“Wymer’s plan you say?” cried Lord Caterby.
“A likely tale,” snorted Lord Sutton.
Oswald ignored him. “Candidates, gentlemen, if you please,” he said looking around the room expectantly. “I need not explain, I hope, that they must be lacking in both ambition and an overly impressive lineage. After all,” he paused heavily. “A wife is raised or lowered to her husband’s status, is she not?”
Lord Sutton rubbed his moustache speculatively. “There is something in what you say, Vawdrey,” he agreed cautiously. “If we marry her off to some low-born knave then she herself becomes…” he looked around expectantly.
“Why, nothing more than the legally wedded wife of a lowborn knave,” chortled Sir Reginald de Bomfrey.
Lord Schaeffer looked horrified. “She is a princess of the blood,” he said censoriously.
Oswald gave him a hard stare. “Would you rather she shed that blood, in order to retain her elevated status?” he asked softly.
Lord Schaeffer quickly shook his head and stared down at the table top.
“Just how fat a purse is the King offering with her?” asked Lord Caterby frankly. “The poor fool would need some inducement.” He looked back toward the canvas and visibly blanched. The rest of the room turned their gaze on the portrait and Oswald narrowed his eyes at the oil painting. Did Una Blechmarsh really bear the stamp of her father’s features so faithfully, he wondered? Or was that merely a conceit of the artist who had been keen to flatter him? That massive frizz of yellow hair must surely be a wig, he reasoned. And could she really be so stocky and muscular of build? In his experience, women seldom had such barrel-like chests and wide square faces.
“Why, she looks just like a man,” said Sir Reginald derisively, cutting across his ruminations. “Look at the size of her great meaty fists! Legs like great ham-bones!” he shuddered. “Good luck to the poor bastard that ends up leg-shackled to her!”
All in all, it had been an extremely wearisome day, Oswald reflected as he locked his desk drawer. The handful of names that had been half-heartedly offered up as prospective bridegrooms, had all been dismissed by King Wymer as a damned insult. After four years in office, he recognized the beginning of an uphill struggle when he saw one. This problem was going to rumble on for weeks if not months before he managed to force a solution through. He rubbed his temples distractedly and looked up to find Bryce standing silently in the doorway with a document in hand.
“I’m finished for the day, Bryce,” he said rather sharper than he’d intended.
“You’ll want to receive this one, my lord,” his assistant said mildly.
“Oh?” He somehow doubted it. “What is it?” he asked impatiently, as he rounded his desk and outstretched his hand.
“Something the King had me draw up,” said Bryce, bringing him up short.
“The King?” asked Oswald. Why the hells would Wymer ask his assistant to draw him up some papers? Bryce handed the document over and Oswald saw at once that it bore the heavy wax seal of King Wymer. As his eyes scanned the document he nearly swallowed his own tongue. It was the official annulment of Fenella’s first marriage to Sir Ambrose Thane. He looked at Bryce who had tactfully withdrawn his gaze and was looking over his left shoulder. “It’s been finalized?” he asked, even though he held the proof in his own hand.
His assistant nodded. “And notification of the fact sent to Sir Ambrose.”
Oswald breathed out a ragged breath. “You were right,” he conceded. “I needed this after today.” He was almost tempted to sit back down, but he was eager to get back to Fenella.
“Congratulations, my lord,” said Bryce.
Oswald’s gaze snapped back at him, but his assistant looked his usual serious self. “What did the King say?” he asked suspiciously. “When he commissioned you to act on this piece of work?”
Bryce coughed. “His majesty – ah – expressed the wish that it might restore to you the peace of mind and evenness of temper that you are famous for.”
Oswald pulled a face, for he was under no illusion that the King would have phrased it anything like as tactfully. “And your reply?”
Bryce’s gaze flickered. “I opined that I thought it would provide some measure toward returning your equanimity,” he answered serenely.
“My good Bryce,” said Oswald dryly. “You are finally starting to speak like a politician.”
Bryce looked modestly gratified. “I believe you are right, my lord. For the King kept addressing me as Price,” he said. “And I did not even correct him, my lord. Not once.”
Oswald could not help but smile at this. “And how would you feel about changing it officially,” he asked. “For the purposes of advancing your career?”
Bryce appeared to consider this a moment. “Alas,” he said. “The only reason my uncle withdrew me from the seminary, was because I am the last of our particular branch to bear the name. I fear I could not change it without risking his wrath.”
It occurred to Oswald that his assistant would never have imparted such personal information even so recently as a month ago. The very clear boundaries they had once operated under had been blurred of late. And even stranger, he was not quite sure he could regret the fact.
“Lady Vawdrey would be very interested to hear this, Bryce,” he admitted.
Bryce made an exclamation and reached into the pouch he wore on his belt. “Which reminds me, these arrived today my lord. From Antony’s of Aphrany.”
He handed over two small wooden boxes. Oswald opened the first and found Fen’s modest gold posy ring had arrived. He checked inside and found their initials. For some reason, his hand flew to the small gold padlock on his chain. ‘Not Forgot’. He had been so sure the locket had been his mother’s, but now it struck him as odd that he could not remember. But why else would he wear such a keepsake? He tucked it back inside his shirt then turned to the second box. Inside it, were the two rings he had privately commissioned from Mr Antony, two thick gold rings with a ruby in the center of each. The rings were decorated with blue enamel. On the smaller ring, there were two silver panthers set on either side of the stone, and on the larger ring the ruby was thronged with two silver bears. This way, when they wore them, they would be wearing each other’s heraldic beast. He stared at them a moment, before snapping the box shut. He handed the first box back to Bryce. “This needs to go back to Antony’s,” he said. “And another inscription added to the inside of the band. The date of my marriage to Fenella, twelve years ago. And the words ‘not forgot’.”
Bryce nodded. “Yes my lord.”
“These are satisfactory,” he said holding up the second box with the matching rings. He glanced back at the annulment papers. “I will read this through at my leisure, but I am confident you have done a thorough job, Bryce. As always.”
His assistant blinked and then flushed faintly. “Yes my lord. Sir Ambrose has twenty-eight days to comply.” He hesitated before adding colorlessly. “My research indicates he will most likely find it necessary to withdraw from court and retire from public life.”
Oswald considered this a moment before replying quietly. “That would be satisfactory also.” Which was the bloody understatement of the century as far as he was concerned!
He made his way back to their rooms with a lighter tread, but was not pleased when he could hear loud voices as soon as he turned down the corridor. What now? As he got closer to the door he recognized Meldon’s belligerent tones and someone else.
“I tell you, I was given strict orders to bring this here stuff to these quarters,” the stranger was insisting.
“His lordship didn’t tell me nothing about it!” Meldon ranted. “And I’ve not got the time to be unpacking all this paraphernalia!”
Oswald swung the door open in some trepidation and found the entryway blocked up with two large chests and an even larger object swathed in hessian sacking. “What is all this?” he asked, stepping over one of the chests. “And where is my wife?”
“All day?” echoed Oswald. “Her plans were to sit only during the morning.”
“Aye, so she was, but when you cancelled the tournament plans on her, she decided she may as well devote another five hours to it,” said Meldon. “Lady Schaeffer sat with her this morning, and then that Lady Martindale what wouldn’t say boo to a goose, she sat with her all afternoon planning out their next tapestry.”
“Well, that’s what this is!” said the stranger, tipping back his hat to scratch his head. “A portrait from storage at Vawdrey Keep and some old tapestries. Knowles, the steward, he said you sent him word that you wanted ‘em, my lord…”
“Ah yes,” said Oswald, his frown clearing. “So I did. But I will admit, I did not think Knowles had much hope of finding them.” He crossed the room, extracted a sword from a wall rack and returned to cut the strings swaddling the sacking. He wrestled a moment with the hessian before it fell away to reveal a rather murky portrait of a young lady in a dark green dress, staring out with an expression of the utmost seriousness. Oswald took three steps back to take a more critical look at it.
“Well, that’s the mistress, and no mistake,” said Meldon. “Though I don’t ever remember seeing that picture at the old Keep.”
“It was in storage, Knowles, said,” supplied the stranger helpfully. “Under a pile of old furnishings.”
Oswald held up a hand for silence as he continued to peruse the portrait. He could see why Meldon recognized her, but in his opinion, the artist had not possessed either the talent or the quality materials to do Fenella true justice. The shining amber eyes looked a mere light brown, and her glowing, creamy skin, just looked pale and rather flat on the canvas. He had got the heart-shape of her face right and the eyebrows, but he had not captured the charm or the wit that made up the whole. He guessed she looked about fifteen years or thereabouts, and certainly the dog, Bors who sat on her lap, was a mere pup. He was just about to glance away and ask them to open the trunk, when he saw it. The pendant suspended on a chain at the front of her bodice. His hand flew to the chain he wore tucked into his tunic. The gold padlock shape was most distinctive, and Oswald’s throat closed a moment. It had been Fenella’s. He had worn her token on his person for more than a decade. Unknowingly. His fingers tightened around the locket.
Meldon cleared his throat. “M’lord?”
Oswald’s startled gaze flew to his. “Yes?”
Meldon shifted on his feet uncomfortably, “You looked like you was having a turn.”
“I’m fine,” Oswald waved a hand, and walked rather unsteadily to lean against the table. How could he have forgotten such a thing? He never forgot things! Even the finer details. His head was reeling.
“Shall I open the trunk m’lord?” asked the newcomer.
Oswald nodded, as he poured himself a much-needed glass of wine. His hand, he noticed as he lifted to his mouth, shook with a faint tremor.
Meldon helped the other man prize open the lid and they dragged out a long rolled up tapestry. His eyebrows shot up. Clearly Fenella had not been a mere dabbler in the art. This would have been a labor-intensive piece of work that would have taken her many months to complete.
“Careful!” Oswald barked as the man unrolled its considerable width with a kick of his boot.
“Sorry m’lord,” he said hastily, and crouched down to unfurl the rest of it.
Oswald walked closer and blinked at the scene laid out before him. It had not yellowed or faded with age, possibly from being in storage and the bright array of colors and stitches could clearly be seen. His heart sank. Why the hell had he got the impression she was not proficient in tapestry? This would have taken her hours and hours of work. He cast back his mind, to her telling him that seemingly throw-away story of how she had sent him a betrothal gift. And he had confessed that he had never even seen it. Even worse, he seemed to remember uttering some bloody stupid comment about his father probably letting his dogs sleep on it. He turned cold all over. Fifteen-year-old Fen would doubtless have expected a word of praise from her betrothed for all the time she had invested in this. He glanced back over his shoulder at the grave-faced girl on the portrait. She would have sat for fucking hours waiting for some word of thanks from him! Or at least some acknowledgement of her precious gift. And he hadn’t done a damn thing. He couldn’t even trust his memory any more, since he had clearly forgotten all about the locket she had given him. Had he seen the tapestry, and simply shrugged it off as a girlish whim in his callow youth? He walked slowly around the edges, his eyes pouring over the large decorative border which depicted thorny vines decorated with roses and intertwined with a procession of bears and panthers up on their hind legs, as if dancing. The central panel was a large angelic figure with a halo of roses, brandishing a fiery sword and stood under a heavy tree, bursting with fruit. Oswald was not sure of the significance of the central image, but the intertwining of their heraldic beasts showed that this was clearly a celebration of the joining of their houses. A celebration he had somehow missed at the time. Gods. It was so big it nearly covered the whole floor! He cleared his throat. “I want this hung immediately,” he told Meldon.
“At Vawdrey Keep?” asked his servant uncertainly.
“No, here,” he clarified, pointing to the bare walls. The gods knew, they had little enough by way of decoration. It was, he realized uncomfortably, a far cry from the fantasy home of Mr and Mrs Roberts that Fen had described. “The portrait can be hung over the fireplace,” he said. “And – er – Meldon. See about getting some ribbons and greenery installed in here for the midwinter festival.”
Meldon bridled indignantly. “The old baron never asked me to nothing of that nature-” he started belligerently.
“Well, I’m asking you now! Get your god-daughter to do it!” Oswald bit back in irritation. “If that’s beyond you!”
He flipped a gold coin at the delivery man who was standing by gawping at the two of them. “For your troubles,” he murmured in dismissal.
“Thank you, m’lord,” gasped the man, blinking at the value of the coin and backing out of the room before he could change his mind.
“What did you give him so much for?” grumbled Meldon. “They’ll all be expecting the same treatment!”
Oswald ignored him, and turned on his heel, making for the bedchamber. In there he found Fenella’s maid tidying her mistress’s clothes away.
“Ah, Trudy,” he said, swiftly masking his irritation. “Perhaps you could help Meldon to hang the tapestry next door?”
“Yes, m’lord,” she said bobbing a curtsey and backing out of the room. He closed the door after her with a frown. It had never occurred to him that palace quarters left anything to be desired before, but at this precise moment in time, he felt distinctly underwhelmed with them. He paced the room a couple of times and was just debating whether to go in search of Fenella when he heard the outer door slam. Hurrying out into the adjoining room, he was irritated to find it was only his brother returning with yet another silver cup and a battered shield. Roland groaned and dropped down into a chair, with a grimace.
“I’m surprised you’re not out celebrating,” Oswald commented. “First place?”
“What else?” asked Roland arrogantly. He set the decorative cup down, before being distracted by Meldon’s antics. “What’s he doing, stood on that chair?” he asked.
Oswald ignored him, as it was blatantly obvious Meldon was hanging the tapestry. Instead he poured his brother a cup of wine.
“That picture’s not straight,” said Roland critically as he took it from him. Trudy darted back to tip it to the right. “That’s better,” he said grudgingly. “Though the likeness is terrible,” he looked at Oswald. “Don’t tell me you paid good coin for that.”
“That’s not the portrait I commissioned,” said Oswald irritably. “That’s one her father had yea
rs ago.”
“He was robbed,” said Roland taking a swig of wine. “I’m sure Bors was far better-looking than that as a puppy.”
“Any objection to your new cup being placed on the mantel with some flowers in it?” asked Oswald, picking up the large vessel and turning it over in his hands.
“Yes,” snapped his brother, snatching it back. “I’m having it melted down on the morrow. And why’s everyone trying to make this place habitable? Are we expecting visitors?”
Oswald dropped down heavily into the seat next to him. “Would you say this place is suitable for a newly-wed couple to start out married life together?” he asked.
Roland gave him a sideways look. “How the hells should I know?” He scanned Oswald suspiciously. “What ails you?” he asked. “You don’t look yourself.”
Oswald shrugged. “I scarcely know these days,” he admitted.
Roland clicked his fingers and whistled.
“Bors isn’t here,” said Oswald. “Presumably he’s with his mistress.”
Roland shrugged a shoulder irritably. “What do I care where her dog is?” he asked.
Oswald looked at his brother in exasperation. “You’re always fawning on it!”
“Me, fawning?” asked Roland indignantly. “At least I don’t sit my own wife on my lap, in company!”
Oswald bit back his reply as the door opened and his wife walked in, her dog on her heels.
“Good evening,” she said, looking rather tired, as Bors barged past her to fling himself at Roland’s legs. She dropped her cloak on a chair and started pulling off her gloves.
“There he is!” said Roland patting Bors’s barrel-like body like a drum. “My good boy!”
“I’m so sorry we missed your tournament Roland,” said Fenella with a quick smile. “Only-” she stopped abruptly, staring at the wall-hanging. “Wha-?” She dropped a glove on the floor and Bors darted forward to scoop it up in his mouth. “Um-” she raised a hand to her head and stared at it a moment. “Is that what I think it is?” she asked faintly.
His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2) Page 30