Mistaken for a Lady (13 page)

Silently, Tristan passed it to her.

‘Tristan, I made this after our wedding. It hung on the solar wall in St Méen.'

‘I remember.'

Her brow knotted as she looked at Conan. ‘Where did you find it?'

‘In the ditch by the road, my lady. A few yards beyond the gate.'

‘You saw nothing else?'

‘No, just the hanging. Count Tristan's colours caught my eye.'

Francesca folded the wall-hanging. ‘Thank you, Conan. Would you please show it to Sir Arthur and ask if he will permit a troop of household knights to accompany Lord Tristan and myself to St Méen? We shall wait here for his reply.'

We? Tristan's muscles tightened. Francesca could not be allowed to go to St Méen, not now. Clearly, the place wasn't secure. He frowned at the wall-hanging. He was loath to alarm her, but this had to be Kerjean's handiwork. Their monkish escort might have prevented Kerjean and his cronies attacking them on their way here, but clearly it hadn't prevented him from following them to Fontaine.

Kerjean had broken into Francesca's manor. Who else could it be? By leaving the tapestry in the ditch outside the castle, where he surely knew it would be found, Kerjean was sending Tristan a message. No, not a message, a threat. Sir Joakim was telling him that Francesca wasn't safe, not even in Fontaine.

Kerjean had to be attempting to revive the rebel alliance.
It's a message. A message for me.

Francesca bit her lip as she tracked Conan's progress towards the great hall. ‘Someone has broken into St Méen.'

‘So it would seem.'

‘Papa promised that it would not be left unguarded.' Her fingers tapped Princess's neck. ‘Where are those knights?'

Tristan could have groaned aloud. He didn't want to put their fragile, reawakened passion at risk by upsetting her, but Francesca had to be made to see that she could not go to St Méen. ‘Francesca, I agree someone has to go to St Méen. You must understand that it cannot be you.'

She stiffened. ‘It's my manor, it's my responsibility.'

‘No one is disputing that it is your manor. My heart, someone has broken in and there is no telling what we may find. I will not permit you within a mile of the place until I know it is safe. It needs to be secured.'

Her eyes grew stormy. ‘You bar me from visiting my own manor?'

‘When I know it is secure, you may visit it then.'

Her gaze sharpened. ‘There's something you're not telling me.'

Tristan hesitated, he was certain the theft of the wall-hanging was Kerjean's handiwork, but admitting as much would surely be a mistake. Francesca had enough to deal with without learning that a band of outlaws had decided to use her to further their cause.

Damn Sir Joakim Kerjean, damn him to hell. Francesca wasn't safe in Fontaine. And if she wasn't safe in Fontaine...

‘Francesca, until I have assessed the state of St Méen for myself, you're not going anywhere near it.'

* * *

At St Méen, Tristan stood in the solar with the manor steward at his side, examining the marks on the whitewash and the empty hooks on which Francesca's carefully wrought work had hung.

‘Sir Nicolas?'

‘Mon seigneur?'

‘You knew this tapestry had gone?'

Sir Nicolas ran his hand round the back of his neck. ‘Yes, my lord.'

‘And you didn't think to inform Sir Arthur that my lady's manor had been broken into?'

Sir Nicolas flushed. ‘I only noticed the tapestry was missing this morning. My lord, I don't check the solar every day. As you know, we're off the beaten track. It is quiet here. We keep only the minimum of retainers and there had been no sign of a break-in.'

Tristan lifted an eyebrow. ‘None?'

‘None.'

Tristan stared at the empty hooks. Despite the fact that he was looking at a faint outline—like a shadow—of where the tapestry had been, the hanging was bright in his mind. It was a wonderful, clever work—knights and ladies feasting in a woodland setting. Great oaks arched over a damask-covered table; hunting dogs played among the flowers. Francesca had given the wall-hanging a silver border, like the field on his shield, and she had emblazoned the margins with black cinquefoils. And now it was a soggy mess, slashed beyond repair. ‘I liked that tapestry.'

‘Yes, my lord. I am very sorry.'

‘Why the devil didn't you report the break-in as soon as you had discovered it?'

‘I was going to,
mon seigneur
, except it didn't strike me as urgent,' Sir Nicolas said. ‘We had only just received word of Count Myrrdin's death, God rest him.'

Tristan ran his hand over his face. ‘Yes, I can see the loss of a tapestry pales into insignificance beside that.'

‘Quite so. And in any case, nothing else has been touched, my lord.'

‘You're certain?'

‘Lord Tristan, when I saw the hanging had gone, you may be assured I checked St Méen from vault to roof. A full inventory has been done and everything else is as it should be.'

Tristan ran his fingers over the plaster and homed in on some marks—slight indentations, as though something had been scratched on the wall. He bent to take a closer look and swore under his breath. ‘Sir Nicolas?'

‘My lord?'

‘What do you make of this?'

Sir Nicolas squinted at the wall. ‘
Mon Dieu
, I didn't notice that. It's very faint, but it looks like a knight's shield.'

‘So it does. Do you recognise the insignia?'

‘I am not sure. It could be a cauldron or a kettle, my lord. I think it's a kettle.' Sir Nicolas rubbed his chin. ‘I can't call to mind a knight who uses a kettle as his device.'

‘I can,' Tristan said grimly. Sir Joakim Kerjean had a kettle on his shield. If there had been any doubt in his mind that the theft of the tapestry had been intended as a warning, seeing this shield dispelled it.

Kerjean had been poking about in Francesca's manor. He had then walked out entirely unscathed. St Méen wasn't safe for her any more.

Tristan rubbed his forehead. What did Kerjean think he was doing? Surely he must realise that by threatening Francesca directly, Tristan would simply redouble his attempts to keep her safe? Did he think to wring money out of Tristan by threatening Francesca? Money that would rebuild the alliance? If so, the man was a fool.
He must know that I can't let this slide, Sir Joakim's manor must be watched. I shall ask Sir Arthur to lend a few men—men capable of discretion. I have to know what Kerjean is up to.

Tristan glowered at the marks on the wall. He must alert Baron Rolland—outlaws were at large and there was a strong possibility that the rebel alliance was not a spent force. It looked as though a second set of envoys would shortly be setting out for Rennes.

A pair of long-lashed grey eyes filled his mind.
Where do we go from here?

Without question Francesca would have to accompany him back to des Iles. For her safety, she was going to have to miss Count Myrrdin's funeral.

It was far from ideal, she would be devastated when he told her. Lord, what a mess.

On first seeing Francesca in Provins, she had mentioned annulling their marriage. Back at St Michael's Abbey, Tristan had got her to confess that she had never actually wanted an annulment. It was progress of a sort, but until Francesca abandoned the idea that he would be better off making a dynastic marriage, he couldn't let his guard down. What was in her heart? After what had happened last night, Tristan couldn't be sure.

He'd ridden to Provins on a mission of mercy, to collect Francesca so she could pay her last respects to the man she had known as her father. This morning, he'd had it in mind that after the journey had come to its sad and inevitable conclusion, he and Francesca would either be reconciled or he would leave Francesca at St Méen and return to des Iles.

This morning, reconciliation seemed a real possibility and Tristan was wary of rushing her. He had thought to win her back gradually. He had hoped that if they lived together at St Méen, they might recapture some of the early magic. Last night had been promising, but Francesca had been grieving, and he couldn't be sure that he'd been more than a distraction. They might have come to a fuller understanding of each other if they'd been able to live quietly together at St Méen. Sadly, Kerjean's interference meant more drastic measures were needed.

Francesca couldn't be allowed to return to her manor, she wouldn't be safe. It wasn't practical for Tristan to watch her every moment, and even if he put her under guard, he couldn't be sure Kerjean would be kept at bay. Tristan's skin chilled. No, St Méen really was out of the question. Kerjean had broken in once, he could do so again. Tristan wouldn't have a moment's peace for worrying about her.

He must take her to Château des Iles, she would be safe there.

Des Iles—bounded by the sea on three sides—was practically impregnable. An outright attack—particularly by a lone knight and a disreputable band of outlaws—was out of the question. Kerjean couldn't field enough men. Yes, Francesca would have to go to des Iles, and the sooner the better. Tristan scowled at the shield scratched into the limewash.

It wouldn't be easy. At des Iles there were serious obstacles to any reconciliation—Esmerée being the most obvious.

How would Francesca react when she discovered that the woman who had once been his mistress was living there? Would she demand that Esmerée be sent elsewhere?

As to any further confessions, revealing his deep and most precious secret—his daughter—that would have to wait. He had no option but to take this step by step. Tristan rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had no idea what to expect if Francesca discovered that he and Esmerée had a daughter. Heaven help him, only Esmerée and Roparz knew that Kristina was Tristan's child. Tristan had hoped to confess all to Francesca, but with the alliance apparently reforming, his hands were, once again, tied.

Hell burn it, last night's truce between Francesca and himself was far too fragile to be put to the test, yet for Francesca's safety, that was exactly what he must do.

Francesca must be taken to des Iles, he had to get her out of harm's way. And whilst he might be able to delay telling her about Kristina, she would have to know about Esmerée.

Tristan nodded at Sir Nicolas and made for the door. On the threshold he looked back. ‘It's clear you need reinforcements.'

Sir Nicolas shuffled his feet. ‘I am truly sorry, my lord.'

Tristan waved the apology aside. ‘Lady Francesca and I will be returning to des Iles shortly. As soon as I get there, I'll send you extra guards. In the meantime, I shall ask Sir Arthur for his assistance.'

Sir Nicolas bowed his head. ‘Thank you, my lord.'

* * *

‘Go back with you to des Iles? Heavens, Tristan, when?' It was later that evening and Francesca was sat up in bed, combing her hair.

Tristan leaned his shoulder against a bedpost. ‘We'll be leaving in the morning.'

Francesca felt herself go still. ‘Are you mad? We must wait until after Papa's funeral.'

Tristan studied the toe of his boot. ‘I'm afraid that is no longer possible, we leave for Château des Iles at first light tomorrow.'

‘Be reasonable, Tristan, I can't possibly go tomorrow.' Francesca fought for calm.
I can't miss Papa's funeral!
She shoved her comb on a shelf by the bed. ‘If urgent business is calling you to des Iles, you will have to go alone. Everyone will understand if you miss the funeral. You must see that I can't miss it.'

He set his jaw. ‘You're coming with me.'

‘Tristan, I will attend Papa's funeral.'

Blue eyes looked her way, so hard and determined they were almost unrecognisable. ‘No, you won't.'

Francesca found herself scowling at the torn tapestry which was folded neatly at the bottom of the bed. The tapestry had been aired and the worst of the mud had been brushed off, ready for later inspection. If it hadn't been damaged beyond repair, she intended to mend it.

Glancing back at Tristan, she met that hard, unrecognisable gaze.
He is worried.
‘Tristan, what happened at St Méen? What did you find?'

‘Nothing, it is as I have already told you. A minor break-in. Sir Nicolas assured me that nothing was disturbed save the wall-hanging.'

‘It seems very odd that someone should steal into a manor and only take a tapestry. Which they then leave by the side of the road. Tristan, there has to be more to it than that. Once again, there's something you're not telling me.'

Expression stony, Tristan pushed to his feet. ‘You're coming with me to des Iles.'

Francesca narrowed her eyes. This was a side of Tristan she wasn't familiar with—Tristan at his most intransigent. The great lord and commander who overrode all argument. Her throat ached as she stared at him. It was hard to believe that last night he had softened enough to give her such comfort, whilst tonight he was denying her the chance to attend Count Myrrdin's funeral. ‘You, my lord, are a boor. I need to mourn Papa.' Her voice sounded hollow and her eyes prickled, tears weren't far away. ‘It will help to attend the funeral.'

He shrugged, apparently entirely unmoved. ‘You can grieve at des Iles as well as anywhere.'

‘And if I refuse to go with you?'

‘You'll come if I have to bind you hand and foot.'

A hot tear ran down her cheek and she averted her head before surreptitiously wiping it away.

The mattress dipped and he touched her hand. ‘Francesca, we don't need to quarrel.' His voice softened. ‘It grieves me too that we must miss Count Myrrdin's funeral, but miss it we must. I need you to trust me. You are not safe here.'

She glared at him through a haze of tears. ‘It would be easier if you would tell me what's worrying you. I am not stupid, I know there's more and I know it's connected to your visit to my manor.'