The Consolation Prize (Brides of Karadok #3) - Alice Coldbreath Page 0,2
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.