Mistaken for a Lady (18 page)

Heavy footsteps approached the waggon. A horse stamped his hoof and a sudden shifting of air made her open her eyes. The carter stood before her. His expression was so cold it seemed to steal the heat from the sun. And he was standing too close for comfort, so close Francesca could tell what he had been eating last eve. Onions. Garlic. Stiffening, she pushed away from the wall.

‘You are Lady Francesca?' His voice was uninterested, but there was a calculating gleam in his eyes.

Francesca's heart skipped several beats and she found herself glancing up at the wall to check that the guards remained close at hand. She told herself not to be so jumpy, she was surely safe in Tristan's bailey.

‘I am.'

The carter gave an ugly smile and leaned in. ‘My, my, what a stroke of luck. We hoped to find you quickly, but we didn't expect to do so when delivering the first consignment.'

Goosebumps rose on Francesca's arms. Overhead, a gull mewed and the guards went on pounding the wall walk. Drawing a deep breath, she was about to summon help when a large hand clamped over her mouth.

With a jerk, the carter pulled her into the shadows between the waggon and the wall. ‘Be calm. If you want the knight's brat to live, be calm. We wouldn't want you to do anything that might make us hurt her, would we?'

Francesca didn't move a muscle. Saints, Kristina
had
been kidnapped. Her mind raced. It hadn't escaped her that the carter had referred to Kristina as the knight's brat.
Dieu merci
, the kidnappers must believe Roparz to be her father. That had to be a good thing. On the other hand, what had they done to her? The poor child must be terrified.

Francesca held the carter's gaze and tried to peel his hand from her mouth. This man was in league with Tristan's enemies, she was sure. Was he taking orders from Sir Joakim?

The carter glanced briefly over his shoulder, he was probably checking that they remained unobserved. ‘You won't cry out?'

Francesca shook her head and the carter's hand lifted, though he kept a vice-like hold of her wrist. She kept her voice low. ‘You have Kristina?'

The carter gave a slight nod.

‘Where is she? What have you done with her?'

‘She's safe.' The carter's eyes were cold as stones. ‘She does a lot of screeching, we've taken her where no one can hear her. Still, we shouldn't expect a spoilt knight's brat to be brave.'

An image of Kristina, huddled and frightened, flashed into Francesca's mind. ‘You devil, she's little more than a baby.' The man shifted closer, bringing with him the smell of onions. She noticed that he was missing several of his teeth.

‘You want to help her, my lady?'

‘Of course!'

Keeping her fast by her wrist, the carter plucked a filthy strip of leather from his belt.

Backing up against the wall, Francesca eyed it suspiciously. ‘What's that for?'

His grin chilled her to her core. ‘There'll be no screeching from you.'

He was going to gag her! Francesca looked him firmly in the eye. ‘I want to help Kristina, I give you my word I will not cry out.'

‘Your word has no currency with me,
ma dame
.' An oilcloth served as a door at the back of the waggon, the man's lip curled as he shoved it aside. ‘Shut up and get in.'

Heart in her mouth, Francesca climbed into the cart. The carter followed.

Empty of its cargo, the bed of the waggon was littered with straw and dirty sacking. It was very gloomy. Francesca peered through the murk at the cold gleam of the man's eyes. The idea of being gagged made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

He gave her a nasty grin. ‘My lady, you will be silenced. Behave, and we'll send the girl back safe and sound. Otherwise, that knight won't be seeing his whelp again.' He made a slicing gesture across his throat and shrugged. ‘Makes no difference to me either way.'

Francesca soon discovered the carter wasn't working alone. As the waggon rattled through the castle gates, another man lifted the oilcloth and vaulted into the back. With lank hair and a rank, unwashed stink about him, he was no more prepossessing than his accomplice. Francesca sat on some straw and sacking and hung her head, trying to look defeated. With luck, the man would dismiss her as harmless.

That these men were outlaws, she had no doubt. It was chilling to discover they had been looking for her, specifically for her. What were they planning? The only ray of light in this was that they had no idea that Kristina was Tristan's daughter.

Despite the straw, every rut in the road rattled her teeth. She tried to recall the lie of the land, resolving to at least try to imagine where on the road they might be. That swaying must mean they had reached the turn in the road just before the gatehouse. She could hear the shriek of gulls and the hushing of the waves.

Abruptly the waggon stopped. She frowned. They couldn't have got far, no more than a few dozen yards.

The carter's accomplice shifted and it was then that she noticed he was holding a small flask. Francesca's skin crawled. Too small to contain wine or ale, it looked like the sort of medicine bottle one might buy from an apothecary. A filthy hand reached for her. She jerked back, but the side of the waggon bit into her spine, there was nowhere to go.

The gag was wrenched from her and before she knew it the carter's accomplice had firm hold of her nose. He was a large man and he overpowered her shamefully easily. He shoved her on to her back and, using his knees, he pinned her in place.

‘Let go of me! What are you—'

The mouth of the flask was pushed against her lips. ‘Open up, my lovely.'

Francesca tried to resist. She clenched her jaw and kept her lips firmly together, except she couldn't do that for long, the grip on her nose was merciless.
I can't breathe!
The man's smile was cruel. Her lungs began to ache; her heart pounded; her head swam.

‘Come on, my lovely.' His smile widened, the brute was enjoying this. ‘Admit defeat or suffocate.'

Francesca held on until her lungs were at bursting point. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. She gulped in a breath and snapped her mouth shut. She was too slow. A sickly bittersweet fluid coated her tongue and trickled down her throat. What was it, poppy juice? Whatever it was, it must have been expensive. Such potions weren't available to everyone. She coughed again and immediately felt the cold press of the flask against her lips.

A callous laugh filled the shadowy interior. ‘That's it, my pretty.'

Francesca sucked in another mouthful of air and more bittersweet liquid slipped down her throat. Her head swam. The straw rustled. Something was drumming against the bed of the waggon. Vaguely, she realised it was her heels.

A few more minutes of this treatment and her vision blurred. The drumming slowed, the black spots melted into one other and her limbs turned to lead. Darkness engulfed her.

Chapter Thirteen

B
ack in the bailey, Tristan reined in and dismounted smartly. At his side, Roparz did the same. Their hearts were heavy, neither the villagers nor the fishermen had seen Kristina.

Tristan's boots had barely hit the ground before the captain of his guard hurtled down the guardhouse steps, his face creased with worry.

‘Captain, you've news? You've found Kristina?'

‘I'm sorry,
mon seigneur
, we haven't. We've combed through the entire castle several times. Kristina is not in des Iles.' The captain squared his shoulders. He seemed to be having difficulty looking Tristan in the eye. ‘My lord, I'm afraid there's more bad news. I have to tell you that Countess Francesca is missing.'

Tristan's veins turned to ice. ‘Francesca, missing?' Vaguely, he was aware of handing Flint over to Bastian. He dragged off his helmet. ‘What do you mean she's missing?'

The captain gulped. ‘
Mon seigneur
, her maid alerted us when she couldn't find her.'

Tristan stared, he couldn't seem to take it in. ‘Francesca can't be missing.' He exchanged glances with Roparz. ‘You told me you spoke to her before you met me in the village.'

‘So I did. I was concerned for Esmerée and asked the countess to speak to her.'

‘Where was Esmerée?'

‘She was in the chapel when I left to join you.'

Tristan looked at his captain. ‘I take it you've searched the chapel?'

‘Of course, my lord. After the countess's maid told us Lady Francesca had also vanished, it was the first place we looked. Father Paol hadn't seen her and Lady Esmerée said the last time she saw your wife was earlier this morning, in the solar. My lord, as far as we can see, Lady Francesca has left the castle.'

Roparz gave Tristan a bleak look. ‘Hell burn it, Tristan. What is going on?'

Cold sweat trickled down Tristan's back.
Fear.
First Kristina and now Francesca. He strode towards the guardhouse, Roparz and the captain at his heels. ‘The two disappearances have to be linked.'

Francesca would never have gone on her own. She'd been shocked and hurt that he hadn't told her about Kristina, and she might yet decide to push for an annulment, but he knew her and she wouldn't dream of leaving without first bidding him farewell.

‘I agree,' Roparz said. ‘
Mon Dieu
, what do we do?'

‘We wait, my friend. If I am not mistaken, we will shortly be receiving a ransom demand.'

Tossing his helmet on to the guardhouse table, Roparz met his gaze. ‘Kerjean is behind this?'

‘I'd stake my life he is involved.' Tristan strode up and down and wished he had more to go on. Where had Francesca and Kristina been taken? Were they together? Were they safe? Conscious of the captain hovering anxiously at his elbow, he picked his words with care. ‘Roparz, what I can't fathom is how Kerjean found out about Kristina. We were so careful.'

With a sidelong glance at the captain, Roparz's reply was equally guarded. ‘It certainly is a mystery.'

‘Captain, find the countess's maid, would you? I'd like to speak to her.'

‘Yes, my lord. The maid did mention that when she left the countess in the bailey, a consignment of wine was being delivered.'

‘Wine?' Roparz frowned. ‘I didn't order any wine, the cellars are full.'

The captain cleared his throat. ‘The carter told the guards it was a gift, Sir Roparz.'

‘A gift?'

‘Aye, from Count Henry of Champagne.'

Tristan swore. ‘That wine is not from Count Henry, Joakim must have arranged this. Captain, find Mari, would you? She might have noticed something else.'

‘At once, my lord.'

‘Bring her to the steward's office, Sir Roparz and I will be in there. Come, Roparz, we have letters to write.'

‘You're alerting Baron Rolland?'

‘Not only Baron Rolland. Roparz, I suspect there is more to this than the kidnapping of two people dear to my heart. The peace of the Duchy is again at risk. We must rally the troops, Kerjean cannot be allowed to start bonfires all over Brittany.'

* * *

Francesca woke shivering. All was dark. And cold, deep cold, her skin was nothing but goosebumps.

Where am I?

Her first thought was that she must be outside, then she realised that, overhead, an awning of some kind was flapping in a brisk wind. And the dark wasn't total, beyond the awning she could see stars. She was in a crude shelter, under a coarse blanket.

Her head was pounding and her mind was muzzy. When she moved her hand to rub her brow, the ache intensified. Stifling a groan, she closed her eyes and lay still, trying to orient herself. The ground was hard. Lumpy. Tentative exploration revealed that the walls of the shelter were made out of rough stone blocks and, save for the awning, the roof was open to the elements. She seemed to be alone.

What had happened?

Events flooded back in a painful, gut-twisting rush. Kristina—Tristan's daughter, for heaven's sake—had disappeared. The face of the carter from Champagne swam into her mind's eye. Oddly, she caught a faint whiff of onions, garlic and stale sweat. Was he close by? She shuddered. It was surprising her hands were free, her kidnappers must have been confident the drug—whatever it was—would do its work. Her lips worked. The taste of the bittersweet liquid lingered on her tongue. Her mouth tasted sour and her throat was parched.

A salty scent was sharp in her nostrils. Nearby, waves were smashing against rocks and she could hear the suck and drag of the sea shifting shingle. Wherever she was, she was by the shore. Her heart lifted. Perhaps she wasn't far from des Iles.

She stared at the stars beyond the awning and a shadow in the shape of a man moved across them. She lifted her head. The man's features were lost in the dark, but she knew who it must be.

Pushing upright, she tried to swallow. ‘Sir Joakim?' Her voice sounded rusty.

‘Lady Francesca, how lovely, you are awake.' He laughed. ‘I've been looking forward to renewing our acquaintance.'

‘Where is Kristina? What have you done with her?'

The shadow that was Joakim Kerjean moved closer. ‘The brat's behind you in the corner.'

Thrusting the blanket aside, Francesca scrambled through the dark, so anxious to reach Kristina, she didn't care that she was crawling. When a jagged rock cut into her knee, she barely noticed it. Her fingers encountered another blanket and a slight huddle of warmth. Kristina was curled up on her side.

Francesca gave her a gentle shake. ‘Kristina?' The child didn't move, she didn't as much as murmur. Sitting back, Francesca pulled her on to her lap and smoothed her hair out of her face. ‘Kristina?'

Nothing.

Francesca curled her arms about Tristan's daughter and scowled through the dark at Sir Joakim. ‘Have you hurt her?'

‘She's fine.' The knight's voice was bored, careless. ‘She was yelling her head off. Thought I'd use her to test a little of the potion I'd bought for you.'

Francesca felt a flare of anger. ‘You drugged a child? What is that stuff?'

‘I have no idea.'

‘I would have thought you'd want to know what you were buying. Whatever it was, you must know the doses are different for children.'

‘Are they?'

‘You might have killed her!' Francesca laid the back of her hand against Kristina's face and felt the slow, steady huff of her breath.
Dieu merci
, she was alive. ‘You'll send her back to des Iles?' Francesca's thoughts were still clouded, the after-effects of the potion, she supposed. She must remember to guard her tongue, it wouldn't do to betray Kristina's true parentage. ‘Your man said you would return her to Sir Roparz and Lady Esmerée if I came with him. Here I am. You are honour-bound to release her.'

Kerjean let out an amused snort. ‘She can go back to her parents as soon as you sign a letter for me. It's only a formality, you understand, since I already have your seal.'

My ring!
Francesca's heart shifted as she felt for Tristan's ring. It wasn't on her finger, Kerjean had stolen her ring! ‘You, sir, are a thief.'

He let out a bark of laughter. ‘I've been called far worse, I can assure you.' His tone went hard. ‘My dear lady, you will sign that letter.'

‘If you have my husband's seal, you don't need my signature.'

‘I want your lord husband to be in no doubt that we have you in person, and that you are alive. I have a proposition for him and I suspect he will respond more favourably if he is aware that I have you entirely at my mercy.'

Sir Joakim's statement made hideous sense. Francesca swallowed hard, her throat felt as though it was full of thistles. ‘I must have something to drink.'

She heard a grunt and the shadow moved away. ‘We have ale. One moment.' Sir Joakim left the shelter.

Whilst he was gone, Francesca adjusted Kristina's blanket and laid her gently on the ground. With a sigh, she leaned back against the wall, absently rubbing her empty ring finger. She felt hollow inside, she'd worn Tristan's ring every day since her marriage and she felt naked without it. Lost.

Kerjean's footsteps crunched away. Francesca stared at the stars beyond the awning and willed her mind to clear.

‘Biel!' The wind threw Sir Joakim's words into the shelter. ‘Fetch ale. And food. We must look after our hostage, she is valuable.'

I am a hostage.

The footsteps returned, the stars vanished and that dark shape—it was like looking at a demon—was crouching before her. Then came a metallic creak and a pale glow illuminated Sir Joakim's face, he had brought a lantern with him and had opened the shutter. His yellow hair looked as though it had been gilded. The lantern light also revealed the awning above them to be a sail. Yes, it had definitely been a sail. Staring at the sail, something shifted in Francesca's mind. She knew exactly where they were.

‘We're on an island in the bay.' She placed her palm on the crude stone wall. ‘This is Hermit's Rock. You brought us over by boat?'

‘Clever girl.'

‘You're a fool if you think you can get away with this. How many men can you call on? Half a dozen? A dozen? Tristan has a whole garrison. Most of the villagers are fishermen—this island will be surrounded in no time.'

The fair head shook. ‘No, it won't. When Count Tristan understands we have you as our honoured guest, dear lady, I can assure you that he will fall in with our plans. In this letter, I ask him to come alone. If he wants to see you alive, he will do as I ask.' Sir Joakim yawned. ‘I tire of this conversation. Here.' An ale skin was thrust into her hand. ‘Drink.'

Removing the stopper, Francesca took a suspicious sniff. ‘I've had enough poison for one day, how do I know you haven't doctored it?'

With a sound of exasperation, Sir Joakim snatched the ale skin back. ‘It's safe.' He took a long swallow. ‘See?'

With a nod, Francesca took the ale from him and drank deep. It was surprisingly refreshing and she drank as much as she could. It might be some time before she was offered more.

A scroll was waved in front of her. She stoppered the ale skin and set it aside.

‘Sign this,' Sir Joakim said.

Parchment crackled as it was unrolled. Seeing a dark, round blob at the bottom, Francesca touched it. Sealing wax. She let out a sigh. ‘You've already been free with my ring. This is Tristan's seal.'

‘Sign, damn you.'

‘You swear on your knightly oath, you will send the child home?'

White teeth grinned though the dark. ‘My dear lady, I swear. We simply await your co-operation.'

‘She will not be harmed?'

‘The brat will not be harmed. Sign.'

An inkpot and quill were set before her. Francesca spread the parchment on her knees and scrawled her name at the bottom, next to Tristan's seal.

‘Thank you, dear lady,' Sir Joakim said. The document rustled as he took it from her. ‘Next, I must ask you to unbind your hair.'

Francesca stiffened. ‘What?'

‘Be calm, I have no designs on your virtue. A lock of your hair will be one final proof that you are
entirely
within my power.' A silver blade glinted in the lamplight. ‘Hurry up.'

Francesca reached for her plait.

* * *

As dawn pushed back the night, Francesca stood in the entrance of the ruined hermitage, wrapped in a blanket to keep out the worst of the wind. During the night, thick clouds had rolled in and the sun was lost behind them. Scant feet away, waves hissed and frothed as they rushed past the tiny island on their way to the shore. The smell of woodsmoke mingled with the briny tang of the sea. Her captors had lit a small fire in the shelter and a trail of smoke rose into the air before being whisked away by the wind. Presumably, with Francesca known to be their hostage, the outlaws could afford to be bold.

She gazed at the cliffs. The tide was in and white spume rose and fell at the foot. Higher up, the castle walls seemed to melt into the grey of the sky. It wasn't yet light enough for her to see Tristan's standard.

By now, Kristina would be safely back with her mother. Tristan would be relieved.

How would he react to Sir Joakim's summons? Sir Joakim seemed certain Tristan would arrive soon, Francesca wasn't so sure. It wouldn't be sensible for Tristan to put himself at risk in such a way.

What will he do?

She fingered her empty ring finger as she stared at the entrance to the harbour. She didn't like to think about what might happen to her if Tristan didn't come, but she didn't want him to do anything rash. Surely he would be sensible. Surely he would stay away.

The wind tugged at her blanket as she stood there, staring.