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, one whose husband had clearly given up on her, ought to set about attracting new interest. She had cut a simple mask out of some backing, covered it with a remnant of green fabric from her gown and edged it with some glass beads she’d found rolling about in the bottom of her sewing box.
‘My lady, you really must make the most of this revel,’ Mari muttered from behind her. ‘You need to think about your future. Your marriage is over, and if you want children, you will have to marry again.’ Mari glanced pointedly towards the ceiling, where row upon row of knights’ colours hung from the beams. ‘Look at all those pennons. There are plenty of knights here tonight, you could take your pick.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Find a new husband.’
‘Mari, please.’ As Mari’s words shivered through her, Francesca was gripped with a horrid suspicion. Had Mari insisted on coming to the revel, not for her own entertainment, but because she wanted Francesca to choose a new husband?
Well, that day might almost be upon her. Her separation from Tristan was bound to be formalised soon, even so, she wasn’t ready to start husband hunting. Not until she had heard from Tristan himself.
The long silence probably meant that she would at any moment receive notice that he had asked the Pope to annul their marriage. Tristan had good cause to do so. She’d failed him in the most damning of ways, she was a nobody, a nobody who had not provided him with an heir.
Determined not to give the knights’ colours another glance, Francesca kept her gaze trained on the trestle tables arranged around the walls. She had come here tonight so Mari could let her hair down. As to her future, she had already discussed moving to Monfort with her friend Helvise, she would think more about that another day.
Francesca forged on, heading for a tray of goblets next to the wine racks. Heavens, she’d never seen tables so laden—great platters of venison, mountains of pastries, honeyed almonds... Unfortunately, her stomach felt like lead and she doubted she could eat a bite.
It would help if she could forget how she had enjoyed Tristan’s company. The trouble was that every time Mari spoke about Francesca’s plans for the future, Francesca found herself dwelling on her brief time with Tristan. Until she had discovered she wasn’t related to Count Myrrdin in any way whatsoever, she had been so happy.
My life has been a lie. None of it was real.
Tears rushed to her eyes and the tray of goblets seemed to waver in a mist. Blinking fast, she stiffened her spine. She knew what she had to do. She must step aside and allow Tristan to make a more propitious marriage. With a noblewoman. With an heiress who would give him heirs.
Francesca reached for a goblet and wrenched her mind away from Tristan. ‘Count Henry is generous,’ she said brightly.
Mari was staring wide-eyed at a stand that was bowing under the weight of so many wine barrels. Her peacock feathers shivered. ‘Dieu du ciel, God in heaven, Count Henry’s steward must have raided the stock of every wine merchant in Champagne. That rack will surely break.’
‘I am sure the barrels will soon be empty.’ Francesca handed the goblet to Mari as one
