“‘Tis the first day today,” Berta told her, setting down the jug.
Lenora felt a flicker of something. The first day! She thought of the crowds, the fluttering pennants and standards, the banners, the hawkers, the pageantry. “Have you never been, Berta?” she asked, turning to the servant.
“Always been respectable, I have,” the old woman said sourly. “They got no call for respectable women at those places,” she added. “Or ugly ones.”
Lenora stiffened a moment, then realized the maidservant was not referring to her. She looked sidelong at Berta a moment, trying to imagine her as a young woman and failing miserably.
“It’s different for noble-folk,” the old woman said with a sniff. “You sits in a box away from the common rabble. Untouchable.”
But was it? wondered Lenora. She doubted she would ever fade into a crowd now. Not with her face. They’ve got no use for ugly women. “Berta,” she said. “I need you to make some purchases for me. Do you mean to go to the marketplace today?”
“I could do.” Berta shrugged. “What are you after? Your people said they would send more of your clothing now you’re up and about—”
“I need new head veils,” Lenora interrupted her. “Opaque ones, that cover your face.”
The old woman squinted at her. “Is that so?”
“I want a good deal of them,” said Lenora, lifting her chin. “One for every day of the week. Of all different lengths and sizes.”
She felt strangely restless for the rest of the day. Berta returned in the afternoon with a bundle of veils for her to try out. Lenora found she could only achieve the level of opacity she desired by layering three veils of differing lengths on top of one another. She started with the shortest which extended over her face, then placed one over that which reached to her décolletage and then another that extended down to her waist over that. Rolling her blonde hair into a bun at her nape, she fitted a toque decorated with pearls to the top of her head, and then pinned another veil to the back of that and stood back to get the full effect. “Berta,” she said, turning.
The old woman straightened up from the hearth she had been scraping out. She took one look at Lenore and fell back. “Lord’s sake!” she squawked. “You look like a faceless specter!”
“Can you pass me my rose damask gown?”
“Where you be off to in that get-up?” the old woman asked suspiciously as she helped lace her into the dress. It was the first time Lenora had been fully dressed since her illness.
“Nowhere,” she answered lightly. “But I don’t mean to lie in the sickbed all day long, now I have started on the road to recovery.”
“Humph!” Berta shot her a suspicious look.
Lenora ate her supper of vegetable stew sat upright in her chair. Tybalt and Fendrel played at her feet with a loose thread from the unravelling chair upholstery. It was a cast off after all. Looking down, she noticed her dress was rather loose in the bodice. She supposed she could recover her figure at least if she put her mind to it, if not her face.
A knock at the door was answered by Berta and she heard her father, Sir Leofric’s Montmayne’s, fretful tones. She wasn’t really all that surprised. Her father had always been fonder of her than her mother. And Mother’s presence always meant there could be no real exchange of conversation as she insisted everything revolved around herself. Indeed, Lenora had been surprised to see her mother at all as Lady Montmayne rarely bothered to come to court these days. Lenora supposed she should be flattered really, that she had thought her daughter’s illness warranted her presence.
Without thinking, Lenora drew down her veils and covered her face as her father approached.
“Lenora.” He cleared his throat.
“Can we offer you any refreshment, Father?”
“Er—no,” he said, retrieving a chair from against the wall. He whipped a handkerchief over it fussily before being seated and sat there a moment in silence, looking about him. “We will have to see about having you moved from these apartments, Lenora,” he started uncomfortably. “Now ‘tis plain your life has been spared.”
For a moment, she considered pointing out these rooms felt like luxury after being left to rot in the crypt for weeks, but thought the better of it and held her tongue. “And that attendant,” he continued fretfully. “Belongs at a deathbed, or a laying out, not serving the living.” Lenora could think of no response to that either. Her father eyed her head-dress approvingly. “A very good notion, that,” he said, gesturing. “Though I think you should leave your hair loose, daughter. Your hair is still bountiful? It did not fall out?”
Lenora shook her head. “Though I was forced to cut some of its length.”
“It is still of a good golden hue,” he pointed out. “You must needs make the most of what is left to you. Especially if you—er—mean to resume public life.”
“Public life?” Lenora was startled by the turn the conversation was taking.
Her father cleared his throat. “People are starting to ask after you. The Viscountess of Morpington, Lady Helen Cecil, indeed, the Queen herself has expressed an interest in your wellbeing.”
“That is very good of them,” Lenora replied in a wooden voice. Of course, she thought without rancor, they would be curious. They would all be vastly interested to see if she was still the most beauteous in all the land, or if another could now lay claim to that title. Lady Helen Cecil, the King’s mistress, was the pretender to the role and was no doubt invested in the outcome. The thought of people appraising what was left of her looks made her feel a little sick.
“Your cousin Eden has offered for you to stay with her at Vawdrey Keep for a few months, until the—er—color returns to your cheeks,” her father said weakly.
Lenora’s lips twisted. There was now a permanent red discoloration to her face, she thought listlessly. A patchy dry redness which mottled her skin and probably would till the end of her days.
“I had thought,” Sir Leofric blustered. “That you might wish to withdraw from—well, things,” he said lamely. “But your grandmother is strongly averse to the idea.” Ah, finally the convent, thought Lenora. Here it comes. She readied herself to trot out her objections. He took a deep breath. “She suggests accepting Sir Lionel Emworth’s suit forthwith.”
Lenora caught her breath. Marriage? Her mind went blank. She most assuredly had not been expecting that! “Sir Lionel Emworth?” Blue shield with a white hart, she thought.
“He is one of your many admirers, is he not?” her father said bracingly. “My mother writes he is young and idealistic and that moreover, he had an epic poem written in your honor.” Lenora was silent. “The preface of which,” her father continued. “Contained a dedication swearing his undying devotion to your pure soul,” her father continued doggedly. “Your soul which remains unaltered despite your outward appearance.”
Lenora gave a choked laugh. “He may have sworn devotion to my soul, Father, but we both know it was my face he was enamored of.”
Sir Leofric looked exasperated. “He could scarcely cry off now, Lenora, if you accept his suit. Not without looking exceedingly unchivalrous.”
“There are worse things to look than unchivalrous,” murmured Lenora. One of which would be a pox victim.
“Your grandmother thinks—”
“No, Father,” said Lenora quietly.
Her father gave a huff of exasperation. “If young Emworth is as tenderhearted as people say, then it may well be—”
“You mean,” Lenora interrupted him. “That he might be induced to wed me out of pity?”
Her father reddened, but lowered his eyes, unable to deny it. “Beggars cannot be choosers, Lenora,” he snapped waspishly. It was the second time she had heard that saying today. “You seem to forget your current predicament, daughter. You are no longer in the position to pick and choose from an army of suitors.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “My child, I am trying to provide for you. We need to be realistic about the fu
ture now available to you.”
“I realize that, Father and appreciate the plain speech,” Lenora answered steadily. “But I will not have someone marry me because they feel sorry for me or fear the judgement of others.”
What she wanted, thought Lenora suddenly, was the very opposite of that. Someone who never felt sorry for anyone and did not care two pins for the opinion of others. That was when one of the other sigil’s Berta had mentioned earlier sprang suddenly to mind. The black field with the white portcullis. Of course. Sir Garman Orde.
3
Garman Orde groaned and rolled onto his side. Everything ached from where that bastard Roland Vawdrey had attacked him in the melee. Plus, he needed a piss. He never should have drunk that last flagon of ale. He rolled off the mattress and maneuvered the chamber pot from under his bed using his feet. Then, after freeing himself from his braies, he relieved himself whilst staring out of the window at the still night, until his full bladder was empty. He had a feeling sleep would not return now. Perhaps after all, he should have brought a wench back to while away some hours, but something about the women who hung around the tourneys depressed him. They were so desperate for something special in their life—a winner, anything that elevated them from the drab monotony of their everyday drudgery. It grated on him. They would find nothing like that underneath him for a night. He’d rather pay a whore than have to brag about his victories to keep them happy. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was just pulling his linen braies up over his bare arse, and tying the drawstring, when his chamber door blew in as if on some invisible breeze. But there was no breeze in Caer-Lyoness tonight. It was still and silent. Then he saw it, the pale hand at the latch. The slender body clad in shadows, that drifted through his door, the shrouded head and shoulders. Stronger men than he would have quailed at such a spectacle, but Garman Orde was made of stern stuff. He simply took a step back and uttered an oath strong enough to make a specter flinch.
“Oh,” said the faceless wraith with relief. “You’re already awake. Thank goodness, I thought I’d have to try and rouse you.”
“Who the — what the hells—?”
She seemed to notice his discomfiture and sat promptly down on a chair in the corner of his room, holding up her hands. “Did I frighten you? I’m sorry.”
He rallied himself, fixing her with a stern gaze. “Who the hells are you, woman? Why are you here?”
He watched the direction of her head go from the chamber pot to him and then back again. “Oh!” she said belatedly. “I never meant—”
“To interrupt me mid-stream?” he asked sarcastically. “If you’d been a fraction earlier, you’d have seen the whole show.”
Her head tipped back at that, and one hand rose to her breast in agitation. “I do apologize,” said the faceless specter, sounding mortified. “I thought you’d be asleep at this hour.”
“You thought waking me from my sleep in that get-up would be a good notion?” he asked in disbelief. “What’s your game? Did de Busselll set you up to do this?” He already knew the answer. This wasn’t some female for hire. She was a lady, through and through. But he was rattled and letting off steam. “What if I’d been sporting with a couple of wenches in the bed with me? What then?”
“A couple?” she echoed faintly.
Yes, a real lady, he rolled his eyes, plunking his hands on his hips. “Get to the meat of the matter,” he said irritably and sat down on the bed opposite her, glancing at the door.
“No-one’s going to burst in,” she said calmly, following the direction of his gaze. “I’m not trying to entrap you. My name is Lenora Montmayne. You know of me, I think?”
He snorted. “It would take more than the likes of your kinsmen to trap me,” he said, casually insulting the men of her family. What do you want from me?” he asked. “That you come to my bedchamber in the middle of the night.” He cast a look over her slender body. Her face was swathed in so many veils he couldn’t make out a single feature. “How do I even know it’s you?”
“You’ve heard what has befallen me?” she asked quietly. She was sat eerily still now.
He looked at her, then gave a brief nod. The pox. Everyone was talking of its most famous victim.
“I don’t want to remain at court,” she said. “To become an object of pity. I want to leave Caer-Lyoness.”
He shrugged. “What’s this to me? You want a paid escort?”
“It is said.” She began speaking a little less confidently. “That you are in pursuit of your own fortune.” Her words were breathless now, hesitant. “To make your way in the world.”
He sat stock-still. “And?” he rasped.
“My circumstances are not what they were, “she began haltingly. “My prospects are quite altered.”
His eyebrows rose. The only thing of note about Lenora Montmayne was her exceeding fairness. Without that, he supposed she no longer had a claim to her fame or position at court as resident beauty. But what was that to him? Then it hit him. She was talking about her marital prospects. His lip curled. Her clamoring suitors must have all cried off once she lost her looks. And now she had come to him, crawling. “And?” he asked. He wanted to hear the haughty bitch say it. That she was offering herself to him, now her face was ravaged and her beauty gone. Her veil seemed to flutter, as if her breathing grew labored, and just as suddenly he found he didn’t want to make her say it after all. “Let me see your face,” he said gruffly instead.
She sat very still. Then, just when he thought she’d refuse, her hands rose to lift the veils to show him. His eyes widened. The rumors hadn’t lied. Lenora Montmayne’s legendary beauty was quite gone. Where once her complexion had a bloom like a flower, it was marred with pockmarks and an uneven redness was spread across her skin. She tilted her face first one way and then the other, so he could see the full extent of the damage. Oddly enough, that impressed him. That, and how slowly she moved, to give him the chance to examine the damage the pox had wrought on her once fair face. When she closed her eyes, he thought she was finally showing distress, but then realized she was letting him see the crinkled, misshapen eyelids. She kept her head tilted up, waiting for him to tell her he’d looked his fill.
“How far down does it extend?” he heard himself ask.
She gave a slight start. “Just my face.”
“Nowhere else?”
She shook her head. When he didn’t speak further, she seemed to rally herself. “My cousin Kit inherits my father’s estate, as its entailed, but he has a sizable private fortune and always swore to give a handsome bride-gift with me.”
“I’m guessing there’s a reason Sir Leofric’s not approaching me with this offer?” he asked dryly. “One that doesn’t involve my popularity at court.” Or lack of it, he thought.
Her face flushed, the areas of it not already red. “There is a reason,” she agreed.
“Which is?” he pressed.
“We would need to elope.”
He pursed his lips. “So, I would be taking you without your father’s consent,” he ruminated. She nodded. “Who’s to say I’d see a penny of this famous dowry?”
“My father is fond of me. He would be angry, yes at first, very angry. But then he would relent. He would want me happy.”
He wondered at the grim determination in her tone. Was she saying what she wanted to believe?
He frowned. “Then why not set him the task of finding you a groom?”
Lenora licked her dry lips. “Because…” she started lamely.
“Yes?”
“Because, he’d have to bribe someone to marry me,” she said, her voice rising. “Someone who would be kind to me, —" She broke off. When she spoke again, her voice was low, but no less impassioned. “Someone who would feel sorry for me for the rest of my days. And everyone would know it… and that he’d paid them a fortune to do it.” She clasped her hands together, he suspected to hide the fact they were shaking.
“What’s the difference with me?” he asked
bluntly. “My reason for wedding you would be no less mercenary.”
“But you are quite pitiless, my lord, are you not?” she said simply. “You will not be kind, and I need not feel guilty about you making any kind of sacrifice on my behalf. I have no doubt you would lead whatever woman you married a dog’s life.”
He gave a short laugh at that. He had no idea she was so gutsy. When she reached up a hand to pull down her veil, his own shot out to forestall her, catching her wrist. Lenora froze.
“I heard you had pockmarks the size of pennies, and a hole where your nose should be,” he said bluntly.
“Who said so?” she gasped.
He shrugged and let his eyes roam over her face. “You’re not beautiful anymore, but it’s not so bad as all that.” The oddest look crossed over her face. “What?” he found himself asking.
“’Tis nothing,” she said, avoiding his eye.
He considered her a moment. “When?” he asked abruptly. “When do you envisage us running off into the night together?” He spoke dryly, but to his own surprise was clearly contemplating the idea.
She stared at him a moment, then gulped. “Before the tournament is ended would be better for me.”
He frowned at that. “I’m competing,” he pointed out heavily.
“I’m aware, but there is someone here I do not wish to see.”
“Who?” His voice was sharp, surprising him.
“Family,” she answered promptly. “How long would it take you to get your affairs in order?”
He shrugged. “A day.”
“Have you… someplace we could go? Just until my father relents?”
He was silent a moment while he pondered this. Then he gave a short nod. “I’ve a place.”
“Where?” He stared back at her stony-faced. “What I meant was,” she elaborated slowly when she realized nothing was forthcoming. “How many days’ ride is it from Caer-Lyoness.”
The Unlovely Bride (Brides of Karadok Book 2) Page 2
