Page 48 of The Consolation Prize

“No.”

“A pity,” he sighed. “Mr. Beverley’s pie will probably last us a sennight as it is.”

She gave a soft chuckle at that. “Did you tell Otho to hire him?”

“Not in so many words.”

“You may have to,” she said, and he heard the pillow rustle as she turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. “Otho’s far too harsh a judge of character.”

He grunted. “You don’t need to tell me that. He’s still looking at me as though deciding where to dispose of my body.” He could almost feel her frowning in the dark. “That was in jest. I usually am … joking I mean.”

“Yes, I know,” she agreed absently, and he wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or not. “Your brothers aren’t very like you, are they?”

“No,” he agreed. “I did tell you so.”

“Yes, but you also told me your younger brother was entering the priesthood,” she pointed out. “He certainly seems very ill-suited for such a vocation.”

“Yes, I think that plan must have fallen by the wayside,” he murmured in agreement. “Noticed that about Roger, did you?”

“His tongue was practically hanging out across the table,” she said dryly, and Armand laughed. “I don’t think Rose even noticed,” she mused. “She’s a very pure-hearted girl.”

Privately Armand thought Rose was something of a simpleton, but he gave a murmur that could be taken for agreement. “You will admit I am right about Henry being chicken-hearted at all events,” he said. “And presumably your heart no longer bleeds for him after my cruel treatment of him in boyhood.”

“When did I say—”

“When we were at the tower,” Armand retorted. “You read me a proper lesson on proper brotherly feeling.”

“Well,” she said after a moment’s pause, “that sounds very tiresome of me and I apologize.”

He retreated into surprised silence. “If you’re going to be so reasonable about it, I have little choice other than to accept your apology,” he said humorously, and yawned, rolling onto his back. “In any event, you will admit, I sketched my sister-in-law to perfection. Did you hear her carrying on?” he shuddered. “Only Henry would put up with her. She’s a face like a withered apple too.”

“Armand!”

“It’s true!”

“I’m sure she has many admirable qualities,” she said, and Armand laughed again, this time with a derisive edge.

“No, you’re not,” he retorted.

Una was silent a moment. “Very well, I confess she did not look to advantage under that cumbersome wimple, but I know myself how such trappings can make you look your worst.” She hesitated. “When I was at court you know, they called me several names due to my own appearance. It was hurtful.”

“Names,” he asked. “What names?”

“Not to my face,” she said quickly. “Except for that court jester. He can insult even the King to his face without fear. As for what names, they were mostly equine in nature.”

Armand felt like he was really floundering now. He had vague recollections of the jester from May Day, but nothing certain. “Equine?”

“Such as … the Northern mare, that sort of thing.”

That did ring a vague bell. “It was doubtless just a foolish way to disparage you,” Armand said dismissively. “You don’t look anything like a horse. If you want,” he offered casually, “I’ll knock that jester down, next time I see him.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she answered, and he could hear the quiver of amusement in her voice.

“Shuffle closer,” he told her. “And put your arm around my waist. I’m cold.”

“Anything else?” she asked, with a hint of wryness as she looped her arm about his waist.

“Yes, throw your leg over mine.”