The Consolation Prize (Brides of Karadok #3) - Alice Coldbreath Page 0,3
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!”
“Your Highness—,” Vawdrey began placatingly.
“I won’t have it! A damn bunch of country yokels with nary a decent connection between them! Half of them could scarcely have been presented at court!”
“I am persuaded that you are not in earnest,” Vawdrey said calmly. “For you gave your word the princess’s hand would be awarded at the outcome of this event, and every man present knows the King’s word is law.”
The King’s face turned even more violently purple, and Una felt a sudden alarm that he might be taken off by apoplexy. She turned her eyes on the queen, but Armenal was murmuring behind her hand to one of her ladies in waiting.
“You must not upset yourself, sire,” Vawdrey said with a shrug. “For there is always some way of negotiating around these things, if needs must.”
Wymer looked up sharply. “I do not take your meaning.” he barked, a gleam of hope now in his eyes. “Do you tell me you’ve hit upon some way out of this damnable mess?”
Earl Vawdrey smiled a rather wintry smile. “Let me consider the matter, Your Majesty.”
Wymer grunted but relaxed back into his chair. “Aye, well see that you do, that’s all!” he said pettishly. “For I won’t abide by the winner of this piece of mummery, and so I warn you!”
Una risked another glance at Lord Vawdrey and found him looking thoughtful. She glanced back down at Otho who raised his sword to the restless crowd. They too did not seem happy that there was no clear favorite to cheer for. It seemed almost that they picked up on their King’s palpable displeasure and took it for their lead.
None of these competitors knew how to play to the crowd like the seasoned favorites did. In the last eighteen months, Una had come to a pretty shrewd knowledge of how fond these Southerners were of their pageantry. Caer-Lyoness was used to the flamboyance of the King’s champion, Sir Roland