Orla gazed at her with a slack jaw. “What choice have you?” she gaped.
“I don’t know,” Fenella admitted slowly. “But I’ll not go quietly. Ambrose has made a huge mistake if he thinks I will.” She gathered up her skirts to stand as her sister-in-law stared at her in alarm.
“Fenella... wait. You don’t mean to go to court?” she gasped. “You know the King does not agree with unescorted women presenting at court.”
That was true enough thought Fenella despairingly. King Wymer was a traditionalist where women were concerned. She doubted he’d lift a finger to help her. Rumor had it he was currently flushed with success from his recent reconciliation campaign in the north. Those that had been useful in negotiations with the powerful northern barons were being lavishly rewarded. Ambrose as his diplomatic equerry in the north would be in prime favor. She’d expected her husband to return home any day now from his two year sojourn. An expectation she’d held in vain, she thought bitterly. Fenella felt her gall rise at the faithlessness of men.
“I won’t stand for it!” she burst out anguished, holding the back of her hand to her mouth. Suddenly, she felt nauseated. The floorboards beneath her felt like they were heaving. Thurrold had been her home now for many years. She’d come to love the handsome timbered moated manor house with its abundant fields of barley and fruit trees. She’d been happy here, making a home and a rich family life for her husband. And all this time…he’d never loved her… The vows he’d made. The promise he’d given her father to cherish her. All lies.
She felt Orla’s fingers close over her arm like a claw and realized her skinny sister-in-law was struggling to hold her up.
“You’ll be fine,” Orla panted sounding panicked. “It’s just the shock.”
Fenella gave a low moan, sinking to her knees, as Bors keened and ambled to his feet around her, giving a series of low barks.
“Fenella!” Orla pleaded. “What ails you? You’ve never fainted in your life.”
No, she never had, she thought dully. She’d always been so sensible and down to earth. Ambrose had always maintained he despised showy, hysterical women who made displays of themselves. She’d prided herself on her level headedness. Well, pride comes before the fall.
“Fenella!” She realized Orla was chafing her hands now between her own. “Get a hold of yourself! If…if you don’t want to go into a convent, well we’ll think of something else…” Orla gabbled.
“We will?” Fenella whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Help me, Orla,” she appealed directly. “If you ever valued me as a sister…”
Orla’s expression wavered. She looked flattered. Maybe I never did let her do enough around the place, Fenella found herself thinking. Maybe I was too managing as mistress of Thurrold and did not consider her feelings as daughter of the house? Why am I thinking of this now? Why can’t I focus on the crisis at hand?
“Let me think,” Orla prevaricated. “Let me think…” She darted a wild look at her as if expecting her to pass out or vomit at any moment. “Wait! I have something…” she said holding up a finger.
“What is it?” asked Fenella, passing her arms around Bors’ fat neck and holding him still against her. His big warm body felt solidly comforting.
“You could... counter-petition the king?” Orla suggested weakly.
“Counter-petition?”
“Beg him to take your loyalty into account as both subject and wife.”
It sounded weak to Fenella, but then she remembered something else... something her father had once told her, when he'd had a few flagons of ale. A grievance over a broken betrothal in her girlhood. If I had more of a taste for battle, my girl, he'd said brandishing a roll of parchment. I'd take this matter further. But I just don't have it in me to take on the likes of Baron Vawdrey. Fenella had never blamed him. Baron Vawdrey was a fierce, booming man with a great bushy beard and she'd always rather dreaded his visits. She had broken her heart at the time, to lose his handsome son as a prospective bridegroom, but it had all seemed rather unreal, even when it was happening. But now, she wondered, could this same document be used as leverage in her favor? Even out here in Sitchmarsh, she'd heard tell of Oswald Vawdrey's startling rise to ascendency at court. Word had it, that he had the King's ear. She glanced down at Bors who was looking up at her worshipfully and felt a sudden recklessness take hold. I can’t let my beautiful boy go homeless, she thought with a spark of spirit. And I’m damned if I’ll go quietly to a nunnery!
“Very well,” she nodded suddenly decided. “I’ll go to court and counter-petition the king myself.”
Orla squawked as Fenella rose to her feet determinedly. “You’ll what? Wait! Let us discuss this calmly…We need a man to present at court for you! You must write to your oaf of a brother, and…”
“No time Orla,” she replied grimly. “I will have to collect Gil on the way to Aphrany. Sitchmarsh Hall is not too far out of my way and Ambrose could have his audience with the King even as we speak.”
“True enough,” agreed Orla grudgingly. “But what can you do to halt it?”
Fenella was brought up short by this, then her spirit flared. “I may have something, and Ambrose has left me with no choice. I must be bold,” she announced dourly. “I’m riding to the royal palace at Aphrany.”
“You’ve run mad!” her sister-in-law screeched sounding scandalized. “What if your brother orders you home? What if-”
“He will do no such thing once I have explained. You can come with us if you like but you’ll need to fetch your cloak,” Fenella told her grimly as she headed for her chest of papers. Surely her father's old paperwork was stored in there? Jeoffrey Bernard had not believed in throwing anything away. She was sure the old betrothal paperwork would be in there still.
“I think it would be better if I stayed here and held the fort,” Orla called after her as Fenella started up the steps.
She wasn’t surprised and simply cocked an eye at Bors who lumbered up the staircase beside her. Orla was a poor horse-woman and would only slow them down she thought, practical to the last. She and Gilbert could ride at a cracking pace if they went alone and cover the entire journey in a day and a half. She leant over the balcony. “Orla.”
“Yes,” called up her sister-in-law.
“Take care of my boy while I’m gone.”
“You and that dog,” tutted Orla. “Oh, very well!”
**
The King’s Palace at Aphrany
Oswald Vawdrey dipped his pen in the ink pot and called, “Come in.” His eyes did not lift from the page as he dashed off another sentence and then blotted it. The mid-day bell had just rung which meant he had only an hour left to finish his first draft of the peace treaty for the King. A slight frown appeared between his brows as his secretary came through the door. Bryce looked distinctly uneasy. “I heard your step in the corridor,” Oswald said, in an attempt to put the younger man at his ease. Bryce looked a shade less unnerved and advanced across the room with a pile of paperwork. “Sit,” said Oswald when Bryce hovered uneasily in front of his desk. It crossed his mind again that Bryce might not last long in this role. This would be inconvenient as he was punctual and scrupulous and Oswald suspected, incorruptible. Unfortunately, he was also scared of him which was not something Oswald was sure he could remedy. Usually his friendly veneer worked just fine. Sadly, Bryce seemed to have caught a glimpse of what lay beneath the surface. And what he had seen had left him badly rattled. Oswald was not sure how he could make him un-see it. He lowered his pen and sat back in his seat. His secretary was staring at the pile of parchment in front of him. Oswald’s eyebrows rose.
Bryce noticed it and stammered, “I thought you were working on the new peace treaty with the North counties this morning.”
“I am.”
“B-but when I left last night all you had was my notes…”
“And very useful notes they were too,” said Oswald briskly. “Thorough.”
“You’ve written the
whole thing,” said Bryce faintly.
“You flatter me. This is only the first draft.”
His secretary continued to stare at him wide eyed.
“After you left, I summoned an army of imps using the dark arts and they wrote it for me,” said Oswald dryly.
Bryce visibly started and color flooded his cheeks. “I don’t listen to gossip, my lord,” he said hastily.
Oswald smiled. He could tell from the color draining from Bryce’s cheeks that it wasn’t a particularly nice smile. He stopped smiling abruptly and his secretary looked relieved. “Well,” said Oswald briskly. “And what have you for me this morning?”
Bryce lifted the first letter from the pile. “Lady Portstanley wrote to her daughter in the Western Isles this week.”
“And?”
Bryce cleared his throat. “There’s a rather unflattering description of the King’s character in it.”
Oswald’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed? Treasonous?” he asked sharply.
“N-no, I don’t think-“
“Bryce,” said Oswald softly. “We are not concerned with unflattering descriptions. I need you to be able to pick up patterns, if anything sounds odd or unnatural – as though someone might be writing in code.”
“And all letters to the Northern barons,” Bryce reminded him.
“That is merely a matter of routine,” said Oswald with a shrug. Suddenly he felt badly in need of some light relief. “Incidentally, what did Lady Portstanley say about the King?”
Bryce’s color bloomed again. “Erm…” He held the letter up as he read aloud, “Wymer is nothing but a buffoon with a crown, a disgrace to his standard. His golden lion is a lazy braggart. His lioness is ten times as fierce as he’ll ever be.”
Oswald tapped his pen against his desk surface.
Bryce fidgeted in his seat. “It’s sort of coded,” he said miserably. “She equates King Wymer to a lion and therefore the lioness refers to Queen Armenal.”
“True,” conceded Oswald. “But she names Wymer, and the metaphor is an obvious one. The golden lion is the King’s standard as everyone knows. Post that one,” he said curtly. “She’s not telling her daughter anything she doesn’t already know.”
Bryce looked shocked and Oswald realized, suppressing a sigh that Bryce would have to go. Edwards, his predecessor had been so satisfactory until he had started blabbing state secrets to his mistress. Unfortunately she had also been in the employ of a foreign minister. “How do you feel about women, Bryce?” he asked on impulse.
“They cannot be depended on, my lord,” said Bryce primly folding his hands in his lap. “Their souls have a lot less substance. Their judgment is untrustworthy. Their characters, weak.”
“Indeed? I should like to hear you share your views with Lady Portstanley. I believe she would have plenty to say to you on the subject.”
Bryce went pale. He loosened the neck of his tunic which seemed suddenly to have grown rather tight. “Lady Portstanley is a lady of strong opinion,” he said nervously.
Well, that was one way of putting it. “Anything else?” asked Oswald pinching the bridge of his nose. He had sat up most of the night and Bryce’s company wasn’t exactly stimulating.
“A letter here from your sister-in-law, the Duchess of Cadwallader.”
“You opened it?” asked Oswald, fixing his eyes on him.
“O-of course not,” Bryce looked shocked. “I merely recognized her husband’s seal – the leopard. The Cadwallader leopard.”
Oswald relaxed. He held his hand out for Linnet’s missive and then dropped it unopened into his top drawer. He would read it later at his leisure. He already knew the contents. His brother’s warm regards, a few charming stories about his nieces and nephew and then some veiled hints about him settling down with a wife. Ever since his father’s death three months ago, Linnet had been like a dog with a bone. Probably because the old Baron had died clutching her hand and apparently spouting remorse about the fact his son and heir had never married. Linnet was sweet and Oswald was fond of her, but he had no place in his life for a bride. He had absolutely nothing to offer to one.
“There was one other thing,” said Bryce unhappily.
Oswald dragged himself away from thoughts of his family. He would not see Mason or Linnet for a good while now. “And, that is?” he asked.
“Viscount Bardulf is waiting in the outer chamber to speak to you.”
Oswald’s eyebrows snapped together. What the devil did he want? He sighed, massaging his temples. “Send him in.” Well, that was all he needed!
It was with a sour look on his handsome face that Oswald watched Viscount Bardulf saunter into the room in a ridiculous purple doublet with slashed sleeves revealing a pale lavender silk undershirt. Bardulf looked every inch the frivolous courtier, but Oswald knew him better than that. Unfortunately. He dragged a blank sheet of parchment across to cover his hand-written document, an action which Bardulf noticed with a smirk.
“My dear Vawdrey,” he greeted him languidly and drifted over to the window to look out at the quadrangle. “What an industrious fellow you are. Even at this hour.”
“As you see,” murmured Oswald, sitting back in his chair. He knew from experience that it was pointless trying to rush the scented and curled Bardulf, who would only come to the point of his visit as and when it suited him.
“Smells of candle wax in here. Someone's been working long past the midnight hour,” he said fiddling with the braided curtain cord. “I hope the King appreciates your devotion to his cause.”
Oswald didn't comment. The King had given him an earldom last month for his service, as well everyone knew. The fact was, that Bardulf was the Queen's creature as well as her countryman. No doubt Queen Armenal was behind this little visit. He waited patiently as Bardulf approached and threw himself down in the chair Bryce had so recently vacated.
“"Is this a social visit?” asked Oswald. “Shall I ring for honey-cakes?”
Bardulf smiled, but did not answer. “Your new assistant looks harried,” he said. “Probably realized what he's let himself in for, poor fellow.”
Oswald was inclined to agree. He shrugged. “Junior positions often involve long hours,” he said vaguely.
Bardulf tutted. “Such a pity about Edwards,” he said lightly. “He seemed so well-suited to the job.”
Oswald's gaze narrowed. “Yes, a great pity,” he agreed dryly. Edwards had been lucky to be dismissed with his head on his shoulders. As well Bardulf knew.
“A sad business,” Bardulf sighed inspecting his cuffs.
“Indeed.”
“Loose tongues can be so troublesome at court,” Bardulf let his gaze wander around the office as he kept his tone casual. “Even a little harmless gossip can take on sinister undertones if it involves a significant person. And you my dear Vawdrey, are most definitely a significant person.” His eyes snapped back to Oswald with an unmistakable message in their depths.
“This is true,” agreed Oswald smoothly. He spread his hands wide “But I am hardly a subject for gossip. A dull, worthy fellow such as myself.”
Bardulf smiled, but this time he looked genuinely amused. “The Queen has always found you most fascinating. And a little sinister,” he added softly. “The Vawdrey wolf, who creeps among the sheep. You are surprised at that? But you should never underestimate the Queen, my friend.”
“I have always greatly admired her majesty's intelligence.” Which was nothing less than the truth. Even if he was often on opposing sides to her at Court. In all honesty, the King and Queen were frequently engaged in an unspoken power struggle. And he was the King's creature, as much as Bardulf was the Queen's. Still, they sometimes found themselves ranged on the same side, united against a common enemy. He wondered if this was one such occasion. After all, why else would Bardulf be warning him? He waited patiently.
“Intelligence,” mused Bardulf. “Is that not a word that spy-masters use also?” He looked delighted with himself for making the co
nnection. “But I keep you from your important work for the Crown,” he said regretfully, motioning toward the document on Oswald's desk.
“Not at all,” lied Oswald.
“You are too polite. I know your time is valuable, unlike mine,” said Bardulf, gently shaking his head as he rose from the chair and sauntered over to the bookcase. “Allow me to extend my congratulations on your earldom,” said Bardulf blandly. “What a shame Baron Vawdrey did not live to see your elevation.”
Oswald shrugged. “He knew it was on the cards.”
“One son a duke and the other an earl. What an illustrious family!” drawled Bardulf. “And resourceful too, as neither of you were born into those titles.”
Oswald smiled, refusing to be drawn. “Perhaps the Queen can put in a word for you at some point,” he suggested blandly.
Bardulf seemed to consider this as he ran his finger down the spines of several leather-bound tomes. “Alas, I fear the price she might demand would be higher than I’m prepared to pay.”
“Indeed?” Oswald’s eyebrows rose. Bardulf’s tone surprised him. He sounded sincere for once. “I am sure you put in many hours of loyal service,” he murmured automatically as his brain scrambled.
Bardulf cocked his head to one side. “Yes,” he agreed. “But I am not willing to put my domestic life at the Queen’s disposal.”
“Domestic life?” repeated Oswald. “You spend your life in court quarters, as do I.”
“Bachelor quarters,” Bardulf agreed with him swiftly.
Oswald’s frown became more pronounced as he began to get a deep feeling of unease. “You are considering matrimony?” he asked carefully.
“Good gods, no!” Bardulf gave an elaborate shudder and returned to the seat opposite him.
Oswald regarded him steadily as Bardulf reached across the desk to pick up a paperweight of colored glass.
His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2) Page 2