Page 7 of His Forsaken Bride

“I've got that treaty to finalize for tomorrow,” Oswald reminded him.

“So you have,” agreed the king heartily. “Better get back to it. Don't want me to look a fool in front of all those visiting dignitaries, hey?” He punched Oswald in the shoulder and guffawed. “Thought you might like to join me for supper later,” he added airily. “Lord Schaeffer is joining me.”

His casual air instantly struck a false chord with Oswald. “You usually sup with Lord Schaeffer on a Tuesday night, your highness,” he commented.

“Oh yes,” the King agreed with a wave of his hand. “But I thought you might like to join us, you know.”

Oswald shot a sidelong glance at the King, but he was emanating nothing but a cheery bonhomie. Immediately, this put Oswald on his guard. “There is something you wish to discuss with me?” he suggested.

The King hesitated. “Not here,” he said tapping a finger to his nose. “Somewhere with a bit of privacy, eh? Little idea I want to run by you.”

Oswald’s brows snapped together. Wymer rarely had ideas of his own but when they did they usually meant trouble.

“You’re a good-looking devil, Vawdrey,” said the King appraisingly. “How old are you? Seems long overdue you were leg-shackled.”

Oswald nearly choked on his own spit. Bardulf’s warning had barely been in time. He eyed the King much as he would a snake pulled back to strike.

“Probably my fault, taking up all your time,” said the King jocularly. “But it’s not too late to put it to rights! Never fear!”

Oswald glanced around to see if their conversation was overheard. As usual there were courtiers on every corner, eager to listen to any royal gossip. “It has not been a priority of mine,” he murmured, in an effort to quell the King’s enthusiasm.

“And well do I know it!” sighed the King shaking his head. “But it’s not natural for a man in his prime like you are, Vawdrey!” He eyed Oswald. “What number you, in years? Thirty?”

“Thirty-three,” Oswald corrected him automatically. His brain was scrambling. He really hadn’t expected the King to go on the offensive so soon.

“And I’ve never yet heard of you playing the lover to any of our beauties at court,” complained the King. “It’s not right, begad!”

Beauties at court. Oswald felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. In his peripheral vision he saw a shadowy figure by the window to his far left, only just in sight. It was Lord Phillip Cecil. Out of the corner of his eye, Oswald saw him exchange a charged look with the King. Wymer cleared his throat and turned his back to Cecil in a clumsy attempt to distract Oswald’s attention from it. Ah. It all clicked into place. So, it was true. Bardulf was right. Oswald felt cold anger course through his veins.

“If you’ll excuse me, your highness,” he said coolly. “I must return to that treaty immediately.”

“Of course, of course,” blustered the King. “Don’t forget. Around nine o’clock in my private chambers.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Oswald responded with a brief bow and strode from the room.

**

Anyone who had followed Lord Vawdrey that morning would have found he did not return to his study as avowed, but instead made his way to the Vawdrey family quarters in the coveted west wing of the palace. He was not followed, something he knew for sure as he discreetly glanced about him as he made his way unhurriedly down the warren of cloistered passages. It would not do for Wymer’s spy-master to be followed and he did this mostly from habit despite his inner turmoil. No-one would have guessed at this either, for his face was an impassive mask. But inwardly he was seething. He had no sooner spotted the door to their rooms then a maid slid out the door carrying what looked like her own petticoat and stockings. She giggled and pulled her chemise up over one bare shoulder as Oswald averted his eyes, surmising his brother would be found within. He was right, as he entered the room he found Roland sat at the table, half dressed and picking at some bread and cheese. He looked up as his brother came in and made a noise with his mouth full of bread. Oswald guessed it was some form of greeting. “Who was that?” he asked as he crossed the room. “Not a member of the palace staff I hope, at this advanced hour?”

Roland lolled back in his chair. “Relax. Tavern wench,” he said. “I’ve learned my lesson. Maybe you should try it.”

“Learning my lesson?” asked Oswald, taking a seat directly opposite him.

“Tavern wenches,” his brother corrected him with an impertinent grin. “Might make you seem a bit more human.”

Oswald considered the youngest Vawdrey, as Roland continued devouring his plate of cheese and grapes. Roland had been a late bloomer, but in the last four years had turned into a heavily muscled copy of his father and older brother. “How’s your arm?”

Roland snorted and rotated his shoulder. “It would take more than the strength of that simpleton de Bussell to stop me from competing tomorrow,” he boasted referring to the tournament being held the following day. “My lance arm is fine.”

“That’s good,” murmured Oswald. “Who knows, there may be some new champions in that party lately returned from the North?”

Roland shrugged. “We can but hope. I’ve beaten everyone else round here.”

“That’s why you’re the King’s champion,” pointed out Oswald with a smile at his brother’s boastfulness.

“As to that, all that plaguey title’s done is reduce my winning purse,” complained Roland. “Who will bet against the King’s champion? Wish he’d never bestowed it on me.”

“Is that why you masqueraded as the black knight with no sigil at Cereny?” asked Oswald dryly.