His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2) Page 25

  Something flickered in Lady Doverdale’s eyes and for a moment she looked almost pleased. “Is this true, Mathilde?” she asked her daughter sharply.

  “Yes Mother,” she murmured, so faintly Fen could hardly hear her.

  “Well,” exclaimed her Mother. “That is the most interesting thing you have done for a twelve-month!”

  Fen kept the smile plastered to her face as Lady Martindale colorlessly repeated, “Yes Mother.”

  Lady Doverdale’s sharp gaze ran over Fen a moment. “You are not what the Queen led me to expect,” she said surprisingly.

  Now it was Fen’s turn to flush. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’m afraid her majesty was most disappointed in me.”

  Lady Doverdale’s eyebrows rose. “Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully. “But perhaps that was your intent,” she suggested with a grim smile. “It has been observed that you are great friends with Lady Schaeffer. Hester Schaeffer has tried to convince everyone who’s met her in the last thirty years that she is a vapid creature of little distinction.”

  Fen bristled at such a description of her friend. “I believe Hester to be a woman of both character and distinction,” she objected.

  Lady Doverdale smiled thinly. “Perhaps you also, are not so easily fooled by her façade,” she suggested.

  Belatedly, Fen remembered that Hester had no desire to wait on the Queen or be considered a senior member of court. “Are you one of her majesty’s retinue, Lady Doverdale?” she asked changing the subject.

  “Mother is the Queen’s Mistress of the Robes,” said Lady Martindale timorously. From the surprised look on Lady Doverdale’s face, Fen could see she was not used to her daughter joining in any conversation voluntarily.

  “Ah, yes of course, as you were telling me Mathilde, when we were interrupted,” said Fen glibly. She smiled up at Lady Doverdale again, whose eyes narrowed in response. “Will you permit me to help sew this border?” asked Fen turning back to the younger woman. Lady Martindale swallowed and nodded.

  “I shall leave you to it,” said Lady Doverdale after a heavy pause.

  “It was nice to meet you,” said Fen, picking up and threading a needle.

  They both worked quietly side by side for a while, before she felt Mathilde Martindale’s hand softly touch her sleeve. She looked up.

  “Did you mean it, when you said-?” started her companion.

  “Every word,” said Fen. “Though I do not have a loom at my disposal here.”

  “We could work on my loom,” said her new friend shyly, before taking a breath and adding with great daring. “Fenella.”

  “That would be most agreeable,” said Fen, feeling suddenly elated that she had found a new friend.

  In all, Fen spent a very enjoyable morning sat in the long gallery, feeling the winter sun streaming through the window onto her back. Mathilde Martindale was a sweet little thing, and Fen found she was worth coaxing her out of her shell as they whispered over their needlework. It reminded Fen of simpler days when she had spent time with her female cousins from Thripstone. They had always come to stay with them at Sitchmarsh Hall for the winter Solstice. She and her new friend made plans to meet the following afternoon in Mathilde’s rooms to work on their plans for a shared tapestry, and they parted just outside the long gallery.

  Impulsively, instead of returning to the rather bare and unwelcoming Vawdrey rooms, Fen’s footsteps turned toward her husband’s study. She had a sudden mind to see him again in his natural habitat. She knew not why precisely, save for the fact it was becoming more and more pressing to her that she gained some sort of understanding of this husband of hers. Whenever she thought she had grasped some comprehension of his character, he slipped away from her, enigmatic as ever. Finding the room turned out easier than she’d anticipated. She recognized the stretch of corridor with its vaulted stone ceilings and suits of armor at once. When she reached the door, however, she hesitated, suddenly uncertain of herself. What if he was engaged in some business of the realm and sent her away? Even worse, what if there were others in his office with him, important men of state? She realized, she could not simply knock and go in. Glancing around she wondered where Bryce was usually to be found, when to her consternation, the door suddenly opened. Fen’s head whipped round and she came face to face with one of the many medium sized, bearded men in non-descript suits that so often seemed to flock around her husband. She opened her mouth, but before she could so much as utter a sound, a hand clamped over it and her wrist was seized in a punishing grip, and she was dragged inside.

  “Wheeler!” exclaimed a shocked voice, which Fen realized was Bryce.

  “This one was listening outside,” the man behind her said in clipped tones.

  Fen started to argue that she had not heard a thing, but his hand over her mouth prevented it. She was still facing the door and could not see the inhabitants of the room.

  Fen heard the sound of a chair dragged being back from behind a desk.

  “Let her go at once,” said her husband’s voice which seemed to be growing nearer. Then she found herself seized in another pair of arms. Familiar ones this time. Then a dryly spoken: “This happens to be my wife.” Profuse apologies spilled from Wheeler’s lips, which Oswald seemed to pay little heed to. He turned her round, his hands resting on her upper arms as his eyes scanned hers. “Though I confess I do not know what she is doing here.” There was a question in his voice.

  “I came to see you,” Fen told him indignantly. She felt rather foolish after being so manhandled and tried to brush down her crumpled skirts and straighten her bodice. She put a hand to her hair and hoped her veil wasn’t askew. She tried to avoid Oswald’s gaze, but thought he probably saw her discomfiture all too clearly. Just when she started to think she was fitting in, she made an idiot of herself again!

  He reached out and caught her hand, drawing back her sleeve to examine her wrist. “If you’ve marked her, I won’t be pleased,” he said calmly.

  Again, Wheeler apologized and Oswald ignored him.

  “You’re dismissed,” he said without looking at him, and turned her wrist over. “I will see you next week.”

  “Yes my lord,” the door shut behind him.

  “It’s fine,” Fen assured him.

  Bryce hurried over and peered at Fen’s wrist. “I shall fetch a poultice of chicory and nutmeg,” he said tutting. “For ‘twill counter any swelling.”

  “It’s not swollen at all,” Fen protested trying to draw her hand back, but her husband held it fast. “Indeed, you are making quite a fuss about nothing.” She gave an uneasy laugh.

  “Thank you, Bryce,” said Oswald with a nod and his assistant hurried away to fetch the poultice. Oswald drew her hand through his arm and led her toward his desk. “You wanted to speak to me?” he said, drawing out a chair and depositing her into it as thoughtfully as if she were an old, infirm woman. To Fen’s disquiet, instead of rounding the desk to take his seat, he propped himself against the desk so he was right in front of her and looking down at her.

  Fen cleared her throat. “’Twas nothing, I just thought I would see if I could remember where your room was…” she trailed off wretchedly. When he said nothing, she peered up at him and found him steadfastly regarding her. “You took off so abruptly this morning,” she blurted. “I suppose I wanted to see if you were well, and naught was amiss.”

  He seemed to consider this a moment. “There’s always some crisis,” he admitted with a shrug. “That needs my urgent attention.”

  “Of course,” she said, starting to rise out of the chair. “I’ll just make myself scarce so you can-”

  “No,” he interrupted her with a frown. “That’s not what I meant. I was trying to explain.”

  Fen sat back down in her seat. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you,” she said, gazing around the room. Anywhere rather than at her perceptive husband’s gaze. Her eyes fixed on the wall hanging on the far wall and she blinked remembering a secret passageway.

  “I did w
onder if you’d remember that,” said Oswald. His voice sounded rueful.

  Fen jumped. Were her thoughts really so transparent? “I – um, well I was half asleep…”

  “You were dead on your feet,” he corrected her. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

  The words hung in the room, and Fen told herself not to attach more import to them than he’d intended. He meant that night she’d cried herself to sleep after seeing Ambrose re-married. Not the night she’d cried herself to sleep all those years ago when her father had told her their betrothal was at an end. “So there really is a hidden walkway behind it,” she said aloud. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded husky with emotion. She needed to pull herself together.

  “Would you like to see?” he asked, startling her.

  Her eyes flew to his, he looked deadly serious.

  “Really?”

  He nodded.

  “Does it run all the way through the castle?” she asked, rising from her chair.

  “The older parts of it.”

  She felt rather than heard him follow her across the room. He really was very light on his feet. She stopped by the curtain, tracing the faded depiction of the twisted vines. “This is rather dreary,” Fen observed. “Maybe Lady Martindale and I should weave you a new one?” she suggested.

  “But the last thing I want to do is draw attention to it,” he pointed out to her with a twisted smile.

  “Maybe a moral exhortation against curiosity?” she joked as she lifted the curtain. The door did not seem to have a handle.

  “That could work,” he conceded lazily and reached up behind her to press the top corner. The door sprang open.

  Fen peeped around it but all she could see was a shadowy passageway. She shivered at the blast of cold air which hit her.

  “Shall we go out?” he suggested in a low voice.

  Fen craned her head to look over her shoulder at him. “Where to?” she whispered, wide-eyed.

  “Aphrany.”

  “Can we?”

  “Why not?”

  “But what about – I mean, do you have you the time?”

  “I can spare an hour or so for my wife, I hope,” he muttered, his hand slipping around her waist and urging her through the door.

  “I don’t have my outdoor things,” she gasped, as he pressed her forward into the cold stone passage.

  “All will be provided,” he said enigmatically as they started down an uneven flagstone floor. “Mind your step.”

  “What will Bryce think when he returns?” Fen could hear the excitement in her voice.

  “I’m always giving him the slip,” said Oswald. His voice was very close behind her. It wasn’t wide enough to walk side-by-side. “He won’t be too perturbed.”

  “It doesn’t get any narrower, does it?” Fen asked anxiously as she groped along the walls.

  “Not the way we’re going. Turn left. Then up three steps.”

  Fen concentrated on feeling the roughly cut stone steps beneath her slippered feet. They were very steep and wound around a column. She wished she’d worn her ankle boots now.

  “You’re doing well,” he told her and she felt his hand at her middle back, steadying her. “Now head straight ahead.”

  “Is this a bridge?” Fen asked in alarm. She could feel the floor sway.

  “Hold the rope at the side.”

  Fen made a grab for it and felt Oswald step up behind her. “I’m not sure I like this,” she admitted uncertainly.

  “I’m right here.”

  She breathed out. He was very calm and confident in the dark shadows. She felt his hand at her waist.

  “Now walk forward, until I say to halt.”

  Fen squeezed her eyes shut and did as she was told. In truth, she could scarcely see any less than when they were open.

  “Halt,” he said squeezing her side. “Now feel ahead for a gap in the wall.”

  Fen reached out her hands and swept the walls until she felt the edges. “Found it.”

  “Now climb through.”

  He lifted her from behind as Fen clambered through the hole and breathed out in relief when she found herself on wooden floorboards again. He swiftly followed her through the gap.

  “We’re over the worst bit, the rest ahead is plain sailing,” he assured her. “I need you to wait here for a moment, while I fetch us cloaks.”

  “Cloaks? From where?” She tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice.

  “Just down to the left, I won’t be long.”

  He touched his hand to her cheek and then he was gone. Fen shivered and rubbed her upper arms. She heard a scuttle that she was very much afraid was a rat. Only by the greatest exertion did she manage not to yelp. She busied herself by feeling for any rents in her dress, for she was sure she’d heard a rip as her gown had snagged on something. Before she’d discovered any, she thought she heard a footfall and froze. It seemed to come from the opposite direction in which Oswald had disappeared. She shrank back against the wall and held her breath. There! She definitely heard another step being taken and then another, but by someone very fleet and light of foot. It was retreating away from her. She craned her ears and fancied she heard a door faintly swing shut. So intent on it was she, that when she heard Oswald’s murmured ‘Fenella’, behind her, she jumped in surprise. He shook out a cloak and then passed it around her shoulders. It was a thick woolen one, and although she could not see the color, she immediately felt its benefit.

  “Give me your hand.”

  She reached out and felt her fingers enveloped by his.

  “Stay close. I will lead the way now.”

  “Very well,” she whispered back.

  He tugged on her hand and she fell in step behind him. Their path seemed to follow a steep incline though there were no steps. After a while the wooden floorboards gave way to loosely packed earth and Fen could feel small pebbles beneath the thin soles of her shoes. “Stay,” he cautioned as he came to a halt. Fen could see light streaming in from behind the outline of a door. Oswald paused to listen and after a moment or two he cautiously opened the door and they emerged into a small walled garden. He secured the door behind them and looked swiftly about. “All clear.” He kept his voice low, and drew her hood up so it covered her head. “If we follow the path outside this garden it will take us into the courtyard of the palace kitchens.”

  Fen nodded.

  “If any of the guards challenge us, let me do the talking.”

  Fen gulped. “Yes.”

  “Don’t look so worried,” he said wiping a smudge from her nose with his cuff. “I have the King’s permission to roam wherever I choose.”

  She nodded again and he reached for her hand.

  The kitchen courtyard was bustling with servants and tradesmen making drop-offs. They slipped through there without raising any comment and from thence down a busy walk-way.

  “This leads to the palace west gate,” Oswald informed her. He was wearing a long black cloak over his fine suit of clothes. Fen glanced down and found hers was a dark green wool.

  Fen eyed the palace guards nervously as they approached the tall stone arch, but there were plenty of people walking before and after them, though Fen did not recognize a one. They seemed to be servants rather than nobles. The two of them passed through the gate without comment. Fen breathed a sigh of relief. “That was somehow quite nerve-wracking, husband,” she admitted when they had left the soldiers behind them. She had to stop herself from glancing back at them over her shoulder. “When Gil and I arrived, we did not do so from this gate.”

  “No,” Oswald agreed easily. “Doubtless you came in by the north entrance.”

  They were crossing a wide bridge, now flanked with azure flags bearing the King’s rampant lion. It was a crisp, cold December day and Fen could see her breath puffing out before her as she gazed at the soaring spires, arches and lurching roofs before them. She squeezed Oswald’s hand and he looked down at her. “Cold?” he asked.

  She shook her
head. “Excited,” she corrected him with a smile. “What would you have told the guards, if they had stopped us?” she asked curiously.

  He seemed to consider his answer a moment. “That I had delivered a missive to someone,” he shrugged.

  “To Lord Vawdrey?” she asked.

  He pulled a face. “Nay, not to me. I have a certain…reputation. Someone whose name bore less sinister association.”

  Fen swallowed down the words that sprang to her lips. She didn’t want to spoil their impromptu trip by asking him unwelcome questions about his role as the King’s spymaster. “And what would my role have been?” she asked instead. “Your sister?”

  He gave her a sideways look. “They would not have believed that.”

  “Why not?”

  He held up their clasped hands and quirked an eyebrow at her.

  “You could have let go my hand,” she pointed out.

  “No, I could not,” he said firmly.

  Fen blushed, though really, she had no notion why. She bit her lip and stared instead at the tall looming buildings with their timbered fronts and black painted beams. They seemed to grow wider as they reached toward the sky, the jutting upper stories, propped up by pillars and wooden struts. “So, not your sister,” she said aloud, gazing up at the overhanging windows. “What then?”

  “My doxy probably,” said Oswald.

  Fen whipped around to look at his straight face. “Doxy?” she repeated, aghast.

  His face was entirely serious, but she noticed his eyes were laughing down at her. “My sweetheart, then?” he suggested.

  For some reason, Fen had to fight to catch her breath. It was cold after all.

  “We’re heading toward the main square,” Oswald said, taking pity on her tongue-tied state. “It’s market day, so there should be plenty to see.”