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Oswald had thought the afternoon session would be easier. He thought wrong. He noticed the strange undercurrent in the room as soon as he entered and called the council to order. A sort of nervous energy emanated from his peers. He ran through the plans for the handover of Princess Una from her ‘protector’ Lord Mycott, who until recently had been openly acknowledged as her jailor. The whole thing was an exercise in ceremonial pomp. For the last nineteen months, the princess had been living under house arrest in relative penury. However, now she was to come to court and accept the sovereignty of her ‘royal cousin’ King Wymer, she was to be treated to a formal reception and escort. The King and his escort of twenty-five nobles and full guard would meet Lord Mycott on an open field where Princess Una would be expected to show her reverence and sign more documents renouncing all claim to the throne. Then she would be accompanied back to Aphrany with all due honors and accompanying ostentation. The other lords accepted these directions meekly, yet Oswald scanned them with a keen eye. Something was amiss, though he could not quite put his finger on what it was.

Biding his time, he collected the list of nominations for the King’s company. But although names were duly put forward, there was a lot of whispering and murmuring behind hands. His gaze fell on Lord Sutton who had the air of someone with an upper hand. This was surprising given how the situation had been taken out of his hands. Oswald waited, at several salient points throughout the afternoon, for someone to challenge him on some point or other. Nothing was forthcoming. Despite this, the atmosphere seemed to get if anything, steadily worse. He saw Lord Lowan jostle Lord Caterby in the ribs at one point, but when he turned in their direction, they resolutely avoided meeting his gaze.

It was not until the meeting had been formally closed, that Lord Sutton made his move.

“At least in this arena, you still command the power and respect that is your due, Vawdrey,” he said airily. “If not the domestic sphere.”

The room gave a loud and collective guffaw. Oswald returned Sutton’s gaze, until the other’s dropped away and the members started to rise from their seats and talk amongst themselves. He could feel their hurried gazes cut to him, as they started to drift out of the room. Oswald watched them filter out with an enigmatic expression, though his brain was ticking away all the while. ‘Twas plain his colleagues all thought he had lost his grip on his personal life, though why he was not sure. Yet. Looking up he saw an unhappy-looking Bryce hovering by the door, his eyes mournful. Ah.

Oswald beckoned to his assistant and he shuffled forward, practically wringing his hands. “You have something to tell me, Bryce,” said Oswald.

“Yes, my lord,” said his servant unhappily. He reached into his robe and withdrew a piece of parchment proclaiming ‘Performing live in the marketplace today “The Tragical History of a Lady Most Foully Betrayed in Three Acts: A Morality Play” written by J.E. Entner playwright by appointment to the Countess Vawdrey.

Oswald stared at it a moment, without comment. “This play is being performed daily in the marketplace?” he asked, surprised to hear his voice sound so steady.

“Yes, my lord.”

“When did it start its run?”

“The day before yesterday, my lord.”

“You have seen it?”

“Not I, although I thought it prudent to send Jeffries along to view it this afternoon, and check there was no question of slander.”

“And?” Oswald’s tone was sharp.

Bryce shrugged. “The – erm – the central character is divorced in the first act by a neglectful husband of several years. She re-marries in the second act.” Bryce coughed discreetly. “The character of the second husband …”

“Yes?”

“Is – er – clearly based on yourself,” said Bryce unhappily. “He wears black robes only and is rather a sinister individual of ambition and influence.”

“Sinister?” Oswald eyed him, and Bryce turned pink.

“I meant no insult by that, my lord,” he said hastily. “Only that the play makes use of your –um reputation.”

“I see.” Oswald’s lips drew into a grim line. “The playwright claims his play is endorsed by my wife?” he asked icily.

Bryce hung his head. “He does, my lord. Though,” he added quickly. “He may be lying about that.”

Oswald pondered this and looked back at the flyer with its smudgy representation of the Vawdrey crest. His expression turned grim. “Well, I shall soon find out,” he said.

Bryce cleared his throat. “You should be aware, my lord,” he said hesitantly. “That the play seems to have garnered quite a lot of attention already in a relatively short space of time. Jeffries spotted several members of court in the audience this afternoon.”

“Is that so?” Instead of accompanying his assistant back to his study, he passed his sheaf of lists to Bryce. “Have these put on my desk,” he said. “I will work on them tonight.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Bryce, stealing a concerned look at him. “Shall I make a start on the plans?”

Oswald considered a moment. “Yes,” he agreed. “The King wants entertainments and tents for the field meet. He wants an overnight encampment to celebrate the Blechmarsh capitulation.” He spoke with heavy sarcasm, for the truth was the Blechmarsh cause had been defeated four years ago during the war. This was just ceremonial play-acting and what’s more, everyone knew it. “I will be back within the hour.”

By the time Oswald had reached their rooms, he’d worked himself into a fine temper. Still clutching the flyer he found his wife sat cosily in the window seat, with his two nieces and her dog, looking through an illustrated book of days. She smiled up at him as he entered the room, though he saw her expression quickly change, as her eyes roamed over his face.

“Is everything well?” she asked in alarm, jumping up from her seat. She turned back to Margaret and Lily. “Carry on without me, girls,” she urged, drawing apart from them. They happily rearranged themselves, crowding against Bors, wrapping their arms around his barrel-like body and resting their cheeks against his neck as they flipped the page.

Oswald strode toward the fireplace and waited for Fen to join him there. When she did, he turned on her accusingly, though he said not a word.

“What is it?” she faltered.