Page 2 of The Consolation Prize

“Why should I?” Wymer asked shortly. “Besides, he organized this May Day debacle.” He shifted restlessly in his seat. “It’s an insult having this damned bunch of no-names competing!”

“You’re just cross because De Bussell went crashing out,” Armenal said with a tinkling laugh. “All because he looks exactly to you as a knight should. Did you wager on his winning?” She sighed. “You never learn! Just because he looks the part, you’re determined to back him, despite all evidence to the contrary.”

Wymer’s glower increased and Una guessed the Queen had guessed right about the wager. A footfall behind them had Wymer swiveling around in his seat. “There you are, Vawdrey!” the King cried out as Earl Vawdrey appeared next to him with a smile on his handsome face. He bowed his dark head to Queen Armenal, who nodded coldly, and to Una who responded in kind.

“Your Majesties,” he murmured. “Are you enjoying the festivities?” He swept a hand eloquently toward the competitors. Before the competition of arms, there had been dancing of maidens around a pole decked with ribbons and accompanied by musicians. In the North this was traditionally done around a white hawthorn tree, but things were different here in the South. Or maybe it was just here in the palace that they dispensed with trees. Una wasn’t sure.

“Enjoying it, be damned!” burst out Wymer. “I don’t know half of these fellows who have thrown their hat in the ring! What do you mean by allowing these nonentities to compete for my cousin’s hand?” He glanced at Una. “She’s a princess of the blood, I’ll remind you!”

“I’m not likely to forget,” Vawdrey answered coolly. “But you must allow the criteria for entrants has prohibited many of our brightest competitors from entry.” The King frowned. “If you recall,” Earl Vawdrey added mildly. “They must be unwed, distinguished by birth, own their own estate, and be loyal to the crown.” He counted the points on his long, elegant fingers.

“And?” barked Wymer, clearly in a confrontational mood. “What of it? Admittedly Orde and your brother are out of the running, but Kentigern’s not married to my knowledge and neither is De Crecy. Even young Renlow is conspicuous in his absence. Where are they, sirrah?”

“Perhaps they do not wish to be saddled with a wife?” suggested Queen Armenal, sotto voce.

Una was glad that she was not easily put to the blush. The implication was clearly that they did not wish to be saddled with her.

“Renlow does not own his own estate,” Earl Vawdrey put in smoothly. “He’s a younger son. As for Lord Kentigern … he was a prominent figure during the war, was he not?” he suggested delicately. “It would perhaps seem impolitic for him to compete.”

Una did flush at that. Lord Kentigern had suffered grievous wounds in service of the Blechmarsh forces. His lands and his ancient seat had been confiscated after crushing defeat. Doubtless looking on her face every morn would serve as an unpleasant reminder of all he had lost. She did not blame him one bit for shunning this tournament. Who would?

“And De Crecy?” Wymer snapped.

Oswald pursed his lips. “I have heard a rumor that Sir Jeffrey is already married, sire, though as to its veracity, I could not say.”

“Humph!” The King sat back in his chair. “I suppose I shall have to accept these sundry excuses,” he said grudgingly. “But I am sorely vexed there are not more prominent knights of the realm to be seen this day. What of Bevan of Knollesley? Or Sir James Attley?”

“Alas”—Vawdrey spread his hands wide—“unforeseen circumstances do arise, Your Highness.”

Una stared straight ahead of her, grateful for the stiff jeweled collar that kept her head upright and the cumbersome headdress that meant she could not see the Queen’s expression unless she fully turned her head. No doubt Armenal would be vastly amused. The Queen did not appreciate having to share the dais with another female these days.

Una hardly blamed her for her knowing smirk though. ’Twas obvious to all present, that these Southern knights did not wish for the dubious honor of being wedded to a dethroned princess, besmirched with ill fame. Even her dubious royal status would be lost as soon as they married her.

Her unpopularity at court probably did not help either, she acknowledged unflinchingly. She had heard echoes of some of the cruel jibes and whispers about her, though no one dared say to her face that they found her ugly, her accent unattractive, and her Northern manners stiff and outdated. She had heard the court jester refer to her as “the Northern mare” or “the warhorse of Blandivar” and the guffaws that had greeted these words, though she had pretended to be quite oblivious.

Fortunately for her, Una’s upbringing had been so dire that a few tittering courtiers were hardly enough to make a dent in her armor, which had been twenty-four years in the making. For someone who had spent the latter part of their childhood dragged from one battlefield to another and had languished the last three years under house arrest, being shunned at court was like a flea bite after being savaged by a pack of ravenous wolves.

She found her stoic calm mostly unruffled by the experience, although it wasn’t pleasant to be a social pariah. It beat waking every morning in draughty fortresses to the clash of swords, never knowing when she might feel a dagger at her throat or be forced to mount the gallows as a traitor.

“Sir Bavistock?” mused Earl Vawdrey, rousing her from her reflections with a jolt. She noticed, uncomfortably that his gaze was trained on her now rather thoughtfully. “I do not think I’ve ever heard tell of him before today. Now, what was the name of the other?” he said, casting his name down a list he carried. “Ah, yes, Sir Walter Skeffington. I fancy the Skeffingtons are descended from the Borlois family, a minor branch of less distinction.”

“Indeed?” the King grunted. “Well, Sir Walter looks a spindle-shanked fellow. This other—” He waved a hand irritably, clearly having forgotten Otho’s assumed identity.

“Bavistock,” supplied Vawdrey helpfully, a smile playing about his lips that made Una uneasy. He surely could not know him for her baseborn brother, or he would say something, would he not?

“This Bavistock will soon have the best of him, I’ll wager.” When no-one argued, King Wymer looked disgruntled. He soon cheered up though, when after a few moments of swordplay, Otho beat the unfortunate Sir Walter in an ignominious defeat. “There, did I not say so?” he demanded, gratified to be proved right.

Earl Vawdrey inclined his head. “Just so, sire,” he said, smothering a small yawn.

The King drummed his fingers against the arms of his chair. “Who else competes?” he barked. “Surely there is some half-eligible knight, who will win my cousin’s hand outright?”

Wordlessly, Lord Vawdrey passed him the list of competitors. Una watched with some perturbation as Wymer’s face turned increasingly more purple as his gaze traveled down the list.

“Intolerable!” he burst out at last. “Not to be borne! I don’t recognize a single name among this bunch of hedge-born churls!”

“My King,” said Queen Armenal reproachfully. “You cannot blame Earl Vawdrey entirely for this fiasco, for it was you yourself who set the criteria. You alone insisted it must be a combative knight who must win her hand in marriage.”

Wymer’s jaw thrust out angrily. “I am aware of that! But I had thought—” He broke off impatiently. “However, that can’t be helped. They did not come to compete, and it appears I cannot force them to.” Una’s color blazed and she realized she could be mortified after all. “Not one of these low-born knaves can be permitted to win my royal cousin’s hand!” the King hissed. “It’s an insult to sovereignty!”