His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2) Page 5

  Fenella sat up ramrod straight. “Lady Thane,” she corrected him through dry lips.

  He regarded her steadily, without saying one word. There was faint pity in their green depths.

  Oh gods, thought Fenella. No, no. It can’t have already happened. I can’t surely be too late. She gripped the arms of her chair. “Is it possible –” She faltered. “That my husband has already approached the King?” Her voice sounded high and thin and wholly unlike her own.

  “He was one of the supplicants at this morning’s audience with the King, yes,” he answered steadily. “I have here the official record of the King’s judgements,” he said glancing at the piece of paper he had retrieved. “Sir Thane’s case included.”

  Fenella stood up so fast her chair over-turned.

  “Fenella!” It was her brother Gilbert who spoke, but she turned her back to him and walked across the room to the window. She had no idea of the view, for she stared sightlessly out of the glass pane a moment, desperately striving for the composure to turn back around. Trying to will the hot tears that welled up and spilled down her cheeks to disappear. Instead she brushed them from her face and took a deep breath. “If only I could have some private word with Ambrose,” she said unsteadily. “Remind him of what we have been to one another. I feel sure that he would reconsider...” Lord Vawdrey did not answer her, so she turned around to face him resolutely. “You are a very important man at court, these days. Is that not so, my lord?” Her voice was husky with tears but she knew it carried to where Oswald Vawdrey sat watching her with his uncanny stillness. He looked surprised by her change of tack.

  Fenella ignored him and drew the thick roll of yellow parchment from her cloak. “Perhaps this might persuade you to intercede on my behalf, my lord,” she said, once more approaching the desk and placing it on the shining wooden surface where it rolled slightly to the left and then sat looking innocuous a moment. Fenella held her breath and swayed slightly on her feet. She felt slightly horrified that she had been forced to produce her trump card at all.

  “What is it?” asked Oswald Vawdrey after a moment’s pause.

  “Perhaps you should look at it,” she said boldly raising her chin.

  “Perhaps you should sit down,” he replied dryly. “Before you drop.” He shot a look of disgust at Gilbert before advancing around the desk and setting her overturned chair to rights. “Here,” he said and caught hold of her upper arm in a surprisingly firm grip, before guiding her back to her seat. “Sit.”

  Fenella dropped into the seat and promptly burst into tears.

  “Fenella!” remonstrated Gilbert. “What the hells do you think you’re-?” he broke off his words abruptly, though Fenella could not say why, as her hands were covering her face. She heard the door open discreetly behind them.

  “Ah, here is Bryce now with our refreshment,” said Oswald in an easy tone. “If you could just set it down on the desk here and pour a cup for Lady Fenella who is over-tired from her journey.”

  Fenella drew a shaky breath and lowered her hands to find Oswald Vawdrey holding an immaculately white linen handkerchief in her face. She took it and dabbed her cheeks. What she really wanted to do was heartily blow her nose, but she didn’t dare on such fine linen. His disapproving assistant passed her a cup of something that smelled like spiced wine. She took it with a murmur of thanks and moistened her lips with it.

  “My lord-” started Bryce.

  “You can leave us now, Bryce,” Oswald interrupted him. “I will let you know when I need you.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Bryce backed out of the room with surprising grace for a portly man and closed the door behind him.

  Oswald sighed and made his way back around to his own side of the desk. “Help yourself,” he said addressing her brother. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  Gilbert looked dumbfounded.

  “His name is Bernard, my lord” quavered Fenella lowering the handkerchief. “It seems you do not remember us, but we were your neighbors growing up. The Bernards of Sitchmarsh Hall?”

  Oswald’s Vawdrey’s eyes flickered a moment and then narrowed. “Bernard? As in Sir Jeoffrey Bernard?”

  “My Father died five years ago,” said Fenella quietly.

  “We were sorry to hear of your own loss. A grand man, Baron Vawdrey,” put in Gilbert, making an effort.

  Oswald reached for the scroll without comment. Fenella watched his eyes dart to the seals and signatures at the bottom of the document as soon as he had unfurled it. His gaze snapped to meet hers a moment before returning to the top of the document.

  Fenella took a hurried sip of the spiced wine, her color rising. She ignored Gilbert’s quizzical look for she had not told him of the document, and stared into the depths of her cup as the silence stretched out.

  “You realize what this is, of course?” asked Oswald’s voice, startling her. She wasn’t sure how long he had pored over the document, but it had certainly been several moments since any of them had stirred.

  “Betrothal papers,” she answered automatically. “Drawn up between your father and mine, and agreed one Solstice Eve fourteen years ago.”

  “Not quite,” he answered and rising from his chair, paper still in hand, and walking to the window. He stood still a moment and then turned to face them both. “I don’t think you realize what you have here, my lady.”

  Fenella cleared her throat. “My father always said he had grounds for considerable recompense, should he have chosen to pursue it…”

  Oswald gave a short laugh.

  “But that is not why I am here,” she explained hastily. “I merely ask that you use your position to espouse my cause with my husband and…”

  “Fenella,” Oswald cut in, shocking her by addressing her so familiarly. “According to this document, I am your husband.”

  Gilbert made a strangled noise in his throat as Fenella stared at him, stunned.

  “You must surely be mistaken, sir,” she stammered, forgetting his title altogether.

  “There can be no mistake,” answered Oswald Vawdrey mildly.

  “But – but that’s impossible!”

  “I assure you, it is legally binding,” he said grimly and held the document up. “This is a marriage contract. Signed. Sealed. Dated.”

  Her brother turned to her. “Did you know about this?” he hissed, in what he no doubt imagined to be an undertone.

  “Don’t be ridiculous Gilbert! How could I? Why, I’ve been married to Ambrose for eight years!”

  “I hate to contradict you, Fenella,” put in Oswald mildly. “But your marriage to Thane was not legal.”

  Fenella reeled, shrinking back into her chair with a gasp.

  Gilbert sprang up in agitation. “You’re telling me my sister is a bigamist?” he asked hoarsely.

  Lord Vawdrey sat back down and poured himself a cup of wine to which he liberally added water. He looked at her quizzically and held the jug aloft.

  “No, thank you,” she answered in horrified fascination. He looked so calm, while her hands were shaking so badly she was nearly spilling her cup which was only half-filled.

  Gilbert wheeled around. “What if we burned it?” he demanded wildly.

  Lord Vawdrey’s eyebrows rose. “Certainly not,” he retorted. “That would be quite reprehensible. And as Sir Jeoffrey - your father - stated, you are due some recompense.”

  But what sort of recompense, wondered Fenella, breaking out into a cold sweat. A jail sentence? A spell in the stocks? A heavy fine?

  “That’s not what he meant at all,” she objected weakly. “He thought – only that your family had not honored their promise…not that we were…” she broke off distractedly before rallying. “How could we be married, my lord? Your father wrote to mine, breaking off the agreement…”

  “I was nineteen when this contract was signed,” Lord Vawdrey cut in, tapping his tunic. She realized he had already secured the document inside it and she hadn’t even seen him do it. “Three years la
ter, my father had no grounds to attempt to nullify the contract on my behalf. He had no legal right, as I had already reached my majority of twenty-one.”

  Fenella frowned at him. “Are you quite certain, my lord?” she asked feeling sick with anxiety. There was something about his steely calm that disturbed her. Why wasn’t he railing and disputing all this? Why wasn’t he cursing their family to perdition? Her feet itched to get out of this imposing room with its unpredictable master. She had no idea what to make of this man her betrothed had grown into. She did not know him at all. But then, she reminded herself, she’d never really known the boy either.

  He smiled and Fenella almost shivered to see it. For it did not touch his eyes one bit. “I am quite certain,” he answered gravely. “You have been my legal wedded wife these last twelve years.”

  **

  Oswald shut the door behind him and breathed out. It seemed almost too good to be true. Now he had no need of a trumped-up case of consanguinity to rebuff the King’s absurd marriage plans. He had an impediment all of his own – an existing wife. A smile curled his lips which he hastily concealed when he saw Bryce blinking at him from the other side of the corridor. What a shame that Bryce was not the type to listen at doors. His predecessor Edwards would have had his ear glued to keyhole the entire time and within the hour the rumors would have started to circulate. Ah, how he missed dependable, treacherous Edwards.

  “Ah, Bryce,” he said crooking his finger to summon him over. “I need you to make some discreet enquiry for me, to find out if Sir Ambrose Thane’s remarriage has yet taken place.”

  Bryce’s eyes goggled. “Yes, my lord. He applied to marry as soon as ‘twas possible. The King granted this and the use of the Lady Chapel in the west wing.” He hesitated. “Is there some lawful impediment that’s come to light?” he asked hopefully.

  “Nothing of that nature. I need to run a small errand myself, so if you could nip along to the Lady Chapel and see that the ceremony is completed, that would be most useful. You need do nothing, merely hang back until you have confirmation it is done and dusted.” If Thane was safely remarried then it might help reconcile Fenella to their own wedded state, he reasoned.

  Bryce looked alarmed. “Should I send word to the King, my lord?”

  Oswald held up a hand. “Calm yourself, Bryce. I will be back presently. A stroll will do me good.” He glanced back at the door. “And er...Take the Lady Fenella and her brother some repast. They have travelled many miles this day. Assure them I will be back in good time.” He moved to the outer door, hesitated and turned back. “Do not let her leave my office under any circumstances, Bryce,” he added. “If needs be, summon a guard to reinforce this.”

  “I will my lord!” agreed his assistant fervently. “Never fear!”

  Things had sorted themselves out without him having to exert himself at all, Oswald congratulated himself as he made his way unhurriedly to the east wing of the castle. Fenella Bernard was a short, rather plump female of twenty-six years. She had a round face and brown eyes which either looked wounded or startled and she dressed rather like a merchant’s wife. She would be extremely ill-equipped for court life, which meant no-one could blame him when he relegated her to Vawdrey Keep at the earliest opportunity. Yes, it was all very satisfactory. He had decided to walk past the chapel himself on the way and as he approached he heard raised voices and saw a small straggling group emerge from the chapel entrance. He thought he recognized Sir Ambrose, though he could only see the back of a short male figure and hear a peevish voice as he waved away the gaggle of palace squires and pages who had gathered in the doorway.

  “Get away, the lot of you!” the groom objected, fussily holding his arm out for his new bride.

  “Oh, how they crowd one Ambrose!” she complained. “It makes one feel quite faint!”

  Oswald leant against a convenient pillar on the edge of the crowd. “Who’s the bridegroom?” he asked a passing group of young pages who were dispersing with disgruntled expressions.

  “Some ambassador got wed,” the nearest boy told him with an indifferent shrug.

  “Sir Ambrose Thane?” asked Oswald showing a silver coin between his fingers.

  The boy next to him perked up. “Yes, my lord. That was him. Come back from up north.”

  “It’s naught but a poor showing, though,” piped up the first boy. “No tokens or coins being distributed. Not even ribbons. Proper nip-cheese, he is!”

  “Well, that is a shame,” said Oswald gravely. He held out a silver coin to the first and then the second boy in turn. They grinned at him. “Have you heard if he’s to host a celebration feast?” asked Oswald.

  “Not him,” snorted the second page. “He’s far too mean!”

  Oswald looked thoughtful. “Indeed, that is too bad,” he murmured before setting off once more in the direction of the castle kitchens. Once he was out of the castle’s west gate, he briskly made his way back to the forger’s doorstep.

  The old man looked up in some surprise. “Knew you’d be back,” he admitted. “But not this soon!”

  Oswald withdrew the betrothal document from his tunic and unfurled it. “I no longer require a falsified family tree,” he said without preamble. “But instead, have for you a far simpler task, involving this contract.” He looked up at Carleton and smiled. “You may keep the purse of gold, for I’m afraid I must wait for it to be completed now.”

  The old man tutted, but approached to take the contract and scanned it with his keen eyes. “Fenella Bernard and Oswald Vawdrey,” he read aloud without curiosity. “Dated over ten years ago. Seems fairly standard. Looking for a loop-hole are you?” His rather reptilian gaze flickered over Oswald, who ignored the question.

  “It’s a remarkable thing, is it not?” Oswald ruminated aloud. “How very little material difference there is between a betrothal and a marriage contract.”

  Carleton’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, true enough. Oftentimes, just a matter of the consummation,” he agreed, after a slight pause.

  “Not in this case,” Oswald said swiftly. He leant over the counter. “The bride was of tender years,” he explained, pointing to the birth date of Lady Fenella Bernard and then the date of the contract.

  Carleton puffed out his cheeks. “You want him locked in tight,” he said.

  “No escape,” agreed Oswald.

  “Poor bugger,” said Carleton. “What did this,” he glanced down, “Oswald Vawdrey ever do to you?”

  Oswald considered this a moment. “He did not keep his word,” he said softly.

  Carleton peered down again at the paperwork. “Naught but a lad of nineteen,” he objected.

  “A promise is a promise. And besides, it’s for his own good.”

  “In your opinion,” interjected a skeptical Carleton.

  “I imagine, on this subject, he is in complete agreement with me,” replied Oswald airily.

  Carleton pulled a face. “It’s always easier to imagine that about other people, Mr Roberts.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Of course, I can do it,” spluttered the older man indignantly. “Question is, should I? Could wreak havoc with other people’s lives this could!” He shook his head.

  Oswald sighed. “I can assure you, both parties involved will be somewhat better off for our intrusion. There will be no adverse repercussions, you have my word.” When Carleton’s expression did not waver, he added. “I left one purse of gold with you already this morning. Don’t force me to take my custom elsewhere.”

  Carleton snorted. “You know there’s none better than me, in all of Aphrany.”

  Oswald smiled. “Prove it. You have precisely a quarter of the hour, to bind this youthful pair into a respectable married couple of some twelve years.”

  “Quarter of an hour!” grumbled Carleton, but he snatched up the document as soon as Oswald wandered to the other end of the room, peering at a map. “The ink may still be wet, mind you!”

  “It can dry on my way back home,”
he replied mildly.

  “Bryce,” said Oswald softly some half hour later, startling his assistant nearly out of his skin. “The deed is done. Ambrose Thane is re-married.”

  Bryce pursed his lips. “Some would say with undue haste, my lord,” he said distastefully.

  “Some would,” agreed Oswald. “However, here at court we try not to judge his majesty’s decisions.” He let this sink in until Bryce’s cheeks turned pink, then added: “It seems the gentleman in question is somewhat hesitant to throw a celebratory feast.”

  “Perhaps he thought it might seem in poor taste, my lord?” answered Bryce who was clearly made of sterner stuff than Oswald had previously imagined.

  Oswald frowned at him a moment. “Of course, the newlyweds must have some form of celebration, or it would be much commented on at court.”

  Bryce looked bewildered. Oswald never usually showed the slightest interest in the social events. “Indeed?” he said lamely when his master continued to regard him in steady expectation of a response.

  “I’m glad to see we are of the same mind on this, my good Bryce,” he said cheerfully. “I want you to extend an offer to Sir Ambrose offering the use of the audience chamber below. It is rarely used and he will bother no-one, gathering his friends and family there.”