Page 134

“Have you read it?” asked Mason.

“No.”

Mason grimaced. “Lady Schaeffer returned it this morning, so I attempted to wade through it, but…”

“Hester Schaeffer?” broke in Oswald, startled.

“Yes.”

“What the hells was she doing with it?”

Mason’s eyebrows rose. “By all accounts, Fenella wanted her opinion as she is no judge of plays.”

Oswald frowned at him, as his brain scrambled over this nugget of information.

“What?” asked his brother.

Oswald shook his head. “It is of no matter,” he said, staring at the figure of his wife as Linnet chattered brightly and Fen nodded her head. She looked pale but resolute. As they turned the corner to approach the Great Hall, Oswald stepped up level to the ladies, and took Fen’s arm. “We had better go in together,” he muttered. Fen made no verbal response, just rested her hand on his arm without comment. Linnet fell back to take Mason’s side and Roland yawned loudly.

When they entered the hall, Fen gasped, and Oswald realized it was the Midwinter decorations that had caught her eye. They must have gone up that very day for every corner was now decked with great swathes of ivy, mistletoe and laurel. Candles flickered from among the boughs and bowls of glistening fruit. Fen’s head spun round as she took in the Solstice finery and Oswald found himself glad that she was distracted by it, for at their entrance everyone had turned to look at them and the murmuring swelled very loud indeed. Oswald scanned the room and found to his surprise, both the King and Queen in attendance on the dais. He bowed in their direction and Fen curtseyed as he led her toward their usual places at the top table. She looked flushed, her lips parted as her gaze fell on the central table arrangements which were great bowls of steaming cider punch with ladles decorated with ribbons. He remembered a happier time, - their visit to the inn in Aphrany when they had drunk such a drink from a lover’s cup. Fenella really loved the Solstice festivities, he remembered, but there was a shadow across her face now that hadn’t been there on that first occasion. He had to fight the urge to take her hand or try to comfort her. It was a bizarre reaction to her perfidy, and one that annoyed him. Instead he focused on who else was in attendance in the packed throng. Everyone it seemed. The walls were lined with pages who had decided to attend, whether their masters required them or not. He recognized Cuthbert’s golden head from a gaggle of teenage squires who were huddled in one corner, heckling the servers who brought out more bowls of punch and silver goblets. He counted pretty much every member of the privy council on the top three tables.

“Will you take a drink?” Roland was doing the honors, and sloshing the punch into the cups, passing them round their table. He thought Fenella would decline, but she nodded at the last minute and cupped the steaming brew in her hands. She bestowed a tremulous smile on Roland, which made Oswald’s vision flicker.

Mason nudged him. “Relax,” he muttered. “She’s doing a better job of masking her feelings than you are!”

Oswald reined himself in, but was under no illusion that he was doing himself credit. His sister-in-law was eyeing him with concern, but she turned away and clapped with the others when a paean was struck up at the front of the hall and a silence swept over the room. Everyone craned their necks to see the players who were entering. Oswald’s eye was drawn to a diminutive figure who wrung her hands and cast herself on her knees before a short actor wearing violently-yellow hose. Laughter rippled through the room at the visual reference to Sir Ambrose Thane, who had worn some very similar during his recent sojourn at court. The actor playing him directed a knowing look around the audience and puffed out his chest, strutting around making very pompous boasts about his successes abroad, and with women. His ‘wife’, clearly a smooth-faced male, rocked and cringed on his knees to hear such cruel words from ‘her’ spouse. Oswald’s eyes darted to Fenella, but she looked as stunned as he.

“You didn’t tell me it was funny,” said Roland accusingly. “I thought it was going to be one of those dull morality plays!” He poured himself another goblet of punch and settled back to enjoy the performance. The longer the scene continued, the more the audience laughed. The oafish husband bragged and swaggered. His lady wife cringed and swooned at her misfortune. Everyone laughed heartily, and Oswald allowed his attention to wander from the players to the other people stood around at the front of the hall. His gaze fell on a harassed-looking man of middle-age who was watching proceedings with a bewildered air. He kept consulting the manuscript in his hands, nodding and then gazing at the chortling audience in astonishment. Mr Entner, thought Oswald. It must be him. He glanced at Fenella to confirm this, but her own gaze was riveted to the stage in a sort of fascinated horror. The actors froze at the end of the act and the hall erupted into applause. The servers had barely had a chance to replenish all the punch bowls, before the music started up at the front, warning everyone the second act was about to start. This one started dynamically, with a tall striking actor walking on, dressed entirely in black and looking rather ominous. This was greeted rapturously by the audience who were torn between gaping at Oswald’s reaction, and watching the play unfold before them. Such was the volume of noise from people’s murmurings that Oswald couldn’t actually hear the plan that the cold-hearted villain was outlining to the audience. He frowned. Suddenly another character entered. A portly looking fellow who was carrying a long list and looking rather tormented. He seemed to be pleading with the sinister male – a Lord Orlando Mawby - not to pursue some disastrous stratagem, but the other would not listen to him.

Roland gave a loud crack of laughter. “It’s you and Bryce!”

Oswald’s head swiveled around to look at the lower table where his assistant usually sat with other scribes. Bryce’s eyes stood out on stalks. He watched as a couple of his fellows slapped Bryce on the back, his assistant turning rather pink. Oswald turned back to find that his doppelganger was reeling off a dastardly list of reasons why he should marry the virtuous Lady Vyella. Primarily, it seemed by marriage he would gain some sort of smoke-screen, behind which to hide his nefarious activities. Meanwhile the unfortunate lady was prostrate with grief at her abandonment. Oswald reached across and poured himself a cup of punch, which he had initially declined. He found himself relaxing, despite himself. Fenella studiously avoided his gaze. Her color was high, and she had a fixed smile on her lips that looked rather painful to maintain.

“Who wrote this tripe?” Mason growled in his ear.

“Don’t think you’ll have heard of him,” he replied dryly and reached across the table impulsively for Fenella’s hands. She stared a moment before placing her hands in his. They felt like ice and Oswald frowned, before interlacing their fingers. He squeezed lightly, and she shot a look of agonized confusion his way which made him feel an utter heel. He leaned forward. “When did you consult Lady Schaeffer about the play?” he asked in a murmur. She craned forward to catch his words.

“The day I received it,” she replied. “I read it of course, but...somehow I did not realize it was a comedy. I was quite concerned, so I asked Hester for her opinion…” Her words died away as another fresh burst of laughter had her turning toward the front of the hall. The heroine was being propped up by Bryce’s character while a leering Lord Mawby looked her over and rubbed his hands together in wicked intent. Fenella gasped. “Somehow, when you read the lines, you don’t imagine the way the actor will deliver them…” she added distractedly.

Oswald leaned in again. “Look at Entner,” he said, nodding toward the front of the room. Fenella’s gaze focused on the figure in the wings. “I don’t think he realized it was a comedy either,” he added.

Fen’s eyes went wide and she looked back at Oswald in confusion. “I don’t think I quite understand…” she trailed off hopelessly.

“Everyone seems to be enjoying it in any event,” he said with a shrug.

Fenella’s pained gaze fixed on him. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t Fen,” he warned her. “We’re entertained remember? Enjoying the spectacle.”

She nodded, and swallowing, returned her gaze to the front of the hall.

Oswald glanced over at the royal dais. The King was leaning forward, his gaze fixed on the players in fierce concentration. The Queen, by contrast, was looking directly at him, a half-smile playing about her lips. He had the uncomfortable suspicion she knew exactly what was going on. He would have taken another swig of cider punch, but his hands were still interlaced with this wife’s, so instead he resigned himself to watching the rest of the wretched play.

By the time the unfortunate Lady Mawby had expired in a heap, a victim of cruel circumstance, the punch had been freely-flowing for over an hour and the crowd was in a rollicking and somewhat boisterous frame of mind.

“Damned odd end, for a comedy,” said Roland, and it seemed he was not alone in this thought as a few loud boos were heard from the rowdier element of the audience. Oswald watched a shower of apple cores scatter across the actors and a cry of ‘for shame!’ go up. He looked across at Mr Entner who, obviously no stranger to a hostile crowd, had placed his manuscript above his head and was urging the actors to take their bows. In an abrupt change of mood, a loud cheer went up when the actors who played Sir Andrew Vane and Lord Orlando Mawby made their bows. Lady Mawby hastily clambered to his feet and made his bow, clutching his false hair braid which seemed to have become detached from his head during the death scene. Then it was the turn of Price, the put-upon servant of Lord Mawby who received very loud applause from Bryce’s table. The actors then beckoned to Mr Entner who came on and made a largely inaudible speech, although Oswald thought he could make out a hurried thanks to his patroness. He glanced at Fenella who had clearly not heard a word of it and was wearing her fixed smile again. With a sigh, he held out his hand to her and drew her to feet. Everyone clapped for Fenella who looked extremely bewildered and clung to his hand as if it was a matter of life or death. “Take a curtsey,” he murmured to her and she did, earning even more thunderous applause.

“It seems it was quite a success!” she quavered looking shaken, before sinking thankfully back onto the bench.