They had vastly preferred the extravagant loss of that good-looking fellow from the first round, Una thought wryly. What was his name? Sir Armand de Bussell. He had danced around for all the world as if he were on a stage. Feigning, he would go left and then going right, staggering from blows against his shield and tumbling to the ground as though grievously injured, before rolling to his feet mere moments later, rallying again.
The crowd had responded with glee to his antics, cheering and then sending up terrific groans when he had been bested by what seemed a lucky circumstance by his opponent. Since he had been defeated, the crowd seemed glum and depressed in spirit.
The announcement of the next combatants’ names evinced no ripple of interest and so the afternoon proceeded. Una could not be impervious to the growing disquiet or the fact the mood was turning uglier as the day wore on. She glanced uneasily at the King, but Wymer’s expression showed just as much disgust as the rest of the audience. The Queen, complaining of a headache, had disappeared after the first hour and Wymer had gestured for Una to move up into Armenal’s seat.
It seemed an inauspicious thing to do but she was the subject here, so Una duly moved her stiff structured skirts along and lowered herself with the usual attendant difficulties onto the Queen’s seat. Her ceremonial robes were hard to maneuver for they were stiff and rigid from the framework underneath. Wiping her brow, which was perspiring under the heavy headdress, she wondered how many more bouts they were to sit through before the eventual winner emerged.
The sun beat down on them as the contenders were eliminated one by one. To Una’s horror, Otho proceeded from round to round until there seemed a certain horrible inevitability about his ending up in the final two. With a sort of dull, resigned pain, she watched the very last opportunity of escaping from her cruel fate trickle through her fingers. She had always known her bloodline would be the death of her.
Quite apart from the impediment of their close blood tie, Otho was ineligible for the tournament on every single score. He had no loyalty to the Southern King he had been raised to despise, no estate to his illegitimate status, and he was competing under a false name. She had no doubt that these facts would be swiftly discovered in a matter of mere days, if not hours, and then what would happen? A double execution?
Una gave a faint moan and pressed a scarf to her mouth. She was sweating in earnest now, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the hot sun or pure unadulterated fear. Were her last living moments to include being married to her own brother, and then summarily executed? Just when she thought the history books held all the shameful chapters of her blighted family’s misdeeds, she found there was room for yet more infamy and scandal.
As though on cue, his current opponent yielded, and the crowd stirred restlessly to see Otho stand his ground, the final victor. A pugnacious expression on his face, he raised it to the royal box and Una gazed at him in despair. You wretched fool, Otho! Una thought bitterly, clenching her fists. Why would you do this to me? I was so close. So, so close to renouncing my title and finally losing this cursed name!
Just then, she noticed some commotion down on the sidelines. Earl Vawdrey was barring the announcer from entering the ring to confirm Otho’s win and was instead was sending in a group of entertainers. They looked a ragtag bunch of jugglers and acrobats, and in the center of them all was a swaggering court jester resplendent in trailing robes of red and gold.
“What the hells?” Wymer growled, sitting up in his seat. “Now what’s afoot? Why’s the fool entered the fray? I thought he wasn’t appearing till the feast. Blessed if I can make head or tail of this business!”
Una could only deduce that the court jester did not usually bring his revels to the competitor’s field and heartily regretted that he had done so now. He was the one person at court who dared to be downright rude to her face with impunity. She surveyed him now with dismay as he leapfrogged onto one of the acrobats and rode him like a horse about the arena with a demented look upon his face.
The crowd immediately erupted into laughter. The jester dismounted and performed three forward rolls upon the ground before leaping up like a jackrabbit.
“Hold, my good lords, my good ladies, gentles all!” he shouted, his voice carrying far and wide. “I must protest, most heartily at being left out in the cold from these proceedings. For His Majesty, the King, must needs grant me a boon on May Day, as is the custom.” He directed a look up at the royal box, and the King rolled his wrist in assent.
“Aye, that is true enough,” Wymer acknowledged grudgingly. “Good master Robkin.”
“Aha! Aha!” The jester bounded about the ring, appealing to the crowd. “Didst not thou hear that good King Wymer did promise me a boon?” The crowd murmured back an assent, curious at this late turn in proceedings. “Then, this I ask of thee my King,” the jester suddenly boomed. “That I am given sway over this tournament, in my official office of Lord of Misrule!”
Una felt the sudden frisson of excitement that ran throughout the audience. Lord of Misrule? That put a different slant on proceedings. Suddenly, Robkin held his hands out before him and clapped for attention. “Bring forth the prospect,” he yelled.
The acrobats and jugglers all looked around in great confusion, before suddenly converging on poor Otho, who was stood watching from the sidelines with some bemusement. They seized him now by the arms and bore him to stand in front of the fool.
“This?” howled Robkin. “You dare bring this before me? Nay, say it is not so!” The crowd reacted with amusement as he walked around Otho examining him like a bull at the fayre, prodding him with his long bauble stick’. “No, no,” he said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “This will never do!” He held up his hand for silence as the sounds of mirth grew from his audience. He stood a moment, cupping his chin as though in rapt concentration. Suddenly he spoke, with great deliberation. “His legs, in truth, are not bandy enough for to make him a goodly man in the stable,” he announced, slapping Otho’s calves until he was forced to jump from side to side to avoid the jingling stick, as the crowd dissolved into gales of laughter. “No, no,” he added, walking around to Otho’s back again and gesturing toward his thighs. “I mislike his stance. I’ faith, ’tis too wide! He’ll ne’er stand guard at the stable door, in truth, he’s more suited to a pigsty!”
Wymer guffawed, then seemed to remember his company. “Foolish fellow,” he said lamely.
“This groom,” the jester pronounced grandly, “is a fat-kidneyed fustilugs, unfit to mount so fine and spirited a filly.” Una could have sworn that every eye present swiveled to look at her. They knew full well her unkind nickname. There could be no mistaking that she was the butt of this joke. “I like him not!” yelled the Robkin. “I’ll see that Northern mare saddled by a worthy rider, you just see if I do not!”
Una tried to not let her dismay show, as the crowd erupted in howls and whoops of laughter. The time she had spent in the company of rough soldiers had helped her to turn a deaf ear to many a bawdy joke or rough speech. Even so, she had to make a concerted effort not to stiffen in the face of such impertinence, if not downright insult.
“I invoke the law of reversal,” the fool said knocking his staff against the ground three times. A whispering started about the arena.
“The law of reversal?” Wymer repeated slowly. He looked at Una blankly. “What does the fellow mean by that?” Una could make no answer, for her heart was suddenly in her throat.
“He who is first, is now last,” proclaimed Robkin triumphantly. “And he who was cast down in that lowest of positions, is by misrule magic, elevated now to the most revered and fortunate of men!”
A wondering chatter began in the stalls as everyone whispered and nudged each other in speculation.
“He who is first is now last,” repeated the King with a fierce frown. “I don’t think I quite …”
Una peered down at the ring and saw Earl Vawdrey gesturing to some guards. For one horrible moment she thought they were goin
g to arrest Otho, but instead they plunged into the audience, and Una watched with a sort of horrified fascination the bizarre turn of events that saw them drag five minutes later another knight altogether into the ring. He still held a flagon of ale to his lips and held a half-eaten pastry between his fingers. He had now shed most of his armor, but still wore the shoulder plates and his chainmail vest.
“Eh, what’s all this?” she heard Sir Armand de Bussell ask, as he was marched into the center of the ring by an armed guard.
“Good Lord!” thundered King Wymer. “Last place was De Bussell!” He reached out a hand to grab her sleeve and wag it. “De Bussell, I say!” Una looked at him speechlessly. Clearly the King was in the grip of some deep emotion. His eyes glistened and his face glowed. “By gads, I’ll give Vawdrey a dukedom for this!” he said, his voice rasping. “Or mayhap,” he reflected. “He’ll want a title for that rackety youngest brother of his. Viscount Vawdrey or some such thing.”
Back in the ring, the jester was turning somersaults, before he approached the bewildered De Bussell.
“Sir Armand de Bussell,” announced Robkin, puffing out his chest. “Have I got glad tidings for you this day!” He looked about him slyly at the audience who were starting to break out into cheers. “For you thought you were cast down in the doldrums, the lowest among this fine company.” He struck up a benevolent attitude. “Little did you expect, the miraculous transformation of your fortune!” Trumpeters blasted at this point, having picked up some cue, and a banner unfurled from the royal box. Una leaned over and to her astonishment, saw the large green wyvern of House Blechmarsh hanging in all its glory. She blinked, reflecting that this particular standard had not been displayed in a Southern palace in some five hundred years. True, they had expunged the golden crown that should sit at the beast’s brow, but even so, it was an astonishing turn of events.
“I don’t quite follow …,” she faltered, not able to believe that she was to be offered a reprieve from the cruel fate that had so nearly befallen her. She started again. “Am I to understand—?”
But the King was not attending her, instead he was snapping his fingers to attract the attention of one of his pages. “Fetch us some refreshment, boy! Honeyed mead and cakes!”
Una turned back to gaze down at Sir Armand whose expression of affable bewilderment was now being replaced with one of stunned disbelief. He was saying something now, his hands waving. It looked very much like a spirited denial of the great honor done him. Una swallowed and dragged her eyes away from his protests. Poor man. She felt bad for him, indeed she did. Doubtless this unlooked-for distinction was quite unwelcome to him, quite the opposite of what she herself felt. With his own patent lack of experience in the field, he could not have expected to win her hand. He must have entered simply for the experience and now he found himself saddled with an unwanted bride.
For Una’s part, she felt almost sick with relief. Her eyes scanned the arena anxiously as she sought out her half-brother. She saw his expression dark with rage, as Earl Vawdrey drew him to one side. Otho was bright red with anger, his mouth working furiously as he gave vent to his wrath. How like their father he looked at this minute, Una thought despairingly. She had seen their royal father’s rages too many times to think this storm would pass quickly.
Una watched tensely as the King’s chief advisor appeared to quietly listen for a while, then all of a sudden, lift his head and say something that made Otho’s expression blanch. Otho staggered a little, his face white as chalk as he stared at Lord Vawdrey who was now all smiles again. Was it purely a figment of Una’s imagination or did his smile look a little … sinister? Una didn’t think she was fanciful, but certainly something about his expression and his stillness was disconcerting.
Looking at Otho, she could see he felt it too. He looked like a stunned fish, opening and closing his mouth. Lord Vawdrey’s arm extended and she saw him passing something that looked like a purse of monies. For a moment, she caught her breath, thinking Otho would likely fling it back in his face. But to her surprise, he took the purse, gave a nod and turned on his heel, disappearing into the crowd, leaving Earl Vawdrey standing to watch after him with an enigmatic expression.
If she did not know better, Una would have thought Otho had been paid off.
*
“Come now, Una!” Queen Armenal called from the other side of the screen. “You must surely be in your shift by now? You’ve been long enough to undress three times and the groom’s party will be approaching soon.”
Una sighed as she unbuckled the last of the straps that held the great structure of her underskirts together. It was an exhausting business climbing in and out of her royal regalia, and these Southern women had no idea of the awkwardness of the wide panniers Una was forced to wear, which made it so difficult to negotiate narrow doorways and corridors.
“I won’t be much longer,” she replied as she stepped out of the wicker cage and from the giggles and laughter on the other side, guessed that the Queen was likely rolling her eyes with impatience.
“I’m sending someone in to help you,” Queen Armenal replied testily. “Jane, do please go and move things along!”
Una bit back her instinctive refusal of help. She had only ever had one attendant, her dear Estrilda who had dropped dead with extreme old age after they had been only two months in residence at the winter court. She had been Una’s mother’s attendant before her and a dear creature, her protector, and her most loyal friend. She was irreplaceable and since she had gone, Una had been fending largely for herself.
It was not that she did not like Jane Cecil, the Queen’s favorite, for she had the nicest manners and had only ever been scrupulously polite and deferring toward her. If Una thought it a little odd that the Queen’s favorite should be sister to the King’s acknowledged mistress, she kept this thought to herself. Recently Lady Helen Cecil had been forced to retreat from court to the country estate the King had gifted her, for she was clearly increasing with child and without husband.
Everyone at court was fully aware of the fact and Una could not say why precisely she found it all so distasteful. Her own father had had a parcel of bastards, but as her mother had died when Una was a few days old, there had been no question of them having to coexist in close quarters. She supposed it was no wonder that the Queen could be a little sharp somedays. After all, she had given Wymer no issue, so perhaps she felt her position precarious, though he already had a son and heir by his first wife, good Queen Eleanor.
Lady Jane swept behind the screen with an apologetic expression on her face. “Allow me to—oh!” she stared at Una in frank astonishment and then at the pile of heavy fabrics and the complicated wooden structure fastened together with leather straps, then back to Una again.
Una cleared her throat. “My royal costume is quite elaborate in its underpinnings. Very different to the Southern royal fashions,” she explained.
Jane nodded. “Yes, indeed,” she agreed faintly. She touched the wicker structure that Una had worn laced around her waist with one slippered toe. “It must have been vastly uncomfortable,” she marveled.
Una nodded. “Yes,” she agreed simply. “But now I am no longer a princess I need never wear it again.” She gave a swift smile to the surprised Jane. “Perhaps after all, it would be helpful if you could assist me?” she suggested, drawing her heavy linen shift up and over her head. Jane hurried forward obligingly to help drag it off her arms, and Una let out a relieved breath to be finally down to her last layer.
She stood now in the very thin strappy garment that was worn against her skin. She knew it to be rather sheer, but as the custom always used to involve placing the bride naked into the bridal bed, she could not see that it would signify much. She rethought this, however, when she saw how Jane stared at her.
“This too is very different to your own?” she ventured, gesturing to the translucent slip.
Jane swallowed and turned very pink. “Indeed,” she gulped. “Why, it has no sleev
es at all!”
“No,” Una agreed. “We generally wear a second shift on top of it that has the sleeves. This one is just for next to the skin.”
“Do you sleep in that?” Jane asked, reaching out a hand to touch the filmy fabric of the skirt. “Would you not …” She hesitated, her cheeks flaming. “Fall out of it?”
“If it is cold then I would leave on the outer shift also. As for falling out of it,” Una glanced down at her deep bosom and then back at Jane who was girlishly slight. ”I never have.”
Jane’s lips formed an “Oh,” before he gave herself a slight shake. “Are you ready to—”
Una shook her head and pointed to her frizzy yellow hair. “First I have to remove my wig,” she explained.
“Wig?” squeaked Jane, and Una nodded. “You—you wear a wig, princess?”
“Of course,” Una said shrugging. Her father had worn one and her previous understanding was that all royals did. Now, at Jane’s incredulous reaction, it dawned on her that in this, as in all things, the Blechmarshes were distinct in adhering to the most uncomfortable and rigid of practices. She sighed and sat on the wooden chair, taking up the little bowl she reserved for this purpose, and reaching up began removing the headful of hairpins she wore to secure the false mane in place. After a moment or two of stunned silence beside her, Jane joined her in the task and Una was glad to find her fingers were gentle as she extracted pin after pin and added them to the bowl.
“Wearing all these must give you a blinding headache,” Jane murmured as she extracted the last of the clips.
“My scalp does get very tender,” Una admitted. “But again, after today I will be free from this also, so …”
The Consolation Prize (Brides of Karadok Book 3) Page 2