Page 4 of An Ill-Made Match

“Three times!” Roland corrected him hotly.

“Twice,” insisted Cuthbert. “You were disqualified at Kellingford.”

“Everyone was disqualified at Kellingford,” Roland explained to his brother. “Total farce. Whole melee was declared null and void. I beat him though.”

“Not officially,” said Cuthbert. “Lord Kentigern’s good too. He beat Roland at Roget’s Ford.”

Roland exhaled noisily.

Oswald’s eyebrows rose. “Dear me!” he tutted. “The playing field seems to have levelled off of late. Perhaps I’ll have to start attending again. It got rather tiresome just watching you win.”

“I bet,” said Roland sarcastically.

“Garman Orde didn’t compete today,” carried on Cuthbert helpfully. “So Roland had an easy win.”

“De Bussell is considered to be a fair competitor,” Roland told him in exasperation, before turning back to his brother. “Remind me why I let you persuade me to take this little swine as a squire, again, brother?”

Oswald smiled. “You’re twenty-five years of age Roland. It’s only right that you start taking on some responsibility,” he said. “Even you agreed it was high time.”

“When the devil did I say that?” frowned Roland.

His brother waved a hand airily. “I’ve come about that little matter you wished me to approach Sir Leofric Montmayne about…”

“Oh yes,” said Roland hurriedly, he darted a gaze at Cuthbert who was bent over the armor and seemingly absorbed in his task. “I forgot about that. Did you speak to the old man already?”

His eldest brother regarded him impassively. “Yes,” Oswald agreed lightly. “I spoke to Sir Leofric of your matrimonial prospects.”

“And?”

“And,” his brother replied unhurriedly. “He agreed that with your country estate, good name, connections and fine lineage you have much to offer as a prospective bridegroom.”

“Oh,” said Roland blankly. He’d been girding himself for more of a battle as a younger son, without title. He had expected Lenora’s Father to need more buttering up. Still, he thought eyeing his brother, Oswald’s negotiating skills were meant to be second to none. “I’m obliged to you,” he said grudgingly.

“Not at all,” smiled Oswald urbanely. “Merely doing my duty, as head of our house. I must say though,” he paused. “You don’t look particularly happy at the prospect of winning her hand.”

“Course I am,” bristled Roland. “Just didn’t expect it to be so… easy, that’s all.” He brooded a moment in silence. “What happens next?”

“Sir Leofric proposed that we travel to his place Hallam Hall in a month’s time for a betrothal banquet, with appropriate fanfare.”

“A month’s time?” echoed Roland, feeling again, rather unpleasantly jarred at the prospect.

“Too long?” tutted Oswald. “Dear me, I forget how ardent you young lovers can be…”

“Not too long,” Roland interrupted him impatiently. The small smile playing about his brother’s lips told him the bastard was well aware of his feelings on the subject. “Young lovers, my ass. I’ve walked in on you and Fenella more times than I can mention.”

Oswald grinned. He was totally unabashed by his passion for his own wife. It was downright indecent in Roland’s opinion.

“Will you come?” Roland asked abruptly. “To the betrothal feast?”

His brother looked shocked. “To see the last of us brothers married? Of course! Mason will too, I have no doubt.” He clapped a hand on Roland’s shoulder.

“I was thinking of Fen’s condition,” Roland pointed out. Fenella, Oswald’s wife, was currently big with child and due any day now.

“Fenella’s presence is unlikely,” his brother conceded. “But we will cross that bridge when we reach it. Hopefully my heir will have made an appearance by then. If not, my head will be entirely gray.”

Roland glanced at his brother’s hair, but it looked black as any Vawdrey’s to him. “All is well though?” he asked with a flicker of concern. He had grown fond of his sister-in-law. He had even been to visit her at the large town-house she and Oswald had purchased in Caer-Lyoness. They had a matching one in Aphrany, the winter capital. For some reason, they seemed to prefer town life to the living quarters afforded to courtiers in the royal palaces. The old family seat, Vawdrey Keep, Oswald had gifted to Roland six months previously.

“So she assures me,” said Oswald. “She’s as contented as ever. It’s me that’s harried to death with worries.”