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“No, it bloody well isn’t!” he interrupted her rudely. “You should be worrying more about pleasing me, than the King!”
Fen stared at him. “Well, I-” she started, but got no further as he finished irritably with:
“Now perhaps you’ll lie still and let me get some sleep.” His tone was cold and angry. Fen’s expression froze and she quickly turned her face away and lowered her head to the pillow, trying to hold herself stiffly away from him. Oswald let her, rolling onto his back away from her. He heard her take a shuddering breath and then nothing.
Oswald lay in the dark. He was bone weary, but sleep didn’t come. He lay listening to his wife’s hitched breathing, until it evened out and she drifted off to a blameless sleep, while he lay feeling ashamed of being such a prick. He knew what he had to do before he could sleep. He reached out and seized her waist, pulling her firmly back into his hard body, tucking her in tight against him. He had no sooner curled around her warm body, than his eyelids drifted down, heavy with sleep.
The next morning he did not wake her, but rose swiftly and proceeded to the Council Chambers for an early gathering. His morning was as difficult as he’d anticipated. The other lords were appalled that he was rushing things through so fast. He started off calm and collected in the face of their many objections, but it was not without a price. The tic in his jaw was pronounced, before he’d been in there for more than a few moments. Any modicum of calm was merely a mask.
“What about the added expense to the royal household, eh?” blustered Lord Lowan. “Are the King’s coffers expected to pay the expenses for her own court to join his?”
“Her court at present consists of one blind old servant,” said Oswald blandly, once the furor that greeted Lord Lowan’s words had died down. “Who has been with her since birth.” That rather damped down the outrage of his fellow privy members, but did not stamp it out altogether.
“What about the will of the people?” demanded a red-faced Sir Barret Covington-Bart. “They will not stand for another Blechmarsh hovering so close to the throne, depend upon it! There will be a public uproar of epic proportion!” He looked around at the sea of faces barking ‘hear, hear’ and ‘Quite right!’
Oswald waited for the hub-bub to die down. “Do you think so?” he asked mildly. “That is not what my men on the ground are reporting.” A hush fell over the room at the allusion to his spy network. He paused for effect. “It seems the populace at large view the idea of the Blechmarsh princess as a figure of sympathy and even, dare I say, romance?” He let his eye travel over the room as the council fidgeted and fumed in their seats.
“And do you not see the danger in that, sirrah?” burst out Lord Catesby. “Allowing such a person to capture the imagination of the unwashed masses? We could have an uprising on our hands! A rebellion! You seem to forget we have seen our country torn asunder by war…”
“Some of us,” Oswald interrupted him coolly. “Have seen those battlefields at rather closer quarters than others.”
The inference was clearly felt by all present as they shuffled their feet and cleared their throats. Not one of them had ever served in his majesty’s army, as he had.
“None of us disputes that you have an informed opinion, Vawdrey,” said Lord Schaeffer hastily. “However, you are not the only one qualified to sway the King’s opinion on these matters and…”
“Whoever has an alternative solution to the problem has had the past month to approach the King,” said Oswald in a loud, stern voice. “His highness has informed me that he has heard none, save the chopping block!” You could have heard a pin drop. “The King has accepted the idea that marriage to a commoner is the only effective way to neutralize the Blechmarsh threat to his throne and that, gentlemen, is the solution we will be actively pursuing.” He ignored the low mutters and groans. “I would have preferred her safely married before we received her here, but none of us have managed to put forward a candidate the King will endorse.” He held aloft a piece of paper with the King’s seal displayed on it. “I have here, proof of King Wymer’s authorization. The Blechmarsh princess has already begun her journey to a point of rendezvous where she will be received by the King and then escorted back to the Winter Palace.” Shock and consternation greeted his words.
“Already begun her journey?” cried out Lord Lowan in horror.
“Quiet!” bellowed Oswald. He waited with furious eyes for the tumult to hush. “Is there any here, would gainsay the will of the King?” he roared. “If so, approach me now!” A deathly silence greeted his words. He let his gaze travel slowly and coldly over the length and breadth of the room. “I thought not,” he said nastily. “The meeting is now concluded. We will reconvene at two o’clock to decide who will accompany the King and act as escort.” He marched across the room and it wasn’t until he’d shut it behind him, that he heard the murmur of conversation started up again.
Oswald had thought the afternoon session would be easier. He thought wrong. He noticed the strange undercurrent in the room as soon as he entered and called the council to order. A sort of nervous energy emanated from his peers. He ran through the plans for the handover of Princess Una from her ‘protector’ Lord Mycott, who until recently had been openly acknowledged as her jailor. The whole thing was an exercise in ceremonial pomp. For the last nineteen months, the princess had been living under house arrest in relative penury. However, now she was to come to court and accept the sovereignty of her ‘royal cousin’ King Wymer, she was to be treated to a formal reception and escort. The King and his escort of twenty-five nobles and full guard would meet Lord Mycott on an open field where Princess Una would be expected to show her reverence and sign more documents renouncing all claim to the throne. Then she would be accompanied back to Aphrany with all due honors and accompanying ostentation. The other lords accepted these directions meekly, yet Oswald scanned them with a keen eye. Something was amiss, though he could not quite put his finger on what it was.
Biding his time, he collected the list of nominations for the King’s company. But although names were duly put forward, there was a lot of whispering and murmuring behind hands. His gaze fell on Lord Sutton who had the air of someone with an upper hand. This was surprising given how the situation had been taken out of his hands. Oswald waited, at several salient points throughout the afternoon, for someone to challenge him on some point or other. Nothing was forthcoming. Despite this, the atmosphere seemed to get if anything, steadily worse. He saw Lord Lowan jostle Lord Caterby in the ribs at one point, but when he turned in their direction, they resolutely avoided meeting his gaze.
It was not until the meeting had been formally closed, that Lord Sutton made his move.
“At least in this arena, you still command the power and respect that is your due, Vawdrey,” he said airily. “If not the domestic sphere.”
The room gave a loud and collective guffaw. Oswald returned Sutton’s gaze, until the other’s dropped away and the members started to rise from their seats and talk amongst themselves. He could feel their hurried gazes cut to him, as they started to drift out of the room. Oswald watched them filter out with an enigmatic expression, though his brain was ticking away all the while. ‘Twas plain his colleagues all thought he had lost his grip on his personal life, though why he was not sure. Yet. Looking up he saw an unhappy-looking Bryce hovering by the door, his eyes mournful. Ah.
Oswald beckoned to his assistant and he shuffled forward, practically wringing his hands. “You have something to tell me, Bryce,” said Oswald.
“Yes, my lord,” said his servant unhappily. He reached into his robe and withdrew a piece of parchment proclaiming ‘Performing live in the marketplace today “The Tragical History of a Lady Most Foully Betrayed in Three Acts: A Morality Play” written by J.E. Entner playwright by appointment to the Countess Vawdrey.
Oswald stared at it a moment, without comment. “This play is being performed daily in the marketplace?” he asked, surprised to hear his voice sound so steady.
; “Yes, my lord.”
“When did it start its run?”
“The day before yesterday, my lord.”
“You have seen it?”
“Not I, although I thought it prudent to send Jeffries along to view it this afternoon, and check there was no question of slander.”
“And?” Oswald’s tone was sharp.
Bryce shrugged. “The – erm – the central character is divorced in the first act by a neglectful husband of several years. She re-marries in the second act.” Bryce coughed discreetly. “The character of the second husband …”
“Yes?”
“Is – er – clearly based on yourself,” said Bryce unhappily. “He wears black robes only and is rather a sinister individual of ambition and influence.”
“Sinister?” Oswald eyed him, and Bryce turned pink.
“I meant no insult by that, my lord,” he said hastily. “Only that the play makes use of your –um reputation.”
“I see.” Oswald’s lips drew into a grim line. “The playwright claims his play is endorsed by my wife?” he asked icily.
Bryce hung his head. “He does, my lord. Though,” he added quickly. “He may be lying about that.”
Oswald pondered this and looked back at the flyer with its smudgy representation of the Vawdrey crest. His expression turned grim. “Well, I shall soon find out,” he said.
Bryce cleared his throat. “You should be aware, my lord,” he said hesitantly. “That the play seems to have garnered quite a lot of attention already in a relatively short space of time. Jeffries spotted several members of court in the audience this afternoon.”
“Is that so?” Instead of accompanying his assistant back to his study, he passed his sheaf of lists to Bryce. “Have these put on my desk,” he said. “I will work on them tonight.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Bryce, stealing a concerned look at him. “Shall I make a start on the plans?”
Oswald considered a moment. “Yes,” he agreed. “The King wants entertainments and tents for the field meet. He wants an overnight encampment to celebrate the Blechmarsh capitulation.” He spoke with heavy sarcasm, for the truth was the Blechmarsh cause had been defeated four years ago during the war. This was just ceremonial play-acting and what’s more, everyone knew it. “I will be back within the hour.”
By the time Oswald had reached their rooms, he’d worked himself into a fine temper. Still clutching the flyer he found his wife sat cosily in the window seat, with his two nieces and her dog, looking through an illustrated book of days. She smiled up at him as he entered the room, though he saw her expression quickly change, as her eyes roamed over his face.
“Is everything well?” she asked in alarm, jumping up from her seat. She turned back to Margaret and Lily. “Carry on without me, girls,” she urged, drawing apart from them. They happily rearranged themselves, crowding against Bors, wrapping their arms around his barrel-like body and resting their cheeks against his neck as they flipped the page.
Oswald strode toward the fireplace and waited for Fen to join him there. When she did, he turned on her accusingly, though he said not a word.
“What is it?” she faltered.
He found he did not trust himself to speak for the moment, and wordlessly, he handed her the flyer. Fen’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no!” she uttered faintly and turned quite pale. His eyes narrowed as he watched an expression of horrified guilt flit over her face. “Has he – is it…?” she caught her breath. “Is it being performed now?”
He nodded. “Oh yes, Fenella. It is being performed as we speak, in the market place below. Probably several performances a day.”
Her hand shot out to grip the mantel and he noticed her knuckles turn quite white. “How did you find out?” she asked faintly.
He paused, tasting the bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth. “It seems several of our acquaintance have already seen it,” he said stonily, and had to look away from her face. “Do I take it that you were fully aware of the turn the story has taken?”
“You mean that Mr Entner dropped the allegorical donkey?” asked Fen in a strained voice. She nodded unhappily.
“I suppose,” said Oswald in a detached tone, that didn’t quite hide his anger. “That it didn’t occur to you that I would want to be informed that your friend, the playwright had decided to cash in on the notoriety of your reputation?” he asked coldly.
Fen flinched at the idea that she had a reputation. “I – he…” she trailed off miserably. She made a visible effort to pull herself together. “I did fear that you would not be pleased,” she said stiltedly. “But I find it hard to gauge things at court. I did not know if I was over-reacting.”
He tipped his head to one side. “Over-reacting?” he repeated quietly. “By completely ignoring its production? And allowing your husband to become a figure of ridicule and scorn among his peers?”
Fen’s cheeks flushed with color, at the edge to his words. “I thought no-one would attend it,” she admitted wretchedly, and hung her head. “I hoped it would sink without a trace.”
“Did you?” Oswald’s lips twisted, but it was more of a grimace, than a smile. “Well, it was a vain hope, Fenella. As I understand these things, more and more courtiers will be slipping away daily to watch the debacle and throw their pennies Mr Entner’s way. They will then spend their evenings whispering about it behind our backs.”
“No,” Fen whispered, the blood draining from her face.
“Before we know it, no doubt it will have reached the ear of the King. After that, Mr Entner can drag his show around the shires. Perhaps it will reach all your friends in Sitchmarsh before the spring?”
Fen looked sick to her stomach, but he couldn’t find it in him to take pity on her. “But perhaps you enjoy being at the center of so much sordid rumor?” he speculated. “I must admit, for my part I dislike being a vulgar display, but each to their own.”
Fen’s gaze was so wounded, he abruptly changed his tack. “Let us look on the bright side,” he said bitterly. “Mr Entner’s fifteen children will be fed.” He realized how demoralized she must feel when she did not correct him as to the correct number of the playwright’s offspring. He knew she would know it.
“What can we do?” she uttered miserably.
“Do?” repeated Oswald. “I’m afraid there is only one course of action open to us, under such circumstances.”
Fen looked up anxiously. “N-not gaol!” she stammered. “He has a family to support!”
Oswald gave a bitter laugh. “Gaol?” he repeated. “Good gods, no. That really would confirm me in the role of cold-hearted villain. No, there can be no question of repercussions for the enterprising Mr Entner,” he said wearily. Suddenly he felt tired of the whole thing. Heart-sick of it.
“What then?”
“Why, what else? We must send word to the marketplace and invite Mr Entner to bring his players up to the castle to perform for us all in the Great Hall. Before a royal audience, no less.” His words were cold, devoid of emotion. As though oddly detached from the situation, he watched Fen stiffen.
Her jaw dropped. “Invite them to the castle?” she faltered, incredulously. “Invite the King to see it?”
“All of our acquaintance at large,” agreed Oswald. “We will fill the Great Hall. We must attend and smile and applaud throughout, as if we are excessively diverted by such a work of fiction.”
“B-But that will be seen as an endorsement! Wouldn’t it?”
“I repeat, we must seem excessively diverted by this work of fiction,” he said forcefully.
Fen gazed at him. “I don’t know if I can do that,” she admitted.
“You can, and you will,” he told her grimly. “You will invite Mason and Linnet and yes, even Roland and his friends, and we will attend en masse.” Fen made an involuntary noise of dissent, but he ignored it. “And you will wear your brightest jewels, and your widest smile and we will let everyone see that you are nothing like the ridiculous character from this
melodrama.”
Fen swallowed. “What if Mr Entner refuses to bring it to the palace?” she asked in a small voice.
He gave her a withering look. “I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.” Her face crumpled and he had to look away. “I will send word to the marketplace inviting their company tomorrow night for our entertainment. You will employ your time this evening and tomorrow writing invitations to watch your play. The first you will send to the King and Queen.”
Her head came up at this. “My play?” she repeated blankly.
“Your name endorses it,” he said in a clipped voice.
“But I thought it was a play about a donkey!” she said with a flash of spirit.
He looked back at her. “Are you trying to tell me that you haven’t read it?” he asked softly, narrowing his gaze.
Her gaze skittered away from his. “No, but-”
“Then you have endorsed it,” he said angrily. “At least have the decency to own it!” At his loudly-spoken words, Bors barked behind him, letting him know he didn’t appreciate him speaking to his mistress that way. Oswald ignored him.
Fen’s lips trembled, she bowed her head. “Yes, my lord,” she said.
He nodded, grim-faced. “I will have a general notice put up he said. “Inviting anyone at the palace who wishes to attend to do so.”
Fen swallowed, and nodded again. He turned from her in disgust and exited the room. As he closed the door behind him, he heard his nieces’ little feet thump to the ground and then run across the floorboards toward her. Clearly they thought he was a villain too.
**
Oswald did not return to their chambers that evening. Instead he worked steadily through the itinerary for the royal reception of Princess Una. Fifty tents, he specified, for the attendant nobles and for the entertainers. They would need a goodly amount of soldiers too as the King was so determined to attend himself, fully decked out in armor. Pages, pig roasts, royal guards, scribes and squires. There would be no women present, for the illusion was one of a triumphant war party. The princess would be attended by her aged servant and Lady Mycott and her daughters which would follow protocol for decency’s sake.