“I’ll wear none of these,” said the King testily. “Those royal blue ones itch like the very devil!” He looked around at Oswald’s approach. “That you Vawdrey? Good of you to spare me some time,” he added sarcastically. “I’ve not seen hide nor hair of you in days!”
“Your highness, it is vital I have some private speech with you,” said Oswald without preamble.
“Oh aye?” said Wymer looking alarmed. “Not strangled her, have you?” When Oswald looked at him blankly, he added, “That wife of yours.”
“No sire,” said Oswald firmly. “Though you put me in mind of another matter I need to speak to you about afterward.”
“You can’t go back on it now, my boy,” Wymer said sadly shaking his head. “Your goose is well and truly cooked!”
Oswald looked about them. “It’s about the last of the Blechmarshes,” he said in a murmur.
“Everyone out!” roared the King. The courtiers straggled about the room leaped to their feet. They filtered out apart from Bathilde, his old trusted nanny, who made sure the chamber door was secure. “What’s that bitch done now?” he asked, then looked sheepishly across at his old nurse, who clicked her tongue. “Sorry nurse,” he said absently. She nodded her sheep-like head and returned to folding his smalls.
“I’m afraid three men broke into Mendip Hall,” Oswald said naming the residence where the northern princess was being held under house arrest. “And attempted to wrest her from Lord Mycott’s custody.”
The King jumped out of his chair. “If you’re going to tell me she’s broken free...” he started angrily.
“Calm yourself, sire. She is not at large, but safely back under lock and key.”
“Back under lock and key?” burst out Wymer, turning purple. “You mean she was at liberty? And I knew nothing of it?”
“She was taken only as far as the gatehouse,” said Oswald soothingly. “And got no further.”
Wymer paced over to the window, his back to Oswald. “Well, there’s nothing else for it,” he said. “She’ll have to be executed now.” He turned back confrontationally to Oswald. “Even you must see that, Vawdrey?” he said, his jaw jutting out.
Oswald was silent.
“My life and the life of my son are in peril, every moment that female still breathes…” he fumed.
“She returned to Mycott herself,” said Oswald calmly.
“What?”
“It’s true. She convinced the sole remaining plotter to leave her, and returned to Mendip House on foot, alone.”
“He escaped?” demanded the King.
“He was just a boy, according to Mycott. The two older males were both killed in the struggle.”
Wymer’s face twitched. “They will never stop plotting to topple me and place her on my throne while she’s still alive!” he fumed. “Why my own Council refuses to see that is beyond me!”
“You will merely make a martyr of her, if you were to behead her,” said Oswald resolutely. “Wars are waged in the name of dead martyrs. And need I remind you, that just across the sea there are countries who would look askance at the execution of a young, defenseless princess of royal blood…”
“The Blechmarsh bloodline is cursed!” muttered Wymer bitterly.
“She calls you cousin,” pressed Oswald doggedly. “Mycott himself says she remonstrated with the attackers and told them to leave her be, as she was under your protection.”
“Hah! Likely a ruse for his benefit, the old fool!”
Oswald held his tongue, for the King knew as well as he, that Mycott was fiercely loyal to Wymer and nobody’s fool.
“So, you expect me to just sit back and do nothing, while enemy forces rally under her banner!” complained the King. “This is intolerable!”
“Nay, your highness. I agree a change of strategy is needed,” said Oswald.
“He agrees!” cried the King, throwing up his hands. “Glory be!” He wandered over to a golden goblet and took a draught of ale. “I suppose,” he said, glowering fiercely. “That you’ve some ideas in mind, for this change of strategy?” Oswald opened his mouth, but before he could even reply, the King was exclaiming in disgust. “Of course, you do! You’ve got some nerve, Vawdrey, I’ll give you that. Walking in here, bold as brass, telling your sovereign what he can and cannot do!”
Oswald watched him warily as the King paced back and forth. Finally, he swung back around and looked Oswald up and down. “I suppose I will have to be led by you,” he said wearily. “Though it pains me to say it. You’ve not led me astray yet.” He huffed and shook his head as he returned to his seat by the fire. “Let’s hear it, and it better be good,” he warned. “Take a seat with me.”
Oswald approached the fire and drew up a chair. “This may sound rash, but hear me out.”
“Rash? You?” The King looked skeptical.
“I want you to bring her to court.”
For a moment Wymer did not react at all. Then his face turned very red. “Bring her to court, he says. The false claimant and would-be usurper for my throne. At my court.” He peered at Oswald. “Then what?”
Oswald paused. “Neutralize her threat,” he said simply.
The King exhaled noisily “And how would this be achieved?”
“How you take any woman’s power,” Oswald said wryly. “Marry her off. To a man whose loyalty you would never question.”
Wymer’s hand flew to his golden beard. “Marry her off, you say,” he ruminated, fingering the hairs thoughtfully.
“To a man who has no ambition to rule,” reiterated Oswald.
The King coughed. “To some lower level noble, you mean?” he suggested warily.
“Maybe even, to some obscure knight.”
Wymer wheezed. “A princess of the blood?” he echoed in shock.
Oswald refrained from pointing out the King was talking about chopping her head off not mere moments ago, and merely nodded.
“This is a radical suggestion indeed,” the King agreed. “Have you discussed it with the privy council?”
“No. I wanted your agreement before proceeding any further with it.”
The King fidgeted in his seat. “I must think this over,” he prevaricated.
“Of course.”
“It is not a decision that can be taken rashly.”
“Indeed not.”
“Let me ruminate on this a while.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
Wymer considered him out of the corner of his eye. “Too bloody clever for your own good,” he murmured. “What was the other matter?” he asked suddenly remembering.
“Other matter?”
“You wanted to ask me about,” said the King, clicking his fingers. “You mentioned it previously.”
Oswald took a breath. “I want to get my wife’s previous marriage to Thane legally annulled.”
“Do you indeed?” grunted Wymer. “Why, in the name of all that’s holy?”
Oswald was silent a moment. The King’s beetling brows rose. The excuses withered on his tongue. “For my own sanity,” he admitted slowly.
The King leaned forward in his chair. “Indeed?” he said. “Now this, I have to hear!”
**
Fen made her way down to the lower gallery in a somber mood. She had read the account of her former husband’s courtship of his new wife with a feeling of strange detachment. There had been no seal on the paper and she did not recognize the handwriting. It was not Oswald’s, she knew that much. Had he asked one of his informants to put it together? And why, she wondered dazedly, would he have done that? I thought you might find it edifying, he had said. But she found her curiosity these days was more taken up with her current husband, than her past one. On the page she had found a rather dry account of the acquaintanceship of Sir Ambrose with the Edland family, who resided in the county where he had been based during his time in the north. A list of dates reeled off the numerous occasions he had dined with the Edlands at their home. It looked like once a month had escalated
to once a week in the last six months. Was it really so recent an infatuation? She was surprised. Ambrose had never been terribly impulsive. After reading it, she had sat a moment in quiet contemplation, and then approached the fireplace and thrown it in. She watched as it blackened and curled and then she had gone and dressed. That was that, she thought. And then with relief, well, according to Oswald, I was never really married to him anyway. It was a liberating thought. She didn’t have time to hanker after the old days in any case. She had far too much else to be going on with.
Sometimes she questioned if she was ever going to get the hang of life at court. It seemed such a bizarre existence to her. Take the Vawdreys, for instance. Oswald apparently had so much wealth, that he could afford to build his own palace. Yet to all intents and purposes, he lived in three rooms with his brother and one manservant! The life of a courtier seemed so strange after running a comfortable household in the country. She seemed to have no particular function, and could discern no obviously useful role that she fulfilled for her husband. Of course, Oswald had made it plain to her from the outset that he would be eventually sending her down to run his country estate. And once in situ there, she would know exactly what to do. But this business of his building a palace alarmed her, and he had still said not one word to her about it. Clearly, it was known at court as not only the Schaeffers knew of it, but also Bess Hartleby. Yet still, he had not seen fit to mention it to her. Perhaps, a disagreeable voice whispered in her ear, she had no place at this palatial estate of his dreams. Her step slowed, as she considered this. After all, what was she but a forgotten detail from his youth? She really had no place at his side, in this illustrious position he had carved out for himself. Would it be so very surprising if they were to inhabit separate residences in the future? No, she realized, it would not. In fact, she thought hollowly, it made perfect sense. Once she was pensioned off to the country he could set about planning his dazzling future without her. She felt a pang in the region of her chest and touched a hand to it lightly. Today she was wearing the newest gown to arrive from signor Pezzini, a rose-gold gown with wide gold embroidered bands at the cuff, neckline and down the front of her dress. It was form fitting with long buttoned cuffs which showed glimpses of the chemise underneath and sweeping skirts. In truth, she felt as if she were dressed for a banquet rather than a tapestry morning. At least the neckline was up to her collar bone this time and revealed no cleavage. She reached the lower gallery with no mishaps, though on entering she immediately recalled this was the venue where she had glimpsed Ambrose’s celebratory wedding feast. Strangely enough, her second thought was that Oswald’s office must be located somewhere hereabouts. It was strange to think that only two weeks had passed since she had stumbled into that room in a mud-stained wool dress with her foolish request for his intercession. Her memories were a little hazy, and had the quality of a half-remembered dream. Had there really been a secret passage behind a wall-hanging in his study? she wondered curiously. Or had that particular memory been induced by her fever? Her thoughts were interrupted, when she was hailed by Eden Montmayne who was approaching her with another lady, whose looks were so fair that Fen blinked.
“Lady Vawdrey,” Eden dropped gracefully into a curtsey. “I am so glad you are joining us this morning. I would like to introduce you to my cousin, Lenora Montmayne.”
“The famous beauty,” said Fen without thinking. She had to force herself not to stare at that flower like face. Her skin was like soft petals and her eyes like forget-me-nots. “I can see you are full deserving of your reputation Lady Lenora,” she said curtseying.
Lenora Montmayne gave her a gracious smile. “You are too kind,” she demurred politely, but clearly knew it was nothing more than her due. She yawned delicately.
“Lenora,” Eden said with a slight frown. “This is Fenella, Lady Vawdrey, wife to the Duke of Vawdrey.”
Lenora’s hand dropped and she turned another look on Fenella, her vivid blue eyes blinking. “Oh,” she said. “How nice.”
“Er, yes,” agreed Fenella.
Eden noticed another group of ladies arriving and excused herself to hurry away and greet them. She left Lenora standing next to Fen.
“Your cousin is so very industrious, is she not? Does she run very many ladies gatherings here at court?” she asked Lenora.
Lenora’s vague expression dropped for a moment and she regarded Fen with surprise, almost as if she had forgotten her existence. “Oh!” she said. Then appeared to have to make a concerted effort. “Yes. Eden is always occupied with something or another.” She shrugged a shoulder and fell back to contemplating nothing, running a silk scarf through her fingers.
They stood a moment in silence and Fen realized that her companion was not even going to attempt any small talk. “Do – do you – enjoy life at court, Lady Lenora?” she ventured.
Again, Lenora turned toward her almost blankly. “Oh yes,” she said, and then relapsed once again into perfect silence. Fen stole a sideways look at her perfect profile. She really was astonishingly beautiful with her golden waving hair, pure brow and long black lashes. Fen could feel no animosity or hostility from her. She stood beside her happily enough. Mayhap, people usually drank her beauty in and simply did not require conversation from her? Fen pondered. Still, she could not help but feel a little awkward, just stood there while other small groups of women milled about, talking away. “Do you enjoy tapestry-making?” she asked a little desperately.
Lenora tipped her pretty head to one side, as if she’d never even considered it before. “I suppose,” she said with another elegant shrug.
“I once embarked on a most ambitious project in my youth,” Fen blurted, unable to stand the prolonged silences any longer. “I decided I would make a wall-hanging for a gift to my betrothed.” She gave an awkward laugh. “The borders were stuffed to the gills with heraldic beasts signifying the joining of our houses. But even worse than that, the central figure was an idealized depiction of him as an angel, complete with wings and a halo made of roses.”
Lenora’s round blue eyes did not so much as blink. “How nice,” she said again, and Fen gave up.
Mercifully, it was only a few moments later that Eden returned and swept her away to join a party of ladies who were sat along the cushioned window seats, busily stitching together panels of heavily stitched cloth.
“If I could sit you here, next to Lady Martindale,” said Eden gesturing to a diminutive lady who sat in a window alone except for a large pile of tapestries. “She has a fine, delicate hand and is very productive.” Lady Martindale raised timid eyes to meet Fen’s before flinching away and staring back at her needle and thread. “Lady Martindale, permit me to introduce Lady Vawdrey who will be joining us from today,” said Eden firmly, though Fen had made no such promise to her knowledge.
“Good morning,” whispered Lady Martindale, her pale face flushed as she started to struggle up from her seat. She was so short, that her feet did not touch the ground.
“Please do not trouble yourself to stand,” said Fen, hurriedly sitting down beside her on the green cushion which covered the stone bench. “I am happy to be able to join you.”
“Today we are employed in stitching together pieces we have independently worked to make a larger whole which will eventually extend down the south gallery that runs parallel to the kitchen gardens,” explained Eden.
“I see,” said Fen. “A worthy endeavor.”
“We like to think so,” said Eden briskly. “I will leave you with Lady Martindale to demonstrate.”
Lady Martindale’s face turned an even redder shade as she stared down at her work and Fen peered over her shoulder to look at the exquisitely worked wild flowers, skillfully entwined and bordering some worthy devotional text. “How beautiful,” she said. “I have produced floral depictions on tapestry before now, but they were not half as finely-wrought as yours.”
Lady Martindale’s color ebbed and flowed at the compliment. Clearly, she was a very introver
ted lady, thought Fen dolefully. She was starting to understand why Hester Schaeffer avoided these sort of things like the plague.
“My mother selected the text,” said Lady Martindale, glancing almost fearfully down the room as if checking for her parent’s presence. “But I was permitted to select the flowers myself.”
“I see,” said Fen, wondering at Lady Martindale’s age. She wore a gown of burgundy and a collar of fine turquoises inlaid in gold. She was not dressed as a very young lady, as the mention of her mother seemed to suggest, although her face was youthful. Her pale brown hair was worn up under a veil with a gold striped border. If pushed Fen would guess her age was in her early twenties, but her manner was much younger. “Is your husband one of the King’s courtiers?” she asked boldly, realizing nothing more was forthcoming.
Lady Martindale’s hazel eyes widened with alarm and she once more glanced about her as if checking she was unobserved. “No,” she muttered, her eyes downcast. “That is – I live here, with mother.” Her voice died away, and she lowered her face over the cloth, her fingers flying over her tiny stitches.
Fen glanced up and found an older woman staring down coldly at her. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly and noticed the guilty start Lady Martindale gave.
“Will you introduce us, Mathilde, or just sit there like a tongue-tied ninny?” the older woman asked cuttingly.
Again, Lady Martindale’s face flamed. “I – your pardon,” she stammered. “Mother, this is Lady Vawdrey. Lady Vawdrey, this is my mother, Lady Doverdale.”
Fen rose and bobbed a curtsey before sitting straight back down again.
Lady Doverdale gave a vastly dignified curtsey. “I hope my child has managed some conversation with you, Lady Vawdrey, however scanty. I assure you, she was not raised a mute.”
Fen sat up straighter seeing the miserable slump of her companion’s shoulders. “Indeed,” she said cheerfully. “Lady Martindale and I were just arranging to work a panel together,” she lied boldly, guessing the timid Lady Martindale would hardly contradict her. She could feel her companion’s terrified gaze fixed on her face, and reached across to pat one of her thin white hands reassuringly. “Her work is superb, and I would dearly love to learn her method for making leaves and petals appear alive.”
His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2) Page 24
