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“In good time,” he said airily. “We must establish you here at court first.”

Fenella felt a tremor of misgiving. Just what did that entail? “But not while I am in disgrace with the King, surely?”

“It would be better to get your social debut over with at once, don’t you agree?”

Fenella eyed him doubtfully. “What if the King calls me shameless again?”

“Did he call you shameless?”

“He implied I got you drunk,” she pointed out with as much dignity as her tattered pride had left. And you did not contradict him, she thought but did not quite have the nerve to say aloud.

“Is it really the King you’re nervous of meeting again socially?” Oswald asked her abruptly. “Or someone else?” Fenella felt her color rising. Lord Vawdrey was both silent and still, but somehow radiated displeasure.

“I confess I do not like unpleasantness,” she answered, avoiding his gaze. “Is that so wrong? After all, there is only so much humiliation a person can take in one week.”

“So, it is Sir Ambrose Thane and his new bride who you do not wish to see abroad?” Again, his words were mostly toneless, but she could still pick up on the fact he was not pleased by her avoidance.

“After all my lord, I was married to him for eight years and…”

“This documentation says otherwise,” he said sounding bored and tapping the wad of paperwork against his thigh. Fenella stared at the rolled-up parchment. She had been holding that in the King’s room. She hadn’t even noticed that he had had taken it back off her!

“If you were a sensible woman,” he said. “You would seize this opportunity to save face.” Fenella felt the barb sink into her tender flesh and it stung. He continued regardless in his measured, even voice. “Few wives so publicly cast off, are given means and opportunity to restore their stock in one fell swoop.” Fenella’s lip trembled. He had been kind to her all those years ago, perhaps a little indifferent, but certainly not cruel. But on this grey, drizzly October morn, she realized he did not have one whit of genuine empathy for her predicament. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said capturing her dipping chin and tilting her face to the window so he could watch the tear tracking down her cheek. “And it is too soon.” He clicked his tongue. “A pity.” Fenella flinched, but his tight grip on her didn’t allow her to back up from him. He leaned down so his mouth was by her ear. “Unless you want everyone here to think you are in utter disgrace with me, you will need to walk now beside me with some modicum of calm.”

Fenella’s eyes darted left and right and took in the figures lurking around the corners. The servants who darted out, in the pursuit of their errands, their gazes fixed on her. The courtier in the navy doublet, who materialized from behind a curtain in a window seat, and gave a dry cough before continuing on his way. She hadn’t even realized they were there.

“Now walk,” murmured Lord Vawdrey. His breath tickled her neck, making her shiver. “I’ll escort you back to our rooms where you can wallow in as much misery as you like, in private.”

Fen tried, she really did, not to let the tears spill over, but alas, during the walk back to the west wing they fell from her eyes in a continuous, humiliating stream. Her head ached. Her throat ached. Her heart ached. She managed to put one foot in front of the other and to keep her head held up, but that effort exhausted her and by the time Oswald threw back the door and propelled her inside, she was fit to sink to the floor.

Oswald closed the door shut behind them and called for his servant. “Light the fire for Lady Vawdrey,” he said when Meldon stumped in, drying his hands on a piece of linen. “She wishes to spend the day barricaded up in here. In seclusion.”

Fenella dropped into a seat, feeling drained of all energy. Lord Vawdrey’s displeasure with her was clear to see. Indeed, it must have been evident to everyone who saw him marching her through the palace. Unfortunately, she had been only too aware of the staring courtiers and the whispering behind hands. Her face was red as a beet by the time they reached his rooms.

“Is that right?” grunted Meldon. “I got other errands to run, you know! Can’t be expected to hang around here all day, waiting hand and foot on this one!”

“Well, it is unfortunate you feel that way Meldon, as that is precisely what I expect you to do,” answered Oswald crisply. “You are to admit no visitors.”

“Where you going to be?” demanded his manservant belligerent as ever.

Oswald turned to him with a frown. “I will be in my study in the main wing, as usual.”

The door shut carefully behind him. Somehow, Fen had the oddest notion that he would rather have slammed it.

“Well that didn’t last long,” sniffed Meldon. “The rosy glow worn off already?”

Fenella burst into noisy tears.

“Now, now,” rasped Meldon hastily. “None of that, my girl!

Fenella rose shakily from her chair. “Do not trouble to light the fire in here,” she said mustering her dignity with effort. “I’m feeling unwell and will return to bed for an hour or so.”

“Humph!” she heard him mutter under his breath, along with something about fine ladies lying a-bed all hours. Ignoring this, she dragged her heavy body back into Lord Vawdrey’s bedchamber and, after struggling a moment with her lacings, gave up and crawled under the covers fully-clothed. She felt so cold that the idea of stripping down to her shift was abhorrent anyway. She felt like she’d never get warm again. Wrapping her arms about herself she lay shivering under the bed-clothes and prayed for the oblivion of sleep where nothing hurt, including words, and her poor over-taxed emotions could have some respite.

**

Oswald scored through another line of script before casting down his pen down in frustration. He could not concentrate. Every time he tried to get down to work, he kept remembering Fenella Bernard with tears silently rolling down her face. He had no idea why it was bothering him so much, except he didn’t usually let his own manners slip like that. Normally they were firmly in place, disguising every emotion to the onlooker. Oswald knew full well that he was often callous, unsympathetic, even ruthless when occasion demanded. But he scrupulously said the appropriate thing out loud, and wore the corresponding expression. He was first and foremost a politician. Wearing a mask was second nature to him. Why then, had he just marched his day-old bride through the palace and thrown her into rooms like it was a dungeon cell? He groaned and massaged his eyelids with his finger and thumb. He had acted like a complete ogre of a husband. And he really had no idea why! It just wasn’t like him to react like that. His scheme had been going so well. Wymer had been well and truly thwarted. The King had conceded he was defeated by Oswald’s trump card, Fenella. He had even accepted the intimation that in a moment of weakness, the marriage had been consummated! And then… what? He frowned trying to remember exactly where it had all gone awry. Fenella had balked at the idea of being paraded before the court and more specifically, her recently wedded husband, Thane and his replacement bride. And why wouldn’t she? He asked himself uneasily. It was too soon. He had rushed her into wearing his colors when he should have been insinuating himself into her life by degrees as a person who could be trusted and relied on. He had acted like – what? Hardly a jealous husband. He shied away from such a ridiculous idea. He could barely remember the little Bernard girl his father had betrothed him to all those years ago.

Unbidden, a fully-fledged vision of his past assailed him called up from some dark recess in his mind. A vision of Lady Fenella Thane. Nay, not Thane then, but Bernard. Lady Fenella Bernard. She was much younger and wearing a dark green velvet dress with a small necklet of pearls. He held her unwavering attention as he made polite conversation over a meal. Not just any meal, but a feast; the Winter Solstice. And finally, he remembered clearly his very first betrothed. He had all but forgotten. After all, he had only been nineteen and slightly embarrassed to have such a young betrothed on his arm. He had long become immune to his father’s jibes and insults, knowing full well that he was his least favorite son. In truth, at nineteen he wore this as a badge of honor. He considered his father to be a boorish lout. Still, appearing in front of a packed great hall, with a child for his future wife had not been something he had been looking forward to. She had been a plain, solemn little thing, afraid of his father and shy. But she had taken her place by his side and when Baron Vawdrey had asked, mockingly in his great booming voice, if she did not count herself fortunate to have such a fine peacock of a boy for her future husband she had answered him with a loud, unflinching ‘yes, very’ that had rung from the rafters. The guests had guffawed, and his father had roared with laughter. But under the table, a little hand had slipped into his and Oswald had realized that Fenella Bernard was his indomitable ally. He swore now, as the years rolled back and he became aware of how badly he had failed her.