Mistaken For A Lady. Carol Townend

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       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?

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