Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1) Read online

  This is a work of fiction and any names, characters, events or organisations are either a product of my imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people is purely coincidental.

  © Alice Coldbreath, 2019

  I

  The Winter Palace, Aphrany

  “Oh dear,” fretted Mathilde as she took a step back and regarded her young friend, who stood swathed in one of her long white shifts. “Is this really going to work?”

  “Course it is!” said Willard, rubbing his snub nose. “We’re much of the same height.”

  “Ye-es,” agreed Mathilde doubtfully. But she didn’t really think people would notice his height anyway, when he lay down in her bed.

  “Too late to get cold feet now,” scolded Robin, her other friend. “Now sit on this stool, while I chop off your hair. Piers is standing watch down the end of the corridor. He said if your nurse returns, he’ll hoot three times like an owl.”

  Mathilde obediently dropped down onto the chair, as she was bid. She held her head very still as Robin wielded the shears about her head.

  “Don’t take her ear off, Rob,” cautioned Willard. He was laying his own suit out for Mathilde to don. She glanced at the bright particolored hose and short tunic and felt her heart quail. But Robin was right, it was far too late for cold feet. She had committed herself to this daring plan weeks ago. She watched in strange detachment, as a pile of her long mouse-colored hair grew at her feet. A draft on her neck made her shiver. “Is it done?” she asked nervously.

  “Just tidying it up a bit,” said Robin with a frown as he capered about her, snipping with the blades.

  “You need to tidy it.” Willard snorted. “Looks like she visits the same barber as my uncle!” From his derisive tone, Mathilde could tell that was not a compliment.

  Robin ignored him, frowning in concentration. He took a step back and tipped his head to one side. “Not too bad,” he said at last, looking back over his shoulder at Willard.

  “If you squint,” agreed Willard.

  “Now get those clothes on,” urged Robin. “And I’ll start tacking your hair to this.” He snatched up the lace cap she wore to bed and started at it industriously with a needle and thread. Willard knelt on the floor and started gathering up her fallen locks.

  Mathilde caught up Willard’s clothes. A roll of wrapped linen started to unfurl and she made a hurried grab for it. “What’s this?” she asked holding it up in confusion.

  Robin colored slightly. “It’s for binding,” he said and gestured to his own flat chest.

  “Oh!” Mathilde glanced down involuntarily at the slight swell of her small bosom. She didn’t think she’d have to worry too much about that aspect of the charade, but she was grateful to her young friends who clearly thought of everything. “Thank you.”

  She disappeared behind a painted screen to change. The boys at thirteen she thought were too young to care about nakedness, but she was fully four and twenty, so modesty had to be preserved. Studiously avoiding the glass, for she did not wish to be put off by her shorn head, she hurriedly pulled on the white linen braies, followed by the woolen hose, blue leg first and then yellow leg. When it came to fastening the two together at the top, she struggled a moment, her fingers fumbling over the unfamiliar process. When it felt secure, she turned to unravel the strip of linen and wrap it around her chest area. In truth, she wasn’t really sure she’d tied it tight enough.

  Turning this way and that, she wondered if in fact, it hadn’t added bulk rather than not. Sure enough, her reflection was a slap in the face. She scarcely recognized herself, and blinked in silent stupefaction at the strange looking creature in the mirrored glass. The sight of her legs alone was enough to rob her of breath! Did she really have the nerve to go abroad with them on display like that? As for her hair… she gulped. It hung down no longer than her jaw. And she had worn it down to her waist since she was five years old.

  “My lady?” called Rob from the other side of the screen. Doubtless he had heard her fall silent.

  “N-nearly done,” she stammered, and sprang into action, the spell broken. Too late to worry now. She had made her bed, and an imposter was going to lie in it. She wriggled into the undershirt, followed by a bright green tunic and a leather belt. Pulling the laces at her throat tight, she made a knot in them. “I’m coming now,” she said, as she took a deep breath and emerged from behind the screen.

  “Lord blind me!” ejaculated Willard in surprise. Both boys were knelt now, up close to the candle-light while they sewed her hair to the edges of her night-cap. They both stared.

  When they did not speak, Mathilde nervously fingered the blunt ends of her locks. “Will I pass muster, do you think?”

  “Not if you play with your hair like that,” said Robin, clearing his throat. “You’re a boy, remember.”

  Mathilde dropped her hand hastily.

  Willard jumped up and approached her as Rob carried on sewing. “You got to change your mannerisms too, milady. S’no good, just your clothes and hair.”

  “I see,” said Mathilde nodding. She squared her shoulders. “Like this?”

  “Better,” he conceded. “But you got to have assurance. Like, you got to be reminding yourself in your head whenever you walk into a room. Don’t creep in like a mouse. You got to think ‘I’m every bit as good as the likes of you. And one day I’ll be better. I know it, and so do you.’”

  Mathilde’s eyes widened. “I see,” she said listening intently to his advice. She rather thought that such a mantra would help with her confidence. “I think,” she said suddenly. “That I should have a knife at my belt.”

  Willard grinned, pleased she was taking to her role. “Aye, you should,” he agreed. “But, my father gave me mine so…”

  “I did not mean to take yours,” she said quickly, when he looked reluctant. “I can take the one from my dressing table...”

  “That one?” asked Robin, nodding toward the jeweled dagger. “It would get stolen in a heartbeat on the road, milady! Or others would think you stole it and we’d be hauled before the law.”

  “Oh,” replied Mathilde crestfallen.

  “You can take mine,” offered Willard.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t…”

  “You can,” he said firmly. “If you’re to be a convincing boy, then you’ll need one.”

  “Then you must take mine,” said Mathilde equally firm. She walked to the dresser and picked it up by the hilt. “When we meet again, we can exchange back. And this will be a token of our faith in one another.” She passed it to him carefully and he took it with a soft whistle.

  “Where did you get it?” he asked turning it over. The jewels flashed. There were two rubies decorating each end of the cross guard, and on the pommel was a large emerald.

  “My first husband sent it to me as a betrothal token ten years ago. I used it for opening letters and cutting pages and such.”

  “Are you sure..?” asked Willard suddenly doubtful. “What if I lose it or…”

  “Quite,” she replied, cutting him off. “After all, it is my own to bestow.” When both boys stared at her, she added awkwardly. “And it is not as though it has any sentimental value. I only ever met Lord Langdon once.”

  “I always forget that you’re even married, let alone a widow,” commented Willard ingeniously.

  “A widow twice over,” she reminded him quietly. She couldn’t really blame him. She’d never felt like a wife herself in anything but name. Hopefully that would all soon change. In a few short weeks she would face her current husband, Lord Martindale in person. Then she would tell him, that she wanted to be wedded in truth, as well as lawfu
lly. Willard passed her his own serviceable dagger in a leather sheath. She tucked it into her belt without examining the blade. After all, it was more about feeling the part than functionality. “And if I should lose your blade,” she told him, “then mine becomes yours.”

  “Then I hope you do lose it,” said Willard fervently.

  “Well, in that case let us exchange now and be done with it.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly,” she said. “After all, you are sure to run into some serious reprisals for your part in my flight. It is only right that I make you some gift in reparation.”

  Willard spat in his palm and extended his right hand to her. She wrinkled her nose. “Nay, you mustn’t do that,” he cautioned. “All men know this is as binding as a blood oath. Or as near to it as damn it,” he added conscientiously.

  “A blood oath?” repeated Mathilde, doubtfully. Spit might be a bodily fluid, but it was not blood.

  “Is that not right, Rob?” Willard appealed to their friend.

  “Aye,” Robin flung at them over his shoulder. His needle flashed in and out of the light brown hair.

  “Very well then,” Mathilde said, and raising her hand, delicately spat into it. Willard rolled his eyes. Then she extended her hand and tried not to flinch at the feeling of his wet palm against her own. Being a boy is disgusting!

  Some ten minutes later, she gazed down at Willard lying in her bed, wearing her nightgown and cap, with her long locks hanging about his shoulders. It was most extraordinary, and the impression made Mathilde feel quite light-headed. “Don’t forget,” she cautioned. “Speak in a whisper. I told Nurse my throat was sore, so she’ll be expecting your voice to be scratchy and hoarse.” Willard nodded.

  “And huddle under the covers,” added Robin. “Don’t loll. You’re supposed to be suffering from a chill and you’ve got to spin it out as long as you can, to make good our escape.”

  Willard pulled a face of long-suffering and gave an exaggerated shudder. “Oh, I’m ever so ill, Nurse,” he whispered pathetically. “I believe I shall not last till morn!”

  “Don’t say that for the lords’ sakes!” blurted Mathilde in alarm. “That would make her fetch my mother!”

  “Only say that you’re tired and need to rest,” added Robin.

  “Would you both stop fretting?” sighed Willard. “I shall be very well. ’Tis you who shall be late. Weren’t you supposed to meet Gordon at the south gate on the stroke of midnight?”

  Mathilde and Robin’s eyes met. “We’d better go, milady.” Impulsively Mathilde fell on Willard and hugged him fiercely.

  “Mind my hair!” he said in a muffled voice. “It’s not terribly secure.”

  “If they try to punish you, you must get word to me at the Martindale estate which is called Acton March.” Mathilde urged him. “And when the furor has died down, you must write to me —”

  “Only if it seems safe,” added Robin heavily.

  “You have the purse of money I gave you—”

  “Yes, yes,” said Willard. “Stop fussing and go! All will be well. I’ll get a hiding no doubt, but I daresay it won’t be my last.” He uttered this with such sanguinity, that Mathilde’s bosom was filled with admiration for her brave young friend. Truly, he was the role model she should take for her boyish ideal.

  “I will never forget this, Will,” she promised as Robin grabbed her wrist and started to pull her from the room. “I am forever in your debt.”

  “Oh aye,” agreed Willard with a yawn. “And you said I could keep the knife, mark you!” He turned onto his side and tucked a hand under his cheek, his eyes drifting shut, as Mathilde quietly pulled the door to behind them.

  “He can’t truly be feeling sleepy,” Mathilde marveled, as she and Robin crept along the shadowy lesser-used corridors on a tortuous route down to the south gate of the castle. He must have been dissembling for her benefit. After all, she felt like her own wildly beating heart would leap out of her chest given any excuse.

  Rob snorted. “He could sleep the night before his hanging, that one,” he murmured.

  “Don’t say that!”

  Rob’s hand closed tightly around her own. “Don’t forget his uncle’s a bishop,” he reminded her. “He won’t come to any harm. Besides, he’ll tell them you made him do it. Like we planned, remember?”

  “That’s true enough,” she consoled herself.

  “Ho! You boys!” She and Robin both stiffened and turned to face a rather tipsy-looking courtier dressed in a virulent shade of puce. He beckoned imperiously, and Rob started forward. “Not you,” frowned the young man, rocking back on his heels. “That one.” He pointed at Mathilde. “A look of innocence still clings to his features. My lady-love may be softened by it,” he added sentimentally. Rob opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, Mathilde hurried forward and stood before the young man. He blinked down at her a moment owlishly. “Have you ever been in love, m’boy?” he asked with a hiccup.

  “Nay my lord,” she answered truthfully. Then coughed. Should she have tried to lower her voice? It sounded sadly girlish.

  “A pure high treble,” he sighed with a sad smile. “Tell me, do you sing in the king’s choir?” She shook her head. “A pity.” He lapsed into melancholy silence as Mathilde gazed up at him expectantly.

  “You have some commission for us, sir?” prompted Robin with an edge to his voice.

  The young man gave a start and looked at Rob with disfavor. “Do you know who I am?” he asked his gaze returning to Mathilde thoughtfully.

  She hesitated. “I think… Are you connected with the Woodcote family?” He looked familiar and she had a notion she had seen him about court with Viscount Woodcote and his cronies.

  He nodded, looking pleased. “A quick-witted boy! I am Sir Edgar Hill, Viscount Woodcote’s heir.” Mathilde bowed, pleased with her improvisation. She was starting to enjoy herself. Sir Edgar Hill returned her bow with a flourish, and then drew a folded paper from his doublet. “I would like you to deliver this letter, unto the Lady Elizabeth Coton.” He spoke the name with reverence, though he had lowered his voice and cast a furtive look around. “You must not let it fall into the hands of her kinsfolk at any cost. Do you understand?” He shot her an anxious look. She nodded. Then he withdrew a silver coin from his cuff. “This is for you, young master. For your pains and your discretion,” he added meaningfully. “By the by,” he said, reaching out and catching her chin in his gloved hand. “Who are your people?” he screwed up his eyes. “I do not recall seeing you hereabouts? I should surely remember such a pretty boy.”

  Mathilde’s eyes widened. Pretty? Then his words sank in. “M-my people?” she stammered.

  Rob cleared his throat. “My young friend is an associate of the de Courcey family.”

  Sir Edgar’s expression cleared. “Ah, I see.” He clicked his tongue. “How oft does vice take the guise of virtue,” he said regretfully. “I doubt the bloom of innocence will last long on that cheek. Not with that lineage.”

  “We’ll take our leave of you,” added Rob with meaning, and Mathilde dropped back to join him.

  Sir Edgar waved a gloved hand, and Robin tugged Mathilde down a side servant stair.

  “Should we be in here?” she whispered as they descended the perilously steep staircase.

  “It won’t signify,” Rob muttered.

  “What did you mean by claiming I was an associate of the de Courceys?” she asked curiously.

  “De Courcey has a notorious amount of bastards.”

  “Oh!” She blushed faintly in the darkness.

  “When you say that,” Rob added, gruffly apologetic. “People tend to stop asking questions.”

  “That was very clever of you,” said Mathilde, without rancor. “I had thought of a false name to travel under,” she admitted. “But it was not a court name.”

  “No you wouldn’t want a court name for the road,” Robin agreed, without much interest.

  “It’s Leander,” Mathilde to
ld him proudly. Leander seemed to her to be a vastly heroic name.

  Robin halted on the step. “That’s too fancy,” he said shaking his head. “You want something plain like Smith or Jenkins.”

  “Smith?” she repeated with displeasure, but Rob was vaulting himself onto a window ledge to peer down at the courtyard below.

  “Gordon’s there waiting at the gate with the horses,” he said with relief. “Come on.”

  II

  Solstice Eve, Acton March

  Guy Randall, Marquis of Martindale dropped the gnawed meat bone with a clatter and pushed the empty platter away from him with a belch. He cast a jaundiced eye around the hall and wondered how long he would have to sit here and show willing, before he could make good his escape. The company was starting to grow rowdy. The bride sat squarely in the groom’s lap, and there was much laughter and jocularity, neither of which was to Guy’s taste. A serving wench approached, and he narrowed his gaze at her. Her step faltered, and she held up the jug of ale to make plain her intent. Oh. He gave a curt nod for her to proceed and she filled up his drinking vessel, sneaking looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He ignored her scrutiny and she retreated, casting one last look at him back over her shoulder.

  “Would it kill you to give the lass a smile?” rumbled Firmin, taking him by surprise.

  Guy scowled at him. “When have you ever known me to smile at women?”

  Firmin shook his head. “You’re too young to be getting the reputation for a woman-hater.”

  A woman hater? Guy grunted. After all, what did he care what people said? And if it stopped serving wenches from wasting their smiles on him, then it was all to the better.

  “You’d think that big black beard would be enough to put ’em off,” struck up Waldon, who sat the other side of him.

  Guy turned his ferocious gaze on him instead. “You’ve a beard yourself,” he pointed out scathingly.

  “Aye,” agreed Waldon. “But not the reputation for hating women, or a wife.” Guy braced himself for the moment when Waldon realized his blunder. Sure enough, he saw his friend stiffen and then look wide eyed toward Firmin, who gave him a small shake of his head.