This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017
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This is for my sister who always believed in me.
Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
Epilogue
I
Cadwallader Castle, the Summerlands, the Kingdom of Karadok
The two figures looked down on the mellow gray stone edifice, which sat majestic and comfortable in its ancient setting of expansive green pastures. The view shimmered in the midday sun under a blue summer sky. Two solitary tents fluttered in the field to the north of the castle, looking out of place with their bright stripes and bold flags. Even from his current vantage point, Mason fancied he could make out the Vawdrey black panther and the spotted leopard of the Cadwalladers. A sense of peace and contentment hung over Cadwallader Castle. A sense of peace that the two riders were only too aware they were about to shatter all to hell.
Mason looked across at Sir Oswald, who shifted uneasily in his saddle. “Let’s get this over with, ” said Mason.
“Devil take Roland for leaving this task to us,” Oswald muttered bitterly. “Young fool. Our father overindulged him.”
Mason shrugged a massive shoulder. He noticed these days that Oswald increasingly referred to Lord Vawdrey as “our father” despite the fact that Mason was bastard born. Oswald would never have done that before the recent campaign in the North where Mason had been showered in battle glory. The fact that they shared a father had been well known at Vawdrey Keep but rarely spoken of. Since the war in the North though, things had changed. Everything had changed.
Mason’s dark eyes scanned Lady Linnet Cadwallader’s estate. It was a pretty piece of land, even if its mistress was rumored to be hideously ugly and misshapen.
“Men have closed their eyes for less in the marriage bed,” he commented crudely and saw Oswald wince slightly. He, unlike Mason, had been raised a knight. Mason’s elevation was very recent and still a cause of great scandal at court, where the nobility thought you should only be born to knighthood. Lucky for Mason that King Wymer had decided to shake up his ranks. And his victories in the field had bought him fame if not fortune.
“No doubt what our father thought when he signed the betrothal contract,” Oswald sighed. There he goes again with the “our father” business, thought Mason with a faint frown. He grunted in response. He was known for his sword arm, not his conversation skills. He just wanted to get this bullshit over with. He considered that if Roland was man enough to get betrothed, he should be old enough to jilt the bitch himself.
“Let’s go,” he growled, spurring his horse forward. He didn’t bother looking back over his shoulder. Since the battle of Demoyne, he knew exactly who led and who followed. Everyone knew.
“Seems surprisingly quiet,” Oswald commented some forty minutes later as they slowed their horses to cross the drawbridge over the moat. “Not much fanfare for a wedding.”
“We should be glad of that,” Mason replied drily, though in truth his brother was speaking his own thoughts aloud. He looked round at the quiet courtyard, which, indeed, seemed rather undermanned for a feast day. Mayhap because the bride was an invalid, he reasoned to himself. Still it seemed strange. He remembered the two forlorn tents, but you would surely need more than two to house the festivities for all the guests, serfs, and vassals on a fine estate like this one.
“Be ye Vawdreys?” hailed a voice from the left, as a page about twelve years of age ran forward in azure-blue livery with golden roundels spangling his sleeves and tights.
“We be―are,” Oswald corrected himself hastily.
The page straightened his tunic self-consciously and executed a bow. “I be Cuthbert, page of this House. This way, me lords. Diggory, Jed, do take these here lordships’ horses.”
Mason didn’t bother to correct the lad that he was no lord but instead dismounted and passed his reins to the waiting groomsmen, who eyed them curiously.
“This way, me lords,” the page instructed, diving through a doorway to their right and leading them towards a tall, winding tower.
Mason followed, surprised not to be taken to the great hall. Surely a fine castle like this would have a great hall at the very heart of it.
“Ho lad, are you taking us to Lady Linnet’s guardian?” Oswald called up from three steps behind him. Cuthbert was either slightly deaf or ignoring them as he whistled a merry tune while tripping ahead of them.
“Not far now, me lords,” he sang back at them. “Nice day for a wedding, b’aint it?”
Mason ignored this, turning instead to look out of the narrow fortified window strip, which was just wide enough to shoot an arrow through in times of defense. Curiously enough, from this vantage point you could only see the two gaily colored tents, oscillating in the breeze. It occurred to him that their somewhat random position could have been chosen for someone viewing from this very tower.
“Why have you stopped?” asked Oswald, who had now caught up.
Mason shook his head slightly, and they made haste to catch the now out-of-view page at the top of tower. When they reached the door, it was ajar, so Mason pushed through it despite his brother’s murmured protest. He caught sight of Cuthbert’s bright costume first in the gloom of the room. Despite the summer’s day, all was in darkness and there were no windows at all to let in any light.
“Welcome, me lords,” said Cuthbert with a flourish and gestured to a seat where a slight figure sat blinking at them through large, pale-green eyes. “May I present to you your bride, her grace Lady Linnet Cadwallader of Castle Cadwallader. Defender of the people and holder of the keys of the duchy.”
Mason glanced back at Oswald, whose eyes were wide with dismay. This was not the lady’s guardian. This was the lady herself.
She gave a small gasp. “I did not expect―that is, welcome, my lords.”
Mason gave her a hard stare but could make out nothing save a large headdress covered in a linen veil and two pale hands clutching each other tightly.
“Light the sconces, boy” he ordered testily. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
“Mason!” his brother remonstrated. “My lady, I apologize. We have been much in the battlefield and our manners have grown sadly rusty.”
She gave a dismissive wave of her hand at this. “It does not signify. Please, Cuthbert, do as his lordship asked.”
Cuthbert’s swift step was heard crossing the room before he stooped at the fireplace to kindle a flame.
A yellow glow lit up the room. Lady Linnet’s smile was shy and apologetic. Her face looked out of the oval of her elaborate headdress, which looked almost like a huge tent on her head. Mason could see nothing of her hair underneath it, but he didn’t need to see it to know without a shadow of a doubt that it was red, for Lady Linnet’s face was covered in a multitude of unsightly freckles. Gods, he thought, was that why they had locked her up out of the sunlight? It scarcely seemed possible that she could contract any more of them! There was hardly a patch of pale skin that wasn’t already afflicted. The heavy linen veil extended all the way down to her waist, concealing any glimpse of her figure, but from the small face and slight hands he guessed she was scrawny and thin. Another legacy of her poor health, he supposed. He realized with a start that Oswald was conferring quietly in the corner with Cuthbert.
“Err,” his brother cleared his throat. “Cuthbert is going to take me to Sir Jevons. Mason, if you would wait here with Lady Linnet until our return when we can get this matter of the wedding cleared up.”
Mason glowered back at his brother. “Very well,” he replied shortly. Coward. He turned back to the lady in question as their echoing footsteps started down the tower.
Linnet Cadwallader was looking at him with nervous curiosity. “Which . . . ah . . . which one of you is Sir Roland, my intended?” she asked tilting her head to one side.
He could guess she was hoping it wasn’t a great hulking brute like himself! “Neither of us,” he answered shortly. “He didn’t come.”
She paled, clutching at the arms of her seat. “But he―he signed the betrothal contract. He gave his word,” she said incredulously. Her eyes flew wide. “Is he sick? Ill?”
“No,” admitted Mason begrudgingly. He didn’t believe in telling lies to spare the feelings of others.
“He changed his mind,” she said flatly and passed her hand over her eyes briefly. “Oh.”
Mason watched her as she sat very still and very pale. Her freckles stood out lividly against her pallor. He had never seen so many freckles on one face. He thought briefly of the Cadwallader standard—the gold-spotted leopard. It was fitting. Very fitting. He wondered idly if the freckles extended down from her face.
As if aware of the illicit nature of his thoughts, Lady Linnet’s eyes flew open and fixed on him with sudden intent.
“Who are you exactly? She gestured to the coat of arms to the right of his chest. “Some emissary to House Vawdrey I can see.”
Mason glanced down at his badge. Unlike his two brothers’ shields, his own red shield did not bear the passant black panther of the Vawdreys. His was struck through with the bar sinister, a sign of his illegitimacy. He wondered if she was aware of this in her ivory tower. His mouth twisted. “I am Sir Mason Vawdrey,” he answered her boldly. “Bastard brother to Sir Roland.”
“Are you married?” she asked him without even blinking.
Instead, he blinked. “No.”
She took a shuddering breath and straightened her spine. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to step into the breach, could I?” she asked with only the faintest tremor.
II
Linnet held her breath and could feel her heart beating almost out of her chest. How ironic would it be if she were to expire at this very moment after years of being told she must live at a sedate pace before her heart clapped out like her dear mother’s? If she just slumped down in her seat and proved her uncle right all along! Would Sir Roland think himself to blame for his poor little dead bride? She clasped her hands together even more tightly and waited for a response from the imposing male in front of her. She was desperate. Only sheer desperation could drive her to suggest such a thing! The thought of all those wedding guests—the servants, the tenant farmers, her incumbents—all waiting for the feasting to begin, only to be told their mistress had let them down again didn’t bear thinking about! She felt sick to her stomach despite the fact that she had only had a hard biscuit to break her fast.
“Did you hear what I said?” the arrogant male in front of her asked her sharply, narrowing his eyes. He really was an imposing specimen. The only males who ever visited her tower were her little page and her uncle, Sir Jevons, who was rather short.
Linnet forced herself to focus. The source of his anger threw her for a moment before she remembered what he had just disclosed so abruptly.
“I am familiar with heraldic devices, Sir Mason,” she told him truthfully. “The circumstances of your birth don’t interest me.”
She could see a muscle at his strong jaw twitch at that.
“I’m not a noble,” he gritted out. “Just a common soldier.”
“Oh,” she digested that. It wouldn’t affect her own title as she had inherited her father’s duchy in her own right. Should she tell him that she wondered? She eyed him anxiously. He seemed to favor plain speaking, from everything she had observed. “I hold my father’s title in abeyance,” she said, nervously twisting her hands together. His eyebrows rose at this. “That means . . . well, it means―”
“It means your son would inherit the title,” he cut in smoothly. “My son, if I bred you.” She gasped as he eyed her speculatively at that. Well, that was certainly plain speaking! She never dreamt a man could speak thusly to a lady. Her mouth fell open. She shut her jaw with a snap when he continued harshly. “They say your health is poor. How do I know you’ll live to bear me a son?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m afraid you don’t,” she admitted. “But, even if I can’t, even if I do die young you’ll inherit the castle and all my lands. It’s not entailed and it’s a considerable estate. Is that not enough to tempt you sir?” She could feel all the blood rush to her cheeks at her unladylike speech. It was too humiliating, trying to barter for his hand in marriage like this with her worldly goods. And his stare was so hard and shrewd, like a bird of prey. She could see no gentleness there, no mercy. She swallowed as she realized he was going to dismiss her out of hand. Lowering her eyes from his, she swallowed the bitter taste of defeat and prayed for the grace to accept it with fortitude.
“Come here,” he said suddenly and the arrogance of his tone might have grated on her if he hadn’t caught her quite so off guard.
Linnet lurched to her feet and tottered down the steps of the dais to stand before him. He was tall, she realized, her eyes widening. Even taller than she had thought and he had been at least a head taller than his brother. He was built like no man she had ever met before. The width of his shoulders and chest tapered down to a lean waist and hips and long muscular legs. His black tunic and trews became him well, although they were too plain for a man of standing. They had not a bit of fur or beading or satin such as her uncle favored. The top of her ridiculous headdress barely reached his shoulders. He was eyeing the offending item now and when she realized what he was about to do she tried to stop him,
“No!” she choked out, grabbing for his elbow, but it was too late. He had dragged the structure and heavy veil off her head before she had even had the chance to clutch ineffectually at his solid arm. He seemed to be made of pure muscle. She panted, staring at him in horror as he ran his gaze over the tightly braided hair it had concealed. It was an obnoxious and unfashionable red-gold shade. He couldn’t fail to notice. He tossed the structure to one side where it bounced three times before rolling into the corner. The linen veil drifted down to fall at her feet. Then his gaze dipped down over her woefully freckled throat, the slight swell of her unimpressive yet equally freckled cleavage, and then down over the tightly fitted bodice of her blue gown, which gave way to graceful long skirts. When she had sewn it, she had thought it would be her wedding dress. Now she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would never marry. Her figure was girlish, she knew, instead of womanly. She had never be enough to tempt a man like this. Her shoulders slumped in defeat as he inspected all of her defects at his leisure. Her throat burned and she wanted to cry. But she wasn’t a girl. She was a woman, so she held them back and tried to stand up straig
ht. Then she heard a cacophony of footsteps thundering up the tower and realized that her humiliation was to have witnesses. She gave a soft moan and ducked under the muscled arm of Mason Vawdrey, using him as a human shield.
“Linnet,” It was her uncle, Sir Jevons, who stood puffing and panting at the top of the stairs in his turquoise and pearl-studded doublet. Behind him was the other Vawdrey brother. Linnet had forgotten his name. “This is a disgrace,” her uncle cried. “How dare you disturb my niece sirrah! She is delicate and unused to such intrusions!”
“I am fine Uncle,” she assured him, but when she tried to step around Mason Vawdrey, his hand shot out to wrap around her and pull her tight against him. She expelled her breath noisily, not a squeak precisely, since squeaking was not something refined ladies did. She braced her hands against his chest and gulped. His hand rested at her waist possessively. Her eyes flew to his. His face was totally calm. His gaze steely. Decision made. Linnet’s thoughts scattered to the four winds. Did this mean . . . ?
“What the devil do you mean by this, Sir?” cried Sir Jevons, looking appalled. “Unhand my niece at once!”
Linnet held her breath, hardly daring to hope.
“Your niece and I have come to an agreement,” answered Mason Vawdrey in measured, cold tones. He looked down into her eyes and gave her a slight smirk. “I’ll be taking the bridegroom’s place.”
Oswald Vawdrey gasped louder than her uncle. “Mason, what the hell—? You can’t just—”
“We already did,” shrugged Mason. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Linnet blinked up at him before turning to face her uncle. “Yes, that is so,” she nodded. “Mason Vawdrey and I are to be married today.” Her voice only trembled slightly, she was glad to hear. She could feel his thumb rub in a slow, comforting manner at the top of her hip. It made her feel strangely weak. She glanced at his kinsman, and found him staring at her feet in horror. She looked down at her discarded veil. The way he was looking at it was almost like he thought it was her undergarments. Wait a minute . . . she glanced at her uncle who looked like he was having an apoplectic attack.
Her Baseborn Bridegroom Page 1