Her Baseborn Bridegroom

by Coldbreath, Alice

  Mother Ames eyebrows shot into her grey hair. “The obvious way to ripen curves is to get with child,” she pointed out drily.

  “Well, I do want that of course,” agreed Linnet earnestly. “But is there not some salve you could give me in the meantime?”

  “Salve?” Mother Ames appeared taken aback.

  “To . . . to encourage buxomness,” said Linnet, taking the plunge.

  The other woman blinked. Then she stood up and swished across the room in her purple woolen dress. “Hmmm. Let me think . . . ” she muttered. She glanced back at Linnet a moment. “But he is performing satisfactorily?” she asked.

  Linnet gazed blankly back at her. “Er, yes?”

  “As a husband?” elaborated Mother Ames cautiously.

  “Oh yes! I am very happy with him as a husband,” nodded Linnet enthusiastically. “It is only that I worry about myself . . . ”

  The other woman looked as if she would say more for a moment but then seemed to stop herself. “Mayhap if ’twould give you more confidence,” she murmured almost to herself. She looked at Linnet again uncertainly and then, as if coming to a quick decision, made for a cupboard on the wall. She opened the door quickly and then banged it shut before Linnet could get a good look. It had looked like a normal kitchen cupboard from what she could see. Mother Ames had a jar in her hand, which she brought back to the table. “This must be used very sparingly,” she cautioned. “It is sticky and you only need to apply a very small amount.”

  Linnet clapped her hands together. “Is it an ointment?” she asked.

  Mother Ames hesitated. “Yes. And how you apply it is a little unusual.” She was spooning some of the goopy, golden contents into a smaller purple jar. “Now listen to me carefully.”

  Linnet leant in and paid attention.

  XIV

  Mason woke alone with a sore head and a feeling of nagging unease. Seeing Linnet’s empty spot in the bed irritated him from the outset. Where had his blessed wife run off to now? He rolled out of the bed, washed, dressed, and made his way below stairs with a ferocious glower on his face. Servants darted out of his way as he stalked to the great hall. To his dissatisfaction his father was there, consuming a plate of salted fish and a loaf of bread. He beckoned to a hovering servant. “Where’s your mistress?” he barked out as he sat down.

  “She broke her fast early my lord and went out on the estate.”

  “What?”

  The servant blanched as Mason turned in his seat to glare at him.

  “Who accompanied her?” he asked in a quieter voice after taking a moment to collect himself.

  “Sir Oswald, Cuthbert, and Diggory the groom, Sir Mason,” he answered, wringing his hands.

  Mason grunted and turned to his father, who, he noticed uneasily, was watching him with interest.

  “If she wasn’t so whey-faced I’d think you were smitten with the wench,” snorted his father.

  “Her face is fine,” answered Mason shortly. “Watch your mouth.”

  His father’s bushy eyebrows shot up, and he choked on his mouthful of fish.

  “I mean it,” said Mason warningly. “I’ll not have her insulted in my hearing.”

  “Oh aye,” said his father, waving a hand. “Quite the considerate husband, aren’t you?”

  Mason shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll tan her hide if she’s put herself in harm’s way,” he growled, seizing a knife and starting on his morning meal. At least his brother was with her. As if guessing his thoughts, his father slammed down his drink, leaned back in his seat and belched.

  “If Oswald wasn’t so cautious he’d have seized the opportunity to wed the wench,” he grumbled. “She’s a fine dowry if nothing else.”

  Mason narrowed his eyes at his father’s disgruntled face.

  “He’s always been overcautious,” continued Baron Vawdrey bitterly. “I blame his mother. She was an insipid milksop.”

  “Oswald’s not a grasping bastard like me,” he answered in gruff defense of his half brother. For some reason, he felt rattled at the idea that his father thought Oswald a more suitable husband for Linnet. He tried to push the irrelevant thought from his mind.

  “No, he isn’t,” agreed his father with a regretful sigh. He wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. “More’s the pity. You need to breed your sons like you would a horse. The mare has to have spirit. Your mother was a bold-faced piece.”

  Mason shrugged again. He had no interest in his long-dead mother. His memories of her weren’t anything to treasure. “Linnet’s not a milksop,” he found himself saying instead. “She’s smart. She’s no coward.”

  His father snorted. “I hope you’re right. Else you’ll be giving me a freckled grandson with a weak heart.”

  Mason wryly noticed that his father now accepted she would bear him a son. “Nothing wrong with her heart,” he said, buttering a piece of bread. “I told you, the Jevonses lied.”

  “So you say,” started his father, pushing his plate away and opening his mouth to further the argument. Mason turned his head, holding up his hand for silence, as he heard the light, determined tread in the hallway.

  He recognized that step. Sure enough, mere seconds later, Linnet sailed into the great hall with Oswald and Cuthbert trailing in her wake.

  “Your color is certainly a lot better,” she was saying over her shoulder at Oswald. Neither of them seemed to have noticed him, and his father sat at the head table.

  “That curious brew she gave me does seem to have had a beneficial effect,” admitted Oswald in a plaintive tone. “But it tasted absolutely vile, mind you.”

  Mason stood up, a scowl on his face. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded in an angrier voice than he’d intended.

  He felt a bitter clenching in his gut that he wasn’t sure was from overimbibing the night before or something else entirely.

  They turned as a crowd, and Linnet had the nerve to smile at him distractedly. “Good morning, Husband. I trust you slept in—” she broke off her words as if only just noticing his thunderous frown. “What is it? I had some errands to run and Oswald kindly accompanied me . . . ”

  “So I see,” he cut in angrily. “Doing what, may I ask?”

  “Linnet wanted to—”

  “I didn’t ask you,” he interrupted his brother rudely and turned back to his wife. “Well?” He held his hand out to her imperiously and she rounded the table with a faint pucker between her brows. She took his hand and let him draw her down onto the bench beside him. He took a fortifying swig of his drink and then turned back to her. “I’m waiting,” he said, his voice only lowering slightly.

  She sent a quick look over at her father-in-law and then started unfastening her cloak. “I wanted to call on Mother Ames, and then on the former alewife that my aunt dismissed,” she said brightly as she bustled about folding the garment onto the bench beside her.

  He reached out and seized her chin, turning her face back towards him. “I don’t like you creeping from our bed, Linnet,” he said in a low voice only meant for her ears. A cough from his brother made him realize the others had heard his words.

  She flushed. “I wasn’t creeping,” she said hotly. “I thought you might benefit from an extra hour or so of sleep this morning.”

  His eyebrows rose at that. “You think you wore me out?” he asked arrogantly.

  She reddened. “I—er, you have been working very hard . . . ” she said feebly and her fingers tightened on his in silent appeal. He ignored it, not really giving a damn if his family heard them.

  “I don’t want you leaving the bed before me,” he said. “I don’t like it.”

  She stared. “Very well,” she conceded. “I will wait for you to rise first in future, Husband.”

  “And I don’t want you to visit that crone again,” he continued smoothly. “It’s pointless.”

  Her fingers clutched at his and she turned away from him a moment. “Cuthbert, could you please run to the kitchen and have them make me
a honey posset?” she requested sweetly.

  Mason’s gaze remained steady on her averted profile as he heard her page’s steps leave the hall.

  “She is Cuthbert’s grandmother,” she hissed.

  “Your page can visit her whenever he pleases,” he said coldly.

  “Cuthbert is—that is, he is more to me than a mere page,” she stammered, trying to withdraw her hand from his.

  He did not let her, retaining a firm grip. “As your husband I would have thought my feelings would be of some import,” he said tersely. He thought he heard his father make a choking sound but ignored it. “Linnet?”

  “Well, of course they are! But Mother Ames is my trusted adviser.”

  He glared at her. “Are you defying me, Linnet?”

  She swallowed. “On this matter, yes I’m afraid I am.” You could have heard a pin drop in the hall. She reached across and placed her hand on his forearm appealingly. “She’s not just my advisor. She’s also my friend. And I don’t have many. Please understand, Mason.”

  And the wonder of it all was that he found he did. He did understand. Linnet knew scarcely anyone. And this old crone had probably known her all her life. He lifted his arm, dislodging her. Her expression turned dismayed in an instant.

  For fuck’s sake! “Fine,” he said abruptly. “You’re free to see who you please.”

  As soon as he had said it, he felt annoyed with himself. Like hells she was! He glowered at her. Linnet bit her lip, looking crestfallen. He turned away in exasperation to find his brother and Father staring at him like he was a stranger. He stood with an irritated exclamation and strode from the hall without even having had a bite to eat.

  Mason stood gazing moodily out over the courtyard. Laborers were toiling in the fields in the distance. Just like on the day they were wed. They never did get their marriage feast, he thought, remembering Linnet’s angry words on their wedding day five weeks ago. A discreet cough let him know he was no longer alone. He turned, frowning, to find the castle steward stood with his hands respectfully folded.

  “Robards,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “Wait,” he held up his hand, forestalling whatever query it was the fellow bought this time. The castle steward was always checking if old practices should continue or be replaced by new ones. He was damnably conscientious. “How many more of those striped tents do you have about the place?”

  Robards looked surprised. “Lady Jevons had a good quantity made up some five years ago for a tourney party the Jevonses held.” When Mason said nothing, but continued to glare at him, he spread out his hands. “I could check their number sir?” he suggested, sounding unsure.

  “Do that,” growled Mason, turning back to the view of the agricultural workers.

  Gods, was he really considering throwing a celebration? He winced, imagining his father’s reaction. But damn it, this would get their introductions to the neighbors with over in one fell swoop! And if all the tenants and workers got a good look at Linnet, it would put an end, once and for all, to all this tyrant-hunchback ballocks! He sighed and turned back to his steward. “Robards, we’re hosting a feast. On a large scale. Every serf, servant, tenant, and neighbor is to be invited.”

  Robards gaped. “Y . . . yes, sir,” he stammered.

  “Get on it at once. We need large quantities of ale, wine, and roast meats.” Inspiration struck and his frown cleared. “Order everything the Lady Linnet accounted for in her ledger for the marriage feast.”

  “Everything, sir?” gasped Robards. “But we won’t scarcely have enough salted meats in stock to cover such an event . . . ”

  “Order it in,” answered Mason coolly. “The coffers are spilling over with the taxes the people have paid. Let’s give them a feast day to remember.”

  “But, sir!” objected Robards, hurrying along beside him as Mason started to leave the room. “What of the entertainment for all these people?”

  “Send someone to the nearest city,” shrugged Mason. “Commission tumblers, jesters, and musicians. As many as you can find.”

  “Tumblers?” echoed Robards, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Why, I would scarcely know where to start!”

  “Try the alehouses,” suggested Mason drily. “Send someone who has some experience of the town. Not some farm boy fresh from the field.”

  Robards had whipped a small book from his pocket and started to make notes. He nodded rapidly. “I will, of course, check my every order, every step of the way with you . . . ”

  “Pray don’t!” Mason interrupted him sharply. “I am leaving this in your capable hands Robards. I have given you the budget and your instructions. “

  Robards flushed. “But sir . . . ”

  “I believe you have already proven yourself trustworthy. Don’t make me reconsider.”

  “Yes sir!”

  Mason halted. “Three weeks hence,” he said thoughtfully. “From today.”

  “Three weeks?” uttered Robards faintly. “But Sir! I’m not sure ’tis possible!”

  “Nonsense. Get those striped tents out of storage.” He turned on his heel and started across the courtyard.

  Now the decision was made, Mason found himself remarkably sanguine about the whole affair. It seemed a simple way to achieve his aims with the minimum of effort on his behalf. True, there would be a whole day of parading before the castle’s retainers, but that could be borne. And then things would seem more established before he returned to court to take up his duties as Wymer’s newest general. The whole neighborhood, the whole county, would know whose wife Linnet was, he thought with satisfaction. His step faltered a moment when he caught the direction of his own thoughts. Then he shrugged it off. After all, he was possessive of his sword, he tended to it himself. He’d never owned much, and what he had, he had guarded jealously. But that had never included women, an annoying voice in his head pointed out, shattering his assurance. He frowned. But Linnet was his wife. And that meant Linnet was an extension of his property. Yes, that made sense. He relaxed, he was in control. There was nothing to worry about. Coming out of his reverie, he found Cuthbert escorting a stranger towards the castle, talking to him nineteen to the dozen, as if he were an old friend. He heard Linnet’s name mentioned a handful of times, shooting his calm all to hell! Who the devil is that?

  “Cuthbert!” he shouted. They both halted in their tracks and swung back to look at him. Cuthbert was gesturing and no doubt explaining who he was as Mason strode towards them.

  “Mr. Postner is here to see my lady,” said Cuthbert.

  “Sir Mason,” the other man bowed. He was dressed rather fussily in a mustard-colored tunic and matching hose.

  Mason glared at him. “And you are?”

  “Postner. The tailor.”

  Mason’s brow cleared. “I see.” She had mentioned a tailor. He cleared his throat. “You may proceed.” They had only taken two steps before he called them back. “Not the bedchamber,” he said abruptly.

  Mr. Postner’s jaw dropped.

  “Lady Linnet said to take him to the solar,” piped up Cuthbert helpfully.

  “The solar,” repeated Mason. “Right.” He nodded. “Proceed.”

  Postner was looking at him rather nervously. “My lord?”

  “She needs an occasion dress. For a feast,” Mason suddenly remembered. “In three weeks’ time.”

  “Three weeks?”

  “Make it blue.”

  Postner swallowed. “Lady Linnet said she already had the materials to be used for her wardrobe.”

  “It’s true, she had the fabrics carried up to the solar this morning,” said Cuthbert.

  “Blue,” repeated Mason firmly. “I like her in blue.”

  Without further ado, he turned from the panic-stricken tailor and headed to the place of arms where all the weapons were kept, and the castle guard, such as it was, assembled on a daily basis. His expectations weren’t high, and he approached the task without much enthusiasm even though it was his area of expertise. Maybe even b
ecause of it.

  As expected, the castle guard was shambolic, but it seemed Cadwallader Castle had never suffered an attack in its entire existence. Any decent soldiers had been sent to swell Wymer’s troops for the war in the North. Jevons, acting as feudal lord, had sent fifty men to serve the King from the Cadwallader estate. That left a mere eight men behind to guard the castle, three of whom had to come back out of retirement. The returning men, he estimated, would return in waves over the next couple of months. They would be released from service as the peace held and things calmed down in the North. To his surprise, the leader of the guard, a rather stout individual of about sixty years old or thereabouts named Sir Lang hesitatingly asked after Linnet’s health. Mason regarded him narrowly.

  “You have met my wife?” he asked sharply, detecting none of the usual hostility.

  “Not exactly met,” he conceded grudgingly. “But before our men departed they were marched around to the tower so she could see them off from her window.”

  “And?”

  Sir Lang rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well . . . we were surprised,” he admitted. “She’s such a little thing. And young looking for her years. And when she waved them off, sir . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “She cried. And not only that sir, she’s sent packages north for our men. Blankets, leather jerkins, woolen stockings, and boots. Her page brings them down to the armory and we send them off. Course, not many of them can read, but she writes that their positions are assured here at the castle when they come back.”

  A faint memory stirred in Mason’s mind. She had spoken of this, but he had dismissed it as sentimental nonsense.

  “The Jevonses certainly never showed any interest in the men’s welfare,” said Sir Lang resentfully.

  “I doubt they ever showed any interest in anyone’s save their own,” Mason retorted. “When I’m back at court I will ask the King when we can expect their return to Cadwallader.”

  Sir Lang’s eyes brightened. “That would be good of you, sir.”

  Mason nodded. He gazed past Sir Lang’s shoulder at the nervous-looking men standing in their armor for inspection. They were a sorry lot. Usually he would shout and bawl and reel off a list of demands for improvement to bring the place up to scratch. But, after all, the regular guard would return soon. There seemed little point in giving them hell. And this small community in the castle was the only one that seemed to bear Linnet no ill will.