Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1)

by Alice Coldbreath

  “Oh, well done!” She found the spoon and fished it out with the utmost care. “Who shall have the first egg? Prudie!” she decided before anyone could speak. Guy passed her a bowl and she slid the egg into it, added the toasted bread and brought it to the kitchen table, setting it down before her maid.

  “Thank you, milady,” Prudence said briskly.

  “Here’s butter,” Mathilde added, sliding it toward her. “And let me see, what else do you need? Salt!” She turned to Waldon. “Perhaps…?”

  “We have salt we have not yet finished,” Prudie interrupted her hastily. “In that box,” she said pointing to a shelf.

  Mathilde fetched it, surprised to find it full to the brim. She set it down and watched Prudence crack the egg open with her knife, before turning back to pick up the toasting fork. Guy was retrieving the soggy mass of the second egg.

  “I’ll have this one,” he said.

  “There’s a spare now, so you need not.”

  “I’m sure it will taste fine,” he assured her. They finished preparing the rest of the food together and presently all five were seated around the table, elbow to elbow.

  “Very nice,” Prudie pronounced, finishing first and pushing away her bowl. “Food somehow always tastes better when someone else prepares it.”

  Mathilde wondered if that was true. She was taking great enjoyment from her first self-prepared meal, but perhaps as Guy said it was the novelty of it that appealed to her. She turned to find him watching her. “How was your spoiled egg?”

  “Delicious,” he answered promptly, his eyes roaming over her.

  “Is my hair a terrible mess?” she asked in a lowered voice when his gaze rested on it. “I did not think to tidy it before I came down.” He shook his head. “It didn’t used to be so curly before it was cut.”

  Underneath the table, his hand sought hers. “No?” he asked softly.

  “No, it was practically straight.”

  “Perhaps it was the weight of your long hair pulling it down,” suggested Rob helpfully. “When it grows long again, it may correct itself.”

  “I like it curly,” Guy said unexpectedly. “Besides, it’s not short now. It’s fully to your shoulders.”

  “Only when I pull on the ends,” Mathilde said ruefully, tugging on the curly strands.

  “Curls aren’t fashionable at court,” Rob said with a shake of his head. “Not for a long time. Though they do say the king’s first mistress had a head of yellow curls. The one who would only wear red velvet and kept a retinue of matching pages.”

  Prudence gave a sharp exclamation. “You mean to tell me the southern king keeps his leman in his castle?” she said incredulously. “No northern wife would stand for such a thing!” Mathilde found her face turning pink. No one publicly talked of such things, though it was widely known of course who was currently receiving the king’s favor. Prudence pursed her lips. “Disgusting!” she sniffed.

  “Funny, I heard your northern princess had a brace of bastard brothers,” said Rob sarcastically. “I did not realize such things only happened in the south.” A shocked silence greeted his words. Mathilde noticed Guy’s face had colored.

  Mathilde cleared her throat. “If it’s more than a passing fancy, the king will usually set them up in their own household,” she said hurriedly. “I had heard he’s bought a country estate for the Lady Helen,” she said, naming the king’s latest paramour, Helen Cecil.

  Her ears burned. If her mother could hear her speaking openly of such things she would be appalled! But somehow the dreadful silence had to be filled with something, even if ’twas only gossip. She did not want talk of North and South to split up the camaraderie of their morning meal.

  “Oh aye, Kinnerton,” Rob agreed. “A vastly pretty estate. He didn’t buy it for her though, it used to belong to his mother, the old queen.”

  “Oh,” said Mathilde. “I had not heard.” It always seemed surprising to her, that people purported gossip was a woman’s realm. Men seemed to be allowed to speak much more freely about such things, where women were forced to whisper and then judged ferociously for it.

  Robin nodded. “They say he’s given it her in place of a titled husband.”

  “The wages of wickedness,” tutted Prudie distastefully. “Fancy giving his own mother’s place to his strumpet!”

  “In truth, I do not believe King Wymer was very close to his mother,” Mathilde explained quickly, with a glance at Guy. “I do not think royal children are often raised with their parents. The young prince does not even reside at court, but safely in the country with his own household of servants and guards. Did you never hear the story of the king’s coronation?” she babbled on desperately. “They say he cared not a rush for anyone truly, save his old nurse Bathilde. There he sat on the golden throne, waiting for the bishop to put the crown on his head, when he looks up and sees they’ve removed his old nurse out of the front row to make way for a bunch of nobles. ‘Be damned to them’, he cried. ‘I care not if it’s the queen herself who makes way. I’ll not be crowned without my Nurse there to see it!’”

  Mathilde noticed uncomfortably that Waldon and Prudie were listening intently to this story of the king who’d beaten their own forces into submission. Was this perhaps not the sort of story she should be telling? Guy still held her hand under the table, though, and had not squeezed it in warning or told her to stop talking. Doubtless this was a vastly different side to the warlike King Wymer they’d all be aware of. She thought briefly of her own dear old Nurse, deaf and rather short-sighted, who likely would have had palpitations when she’d found an imposter lying in her charge’s bed. Her eyes misted over, and she felt a pang of guilt, though she did not think her mother could possibly blame Nurse for her disobedience. Someone cleared their throat opposite. Mathilde looked up. It was Waldon, fixing her with a stern glare.

  “And did they?” he asked gruffly.

  “Pardon?” asked Mathilde.

  “The king’s old nurse. Did they bring her back to see him crowned?”

  “Oh yes, of course. They would not dare disobey the king. Bathilde had the seat of honor.”

  He gave a short nod of his head, seemingly satisfied with this. “Loyalty’s an important quality in a man,” he said heavily. “Be he king or be he beggar.”

  “What about loyalty to his mother, the queen?” asked Prudie tartly.

  “A mother is as a mother does,” he retorted sternly. “I doubt it was the old queen who wiped his arse!”

  Rob nudged her in the side. “You shouldn’t use that word,” he said reproachfully. “Not now you’re wearing skirts again.”

  “What word?” Mathilde asked startled. It wasn’t her who had said arse.

  “Damned,” Rob elaborated.

  Mathilde blushed. She had been so carried away with retelling the story that she had not noticed the slip. “He did say it though,” she said, wondering who present she wasn’t supposed to offend.

  “You let your mistress alone, lad,” Waldon interrupted, shaking his head. “We’re not so mealy-mouthed around these parts.”

  Mathilde turned to Guy and was surprised to see him watching her with a small smile playing about his lips. He leaned down, closing the gap between them. “Now the snow is melting fast,” he said quietly. “What say you to a ride into Wickhamford today?”

  XXI

  “That’s where I first set eyes on Destrian,” said Mathilde excitedly. She squeezed his hand and pointed to a tethering post.

  Guy stared at the spot, an image of her being knocked to the ground flashing through his mind’s eye. When he saw her wince, he realized his pressure on her fingers was too hard and released them at once. “Was the carter’s accent from round these parts?” he asked casually.

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not very good with accents,” she admitted.

  “If you ever see him again…” Guy had to struggle with himself to keep his tone even. “I want you to point him out to me.”

  She turned
her head and looked at him curiously. “Rob already blacked both his eyes,” she reminded him.

  “You were thrown in a jail cell due to his false witness.” Even he could hear the bristling hostility in his words. “He kicked you,” he had trouble even speaking the words.

  “Only to dislodge me from his ankle.” He turned incredulous eyes on her. “I could forgive him that, for I was biting him at the time,” she carried on fairly. “But I will never forget his ill use of Destrian. He was a cruel man.”

  “He struck you. A woman.” He spoke the words with loathing.

  “At the time, I was dressed as a boy,” she pointed out and seeing hot words spring to his tongue she raised his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “But you’re right. He was loathsome. I wanted them to clap him in the stocks at the time, if you remember.”

  “They released him the very next day,” Guy growled angrily.

  “How do you know that?” Her tone was surprised.

  “I made it my business to know.” At her startled look, he added. “I asked when I went to fetch the — to fetch Destrian for you,” he corrected himself painstakingly. They were walking now along the thoroughfare. He kept a firm hold on her through the mulling crowds. Wickhamford was busy on market day, and the streets were covered with melting snow.

  A small smile played about her lips. “Would you have had him put in the stocks?” she asked hopefully, giving him a sidelong glance.

  “I’m not sure what I would have done,” he admitted. Was it a hanging offense? In his book it was, but possibly not the lawmakers. Would that have mattered? He glanced down at her and found her watching him with a funny expression on her face. Did she find him too bloodthirsty? He cleared his throat. “Shall we walk through the marketplace?” he asked, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Immediately, she was all smiles.

  “Oh yes! Let’s. When I was here before with Robin, our money was almost gone, and we couldn’t buy a thing.”

  Immediately, an image rose up of her bedraggled and hungry. He drew in a sharp breath. “I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

  “A glazed pastry,” she said promptly, bringing a grudging smile to his lips. “There was a stall that had them, and they were fashioned like horns and filled with dried fruits.” She screwed up her face in remembrance. “It was on the cathedral side, I think.”

  “Then, it’s this way.” He tugged her hand, turning to the left.

  “Can we take some back for Rob and Prudie?” she asked excitedly.

  “You’re sure Prudie would not take mortal offence?” he asked dryly. “At the notion a street hawker could make pastry preferable to her own baking.”

  “Oh no. For did you not notice this morning, how she said that food made by another always tastes nicer?”

  He grunted, a little surprised that she had remembered such a thing. Though, in truth, her servant had been rather outspoken that morn. He remembered Prudence’s disapproving talk of lemans. She did not seem to reflect on the position of her own mistress when freely voicing such thoughts. Luckily, Mathilde had barely seemed aware of the irony of her own maidservant holding such moralistic views. She had simply started chattering away with gossip about the Argent King’s proclivities.

  Apparently, wherever she and Rob sprang from, they were well aware of such talk. Guy had frankly little interest in such things, but he had noticed with surprise that Waldon had been hanging off every word, and even asked for more detail! He remembered too, that Temur had reacted similarly on a previous occasion. It seemed it wasn’t just him that was affected by her winning ways. Perhaps he should have let Firmin spend some time with her before he’d carted her off to the hunting lodge. Then his steward might not be so hostile in his outlook.

  He bought a bag of pastries, but before they had even left the stall, Mathilde was passing them out to beggars. “I thought you wanted them for Robin and Prudence,” he reminded her wryly.

  “I swear Rob and I wore the same expression on our first visit,” she murmured, prompting him to turn back and purchase more.

  They strolled among the rest of the stalls, Mathilde nibbling on her pastry. “It looks better than it tastes,” she admitted at last, and threw it to a passing dog who wolfed it down with a snap of his jaws. “Although if I were truly hungry, it would no doubt taste delicious.” His had tasted fine, but he did not deceive himself he had a discerning palate.

  “Did you ever have a nurse when you were a child?” she asked suddenly. At his frown, she added. “That woman there, made me suddenly think of mine.” Following the direction of her gaze, he beheld a plump looking dame with a double-chin and faded blue eyes. Turning back to Mathilde, he saw her own eyes had misted over. “I do hope she’s well,” she said guiltily. “Poor old thing. It must have come as a terrible shock to her.” She sighed.

  When he realized nothing more was forthcoming, he answered, “I’m sure I had a nurse. In fact,” he frowned. “If memory serves, a succession of them.”

  She laughed. “Were you very badly behaved then?”

  “I always had a bad temper,” he shrugged. “But it was more to do with my father. Servants were always falling out of favor.” He coughed. “If he thought anyone was too soft on me, too … sentimental, or I’d grown too attached, then he’d get rid of them.” At her startled look, he added. “He didn’t want me to grow up soft.”

  She squeezed his hand again. “I don’t think you have a bad temper,” she said, lifting her chin.

  He cleared his throat. “I do, though,” he admitted. “And I bear grudges.” Why was he admitting all his faults like this, he wondered uneasily? To the very person he ought to hide them all from! A little wildly, he cast about to distract her from his confession. “You were fond of your own nurse?”

  “Oh yes, she was a dear creature. Although …” she broke off, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t think I should have been her charge for as long as I was.” He wondered why she looked so uncomfortable. “When I was a small child,” she burst out confidingly. “She used to tell me fairy tales with the same characters to teach me my lessons. The angelic Lady Tilda and the naughty Lord Matty.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Lady Tilda always abided by the rules and lived a life of virtue and fear.” She gave a sad smile. “Around every corner lurked a pitfall for her to plunge headlong into. Even seemingly innocent things were waiting to trick her from the righteous path. Ogres lurked behind every bend in the road.” She gulped. “For a long time, too long, I tried to be like Lady Tilda, but—” she broke off her words distractedly. “The one I really loved was Lord Matty. You see, Lord Matty always recklessly strayed from the path, he was just too full of joy and curiosity to live in fear. Of course, he reaped the rewards of the wicked. He was punished at the end of each tale, soundly whipped and sent to bed without any supper. But here was the point that struck me the most.” Mathilde paused. “His resilience. You see, he never learnt his lesson, Guy. Next story time, who should come along, whistling a merry tune. Lord Matty.” She gave a small shaky laugh. “The story didn’t really come alive until he appeared. I used to long for him with bated breath. He was a breath of fresh air. Lady Tilda was just… unspeakably dull.” She threw him a look of appeal. “Does that make sense? I once tried to explain to Nurse that he was my favorite, and she was quite horrified.” She sounded so woebegone that Guy, who had been letting the story wash over him as he led them through the crowd, paused.

  “I’m not horrified,” he assured her, though it did cross his mind that he was not paying attention as he should. The bustling crowd was distracting him. He didn’t want anyone treading on her toes.

  “I’m glad,” she said gratefully. “You see,” her voice lowered. “One terrible day, I gazed into a looking glass and realized that it was Lady Tilda who was staring back at me,” her voice was choked now. She blinked her eyes rapidly. “It was very …upsetting.”

  Her distress got through to him, though the story’s significance escaped him. “You could never be dull,” he said
firmly, and crowded her to one side to avoid a donkey.

  “I’m happy you think so,” she said in a wobbly voice. “Though I fear many would disagree.”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her in close to his side. “Mathilde, did you not notice how Waldon lapped up your story this morning? How Temur loved your tales the other week?” He paused, letting his words sink in. “No one finds you lacking here. Least of all me.”

  She gazed up at him, the color blooming in her cheeks. “I’m glad,” she whispered, her arm slipping around his waist. They had come to a halt now as the crowd jostled and bustled around them. “Oh!” He turned his head to see what she was staring at. A broad, mean-faced man was loudly haranguing a stallholder, his expression twisted in spite. He raised a meaty fist to shake it in the woman’s face.

  “Guy,” said Mathilde uncertainly. But he already knew what she was going to say. “That man — he’s the carter.”

  XXII

  Guy could feel the throb in his knuckles as he changed his tunic for dinner that evening. Two were bruised, and one even split. He winced faintly as he fastened his buttons. If anyone had told him he’d be brawling in the marketplace that morning, he would never have believed them. But he’d held onto his temper, just. Despite the fact he wanted nothing more than to beat that man to a bloody pulp, he’d allowed himself a few blows only, and dragged him to the jail where he’d been apprehended. At this very moment, the carter would be in the stocks and on the wrong end of a lot of moldy, rotten fruit and vegetables. Mathilde had followed along jauntily behind them and told her story of horse thievery and assault in a clear voice. The carter had protested hotly and loudly that he’d never met the maid before, but he’d been cuffed around the head for his impudence and thrown in a cell all the same. She had not seemed unduly traumatized by the experience although he’d had to assure her the villain would not hang and would be freed from the stocks after the third day of punishment to return home.

  On their return to the lodge, Prudie and Robin had received the bag of much nicer almond cakes that had replaced the pastry horns and listened to the tale with relish.