“Oh - I don’t have my purse,” lamented Fen, finding her tongue once again. “And I wanted to buy a deck of cards for Gil as a solstice gift.”
“I have plenty of coin,” said Oswald sounding unconcerned. “If there is aught you wish to buy.”
“But I-” her words were cut off as they turned a corner and came out into a wide and bustling marketplace in full swing. Fen drew in a breath at the wide array of stalls, traders and street hawkers.
“It’s just as well you don’t have your purse,” said Oswald dryly as he tugged her down the first row of stalls. “Or you’d probably soon lose it. Stay close to me. You need to have your wits about you here.”
“I often went to market day at Ashby,” Fen protested. Even as she said it, she knew the comparison was laughable. Ashby was a small market town, not one-tenth the size of this vast city. Her husband however, was far too polite to point this out. He simply steered her through the thronging crowds, drawing her sharply to one side when a herd of cattle were driven through or pushing her to the front where he thought she might find a stall that she wanted. She soon found a deck of Livelihood cards to her liking. They were rather nicer than Sir James Attley’s pack, with colored figures depicted on them rather than the black and white wood-cut images. “I wonder, should I get a pack for Roland also?” she turned back to ask Oswald who was stood behind her. “Do your family exchange gifts at Solstice Eve?”
Oswald held up two fingers to the stall owner, who handed over two packets tied up with string. “Not for many a year,” he admitted, handing over payment. He tucked the cards into a pocket inside his cloak and took her hand again.
“Will your brother Mason come to court for the Solstice feast?” she asked raising her voice against the crowd. “Or will you go to Cadwallader?” She was not sure he had even heard her above all the hubbub. He tugged her forward toward another stall which had poles all round displaying colored ribbon and scarves. In spite of the fact she owned so many, Fen found herself exclaiming over a veil decorated with pretty birds all along the edges. “Oh, these are pretty!”
“Embroidered by my own daughter’s hand,” said the old woman sat perched on an upturned barrel. “Two-penny each.”
Fen could have sworn she heard her say two for a penny to the woman before her, but before she had even opened her mouth, Oswald had handed over a coin. “Pick four,” he said. “Perhaps you could give one to Linnet.” At her surprised look he added. “For Solstice.” So he had heard her after all! She picked one with bluebirds for her sister-in-law that she’d never met and then one with red-breasted robins for Mathilde Martindale; green finches for Eden Montmayne and bright kingfishers for Hester Schaeffer. She just hoped they wouldn’t think them too provincial, as they were all such fine court ladies.
“Not picking one fer yourself?” asked the old woman shrewdly.
“How did you know I wasn’t choosing one for myself?” asked Fen, startled.
The old woman cackled. “Cos you, my fine lady, would be goldcrests.” She ran a scarf through her fingers before holding it up for her perusal.
Oswald reached across, presumably with another two pennies, for the scarf was thrust into Fen’s hands and she turned around and found herself herded back into the throng. “You do not haggle!” she said loudly. “With the stallholders. You’re supposed to negotiate.”
“Over a few pennies?” Oswald shrugged, unconcerned. “Who else do you need to buy for? Solstice gifts,” he prompted.
“For my – for Orla,” she corrected herself, referring to her ex-sister-in-law. “And I would like to get something for Trudy,” she said naming her maid. “Oh, and Meldon, of course,” she added. “How about you?”
He thought this over. “I don’t generally,” he admitted. “Mason’s children?”
“Oh yes. You said your godson was a babe in arms. How old are your nieces?”
“Three years. Lily and Margaret are twins.”
“Something for them to play with, then?” she suggested. Behind her an altercation had broken out, but she had only half turned her head at the cry of ‘Stop thief!’ when Oswald drew her close to him.
“Keep walking straight ahead,” he said calmly. “We’ll head toward that inn with the sign of the ram’s head.”
Fenella craned her head above the crowd to make out the inn sign daubed in muted colors. Was it a ram? Her husband’s eye was far keener than hers, she realized. Behind them the sounds of jostling and fighting were unmistakable, but Oswald had placed himself firmly between her and the hubbub, so she relaxed and pocketed the scarf. Out of the corner of one eye she noticed a young man sat at a stall with brightly-clothed puppets. He sat whistling and sewing a miniature peacock-blue jacket.
“Oh, look!” she said catching Oswald’s sleeve. “How about a puppet for the girls?” He followed her as she forged toward the toy-maker’s stall. “Oh, these are pretty,” exclaimed Fenella looking at the brightly-painted ceramic faces. “And there are knights!” she exclaimed, pointing to the back of the stall where they stood in a row. “Oh, and little wooden horse’s heads on sticks!” The young man passed her a knight wordlessly, to examine. “Thank you,” said Fen turning it over carefully. “You are very clever.” The small knight wore a yellow tunic and leather brown boots. He had a cheerful open countenance and rosy red painted cheeks.
“Looks rather like Roland,” said Oswald disparagingly. “Same vacuous stare.”
Fen ignored this. She was starting to realize that insulting each other was the Vawdrey brother’s way. “I have an idea,” she said turning to him impulsively. “Why don’t we buy three? One for each of the children and they can be named for you, Mason and Roland!”
Oswald looked rather pained. “Do you have one in a black tunic?” he asked turning to the young man, who simply shrugged and gestured to the ones on the stall. They only seemed to deal in colorful wares.
“You would be the scarlet tunic,” said Fen.
“Scarlet?”
“Like the robe you wear,” she explained.
Oswald looked taken-aback. “I only wear that in the privacy of my own chambers,” he said sternly.
“I think of you as scarlet,” said Fen obstinately. “Now, should we get the blue or the green one for Mason?” asked Fen looking at the row of knights.
Oswald sighed. “You choose,” he said, reaching for his purse. The young man hopped up from his stool and reached for the dolls Fen pointed to. The entire transaction took place without him uttering one single word. When he took the payment from Oswald he swiftly bowed, then returned to his sewing.
“Do you suppose…?” Fen whispered, but her words were swept up in the crowd, as she was swept forward, clutching the dolls to her breast.
They stopped three stalls down and Oswald bought a simple cloth bag with a long handle. He took the dolls from her one by one and stuffed them into the bag. Then he extracted the scarves and the decks of cards from his own cloak and added them as well.
“Wait,” said Fen, reaching for the scarf she had stowed away, but her inner pocket was empty. “Oh no…”
Oswald held up a hand. “Fear not,” he said. “They’re all here,” he held up the bag before slipping the strap over his neck and shoulder.
“But the last scarf you bought was given into my keeping,” explained Fen. “The goldcrest one.”
“Yes,” Oswald agreed simply. “But when that was extracted from you, half a furlong ago, I took it back.”
“Someone took it from me?” gasped Fen, blinking. “But I never…”
Oswald pinched her chin. “I know.”
She clutched the front of his doublet and leant against him a moment. “Do I look like the veriest bumpkin?” she asked bashfully.
“No,” he said and dropped a brief kiss against her mouth, surprising her. “And anyway, it’s my place to look out for you.” His hands rested at her waist. She could feel them even through her cloak. “And my pleasure,” he added softly.
She gazed up at him. Her heart
throbbed in her chest, almost alarmingly.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, ducking her head. “Only, ‘tis rather cold, now I come to notice it.”
He accepted this without comment, merely taking her hand and interlacing his fingers with hers.
They negotiated their way through the rest of the market without further incident. Fen picked up small rose-wood boxes for Orla and Trudy that were cunningly carved and with great skill. She would put sweet sachets of dried herbs and flowers inside for them to store with their linens. She fleetingly thought of buying a gift for Lady Sumner, but deduced that lady would not appreciate so humble a gift. On passing a stall covered in woolen hoods, Fen turned to Oswald and reminded him to buy something for his assistant. He eyed the hoods doubtfully. “Perhaps a book?” he said, picking up a tri-colored hood in blue, yellow and red. “These look rather frivolous. Poor Bryce would not appreciate a long tail or the leaf design edging.”
“But Bryce always dresses like a monk,” Fen reminded him. “I think a warm, fur-lined hood in black or brown would be most acceptable to him. Or perhaps green,” she mused. “Though, certainly no tail.”
The stall-holder, having heard her, popped up with a sage-green hood lined with brown fur and matching buttons to fasten, which he presented to her with a flourish.
“Oh, now can you not see him wearing this?” asked Fen, holding it aloft. “This looks the very thing.”
Oswald rolled his eyes, though he reached for his purse obligingly. “You shall be the one who gives it to him,” he said handing over the payment.
“Happily,” replied Fen, folding the hood. He held the bag out to her and Fen was just stuffing it in with their purchases when she noticed her husband go very still. She straightened up in alarm to find a small, rather wrinkled man standing blinking at them from a few feet away. He had two dead rabbits tucked under one arm which were presumably for his supper. Fen glanced at Oswald and then back to the older man expectantly.
He cleared his throat. “Mr Roberts,” said the man, addressing her husband with some reluctance.
“Carleton,” replied her husband with a nod. “It seems you do recognize me outside your establishment after all.”
The old man’s face creased in what Fen assumed was a smile. “So it would seem, sir. So it would seem.”
He looked curiously toward Fen, but made no comment. Oswald seemed to pause a moment, before continuing: “Allow me to introduce my wife. Mrs Roberts, meet Mr Carleton.”
Fen tried not to react to her new name, but instead extended her hand to shake.
Mr Carleton also struggled not to look surprised, and shook her hand. “Mrs Roberts,” he said, giving her a hard look.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr Carleton.”
The two men bowed again and Mr Carleton disappeared into the throng. Oswald offered his arm and she took it.
“So… not your doxy then,” she joked, glancing up at his profile. He still looked a little stern and for a moment she thought he was angry. His expression relaxed almost immediately, and he raised her hand to kiss her knuckles. “Your hand is cold,” he frowned.
“Nothing to signify,” she hurried to assure him, but he was already glancing around and then tugging her in the direction of the tavern. Fen, who had been enjoying herself, was in no hurry leave the hustle and bustle of the market place. “Which house do the Robertses live in?” she asked, gazing about her.
Oswald cast her a curious look, before falling in with her playful mood. “The biggest one of course.”
Fen laughed appreciatively. “That one?” she pointed to a large timbered monstrosity of a town house, at least four floors high and boasting an impressive courtyard and adjoining stables.
“Naturally,” he inclined his head. “Only the very best for the Robertses.”
“Mr Roberts must be a very successful merchant, I think,” mused Fen aloud. “Perhaps even a town alderman or a councilor?”
“I like to perform my civic duty,” he murmured with a mock-modesty that had Fen giggling again. They had reached the inn by now, and Oswald opened the door for her. Fen gazed around at the low ceiling and dark interior. There were great swathes of ivy pinned and draped across the ceiling beams in honor of the midwinter festival and tied with bright red ribbons. A fire burned merrily in the hearth, casting an inviting flicker over the far wall. Oswald headed straight for it, towing her in his wake. He had no sooner helped her out of her cloak and seen her settled on a corner wooden bench than a server approached. Oswald ordered a wassail bowl to share a hot spiced punch and seated himself at the bench opposite her. “Warm enough?” he asked, reaching for her hand.
Fen nodded, feeling the warmth from the blazing fire at her back. “Tis very cosy in here,” she assured him. “And it does one’s heart good to see the decorations up for the midwinter festivities. Back home-” she stopped herself. “Back in Sitchmarsh,” she corrected herself quickly. “Preparations will be well underway for the Solstice celebrations.”
Oswald frowned. “I daresay the palace will catch up in a month or so,” he said. “The Yule log will be brought in and the greenery to decorate the halls.”
“Yes?” said Fen hopefully. “That will be nice, but I cannot help but think…”
“Think what?” he asked.
Fen shrugged. “Why, that when every other evening is a fancy banquet, the feast of Midwinter will not have the significance that it does for every-day common folk.”
Oswald’s head turned before Fen had even noticed that a server was approaching them with a steaming pedestal bowl of mulled punch on a salver. The bowl was a lover’s cup made for sharing, with a tall lid, carved in the shape of an acorn. Toasted bread was laid on the platter with which to mop up the last of the punch. It was set down before them and Oswald handed over payment and removed the lid, before sliding it toward her. “You miss the country,” he said. “It is not to be wondered at, since this is the first significant time you have spent away from it.”
Fen nodded as she lifted the cup and took a sip of the fragrant hot liquid. It tasted of apples, cinnamon and nutmeg with a kick of something else. She lowered the bowl and slid it toward Oswald, before commenting. “It is very good. Very warming.”
She watched him lift it to his own lips and take a drink. “It’s not just that this is a large town,” she said, mustering her courage. “I miss - making plans, the responsibility and challenges of running a household.” She hesitated. “At the palace, you are a part of the royal household. You have no say in how the halls will be decorated, or what food will be served at your table.” She looked across at her husband to see if she had offended, but Oswald’s gaze on her was hooded and she could make nothing from his expression. “For a bachelor, it must be highly convenient,” she acknowledged.
“It is a big change for you,” he said simply, lowering the bowl and then pushing it across the surface toward her. “Drink some more.”
She waited for him to mention the fact she would be sent to Vawdrey Keep soon enough, but he made no mention of it. Feeling confused, Fen lifted the bowl and took a hearty swig. It packed a punch and Fenella took courage from its potency. “Of course, when I am sent to Vawdrey Keep, I will soon have the running of a household again,” she ventured and looked through her lashes at him as she moved the bowl back across in his direction.
His mouth twisted and for a moment she thought he would say something, but words were not forthcoming. Instead he took a deep draught and plunked the bowl back on the table. He cleared his throat. “No doubt the Robertses would celebrate the festivities in the old style, despite their town existence.” He quirked an eyebrow at her and Fenella could not help but laugh.
“Of course,” she agreed. “Their town house would be wreathed in ivy and mistletoe, across every lintel and mantel, and all tied up with ribbons.”
“What else?” he asked, pushing the bowl back toward her.
Fen picked up a piece of toasted
bread and dipped it into the foamy drink left at the bottom of the bowl. “I think…They would have a piece of the yule log in every hearth,” she listed. “Even in the servant’s quarters. And on the three nights from Midwinter’s Eve, ghost stories would be told to the entire household.” She took a bite of the toast before continuing: “Fruit and candle arrangements would glisten on every table surface.” She chewed her bread in heavy thought. “Honey-plum puddings would boil in the kitchen and any passing wassailers would be bade to come in, drink from the cup and give their blessings upon the house.” She finished a little self-consciously. “How does that sound to Mr Roberts?” she asked.
“As though Mrs Roberts indeed likes to celebrate the Midwinter in the grand old style,” he said gravely.
“Yes,” she agreed, and even to her own ears she sounded a little forlorn. Of course, she was being quite ridiculously over the top. Ambrose would never have allowed such extravagances at Thurrold Manor. “I expect Mr Roberts would have to rein in his wife on the expenses,” she joked. “And remind her that his coffers are not bottomless!”
Oswald reached for some of the bread and wiped it around the inside of the bowl before taking a bite. “I think Mr Roberts is very keen to do whatever keeps Mrs Roberts happy and by his side,” he said quietly.
Fen’s eyes widened at his serious tone. “Oh – but I am sure – that is, Mr Roberts can have no worries about that,” she stammered awkwardly. “Forgive me, I was speaking without thought and-”
“You said naught amiss,” he said calmly, but Fenella wasn’t convinced.
“Indeed, my lord-” she started again.
He reached across to put his hand over hers. “I assure you, Fenella.”
She bit the inside of her mouth and regarded him anxiously.
“Tell me about your morning,” he said, nudging the platter of bread toward her.
Fenella picked up another piece of toasted bread. “Well, I spent my morning with Mathilde Martindale,” she said distractedly. She glanced about to make sure no-one was close enough to hear her speak of courtiers. “She is a sweet and pleasant young woman. If a little shy.”
His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2) Page 26
