wife for him.

He glanced at his squire. Bastian was young and doubtless worn out. Tristan’s territories in the Duchy of Brittany lay many miles behind them, they’d crossed several counties to reach Champagne. ‘Holding up, lad?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘You didn’t have to come with me this evening, you could have stayed at the manor. One of the grooms could have come with me.’

Bastian stiffened. ‘I am your squire, Lord Tristan, it is my duty to accompany you.’

In the Lower Town the market square was clear of stalls, although something of a holiday atmosphere ensured that the taverns were doing a brisk trade. Indeed, the entire population seemed to have spilled out of the narrow wooden houses and into the streets. Men were wandering about, ale cups in hand; girls had braided flowers into their hair. The atmosphere was relaxed. Festive. And all in honour of the ancient festival of Beltane. Tristan knew what that meant, he wouldn’t mind betting that every full-blooded male in Provins had one thing on his mind.

He folded his lips together. He’d been told that Francesca had gone to the revel attended only by a groom and her maid. If things got out of hand, would she be safe? His brow was heavy as they trotted through the evening light and made their way up the hill towards the palace. Swifts were screaming in the sky overhead, a welcome sign that summer was on its way, a sign that should have lifted his mood.

Tristan stifled a yawn, Lord, he was tired. His stomach rumbled and his skin itched—that quick wash at Paimpont hadn’t done much to remove the dust of the road, he could feel it clinging to his every pore, he was longing for a proper bath.

What would Francesca do when she saw him? She wouldn’t be expecting him. Bon sang—good grief—he’d left her in Fontaine thinking his service to Duchess Constance would last a couple of months, and they’d ended up being separated for two years. Two years. Francesca was bound to have changed. It was a pity, the girl he had married had been a sweetheart. He gripped the reins as, against his will, his mind conjured her image. She’d been a sweetheart with candid grey eyes and long dark hair that felt like silk. What is she like these days? He wasn’t sure what to expect or how he would feel when he saw her. Merciful heavens, what did it matter? When she’d fled Brittany without even setting foot in his castle at des Iles, she’d made it plain she didn’t see herself as his wife.

The trouble was that now he was on the verge of seeing her again, it was impossible not to think about her. Impossible and painful. By refusing to enter his county, Francesca had, in effect, deserted him. And despite his best efforts, his pretty young wife had managed to occupy most of his thoughts over the past months. In truth, ever since he’d heard that Francesca had been ousted from her position as Count Myrrdin’s daughter, he’d had no peace.

Francesca had left Brittany at the worst time. With the duchy infested with rebels, every county had been in a ferment. The council had called on Tristan for support and he’d not been able to go to Francesca. He’d felt bad. Worse than bad. And, given that she had not made any attempt to contact him, far worse than he should have done.

Initially, Tristan hadn’t wanted their marriage dissolved. A knife twisted in his gut and he cursed himself for his foolishness. He’d been captivated by Francesca’s innocence and apparent liking for him. He’d been overwhelmed by the startling physical rapport that had sprung up the moment they’d set eyes on each other and had clung to the hope that once the dust from the rebellion had settled, they might make their marriage work. He’d ached to see her. Still did.

Tristan had been told that Francesca had fled to his manor in Champagne as soon as she’d learned she wasn’t Count’s Myrrdin’s daughter—his retainers had sent word when she had arrived.

What he didn’t understand was why she had chosen to leave Brittany. Francesca loved Brittany, it had been her home. She loved the aged Count Myrrdin, and surely that wouldn’t change even though it had been proved she wasn’t his daughter?

Had she fled because Lady Clare—Count Myrrdin’s true daughter—had made difficulties for her?

Or had she gone because she couldn’t bear to live on in her beloved Fontaine knowing it would never be hers?

It had hurt that Francesca had left the duchy rather than wait for him to complete his duties. So many months had passed and she’d not answered a single one of his letters. That hurt too. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, surely he shouldn’t feel this way?

Now, with Francesca continually ignoring his letters, Tristan refused to waste more time. He needed to apply for an annulment. He needed a sound political marriage. He needed heirs.

He hardened his heart. The plain truth was that Francesca hadn’t taken refuge in his castle at des Iles as he had invited her to. She had fled the duchy. Her silence was yet more proof that she wanted nothing to do with him. Silence was a form of desertion. And desertion was definitely grounds for annulment.

Somewhere in the depths of his memory a pair of candid grey eyes—Francesca’s eyes—smiled back at him. Her smile had been warm and genuine. Or so he had believed. A knife twisted, deep inside.

He set his jaw. It was time to have their marriage dissolved. Francesca wasn’t an heiress. Their marriage had brought him nothing but grief—the confusion he’d felt at their parting refused to dissipate. At times it felt very much like pain. Perhaps that wasn’t so surprising. He had liked Francesca very much; her lack of response to his letters really rankled.

Bastian was staring at the gatehouse outside Count Henry’s palace. ‘Is that the palace, my lord?’

‘Aye.’

Bastian gave him a troubled look. ‘What will you do for a mask, my lord? Didn’t Sir Ernis say a mask was obligatory?’

‘Never mind, Bastian, I have the very thing.’

* * *

Francesca’s mask was green to match her gown. Standing in a stairwell just outside the palace great hall, she held her veil to one side while Mari tied it into place.

‘Thank you. Are you ready, Mari?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

Giving her veil a tweak to ensure it flowed neatly over the ties of her mask, Francesca stepped into the hall. A wave of noise and heat rolled over her. Unprepared for either the press of people or the warmth, Francesca recoiled so swiftly that Mari—who was following close behind—walked into her.

‘I’m sorry, my lady.’

Francesca’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Saints, half of Champagne must be here. It would be hard to imagine there’s room for anyone else.’

A manservant bearing a tray of goblets shot past the doorway faster than she could have believed possible, he nimbly sidestepped a small child playing with a grizzled wolfhound and narrowly avoided an upturned bench.

Behind her mask, Mari’s eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, my lady, isn’t it exciting? May Day always is the best of the festivals.’

‘It’s a pagan celebration,’ Francesca said. ‘It’s not an official one, it’s not sanctioned by the Church.’

‘All the better, we can really enjoy ourselves.’ Mari nudged her in the small of her back. ‘Well? Don’t you think we need a goblet of wine?’

Straightening her spine, Francesca pushed into the throng. The twanging of a lute floated down from the minstrel’s gallery. A drum beat softly in the background.

Truth be told, Francesca had no wish to take part in the revel, she wasn’t in the mood. She’d only come to please Mari, who had been talking of nothing else since Sir Ernis had so foolishly mentioned there was going to be a masked revel at the palace.

Mari was more of a companion than a servant and, despite her outspoken manner, she was a loyal supporter. It would have been churlish to deny her and Francesca had known Mari