Mistaken For A Lady. Carol Townend

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,