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Oswald nodded, as he poured himself a much-needed glass of wine. His hand, he noticed as he lifted to his mouth, shook with a faint tremor.

Meldon helped the other man prize open the lid and they dragged out a long rolled up tapestry. His eyebrows shot up. Clearly Fenella had not been a mere dabbler in the art. This would have been a labor-intensive piece of work that would have taken her many months to complete.

“Careful!” Oswald barked as the man unrolled its considerable width with a kick of his boot.

“Sorry m’lord,” he said hastily, and crouched down to unfurl the rest of it.

Oswald walked closer and blinked at the scene laid out before him. It had not yellowed or faded with age, possibly from being in storage and the bright array of colors and stitches could clearly be seen. His heart sank. Why the hell had he got the impression she was not proficient in tapestry? This would have taken her hours and hours of work. He cast back his mind, to her telling him that seemingly throw-away story of how she had sent him a betrothal gift. And he had confessed that he had never even seen it. Even worse, he seemed to remember uttering some bloody stupid comment about his father probably letting his dogs sleep on it. He turned cold all over. Fifteen-year-old Fen would doubtless have expected a word of praise from her betrothed for all the time she had invested in this. He glanced back over his shoulder at the grave-faced girl on the portrait. She would have sat for fucking hours waiting for some word of thanks from him! Or at least some acknowledgement of her precious gift. And he hadn’t done a damn thing. He couldn’t even trust his memory any more, since he had clearly forgotten all about the locket she had given him. Had he seen the tapestry, and simply shrugged it off as a girlish whim in his callow youth? He walked slowly around the edges, his eyes pouring over the large decorative border which depicted thorny vines decorated with roses and intertwined with a procession of bears and panthers up on their hind legs, as if dancing. The central panel was a large angelic figure with a halo of roses, brandishing a fiery sword and stood under a heavy tree, bursting with fruit. Oswald was not sure of the significance of the central image, but the intertwining of their heraldic beasts showed that this was clearly a celebration of the joining of their houses. A celebration he had somehow missed at the time. Gods. It was so big it nearly covered the whole floor! He cleared his throat. “I want this hung immediately,” he told Meldon.

“At Vawdrey Keep?” asked his servant uncertainly.

“No, here,” he clarified, pointing to the bare walls. The gods knew, they had little enough by way of decoration. It was, he realized uncomfortably, a far cry from the fantasy home of Mr and Mrs Roberts that Fen had described. “The portrait can be hung over the fireplace,” he said. “And – er – Meldon. See about getting some ribbons and greenery installed in here for the midwinter festival.”

Meldon bridled indignantly. “The old baron never asked me to nothing of that nature-” he started belligerently.

“Well, I’m asking you now! Get your god-daughter to do it!” Oswald bit back in irritation. “If that’s beyond you!”

He flipped a gold coin at the delivery man who was standing by gawping at the two of them. “For your troubles,” he murmured in dismissal.

“Thank you, m’lord,” gasped the man, blinking at the value of the coin and backing out of the room before he could change his mind.

“What did you give him so much for?” grumbled Meldon. “They’ll all be expecting the same treatment!”

Oswald ignored him, and turned on his heel, making for the bedchamber. In there he found Fenella’s maid tidying her mistress’s clothes away.

“Ah, Trudy,” he said, swiftly masking his irritation. “Perhaps you could help Meldon to hang the tapestry next door?”

“Yes, m’lord,” she said bobbing a curtsey and backing out of the room. He closed the door after her with a frown. It had never occurred to him that palace quarters left anything to be desired before, but at this precise moment in time, he felt distinctly underwhelmed with them. He paced the room a couple of times and was just debating whether to go in search of Fenella when he heard the outer door slam. Hurrying out into the adjoining room, he was irritated to find it was only his brother returning with yet another silver cup and a battered shield. Roland groaned and dropped down into a chair, with a grimace.

“I’m surprised you’re not out celebrating,” Oswald commented. “First place?”

“What else?” asked Roland arrogantly. He set the decorative cup down, before being distracted by Meldon’s antics. “What’s he doing, stood on that chair?” he asked.

Oswald ignored him, as it was blatantly obvious Meldon was hanging the tapestry. Instead he poured his brother a cup of wine.

“That picture’s not straight,” said Roland critically as he took it from him. Trudy darted back to tip it to the right. “That’s better,” he said grudgingly. “Though the likeness is terrible,” he looked at Oswald. “Don’t tell me you paid good coin for that.”

“That’s not the portrait I commissioned,” said Oswald irritably. “That’s one her father had years ago.”

“He was robbed,” said Roland taking a swig of wine. “I’m sure Bors was far better-looking than that as a puppy.”

“Any objection to your new cup being placed on the mantel with some flowers in it?” asked Oswald, picking up the large vessel and turning it over in his hands.

“Yes,” snapped his brother, snatching it back. “I’m having it melted down on the morrow. And why’s everyone trying to make this place habitable? Are we expecting visitors?”

Oswald dropped down heavily into the seat next to him. “Would you say this place is suitable for a newly-wed couple to start out married life together?” he asked.

Roland gave him a sideways look. “How the hells should I know?” He scanned Oswald suspiciously. “What ails you?” he asked. “You don’t look yourself.”

Oswald shrugged. “I scarcely know these days,” he admitted.

Roland clicked his fingers and whistled.

“Bors isn’t here,” said Oswald. “Presumably he’s with his mistress.”

Roland shrugged a shoulder irritably. “What do I care where her dog is?” he asked.

Oswald looked at his brother in exasperation. “You’re always fawning on it!”