It was a glorious spring day as Francesca and Tristan clattered on to the highway ahead of Bastian and Mari. A handful of clouds meandered across the sky, the hawthorn bushes were bursting into leaf and the hedgerows were alive with sparrows.
‘You’re still riding Flint, I see,’ Francesca said, glancing at Tristan’s raw-boned grey.
‘He suits me.’ Expression softening, Tristan gestured at Francesca’s mare. ‘I see you kept Princess. I did wonder. Thought you might have left her behind.’
‘She’s perfect, I would have been mad to leave her in Brittany.’ Francesca folded her lips firmly together. In truth, Tristan had given Princess to her at their betrothal. She was a glossy black and much adored. Francesca was reluctant to reveal exactly how much the horse meant to her. Every time she rode her, which was often, she thought of Tristan.
Tristan gave her a brusque nod, leaving Francesca to wonder whether she had imagined the softness in his expression.
‘I’d like to make the most of this weather,’ he said, giving the heel to Flint. ‘It won’t stay dry for ever, and a dry road is infinitely preferable to having the horses slog through acres of mud.’
Francesca urged Princess on. Her heart was heavy. Count Myrrdin had played such a large part in her life. She hadn’t seen him in two years and yet he lived in her mind as though they’d spoken only yesterday. For eighteen years she had adored him as a loving and generous father.
The count had many eccentricities—the forgetfulness which seemed so at odds with the way he never failed to revere the memory of his beloved wife, Countess Mathilde; the wildness of his snowy-white hair and beard; his extraordinary mismatched eyes—one grey, one green. Each eccentricity merely served to point up what a quirky, lovable man he was. The day that Francesca had discovered that Count Myrrdin was not her father had been bleak indeed.
Her life had, quite simply, fallen apart. At a stroke, she’d lost a beloved father and she’d lost her place in the world. It had been well-nigh impossible to accept that she had no connections with Fontaine whatsoever. She was a changeling and her standing as a noblewoman was nothing but a lie. She cast a sidelong glance at Tristan—she’d lost the respect of her husband too. With not a drop of noble blood flowing through her veins, she had lost her purpose in life.
However, this was not the time to dwell on her disastrously inappropriate marriage. The man she would always think of as her father was dying.
‘Count Myrrdin is the kindest man I know,’ she murmured, eyes stinging. ‘I pray he isn’t suffering.’
She didn’t think Tristan had heard her, he was looking over his shoulder at Mari and Bastian. Bastian had a packhorse on a leading rein, other than that they were travelling light as Tristan had suggested.
Following Tristan’s gaze, it dawned on Francesca why Tristan had insisted that they wore practical, everyday clothing. No one would take them for the Count and Countess des Iles. The Count and Countess des Iles would surely ride through the land in bright silks and fine linen. They would have a grand entourage—guards and servants to fuss over their every whim. This way, with only Mari and Bastian and a solitary packhorse, they would pass through the towns and villages much faster. There would be no pomp and certainly no ceremony. They were riding incognito. With sackcloth covering Tristan’s shield, the three black cinquefoils were hidden from view.
Her gut tightened. Did Tristan want them to travel unobtrusively because he was ashamed of her? His low-born wife. With a shake of her head, Francesca pushed the thought aside. Tristan was a proud man, not a cruel one.
Tristan cleared his throat. ‘Your maid Mari is no longer young. Are you sure she can keep up?’
‘I’m sure. Mari is livelier than many women half her age, she never keeps still. And her father was a groom at Fontaine, she learned to ride at an early age.’
‘That’s good to hear. It’s safer if we keep together.’ Tristan set his face forward and urged Flint on. ‘Francesca, I don’t think you need worry about Count Myrrdin suffering. I have heard Lady Clare is very competent.’
‘Aye, so she is.’
Penetrating blue eyes met hers. ‘I wasn’t sure how well you knew her.’
‘Well enough to know that she wouldn’t withhold the poppy juice if Papa was in pain.’
Tristan held her gaze. ‘I doubt that poppy juice will be necessary. Knowing Count Myrrdin as we do, I think we may safely assume he is more likely to have fallen into one of his deep abstractions.’
Eyes misting, Francesca stared straight ahead. ‘I pray so.’
Leather creaked as Tristan reached across to briefly squeeze her hand. ‘Our main concern will be whether he is able to speak to you when we reach Fontaine.’
Francesca’s throat closed. Tristan meant well, bless him, he was warning her that they might arrive too late. Blinking hard, she nodded and Tristan lifted his hand from hers.
‘I shall do my best to ensure we get there as swiftly as humanly possible.’ He paused. ‘Francesca?’
‘Aye?’
‘What happened when Lady Clare came to Fontaine to claim her inheritance?’
Francesca felt herself go rigid. Shame. Hurt. Bitterness. However, Tristan’s blue eyes were kind. Thoughtful. ‘Tristan, I am sure you have already been given a full account.’
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