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 wouldn’t dream of coming without her. So, despite not being in the mood for frivolity, she’d been persuaded to come.
Mari’s mask made her smile. It was a dazzling and complicated arrangement of peacock feathers, gold thread and ribbons. The feathers danced and waved about Mari’s face as she squeezed through the press, tickling people as she passed them.
Francesca’s mask was far more modest. She had ignored Mari’s blandishments that a young lady like herself,