Mathilde glanced around at the bare room, but there really wasn’t much to look at. A bed was in the corner and a battered trunk under the window. Other than that the only furniture was a small table and a rickety-looking chair. She turned back to Lord Martindale, who slowly folded his arms.
“Prove it,” he said shortly.
Mathilde blinked, wondering how she was supposed to do that. “You did not send me a betrothal token,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “My father’s name was Lord Douglas Doverdale. But you probably negotiated the marriage terms with my mother.”
He shook his head. “Wrong.”
Mathilde stared at him. “Wrong?” She faltered.
“There was no negotiation,” he said in a hard voice. “I signed the papers in a prison cell. And it was not the Doverdales who brokered the marriage.”
Mathilde’s mouth dropped open. “But—”she broke off confusedly. It was certainly true that it had been conducted far differently to her previous two marriages, she thought with unease. He didn’t have one foot in the grave for one thing, and she hadn’t been given any gifts. When she glanced back at him, she found he was still watching her closely. “Who did then?” she asked in bewilderment. And when had he been imprisoned?
“Your king,” he said, as though the words left a bad taste in his mouth. Of course, he was a northerner, thought Mathilde. He would have supported the Blechmarsh claim to the throne. “Or rather, his advisor, Lord Vawdrey.”
“Oh,” she said, realizing this reaction was vastly inadequate. She shivered, feeling suddenly cold again. Her clothes were still damp and there was no fire lit in the room.
“How do I know you’re her?” he asked again, and Mathilde suddenly noticed that his glower was a little menacing. Doubtless it was the shadowy room, and the fact she was tired and had spent most of the day in a dank cell herself.
“I’m not sure how I can prove it,” she said in a small voice. “You can ask me any question about myself, but …” she trailed off, not wanting to give voice to her sudden suspicions that he knew very little about her, and maybe cared even less. She bit her lip hard, willing it not to wobble and blinking hard. She was a boy, she reminded herself. Or as good as. She did not cry.
“Take off your clothes.” Mathilde’s head snapped up and as she stared at him in horror, she watched some color creep into his cheeks. “I need to see that you’re at least a lass,” he said gruffly.
“Oh,” she breathed out in relief. For a moment there, she had forgotten how manly and brave she had grown, and had known a moment of paralyzing terror. She felt herself sway slightly on her feet, as she tried to pull the damp tunic over her head. Her jailers had taken her belt and Will’s dagger from her earlier. Her heart still beating painfully in her chest, she struggled until she had wriggled out of both tunic and under-shirt.
Then she stood in just her braies and chauses and a roll of linen bandages wrapped round her chest. When he made no comment, she reached up with trembling fingers and started to unravel her bindings. Her entire body had turned to gooseflesh by this point and her numb fingers were making a poor job of it. She tugged and fumbled until the bandages lay pooled at her feet. Rounding her shoulders, she let her hair fall forward to hide her mortified face. Thankfully, it was just about long enough for concealment. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, and then he cleared his throat.
“There’s blankets over there on the bed,” he said. “Cover yourself.”
She nearly tripped on her own feet, which felt like blocks of ice, as she turned to strip a blanket from the bed, and wrap it around herself. It was rather prickly, but in recent weeks, she had known worse. With her back to him, she managed to wipe a forearm across her wet eyes. She hoped the gesture went unnoticed.
“I want my knife,” she said desperately, as she turned back around to face him.
“Your knife?”
“They took it from me, and I need it back.” Taking a deep breath, she launched into an explanation. “It’s not really mine, but a friend’s. If I lose it, then I will have broken faith with him.”
He stared rather hard at that. “What friend?” he demanded, sounding like the words had been wrenched from him.
“Willard Peyton,” she told him, and had to stop herself from asking if he knew him. “His uncle is the Bishop of Hudde.” She did not know why she was gabbling like this, but she was suddenly terrified that if she stopped she might burst into tears. She was so disappointed in herself, she could cry. A month ago, walking across a crowded room had frightened her. Only this morning she had thought herself invincible. Then she had been bruised, arrested and forced to strip in front of a stranger. She had a creeping suspicion that he meant to lock her in this room and keep her a prisoner before ransoming her back to her mother. The thought made her feel sick to her stomach.
“Come here,” he bit out.
As she took a few reluctant steps toward him, he reached into his shirt and looked to be unfastening something. Mathilde’s heart was in her mouth, as he seized her and briskly started rearranging the folds of her blanket. His hands grazed her bare skin, but strangely she did not find herself flinching from his touch, as it was completely impersonal. She watched as he extracted a leather strap from around his neck and fastened that firmly about her waist to secure it. When she glanced down, to her astonishment she saw that she once again wore a sheathed dagger on the narrow black leather strip.
“Now take off your hose,” he said glancing away. “They’re soaked through.”
Mathilde hesitated, but in truth, the blanket was now swathed about her like a dress, concealing her legs. She reached beneath her impromptu “skirts” and dragged the wet chauses down to her ankles. To her surprise, he knelt and helped her step out of her soggy boots and peel the damp fabric from her feet. His exclamation made her jump. He was looking up at her accusingly.
“What happened here?”
Mathilde glanced down at her bare feet. Did he mean the bruising? She hesitated. “The carter was very fat, and trampled on me,” she explained. “And then afterward, I got rather jostled in the jail.” He stared up at her a moment. “After I got arrested,” she reminded him.
He took a deep breath in and out. For a moment, his large, warm hand covered both her feet, then he withdrew it and turned his face away from her. Mathilde watched him uncertainly for a moment. He seemed to be in the grip of some strong emotion, but she must be misreading him, for that could not be right. When he straightened up and stood before her, his expression was guarded and tense again, giving away nothing.
After a moment’s pause, he unlocked the door and stood back for her pass through. Mathilde realized she had done him a huge disservice. He had not been intending to imprison her after all! She felt almost dizzy with relief and beamed up at him, as she scuttled back through. So elated was she, that she scarcely felt the bite of the cold flagstones against her bare feet. She floated back down the steps, almost giddy, though that might have been due to the fact she had not eaten since the previous evening. She stumbled slightly on the last step and he reached out and steadied her. Then, he seemed to notice afresh that she had no shoes or stockings and cursed under his breath.
“It’s of no consequence,” she started to tell him, but he was already gingerly gathering her up and lifting her into his arms. Mathilde held her breath. She had never been carried before. At least, not since she was an adult. She glanced nervously at him from the corner of her eye. In truth, his expression was forbidding in the extreme, but she found herself relaxing against him in spite of it. Appearances might appear to the contrary, but this husband of hers was kind and considerate. Once again, she felt the optimism that there was still a chance she could still claw herself some semblance of a winning hand from the paltry one she had been dealt.
IV
Guy booted the door to the main hall open and strode through. He was incredibly angry, but the burden he was carrying in his arms right now meant he couldn’t really let l
oose with his temper. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure that it shouldn’t be directed at himself. “I want my knife,” she had said after he had forced her to strip to the waist. And he couldn’t say he blamed her.
Everyone turned and looked as he made his way straight to the head of the table.
“My lord —?”
Someone dropped something, which clanged noisily against the floorboards. Guy set her down at the head of the table, straightening the skirts of her blanket-gown so she was decent. He was sure they got a flash of bare leg as he lowered her, for he heard a shocked hiss, and her friend suddenly appeared, crouching at her side with a shocked and agonized look on his face. He sent a look of pure hatred Guy’s way, “I’ll kill you,” he choked out in a low shaking voice. “Even if I swing for it.”
“Rob!” She — this woman who claimed to be his wife, — reached out and seized the boy’s hand. “All is well, I swear it.” At his pointed look, she repeated, “I swear it.” Guy realized he still had no idea what their relationship was. The boy had seized her upper arms and was staring into her face intently. After a moment he relaxed, then clasped her to him, in an awkward embrace. “You scared me,” he gritted out, before thrusting her away from him as if she were some troublesome sibling. He was bright red now and scowling.
She reached out again and grasped his hand in hers. “I’m sorry, don’t be angry,” she murmured. He hunched his shoulder crossly, but did not pull away his hand.
“What in the hells —?” spluttered Firmin.
“I vouch for these two,” said Guy tightly. His angry gaze dared the beadles to dispute his right.
Thurston pursed his lips in a whistle. “So, he’s a she,” he murmured and grinned. Guy glared at him.
The first beadle cleared his throat. “You,— er …,” His eyes met Guy’s and then dropped away. “I see, my lord,” he said hastily. “I see.”
The second beadle was still staring dumbfounded at her, as though she’d grown a second head.
Then the female, piped up. “I want my horse,” she said in a loud, carrying voice.
The first beadle gasped at her temerity. “Your horse?”
“Yes, mine,” she agreed. “The carter said, ‘if you want me to stop beating him, he’s yours for a sovereign.’”
“You paid the carter a sovereign for his horse?” asked Guy turning his head sharply.
“I did.”
He turned to the beadles. “She paid for the horse,” he said succinctly. “So, why did you say she stole it?”
“Well,” huffed the first beadle. “Seemed an unlikely tale. Some gutter urchin payin’…” he trailed off, realizing the flaw in his logic.
“Well, she’s not a gutter urchin, is she?” said Guy coldly, driving the point home.
“Um…”
“It seems we made a mistake, gentlemen,” said Thurston in a conciliatory manner.
“What about the assault?” asked the second beadle. “What about that?”
“Assault?” echoed her companion indignantly. “That swindler took our sovereign and then tried to take back the horse as well. He’s the thief!”
“That’s right,” she took up the argument spiritedly. “We only tried to defend our own rightful property from that hateful man.” She turned to young Thurston. “I trust you confiscated the animal?”
“I … believe so,” he said, turning quizzically to his companions for confirmation.
“Then I should like it returned to me upon the morrow,” she said promptly. The beadles both looked incensed at being ignored from proceedings, but dared not say anything. They were quite purple in the face. “And I should like that carter clapped in the stocks,” she added. “To teach the ruffian a lesson.”
Thurston laughed, and it dawned on Guy that the young merchant in all likelihood thought she was some fancy-piece, past or present. Perhaps, he thought she had called in a favor from him when they had slipped out of the room. That, or performed him some service.
Guy clenched his fists. He didn’t like the appreciative way the merchant was eyeing her. Far too boldly. But the fact was, there was a reason Guy had not announced her true identity, and it was a good one. He did not yet know how he was going to handle the sudden appearance of this alleged wife. He needed to play a close hand, and letting her claims be known to all and sundry, would not be wise. The downside was, that by not disclosing who she claimed to be, he was leaving her position open to speculation, but what else could he do? He had no intention of rashly saddling himself with her, when he hardly knew what to make of her.
“I trust that concludes the matter,” he said facing everyone down. He chose to take the cough and the shuffling of feet that greeted his words as all the assent he needed.
“After the return of my property of course,” she chimed in, the only person who seemed oblivious to his foul mood. “You have my knife and belt, as well as my horse,” she reminded them.
“It will be returned to you in due course,” said Thurston smoothly, when he realized his companions were momentarily quite incapable of speech.
She beamed at the young merchant, and Guy realized his mood could take a worse turn. As he saw his visitors out, he could feel Firmin’s eyes boring into him, and forced himself to turn and face his steward.
“Have fires lit in the south tower.” He looked at him meaningfully. The south tower was fortified and all the doors had locks. Firmin’s frown grew deeper, but he nodded curtly and left the hall to see rooms were prepared for them. “Your name?” he asked, barely looking at her face. Still, he could quite plainly see her surprised dismay at his query.
“It’s Mathilde, my lord,” she hesitated as if to say more, but deciding against it.
“And I’m Robin Geddings, second son of Sir Edgar Geddings,” said her friend, stepping to her side. His eyes were steely. “Lady Martindale’s protector.” The words were flung at him as if issuing challenge. Guy just about managed not to react to the use of her title. For two pins, Guy realized, this young buck would tangle horns with him, despite his youth. By his estimation he could not be above fourteen. Robin held his gaze, and Guy nodded with grudging respect.
“Robin is a good and friend and true,” said Mathilde hurriedly, and laid her hand on her protector’s sleeve in a conciliatory gesture.
“I’m sure,” responded Guy, remembering the lad’s dire threat to kill him. He smiled grimly. It seemed she could command respect from green, inexperienced boys. But he was no child, and he would not fall such an easy victim to her wiles.
“We’re sorry to rouse your household so late in the night, my lord” she said politely, once she realized he was not going to offer more by way of conversation.
Guy glanced about him. The two servants had made themselves scarce, no doubt to fetch them washing water and lay their fires. Only the three of them stood in the hall. Was she being sarcastic? Perhaps she thought by rights, all the staff should be lined up to welcome her? “Tonight is the solstice eve,” he growled unexpansively. “The household is abed.”
“Solstice eve?” She said her eyes widening. “I had not realized. When one is travelling, one loses track of the days.” She twisted her hands together nervously, before continuing. “We celebrate the midwinter in the south. Some of our customs are a little different I believe.”
“Come, wait before the fire with me, my lady,” urged Robin, taking her arm and drawing her away. He was clearly fuming at Guy’s churlish behavior and refusal to play the polite host.
“It seems strange to hear you address me as ‘my lady’ again,” he heard Mathilde say, as they retreated.
“You’ve always been my lady,” said Robin, casting a look over his shoulder at Guy. “And I never forgot the fact.”
As he waited for Firmin’s return, Guy found his ears straining without conscious volition, to follow their conversation. It comprised of her exclaiming over the dampness of Robin’s clothing, and urging him to remove his shirt and wear a blanket instead, as she did. At one po
int, he thought he heard Robin ask tersely about the dagger, but their voices were lowered now, and he could only pick out the odd word.
He found himself wondering if the boy would point out to her that she was being denied the use of her title or position thus far. He had no doubt the lad had picked up on that, even if she had not. Or was she merely feigning her blissful ignorance of the fact? He could not make her out at all, and it irritated him that she was putting him to the bother of trying to fathom her out. Guy believed in being up front and frank, laying one’s cards squarely on the table. He had no time for the subterfuge and deceit that courtiers employed.
When he allowed himself to glance at them some time later, both were huddled under a pile of blankets, conspiratorially close. He fancied someone’s head rested on the other’s shoulder, though he was not sure which. He tapped a finger against the tabletop, as he coldly debated whether or not he could use this to his advantage, as a means to divorce her if by some miracle she turned out to be who she said she was. After all, she and the boy must have been each other’s travelling companion for at least a couple of weeks now as they travelled north. The propriety was surely lacking, for she should have had female attendants. He found himself curious, in spite of himself, how they had ended up in such a sorry state. Had their original party been broken up? Robin Geddings was clearly gently born, even if he was a second son. Boys had definitely been married and even gone into battle, younger than he. The sneaking suspicion crossed Guy’s mind that the lad would not cut up too rough, if he was required as a sacrifice to save her reputation. He was clearly devoted to her. For some reason, that thought annoyed him too. Footsteps approaching snapped him out of his unpleasant thoughts. Firmin had returned to inform them the bedchambers were prepared for the night.
Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1) Page 3