The Unlovely Bride (Brides of Karadok Book 2)

by Alice Coldbreath

  “Er yes, quite,” Lenora agreed, shifting uneasily in her seat. “But we had a heart-to-heart talk about it last night before we fell asleep and that is all resolved between us now.”

  “Oh good! Well, I am extremely pleased to hear that,” Eden said with approval. “That certainly sounds most sensible.”

  Conversation was broken off for a while as Eden’s attention solely focused on Roland who was going toe-to-toe with the final navy armband, Sir Armand de Bussell. As they watched, de Bussell slipped to one knee and the point of Roland’s sword was at his neck.

  “Yes!” cried Eden, raising her scarf to her mouth. De Bussell flung down his blade in disgust, yielding to the victor. Roland Vawdrey dragged off his helmet and looked toward the box where Eden blew him a kiss. “He won!” Eden crowed. “I knew he would of course,” she added quickly. “Only sometimes the oddest upsets occur.”

  “I like it when that happens,” Lenora mused. “It gets rather dull when the same person always wins.”

  Eden looked as if she would argue for a moment, but then let it pass. “What shall we do now?” she asked. “It will take the better part of an hour for Roland to see to his horse and change out of his armor.”

  “Oh let us go and watch the jousting,” Lenora begged. “For it is my favorite event.”

  Eden conceded, and directed Cuthbert to let her husband know where they had gone. Arm in arm, the two cousins climbed down from their rickety perch and strolled toward the next field which had been set up for the jousting.

  Again, Lenora was surprised to see the wooden structures lined up for observing the competitors. Her heart sank a little for they seemed somewhat knocked together and crudely constructed. Still, Eden scaled the steps of a vacant one, so Lenora followed her up. This one seemed a good deal sturdier than the last one, so Lenora took her seat on a bench with a relieved sigh.

  Her eyes scanned the field as Eden craned forward to make out the banners.

  “‘Tis Lord Kentigern,” Eden said with a little shiver. “I always find him rather terrifying. He is so powerfully built and that blind staring eye…”

  “He is a mighty fighter,” Lenora said absently. She could see no sign of a white gate on a black shield. Not that she was looking for Garman Orde. Not at all.

  “Oh no!” Eden said in accents of deepest dismay. “How unfortunate for the very first round.” She clicked her tongue.

  “What is it?”

  “Sir Renlow d’Avenant,” Eden said in tragic accents. “What cruel twist of fate would choose to pitch him against the likes of Lord Kentigern.”

  Lenora peered down at the two figures. Lord Kentigern was a giant of muscle and sinew with a monstrous horned helmet. His opponent looked to be a much less bulky figure, slim and tall in old-fashioned armor that had seen far better days. His family crest was so worn and faded that Lenora could not even make it out on the thread-bare pennant, try as she might.

  He had no squire, though someone darted forward to hand up his lance. Lenora blinked. It looked rather like Cuthbert. She darted a glance at Eden. “Is that—?”

  “Oh yes,” Eden said. “Roland is rather a sponsor of Sir Renlow’s, you know. He may not look very imposing,” she said defensively. “But Sir Renlow is utterly, utterly fearless. If there is any challenge, he will throw himself into it quite without any regard for his own fate. I believe he either broke a limb or ended up unconscious at every tournament last year, and yet night after night, he turns up to the feasting without fail, good-natured to the last.”

  “So, he will not regard his first round draw of Lord Kentigern in the light of a misfortune then?” Lenora ventured.

  “Oh no! It wouldn’t even enter his head,” Eden admitted. “He sees every challenge as an opportunity to cover himself in glory.”

  Lenora blinked. “A very estimable young man.”

  “Yes,” agreed Eden doubtfully. “But I wish he had more care for his person. No-one else seems to look out for him,” she fretted in what Lenora could only regard as a maternal manner. She eyed Eden with surprise. She could not be much older than this Sir Renlow. As if aware of Lenora’s scrutiny, Eden fidgeted in her seat. “There is something rather unworldly about him,” she said looking a bit embarrassed. “I can’t help but worry about him sometimes.”

  “Like a monk, do you mean?” Lenora asked in a puzzled tone, but the thunder of hooves told them the joust had begun so they both faced forward and braced themselves for the impact.

  To her embarrassment, Lenora found herself shutting her eyes at the terrific crash of splintering wood on plate armor. When she peeped back again, broken lances lay on the ground next to the mighty fallen figure of Lord Kentigern and to her astonishment, Sir Renlow remained sat in his saddle. A deathly hush fell over the stadium as everyone took in this strange turn of events.

  Sir Renlow struggled to lift his vizor, which was either rusted shut or dented out of shape. In the end, he pulled it off completely, exposing his head of light brown curls. He was just dismounting to utter silence when Cuthbert ran forward and threw a bucket of water over the insensible Lord Kentigern. This broke the spell and the crowd started murmuring and nudging each other.

  “He won!” whispered Eden, clutching at Lenora’s arm. “He won!”

  Lenora could not celebrate the win however, as her eyes were riveted to the stirring bulk of Lord Kentigern, who was lurching unsteadily to his feet, looking like some kind of grotesque minotaur with his fearsome helmet. “Oh dear,” she said under her breath. “Look out!”

  But Sir Renlow was oblivious to her warning. He approached Lord Kentigern quite unabashed, wearing a shy smile on his face. Is he quite mad, thought Lenora with alarm? The crowd seemingly agreed with her, for a horrified hush had once more fallen over them all like a blanket.

  Lord Kentigern reached up and fumbled with his helmet, until his horribly scarred face and beard were revealed. “Boy!” he roared. Then suddenly, they were grasping each other’s forearms in a companionable gesture. A ripple of surprised appreciation ran through the crowd.

  “Three cheers for Sir Renlow!” shouted someone who sounded rather like her cousin Kit. A clamor of cheers rose up and Lord Kentigern was exchanging words now with the jubilant Sir Renlow, who was beaming from ear to ear.

  “Well that is certainly a turn-up for the books!” Eden commented, sitting back in her seat. “Who’d have thought Lord Kentigern would be so sportsmanlike. He is usually so taciturn at the celebratory feasts.”

  “It was certainly not the outcome I was expecting,” Lenora admitted.

  “Roland will be so sorry to miss Sir Renlow’s triumph.” Eden frowned, looking around. “Oh dear.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your husband approaches,” Eden said with misgiving. “And he does not look happy.”

  Lenora looked quickly around and saw Garman bearing down on them. Eden was right. He looked angry, dirty and… Lenora flailed about for the word she was looking for. Virile, she thought, as the word flashed into her mind insistently. It was the right word after all. She had no idea why she had found it funny when he said it before.

  Distractedly she picked up her alms purse and fanned herself with it. “Have you taken a tumble in the dirt?” she asked as he approached. Perhaps it wasn’t the most auspicious greeting. His glower seemed to grow even more pronounced.

  “What are you doing over here?” he ground out, flicking a brief glance at her cousin and nodding brusquely. Lenora did not dare look at the proper and correct Eden’s face. No doubt she would be stiff with outrage at such an informal greeting. Whatever he had been about to say next died on his lips as he noticed Sir Renlow’s arm being raised in victory by none other than Lord Kentigern.

  “Well I’ll be damned!”

  Lenora heard Eden inhale noisily at the curse.

  “My husband has long held that Sir Renlow showed potential for greatness,” Eden said loftily. “Despite his frequent losses.”

  “It’s Kentigern’s ma
gnanimity that shocked me, not D’Avenant’s win,” he replied, casting a thoughtful look at the brutish giant who was limping from the arena. “If D’Avenant wasn’t so dedicated to fair play then he’d have many more wins under his belt, not just this one.” His lip curled. “The boy’s an idealist.” His scorn for idealism seemed plain.

  “How old is he?” Lenora asked, scrutinizing Sir Renlow’s boyish good looks again. He looked both youthful and slender compared to Kentigern, but then she thought, most people would. She had an idea that Sir Renlow D’Avenant’s appearance was deceptive. He moved with the grace of an athlete and the shoulders under his chain mail shirt were clearly muscled. She suspected if she stood next to him, he would be tall and have muscles enough. In truth, he must have to have knocked Kentigern from his seat.

  “He is some three and twenty years, I believe,” Eden answered. “‘Tis just his open friendly manners that make him appear still a lad. That and the fact he is always surrounded by a goodly number of squires, rather than fellow knights.”

  “And why is that?” Lenora asked curiously.

  “Oh,” said Eden airily. “He is very patient and kind to them by all accounts. Cuthbert often takes himself off for a lesson from him when Roland is too curt or irritable to go over something again. “He’s never too busy to help them master some skill they lack.”

  “So he has no squire of his own?” Lenora asked with interest watching as Cuthbert, Hal, and her own cousin surged forward to help Sir Renlow gather his lances and battered shield and lead his horse around the competing area to receive his victor’s accolades.

  “No,” said Eden. “For he’s as poor as a church mouse. Do you not see how battered and rusty his armor is? All cast-offs. The D’Avenants are not wealthy and he is but a third son. When he is captured in the melee, Roland often pays his ransom out of good will.”

  “That is good of him,” Lenora commented, avoiding Garman’s eye.

  “Indeed, Roland will be sorry to have missed his triumph,” Eden said, raising her hands to clap Sir Renlow when he drew near to their box. Lenora joined her and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Garman nod to him. Sir Renlow grinned back, flushed and happy. Really, if his nose had not been broken at some point, he would almost be too pretty with those features, she thought, and that curling nut-brown hair.

  “It seems the other knights accord him respect,” Lenora mused and heard Garman snort derisively.

  “He’s a fool,” her husband said curtly. “Who believes in knightly virtues culled from storybooks.”

  Lenora remembered Berta’s sour words about quarrelsome knights and the trouble they brought to the streets of Aphrany. “He must know,” she said with a frown. “That none of you embody those virtues.”

  “Oh yes,” Eden broke in. “I asked him about that once. He said he does not model himself on what a knight is, but what a knight should be. He is a most remarkable young man.”

  Garman looked skeptical. “And what did Vawdrey say to that?” he asked mockingly, looking her cousin straight in the eye.

  Eden colored slightly. “He admits it a rather unrealistic endeavor,” she admitted stiffly. “But he does not jeer at Sir Renlow’s lofty ambitions.”

  “In your presence, he doesn’t,” Garman added dryly.

  “I have often observed with my own eyes,” Eden responded, lifting her chin. “That my husband does not profit by the hostage taking during the melee, or foul play. Unlike some of your fellow knights.”

  There could be no doubt from her pointed tone, that she included Garman in this number, Lenora reflected, as he laughed.

  “Vawdrey’s one of the dirtiest fighters on the circuit!”

  “He is not!” Eden gasped. “How dare you try to besmirch my husband’s name!”

  Lenora opened her mouth to intercede, but a deep voice interrupted them as Roland Vawdrey strode into the box.

  “What’s this?” he asked, making straight for Eden and pulling her into his arms. Lenora noticed with interest that her prickly cousin made no protest, but even tipped her face up to accept his kiss and cling obligingly to his tunic. “If you mean to tear down my reputation, you’ll never manage it in my wife’s presence,” he added with a lingering smile, his eyes still on her. “She won’t hear a word against me.”

  “Your wife was just informing us you’re a staunch supporter of D’Avenant’s pure vision of knighthood,” Garman said derisively.

  Roland’s eyebrows snapped together, and he darted a startled glance at his long-time foe, before returning his gaze to his wife, where it softened. “Oh well,” he said lightly. “He’s a good fellow Renlow. Heart of a lion.”

  “Head in the clouds,” Garman snapped.

  Roland’s lips screwed up in what Lenora strongly suspected was an effort not to agree. “His notions are sound at heart,” he said, sounding hard-pressed.

  “He’s deluded.”

  “He has just won the joust,” Lenora pointed out.

  “He’s merely ascended to the next round,” Garman replied dampeningly. “Where he’ll very likely go crashing out to de Crecy.”

  “He’ll likely win the most medal for most valiant at tonight’s feast,” Eden asserted with spirit.

  “Oh aye, very likely,” Garman agreed. “A piece of tin you can’t even melt down and no accompanying purse. A hollow victory.”

  “Not to one whose head is in the clouds,” Lenora found herself arguing. “One such as he will be trailing clouds of glory for a sennight.”

  Garman’s head turned sharply to look at her and he scowled.

  Roland laughed at this. “Very likely,” he agreed. “That does sound rather like Renlow.”

  Lenora rose from her seat. “Should we head back to the tent?” she asked her husband, conscious he had come looking for her. “You will likely want to wash and change,” she added for Eden’s benefit as her cousin had seemed startled by her words.

  “You do not wish to remain here with us and watch the rest of the day’s jousting?” Eden asked her with a frown. Lenora shook her head. “But it’s your favorite event,” her cousin persisted. Roland slid onto the bench next to his wife and murmured something in her ear. Eden looked from Lenora to Garman and then back again. “Oh,” she said. “Well, but won’t you both return here after your ablutions? Sir Garman,” she said with a regal inclination of her head. “’Twould be pleasant to become acquainted now we are to be family.”

  Lenora could see Garman was surprised by the invitation. “Should you like that?” he asked Lenora, not quite meeting her gaze.

  “It would be nice, but we could always meet up at supper,” Lenora assured him. “You could take your ease if you are tired, or we could go and watch the challenge to arms if you’d prefer.”

  “At supper then,” Roland interrupted. “That seems a good notion, what say you, Orde?”

  Garman agreed, looking rather guarded. Lenora smiled at her cousin who was still a little put out that they were to be parted already.

  “I won’t get up and bow,” Roland said. “As we are all family here.”

  Lenora rose and crossed to Garman’s side. He preceded her down the steps and held out a hand to steady her when she followed. As they crossed the field, he drew her hand firmly through his arm. “What a shame you have no squire to help ready your bathing water and lay out your apparel.” He shot her a quizzical look, but made no reply. “You must admit one would be useful. Have you never had your own?”

  “No,” he replied shortly. “I do not have the patience. I leave that sort of thing to good-natured dolts like d’Avenant.”

  “Is he a good-natured dolt?” Lenora asked doubtfully.

  “You seem strangely fascinated by him,” he said, tension running through his words.

  “Do I?” Lenora pondered this. “Mayhap, because I have never before seen one such as he.”

  “Maybe you should have approached him with your offer,” Garman said, his words completely devoid of expression.

  “Appro
ached him?” Lenora repeated. “Oh, I see. You mean for marriage.” She felt her cheeks redden. “How very ungallant of you to say so.”

  “I’m not gallant. But then, that is why you picked me is it not?”

  Lenora bit her lip. “Are you saying that you wish I had picked another?” she asked with a definite edge to her voice.

  “It seems odd you were forced to settle for me, when you still had the likes of Emworth panting after you.”

  Why did he sound so bitter about it, Lenora wondered? Maybe he wished she had approached Emworth. For some reason, that thought made her feel suddenly rather cold. “I explained that whole incident,” Lenora reminded him. “He was not trying to run away with me.”

  “No, he was just trying to get his filthy hands on my property.”

  Lenora flushed. Property? “Actually, my grandmother’s solution to me losing my looks was for me to wed Sir Lionel,” she admitted. “But I dismissed that out of hand.”

  “Why?” He bit the word out as they approached the field of pavilions now, Garman practically towing her in his wake.

  “We’ve already had this discussion,” Lenora reminded him breathlessly in her effort to keep up.

  “Pity does not inspire lust in a man, Lenora.”

  “Pardon?” Lust?

  “Pity was far from what he was feeling for you.”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t care what his feelings were,” Lenora said frankly. “And I never did.”

  He gave a short laugh at that. “Frank to a fault, aren’t you?”

  Was she? He practically thrust her into their tent before him. “I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us,” she said as he followed her inside, whipping his chain mail shirt over his head. Lenora’s gaze skittered over his heavily-muscled torso.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said thickly. “Unless you want to be flat on your back.”

  She caught her breath. “Maybe I do want that,” she shocked even herself by saying aloud.

  He paused a moment in the act of unbuckling his belt. Lenora could see he was breathing hard. When he spoke it was in a low steady voice. “I’m covered in dirt.”