This is a work of fiction and any names, characters, events or organisations are either a product of my imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people is purely coincidental.
© Alice Coldbreath, 2020
1
The Royal Palace at Caer-Lyoness
Lenora’s shoulder twitched. Did they really imagine she could not hear them?
“’Twould be better,” her father’s voice said heavily. “If she’d died, rather than suffer this cruel fate.”
“That face—it’s a mockery of her former self,” her mother sobbed dramatically. “Whatever will become of her?”
“Oh, my poor lady.” Lenora heard someone weep. She guessed it was Hannah, her maidservant. “Her face, her lovely face. It’s quite ruined.”
Unable to bear much more of their caterwauling, Lenora stirred, letting them see she was conscious. After all, she supposed she would have to speak to them at some point.
“She wakens!” her mother screeched and fell against her husband in a swoon.
Trust Mother, thought Lenora sourly, to make it all about her.
“Thirsty,” Lenora murmured. She noticed it was the old crone who had been attending her since she had been afflicted, that came forward now to pour water for her. Her solicitous parents stayed pinned against the door for fear the pox was still catching even though it must be well over two months now since she’d been truly ill.
Thank goodness she was on a bed now. For weeks she had lain on a filthy straw mattress in the crypts below the royal palace, with the other afflicted, waiting for death. But the raging fever, aches, pains, and vomiting had passed. Then the rash had come with a profusion of small red pustules that had covered her face entirely in bumps. In lucid moments, Lenora had felt them beneath her fingertips, marring her skin and making her own face feel like that of a stranger’s.
At the time of course, she had been more worried about the spots that had filled her raw throat, making it difficult even to breathe. Many a time she had woken in the night, choking and gasping for breath. Even her tongue had been swollen with spots. She had forced herself to swallow each mouthful of water down her throat, so sore it had felt like she had blades embedded in it.
The worse part though, to Lenora’s mind was when the pustules had erupted their noxious fluid, all over her face and down her throat. She had retched as her mouth was filled with its taste and her raw face was bathed from the weeping, open sores. She even felt it run into her greasy, crusted hair. Her sweaty, dirty body had squirmed. She hated even to breathe the foul air that surrounded her.
The crypt had been manned with ghoulish-looking attendants, their faces covered with scarves. They nudged you with booted feet to check you were still alive and grudgingly brought you water. Lenora heard them railing and threatening those who piteously wept for aid, so when the time came that she realized she was not actually going to die, she had not begged. She had demanded in a loud, imperious voice.
She had threatened and she had bribed until they had brought her watery soup to drink, so she could grow strong enough to lift herself off the squalid palette she lay on. She had insisted too, on washing water and a clean mattress and a shift once her sores had scabbed over. When she could not get a comb through her matted mess of blonde hair, she had called for shears and cut it herself to her shoulders where once it had hung down so low she could sit upon it. She had cut it blindly, refusing a looking glass. She was not that brave. Not yet.
Finally, she had been permitted to ascend from the fetid cellars to empty quarters in the south wing of the castle. The bare walls and broken furniture had seemed like luxury after the dark, dank crypts and there she had set about her long road to recovery. She slept on a bed, she had clean clothes and she had Berta, an old washerwoman to attend her. It was now getting on three months since she had collapsed. In truth, she was well again and quite free now from all infection.
There was just one area that would never recover naturally and that was her former looks. She had shied away from demanding a looking glass. She could feel the rough, uneven skin along her jaw, the puckered texture across her cheekbones. Even the smallest thing, like closing her eyes, made her realize how tight and crinkled the skin on her eyelids felt. She must truly be hideous now. Her parents’ words now confirmed it like a knife to the heart. But she still wanted to live.
She wanted to live so badly. Hearing her father say that it would have been better for her to have died, filled her with a hot bubbling anger. Of course, he did not know how she had fought even to breathe that musty, diseased air down in the vaults, surrounded by the bones of the dead. How would he? He had not been to visit her even once.
“Where are my cats?” she said aloud. “I want my cats to be brought to me.”
They met her words with a stunned silence. “Your cats?” her father faltered at last.
Lenora nodded. “I am quite well now and would appreciate their company.” When no-one spoke, she turned to Hannah. “You will have them brought to me, forthwith.”
“Aye, milady,” she gasped and bobbed a curtsey, though she could not meet Lenora’s gaze.
“And you will send me a looking glass,” Lenora forced herself to say. Her mother emitted a low moan. “It would be as well for me to know the worst,” she added with quiet dignity.
“My child…” —her father started, but when Lenora looked at him enquiringly, his eyes swiveled away, avoiding hers. “We will send the cats and your personal things,” he said lamely.
“Thank you,” Lenora said briskly. “Berta, will you bring me my mantle? For I mean to rise now and sit a while. I must have a letter from Eden to read, some whereabouts.” Her cousin Eden was the one member of her family that Lenora prized above all others. Eden wrote to her once a month without fail.
Her father cleared his throat and Lenora looked up sharply. “Here it is,” he said, reaching into his doublet. He held it out toward Berta who stepped forward to take it from him. “It was delivered by hand this time,” he added. “Doubtless you have lost track of time daughter, but the Autumn Tournament is upon us.”
“Eden is here?” Lenora burst out. Her cousin was now married to the King’s champion, Roland Vawdrey, and often toured the country with him whilst competing.
“Nay,” her father said, clearing his throat. “Eden has not long discovered she is with child. Sir Roland did not permit her to accompany him to Caer-Lyoness this time, when so many have fallen to prey to the speckled pox.”
Lenora relaxed slightly against her pillows. “No, of course not,” she said quickly. “He is right to be cautious with her health.” She took the note from Berta with hands that slightly shook. So, her cousin knew what had befallen her. Indeed, Eden must have wondered why Lenora had not written to her all this while. Though not as regular in her habits as Eden, Lenora did write, dutifully to her grandmother and fondly to Eden.
Lenora twisted the letter between her fingers. A feeling of strange nameless panic washed over her. She had been living in a sort of dreamlike state while she convalesced, concentrating only on getting better. Thinking about it now and watching her parents awkwardly take their leave of her, shuffling backward through the door, she wondered if she had purposely shied away from all thoughts of what people’s reactions to her would be.
Yes, she thought with detachment as Berta bundled her woolen mantle around her shoulders. She rather thought she had. The older woman held out a scrawny arm to steady her, as Lenora levered herself out of the bed. She still felt washed out and lacking in energy, though not quite as weak as she had been.
Tottering across the floor, she dropped i
nto a high-backed chair and sat patiently as Berta plied her with cushions and jammed slippers onto her bare feet. Tearing open Eden’s letter, she found her eyes filling with tears as she read:
Darling Lenora,
You will have to excuse my appalling scrawl, but I have written so many letters these last few days that my hand is quite incapable of elegance.
My dear, I cannot tell you how dismayed I am that uncle has only recently appraised me of what has happened at the summer court. I am greatly relieved to hear of your resilience and recovery and am determined to have you here at Vawdrey Keep for the duration of the year. Roland quite agrees with me, and as he will be at Caer-Lyoness for the autumn tournament, we have made arrangements for him to bring you back here with him.
What a happy family party we will have! I am not sure if you have heard, but I am expecting our first child in the spring and Roland has become extremely over-protective, else I would have journeyed with him to watch him compete at the royal autumn tournament. Forgive me for not being there in your time of need. I am determined to make it up to you when you accompany Roland back to Sitchmarsh where I will endeavor to make you most comfortable.
I am beside myself with anticipation to introduce you to our home with its surroundings which are of great natural beauty. It is true, that presently we are in the midst of building work for expansion of the Keep, but I know you will appreciate our vision and I am convinced we can make you comfortable here.
I am sure you have suffered terribly; Lenore and I look forward to having you here with me at last and I might add that our grandmother quite agrees with the plan. We neither of us think that the convent idea is a good one for your future. I beg you, please do not make any hasty decisions before you have had a chance to fully consider your position and to recoup after your illness. Things can appear overwhelming when you do not have enough distance from them. I am convinced that Vawdrey Keep is the ideal place for you to fortify your good health and await your arrival with keen affection.
Your ever-loving cousin
Eden
Lenora lowered the letter and stared blankly at the wall opposite. There was a convent plan? Strangely enough, her father had not seen fit to raise it with her just now. The cynical thought flashed into her mind that her parents’ visit might have been prompted by Eden’s flurry of letters. She had no doubt her cousin’s letter writing campaign had been about her. Eden would have been writing to her grandmother at Hallam Hall as well as Lenora’s mother and father here at court. If Eden had not written, would her parents have stayed away even longer, she wondered? On the whole, she thought it more likely, than not. They had evinced no pleasure at the sight of her. Quite the opposite, in fact.
A convent? Would she even be allowed to keep her precious cats there? Many was the time Lenora had heard her own father extoll that joining a religious order was a ‘waste of a life’. Yet now apparently, he was more than happy for Lenora to disappear behind some abbey walls. Her loss of beauty apparently meant her life no longer held any value whatsoever.
Her gaze flickered to the window and the view of the kitchen gardens. Her current quarters were not exactly high-status ones. Indeed, she strongly suspected this part of the palace housed mostly servants. Still, the view was a pleasant one as the afternoon sun shed its golden rays over the neat herb and vegetable squares. Could it really be the time of the Autumn Tournament, she wondered with mild surprise. It had been early July when she been struck down with her illness. The castle had been almost suffocating in the heat. It was still warm, but the leaves were rapidly turning golden. She sighed and closed her eyes a moment. The interview with her parents had been strangely draining, considering she had not set one foot out of her bed.
The chair was comfortable, and she must have dozed off, for the next thing she knew she was back in the darkness of the crypt with the sound of labored breathing all around her. Not again. Mercifully a knock on the door startled her into wakefulness. She jolted upright in her chair. Berta, who was laying the fire for that evening, hurried to answer it. For a moment, Lenora felt a sort of sick dread as to who it might be. She felt frankly ill-prepared for visitors. However, she did not recognize the voice at the door and the next thing she saw was a basket being thrust into Berta’s hands. Lenora almost cried out, surely that was a faint meow she heard.
“Oh, bring them to me, Berta!” the older woman muttered under her breath but shut the door and carried the basket over to her gingerly. “Unfasten it! Oh, never mind, you’re too slow,” Lenora said, shuffling forward in her seat. “Set it here.” She patted her lap. Her eager fingers fumbled with the straps and she flung back the lid. There lay Lady Grizelda, her own dear beloved cat and next to her, three adolescent males who were not yet fully grown. “Oh, my darlings!” Lenora crooned. Purcel opened his mouth in a soundless meow, Tybalt sprang to his feet and then jumped down to the floor and Fendrel blinked at her and yawned. “You’re so much bigger!” Lenora lamented. She had missed three whole months of their kittenhood! Lady G uncurled herself and then swarmed out of the basket and onto Lenora’s chest. She stretched her face up toward her mistress and Lenora lowered her own and they touched brows. Lenora felt her eyes swim, and she realized she had been afraid even her pets would recoil from her altered appearance. As if to allay her fears, Grizelda immediately started to loudly purr. “I’ve missed you so!” Lenora told her, embracing her pet and feeling her cheeks turn wet as the tears streamed down unchecked. At least the cats could be relied on for constancy in their affections, if no-one else.
It was not until after her supper of simple pottage and bread that Lenora noticed the other item she had sent for. Her hand which had been stroking the youngest of the kittens, Fendrel, stilled. Her looking glass lay face down on the side table. Lenora stretched out one arm but could not quite reach it from her seated position. She glanced down at the gray kitten who was stretched out on her lap with an expression of sleepy bliss on his face. She would not disturb him. His comfort was too precious and besides, she needed to re-bond with the three boys. They were almost fully grown and had been forced to do without her for so long. She glanced over at the bed where Grizelda had settled herself with her eldest son, Purcel. His black coat gleamed in direct contrast to his mother’s gleaming white. Tybalt, the ginger, was sat on the window ledge, washing his paw. Lenora sighed with relief. Their return to her was a blessing she could be thankful for.
Berta shuffled into the room and removed the tray of food. She scanned the remains in the bowl with disfavor. “Will we put the leftovers down for the cats?” she asked doubtfully.
“I doubt they’d eat it.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Berta sniffed.
“They’re not beggars,” Lenora answered. “But you can try by all means.”
Berta pulled a face and plunked the bowl down in the corner and set about lighting the small fire. Lenora glanced in the direction of the hand mirror again before looking away. She would wait until Berta left her for the night. “Berta,” she said impulsively. “Have the knights arrived yet for the tourney?”
Berta jerked her chin aggressively. “Oh aye,” she said bitterly. “Flooding in like a swarm of locusts. Nasty, brawling brutes!”
It seemed that Berta was not an admirer of knights. “Apparently my cousin’s husband has already arrived. Sir Roland Vawdrey.”
“I don’t know one from t’other,” Berta scowled. “And what’s more, I don’t want to know!”
“His standard is a black panther on a red field,” Lenora elaborated, but Berta made no reply. “Has the tournament begun? The jousting, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Berta scowled. “I got better things to be going on with.”
“Well, perhaps you could ask,” Lenora said pointedly. “Some of the other palace staff. It would be useful for me to know.”
Berta looked sullen and straightened up from the fire. “Anything else?”
“Some fish, for the cats.” Berta drew a scandaliz
ed breath, but Lenora forestalled her before she could make her retort. “Tell the kitchen staff it is for me.”
The door slammed shut as the curmudgeonly Berta retreated. Fendrel was startled from his slumber and shot an accusing look at his mistress. “There, there,” Lenora murmured, but he refused to be pacified and jumped down, making his way to join his sibling at the window.
Lenora stood slowly up from her chair, stretched her stiff body and went to retrieve the looking glass. Taking a deep breath, she turned it over and held it in front of her face.
Oh.
2
Despite the shock of her own reflection, Lenora slept the best that night that she had in a long time. She attributed it to the familiar weight of the cats curled up on her bed. It was strangely soothing somehow and even though she was plagued with the usual bad dreams, the cats’ presence made sure she was aware it was only a dream and not her present reality. She gritted her teeth until she could surface into wakefulness, and when she did, she lay there a moment, dazed and blinking as she heard Berta bustling around in the adjoining room. Presently the old woman entered carrying a jug of warm washing water.
“Black with a white gate, yellow with a black stag and blue with a white hart,” she chanted like an incantation.
Lenora rubbed her eyes, sitting up. “Good morning, Berta,” she murmured. “What did you say?” Then she realized it had been a recitation of knight’s crests. “Blue with a white hart?” she repeated slowly. She knew that design. That would be Sir Lionel Emworth, heretofore one of her most devoted admirers. She threw back the covers. “Yellow with a black stag,” she said thoughtfully as she slid from the bed, her feet hitting the floor. Surely, she knew that one too. She rather thought that was Sir Edward Bevan who was a friend and companion of Roland Vawdrey’s.
She crossed the room and poured water from the jug into the ewer. Lenora had always rather enjoyed the lists. She liked how you faded into the crowd as everyone watched the knights with bated breath, united in the spectacle. What was the first one Berta had said? Black with a white gate. Oh. She pulled a face. She knew who that was of course. Sir Garman Orde. Oh well, they couldn’t all be crowd favorites.
The Unlovely Bride (Brides of Karadok Book 2) Page 1
