Mistaken For A Lady. Carol Townend
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of green fabric from her gown and edged it with some glass beads she’d found rolling about in the bottom of her sewing box.
‘My lady, you really must make the most of this revel,’ Mari muttered from behind her. ‘You need to think about your future. Your marriage is over, and if you want children, you will have to marry again.’ Mari glanced pointedly towards the ceiling, where row upon row of knights’ colours hung from the beams. ‘Look at all those pennons. There are plenty of knights here tonight, you could take your pick.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Find a new husband.’
‘Mari, please.’ As Mari’s words shivered through her, Francesca was gripped with a horrid suspicion. Had Mari insisted on coming to the revel, not for her own entertainment, but because she wanted Francesca to choose a new husband?
Well, that day might almost be upon her. Her separation from Tristan was bound to be formalised soon, even so, she wasn’t ready to start husband hunting. Not until she had heard from Tristan himself.
The long silence probably meant that she would at any moment receive notice that he had asked the Pope to annul their marriage. Tristan had good cause to do so. She’d failed him in the most damning of ways, she was a nobody, a nobody who had not provided him with an heir.
Determined not to give the knights’ colours another glance, Francesca kept her gaze trained on the trestle tables arranged around the walls. She had come here tonight so Mari could let her hair down. As to her future, she had already discussed moving to Monfort with her friend Helvise, she would think more about that another day.
Francesca forged on, heading for a tray of goblets next to the wine racks. Heavens, she’d never seen tables so laden—great platters of venison, mountains of pastries, honeyed almonds... Unfortunately, her stomach felt like lead and she doubted she could eat a bite.
It would help if she could forget how she had enjoyed Tristan’s company. The trouble was that every time Mari spoke about Francesca’s plans for the future, Francesca found herself dwelling on her brief time with Tristan. Until she had discovered she wasn’t related to Count Myrrdin in any way whatsoever, she had been so happy.
My life has been a lie. None of it was real.
Tears rushed to her eyes and the tray of goblets seemed to waver in a mist. Blinking fast, she stiffened her spine. She knew what she had to do. She must step aside and allow Tristan to make a more propitious marriage. With a noblewoman. With an heiress who would give him heirs.
Francesca reached for a goblet and wrenched her mind away from Tristan. ‘Count Henry is generous,’ she said brightly.
Mari was staring wide-eyed at a stand that was bowing under the weight of so many wine barrels. Her peacock feathers shivered. ‘Dieu du ciel, God in heaven, Count Henry’s steward must have raided the stock of every wine merchant in Champagne. That rack will surely break.’
‘I am sure the barrels will soon be empty.’ Francesca handed the goblet to Mari as one of her maid’s peacock feathers flicked across the face of a large man with a shock of white hair. The man sneezed.
Francesca took another goblet. When she turned back, wine in hand, Mari was gone.
‘Mari?’
Francesca could see no sign of her. No, wait, there she was, halfway across the hall. At the centre a space had been cleared, dancing was about to begin. The man with the shock of white hair had taken Mari’s arm and was drawing her into the crowd. Mari glanced over her shoulder, Francesca saw the glint of her eyes behind the mask. She was smiling.
Returning the smile, Francesca mimed for Mari to join the dance. With any luck, Mari would soon be so engrossed that Francesca could sneak back to the ladies’ bower and retire. She really wasn’t in the mood for a masked revel. And she certainly wasn’t in the mood for husband hunting.
Pensively, she took a sip of wine and skirted round the edge of the hall. She hadn’t gone more than a couple of paces before a tall man with untidy yellow hair stepped in front of her.
He gave her a flourishing bow. ‘Will you dance, fair lady?’ he asked, holding out his hand.
The man’s mask was black and Francesca caught a glimpse of blue eyes. Her heart missed a beat and she immediately thought of Tristan. Heavens, this had to stop! She was seeing Tristan in every man she met. It was ludicrous, this man didn’t even have the right colour hair.
Was he a knight? Francesca didn’t want to dance, however, if he was a knight, there was a danger she might insult him by refusing. He certainly held himself confidently enough. She dipped into a curtsy. ‘I am sorry, sir, I do not dance.’
‘Dommage. Pity,’ he said, easily enough.
A woman squeezed past Francesca, elbowing her in the ribs. ‘Excuse me, mistress.’ She jerked her head at a wine barrel. ‘I can’t reach the tap.’
The fair man took Francesca by the arm. ‘Come, we are in the way here.’ He guided her away from the serving tables. It didn’t take long for Francesca to realise that he was making a beeline for one of the corridors—a corridor that at this hour was dark and shadowy and lit by a line of lanterns. Francesca resisted the tug on her arm.
‘Sir, if you please. I have arranged to meet a friend in the ladies’ solar.’
‘All in good time.’ Behind the black mask, blue eyes—the wrong blue eyes—gleamed. ‘First, we shall step into the quiet and introduce each other properly.’ His grip firmed and before Francesca could protest she found herself in the corridor.
* * *
From the minstrels’ gallery, there was a bird’s-eye view of the goings-on in the great hall. This was just as well because Tristan was wearing his helmet instead of a mask. He’d had to put it on before the pages would admit him and the view through the eye slits was somewhat restricted. None the less, he would surely spot Francesca easily from up here. And he would know her, he was sure, even if she was wearing a mask.
After nodding briefly at a lute-player, he turned back to the guard rail. His gaze was caught by a slender, dark-haired lady in a group standing by the hearth. A brief perusal told him it wasn’t Francesca, the lady’s hands didn’t look right. Too many rings. He skimmed quickly over a group of would-be dancers forming in the middle, again, one or two of the women had Francesca’s build. None of them had her grace. Next, he studied the revellers by the serving tables as they jostled to reach the meats and the wine barrels. One lady in a crimson gown with a mask to match looked too young; another in a blue gown and heavy silk veil was too small; another— No, none of them resembled Francesca.
His gaze moved on, sliding over more guests until at last, by the door that led into a corridor, Tristan caught sight of a large, fair-haired man pulling a tall, willowy woman in a green gown towards one of the doors. The hairs rose on Tristan’s neck. Francesca!
Before he knew it, he was tearing down the twisting stairs.
He hadn’t seen her face, she had lost weight and her ebony hair was hidden beneath her veil, but he didn’t need the details to know he’d been looking at his wife. Swearing under his breath, Tristan shoved his way unceremoniously through the revellers.
His mind raced. What the devil was she doing leaving the great hall in the company of a stranger?
A name jumped unbidden into Tristan’s brain. Joakim Kerjean. His pulse thudded and his mind filled with questions.
Before setting out from Château des Iles, Tristan had learned that a yellow-haired knight named Joakim Kerjean had been enquiring after Francesca in the village. Never having met the man, Tristan had followed up with some enquiries of his own. He’d not got far, all he’d learned was that Sir Joakim Kerjean held title to some land not far from Francesca’s manor at St Méen. That in itself was fairly innocuous. What was more worrying was that after Sir Joakim had been told that Francesca was living in Tristan’s Champagne manor, he had gone on to ask for precise directions as to how to get there. Clearly, this Kerjean was determined to find her. Why?
If