“Oh yes,” said Martha with satisfaction. “We won’t have to force you into this bodice!” She pulled it around Eden’s waist and ribs and began on the lacing at the back. “My poor lady couldn’t eat a morsel all day.”
Eden thought of Lady Payne’s voluptuous figure and thought she must have looked a good deal more alluring in it than she. She glanced down and was surprised to see a lot more of her breasts on display than usual. “Um, Martha…” she started.
“Just a minute, my lady,” said Martha who was tying the laces. “I’ll be with you presently. Just let me secure this. We don’t want your dress falling off you in mixed company.”
“No indeed,” agreed Eden fervently. “But I’m a little worried that it’s gaping at the front.”
Martha moved around to her front. “Where?” she said. “It’s supposed to be like that…” Then her eye seemed to catch something, and she placed a finger to her lips.
Eden looked down and realized the servant must have noticed the unsightly rash. “What can I do?” she asked despairingly.
“Never fear,” said Martha. “I shall fetch you some rosehip oil. ‘Twill soon soothe it.”
“Really?”
“Don’t move a muscle.” She hurried out of the door and Eden crossed to the small mirrored glass, trying to crouch down to view the offending area. There was far too much of it on display. And it was still blotchy and pink. Eden groaned. The low neckline was not scooped, but began from her half-exposed shoulders, so it wasn’t like she could try and add in a modesty panel of some kind. She turned this way and that trying to catch a glimpse of what the wretched dress looked like on her, but the small rectangle of glass did not allow much of a view.
The door opened again, and Martha held up a small glass vial. “I have it,” she said. “This will soon calm your sensitive skin. You apply it while I arrange your hair,” she suggested, and Eden sat on a low stool.
“As a bride, it might be nice to wear it loose?” suggested Martha, running the comb through Eden’s black hair.
“Certainly not,” said Eden firmly. “I was married some four days ago now.”
“Wedding feasts are known to go on as a long as a sennight,” the maid pointed out.
“Not mine,” retorted Eden, her cheeks pinkening as she remembered the hurried ceremony followed by the subsequent flight of disgrace from Hallam Hall. She shivered slightly.
“It’s nice and sunny outside,” Martha assured her. “A fine day for it.”
Eden looked down and started rubbing the oil into the pink rash across her chest. “How soon before it starts to work?” she asked.
“Depends,” admitted Martha with a shrug, her quick fingers braiding a coronet in Eden’s hair. “It’s different on different folks. But my sister, she swears by it. Her Jed has a great stubbly chin, wreaks havoc on her skin, it does.”
Eden’s face turned redder, realizing Martha knew the cause of her rash. “I see. Thank you, Martha.”
“You can keep it,” the maid continued as Eden set the small bottle down. “Unless he grows his beard out longer, it’ll likely happen again.”
“He said he’ll have a care in future,” Eden rejoined, without thinking.
“Did he, by gods?” Martha sounded impressed. “Well, that’s gentlemanly of him. But I’d take it all the same, if I was you. They have these intentions, the menfolk,” she said complacently. “But then the mood takes ‘em and they’re more beast than man.”
Eden felt her face must be glowing like a beacon by now. “Thank you, Martha, you may be right,” she said in a stifled voice.
“You’m very welcome, my lady.”
**
Fortunately, Gunnilde Payne was hovering at the foot of the stairs waiting for her.
“Oh, don’t you look pretty!” her new friend cried, clapping her hands together with delight.
“I feel rather uncomfortable out of my customary black,” Eden confessed in an undertone. “Are you sure I don’t look a sight?”
“Oh, quite sure!” responded Gunnilde with admiration. “If I looked like that, I would expire of happiness on the spot! You look like a faery princess!”
Eden was a little taken aback at such effusive praise. “That is very kind of you to say,” she ventured uncertainly. A faery princess? She glanced at Gunnilde’s happy face wreathed in smiles, and noted, not for the first time that her friend was a little fanciful.
“Shall you take a little something to break your fast now?” her friend asked, gesturing toward the main hall where even now Eden could hear the murmur of conversation and the clatter of plates and cups.
She shook her head. “I’m not at all hungry.”
“There will be pastries and such brought out in an hour or so, in any case,” Gunnilde said reassuringly and Eden linked her arm through hers. “Shall we go forth?”
“Let us.” They proceeded at a leisurely pace down to the far field where the spectators were filing into the benches.
“Hie!” shouted a familiar voice. It was Hal Payne. He waved his arm vigorously. “I’ve saved you seats!” And good seats they were too, roughly in the same spot as the previous day. They joined him and Eden sat between the two Payne siblings as before. Hal twisted in his seat and looked at her curiously. “You look different today,” he said finally, blushed and scratched his ear.
“It is naught but my borrowed finery,” Eden replied firmly.
“And your hair,” said Hal glancing up again, but not quite meeting her eye.
Eden self-consciously patted her hair. Despite the fact she’d told Martha she did not want to wear it loose, the maid had taken up only the front and sides of her hair and plaited this into a braided coronet. The rest of her hair, hung down almost to her waist and instead of being covered by a serviceable veil, she wore instead a short, frippery piece of gauze pinned below her braided crown. It fluttered ineffectually, concealing nothing but rather, Eden thought, drawing attention to her locks. “Yes, I suppose,” she conceded. How funny, she thought. She had never dressed as a marriageable maiden, until she was neither a maiden, or marriageable.
“Have they announced the order of the jousting?” asked Gunnilde, leaning forward.
Hal nodded. “The first pair is Kentigern and de Bussell, followed by Vawdrey and Linley, followed by Bevan and Renlowe.”
“Sir Renlowe?” said Eden startled. “Surely not! How much more damage can that young man sustain?”
Hal grinned. “We’ll soon find out.”
Eden pressed her lips together with disapproval. “It ought not to be permitted.”
“Oh, but…” Gunnilde broke off, looking embarrassed. “Your pardon, but I thought he was quite your husband’s protégé?”
“Roland’s?” asked Eden in surprise. “What gave you that impression?”
“Oh! Tis only…” Gunnilde fidgeted in her seat.
“She’s been listening to gossip,” said Hal. “Depend upon it. She always gets that look on her face, when she has.”
“Hal!” his sister exclaimed reproachfully.
“What gossip?” asked Eden, curious despite herself.
“Well, my father’s steward told me-”
“Henderson?” interrupted Hal.
“We only have one steward!” his sister pointed out in exasperation. Hal shrugged.
“Yes?” prompted Eden, placing a restraining hand on Hal’s forearm. He seemed to be deriving great pleasure from tormenting his sister. He fell still at once.
“Well, Henderson told me that Sir Roland paid Sir Renlowe’s ransom, after the melee, so that he was free to join the banquet from the outset and did not have to sit with all the other captive knights.”
“Oh.” Eden recalled Roland’s frustration when Sir Renlowe had ridden up to the Challenge at Arms the next morning. That must have been why. He had perhaps wanted Renlowe to rest up and not fling himself straight back into combat, she reasoned, sitting back in her seat.
“Why Hal!” said Gunnilde suddenly. “Y
our face is as red as a beet! You must have had too much sun yesterday.”
**
Roland knocked down his visor and Bavol danced beneath him. “Easy boy,” he cautioned. Was his horse picking up on his own distraction, he wondered? His mind had been otherwise preoccupied since he’d left his wife in her bath that morning. Of course, he knew he owed her some consideration after taking her maidenhead the night before, but still, it had gone against the grain, leaving her like that. He scowled behind his helmet. He had thus far resisted looking for Eden in the crowd. Only now, he allowed himself a quick scan of the sea of faces. She would be sat near the front, with the Paynes, he thought, his eyes seeking her out. And then he spotted her. Or was it her? He did a double-take. It looked… rather like her, but then again it also did not. Bavol whinnied, but he ignored him, staring at this female in pale blue dress, with her eyes of sapphire and her black hair loose. She turned her head, listening intently to that yellow-haired son of his host’s. A bolt of pure jealousy shot through Roland, winding him. Why the fuck was her hand resting on his arm with such familiarity? Bavol jolted and struck a hoof against the ground. Roland leaned down to pat his neck. “Easy now.” Soothing his horse was the last thing he felt like doing and in all honesty he knew he was not doing a good job of it. Not when he was feeling so disordered. With a start, he realized what it was that was bothering him. This Eden he could see now in the crowd was not wearing her customary drab disguise. This Eden looked like the same Eden he had woken up in bed with five days ago. And now everyone could see her. He swore, and Bavol skittered sideways in the enclosure, throwing back his head.
“What ails him today?” yelled Cuthbert jumping back a few paces to a safe distance.
“It’s not his fault,” said Roland grimly. It was his. The horse was picking up on his own inner turmoil. He needed to rein them both in, if this morning’s jousting was not to be a complete disaster.
**
Five minutes later, it was all over. Roland was rolling in the dust and Bavol had bolted to the far side of the field. He groaned. Everything, but everything, had felt off this morning. From the balance of the lance in his hand, to the direction of the sun in his eyes. Kentigern was not the opponent to face when you were not on your best form. He tentatively flexed his limbs, as he rolled to a seated position. Nothing felt broken in any event. The thud of footfalls heralded Cuthbert’s approach. “Go after Bavol,” he directed him. His squire showed him a clean pair of heels, disappearing after the steed. Roland lifted off his helmet, shaking his head to clear it. Two servants appeared to help him to his feet. He let them haul him to his feet and staggered a little before shrugging them off, to walk unaided from the area. He was stiff and his ribs hurt, but that would hopefully wear off as he kept moving. The impact had dented his armor but did not look to have pierced it. Breathing hurt, but with a bit of luck, the ribs were bruised rather than broken. He grimaced as other knights slapped him on the shoulder, commiserating him.
“I’d beat that horse if I were you, Vawdrey,” boomed de Crecy.
Roland ignored him, heading for the physician’s tent.
James Attley fell in beside him. “What the hells happened?” he demanded.
“Wasn’t my day,” answered Roland shortly.
“I’ll say! Never seen you go out in the first round before!”
Roland bit his tongue, rather than point out his draw had been against the mighty Kentigern. Attempting to justifying his poor performance was beneath him. At least he hadn’t lost to some nonentity. He’d have been capable of even that today!
“You’re going to have a devil of a job getting that armor off,” predicted Attley.
Roland glanced down at the battered suit. “Very likely,” he growled. Sensing he did not feel much like conversing, Attley took off when they reached the tent promising to go and check on Bavol. “Send Cuthbert to attend me here, if you see him,” Roland shouted after him.
The physician tsked and tutted and had to call in two fellows to help remove the armor, a painful proceeding which had Roland gritting his teeth.
**
The business with his armor and the physician took a lot longer than Roland had anticipated. He limped back to the tent he shared with Attley and Bevan to wash and change. Cuthbert caught up with him there and assured him all was well with Bavol. Roland went along to check for himself anyway, and spent some time reassuring his spooked horse. It was while he was there that one of the squires ran in excitedly. “It’s all over!” he shouted. “They’ve been tumbling off this morn like I’ve never seen before! It won’t even go to a third round!”
Roland looked up in surprise. “Who won?” he called.
“Lord Kentigern, that’s who!”
Roland grimaced. It ought to be a consolation that he had lost to the eventual winner, but somehow it was not. Damn his eyes. He emerged from Bavol’s stall box and decided on impulse that he may as well start packing up. He’d be damned if he’d sit through another night’s feasting, toasting to that bastard Kentigern’s victory!
He was rolling up clothing when Bevan and Attley strolled into the tent some half an hour later. He’d already secured his armor into a pack, although the breastplate did not look salvageable. Both his friends broke off abruptly from their conversation when they spotted Roland, and looked extremely awkward.
“What is it?” he asked, looking up at them and narrowing his gaze. Attley coughed and scratched his neck.
“Naught’s amiss,” said Bev hastily. “We were just discussing Kentigern’s choice of tournament queen, that’s all.” Bev reddened, and Roland felt himself turn cold.
“He didn’t,” he said in an ominously quiet voice. “Tell me he didn’t.”
“Now, now, it’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” protested Attley, throwing up his hands.
“Did he give the crown to my wife?” barked out Roland.
“Well… yes,” admitted Attley, “but-”
“Now Roly, don’t for the lord’s sake go flinging off in a temper!” appealed Bev, but it was too late. Roland had already bolted from the tent, muttering foul oaths and dire punishments. The pain from his ribs shot through him short knife blades being plunged into his sides, as he hurried across the field. He locked the pain into another place, small and dark, as his temper overrode all, pushing him forward. By the time he’d reached the tournament arena, the spectators were out of their seats and milling around, taking refreshment. Roland scanned the crowd for the ice-blue, slender figure of his wife, and located her stood next to the dumpy little Payne girl at the far end of the crowd, with her back to him. He strode toward her, people hastily falling away as they caught sight of his thunderous expression. Her friend saw him before Eden. She turned a little pale, her animated conversation breaking off. Eden only appeared to notice her riveted gaze directed over her shoulder, at the same time as he grabbed her elbow and swung her round.
“Ah, there you are,” said Eden. “I was starting to worry you might have been injured.”
Roland gave a mirthless short laugh. He was just about to launch into a blistering tirade at her behavior, when he caught sight of the flower garland sat squarely upon the Payne girl, and not Eden’s head. He opened and closed his mouth, and shot a suspicious glance at Eden’s composed face. Had he misunderstood? But no, his friends had definitely said that Eden had received the honor. As he looked from one to the other, Gunnilde reached up to touch the garland perched atop her hair.
“I can scarce believe you awarded it to me,” she said dreamily, and Eden smiled back at her.
“You were by far the most deserving,” she said, and shot a challenging look Roland’s way.
“And how is it, wife,” he asked rallying. “That you were in a position to bestow such a favor on Miss Payne?”
Eden fixed a cool look on him with her deep blue eyes. “Lord Kentigern’s choice fell inappropriately,” she said with a shrug. “So, I simply reassigned it.”
Her effrontery almost took
his breath away! “It is no mere maid’s place to award such a prize,” he retorted.
Eden’s eyebrows rose. “As you well know,” she responded, “I am no maid. Not anymore.”
Roland felt the tops of his ears turn scarlet. Though why her words should put him to the blush he had no bloody notion! “It’s a knight’s honor to bestow,” he bit out doggedly.
“You would have preferred it then,” she answered. “If I had accepted Lord Kentigern’s gesture? Curious! I had an idea you would not care for it. I shall be sure to bear that in mind, should it occur again.”
Roland stared at her in helpless indignation. His chest heaved. She was tying him in knots. Was she doing it deliberately? “Did he place it on your head?” he ground out, unable to stop himself.
“No, he did not,” she replied crisply. “He tipped his lance toward me. The garland fell into my lap, and I promptly placed it at Gunnilde’s brow. That is all.”
The gods alone knew why, but that did appease him a little. He tore his eyes from Eden’s infuriatingly calm face, to look at the Payne girl again. She was watching them both anxiously.
“If Sir Roland thinks I should give it back-?” she started.
“No-” he began, only to be cut off by Eden’s firm “Nonsense!”
Gunnilde looked extremely relieved. “Oh good,” she beamed. “For it is quite the most exciting thing to have ever happened to me!”
It seemed to Roland, that the fact it had been given to her by another woman did not lessen the distinction for her in any way. He turned to his wife. “We’re leaving,” he told Eden abruptly.
“Leaving?” she repeated.
“Now,” he clarified.
She stared at him. “Why?”
“You vastly over-estimate yourself, wife,“ he told her bitingly. “Your place is where I say it is. No more, no less. You are merely required to obey my will.”
Eden stiffened, then turned back to her friend. “I must have some speech with your family before I leave.” She glanced down, “Your step-mother’s dress-”“
An Ill-Made Match (Vawdrey Brothers Book 3) Page 13