Mistaken For A Lady. Carol Townend
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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