Page 11 of Wed By Proxy

Feeling eyes on her, she let her gaze wander around the hall. A handful of servants straggled about the place, ostensibly fetching and carrying, but Mathilde could see her appearance had caused something of a stir. She was just dipping her knife into the honey, when she noticed Robin sat tucking into a plateful over at the main table. She raised a hand in greeting, and he returned the gesture with raised eyebrows. She gave a faint shrug. There was no explaining away her current situation. “Clothing” she mouthed at him. Robin glanced down significantly at the new burgundy tunic he was wearing.

Mathilde was just opening her mouth to explain she too had offered to wear boy’s raiment, when Lord Martindale growled out, “Eat your bread!” Obligingly, she lifted it to her mouth. The texture was rather chewy, but the flavor not unpleasant.

“Very nice,” she said. He grunted again. She picked the shell from the egg and ate a bite of that. “About that servant,” she started, tucking her hair behind her ears. For some reason, now that it was shorter, it seemed to have a very pronounced curl. When it had been long, there had been no suspicion of one. It was most strange.

“What about her?” Lord Martindale asked, seeming to come to a decision. He drew up a chair opposite her and sat sprawled in it, regarding her moodily.

“I do not think it quite fair to dismiss her like that. After all, it was I who could not shut the window…”

“She should have seen to it,” he said dismissing the subject abruptly. “What happened to your travelling party?”

Mathilde blinked at the rapid change of subject. “Travelling party?” she repeated doubtfully. He gave a short nod. “It consisted of just myself and Robin.”

He looked frankly disbelieving. “I understood the Doverdales to be an influential family at your fancy southern court,” he said flatly. “You can scarcely expect me to believe that.”

No, that probably was expecting a bit much, Mathilde acknowledged, setting down her boiled egg. “Um,” she took a deep breath. “I … I decided that it was high time we met. After all, we have been married some four years now...” She looked up hopefully, to see how he had received that news.

His black brows drew together. “You’re saying,” he said slowly. “That you took this step unsanctioned?”

Oh dear. “After all,” she carried on desperately. “You are my husband, and does not your will overrule my mother’s in this regard?”

Lord Martindale sat staring at her. “Do you mean to tell me —?” he started, sounding disbelieving, and Mathilde had just steeled herself against his thunderstruck tone when the door to the Great Hall burst open and two men walked in, one burly giant with gray streaks in his beard, and the other who was younger and blonde, looking rather the worse for wear.

“Ah, here you are Guy,” boomed the first, “I was just saying to Temur…” But just what he was saying to his companion, they were not to find out. As he caught sight of Mathilde, the words seemed to freeze on his lips. Both newcomers stared at Mathilde, transfixed. She dabbed her lips with the napkin, and turned expectantly back to her husband.

Lord Martindale gave an irritable shrug. “Aye?” he growled. “What is it? Can a man not break his fast in peace?” These words seemed to astonish them still further.

“Guy?” said the younger man in an uncertain voice. “Who’s this lass?”

“That’s what I’m trying to ascertain!” Lord Martindale burst out angrily. “But I’m plagued and beset all round with interruptions!” Mathilde jumped at his words. What does he mean? She wondered uneasily. She had told him who she was. Did he feel some lingering doubts as to her identity? As if noticing her consternation, he made a brief gesture toward her. “This is the Lady Mathilde,” he said abruptly. “You will treat her with the accord due to a guest in my house.” A guest? Mathilde stared, crestfallen, as the two men bowed dubiously in her direction. The Lady Mathilde? She was the Lady Martindale, and his Marchioness! The two men looked frankly unconvinced by her credentials. Casting her a warning look, he said briefly. “These are two of my men, Waldon and Temur.”

“I’m happy to meet you,” she said with as much bewildered dignity as she could muster. What is going on? Clearly, he did not want these men to know that she was his wife. They started exchanging some words which Mathilde did not even attempt to make sense of. Her head was in a whirl and her eyes smarted. She sat with her back very straight as it dawned on her that it was not just these men he wished to be kept in the dark. He had not introduced her to anyone as his wife. Not even last night. The realization made her gasp and all three turn their heads in her direction. Quickly, she masked it with a cough, raising her balled fist to her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said, attempting to scramble to out of her chair, momentarily forgetting she was bundled in about ten blankets. She flailed around for a few moments, before managing to find her feet.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Lord Martindale harshly.

Mathilde did not answer him, for in truth, she had no notion. She just knew that it was imperative that she get away from him this very instant. She took a shaky breath and hurriedly started toward the table where Robin still sat in the center of the hall. Her view was blurry, as her eyes were full of embarrassing tears and her chest heaved with the effort not to let them fall. Although she succeeded holding back her tears, she could not say the same about her blankets which she seemed to be fast shedding with every step. She made a grab for the last one, and was just stumbling over one flapping round her ankles, when she felt her upper arms seized firmly from behind.

“Hold!” growled Lord Martindale’s voice in her ear. “What the hells do you think you’re doing, disrobing in front of everyone?”

“Unhand her at once!” yelled Robin, springing up from his seat.

“Who’s this young sprig?” muttered Waldon, turning to his companion.

Temur shrugged. “Think I must still be drunk,” he said, scratching his head.

Mathilde gazed accusingly up at Lord Martindale. “I want to leave!” she announced in an injured voice.

“You’ve only just arrived,” he pointed out tersely.

“Well, I’m clearly unwelcome!” She flung at him shakily.

“Keep your voice down! And stop wriggling, unless you want to give everyone an eyeful.”

Mathilde flinched, and glanced over her shoulder at their avid audience. There were a good many astonished faces, and open mouths. Turning back, she whispered “But I don’t understand,” She was unable to keep the hurt out of her voice. With a frustrated growl, he suddenly heaved her up and over his shoulder. Mathilde was too astonished to make a sound. The blanket she had managed to hold on to was twisted awkwardly about her, and she could definitely feel a frigid breeze around her nether regions. Before she could so much as protest, she was being borne precipitately out of the Great Hall. Squeezing her eyes shut, she sobbed, little comforted by the knowledge that no one could see how utterly defeated she felt.

VI

What the hells am I doing? Blood pounded in Guy’s ears as he flung open the door to his bedchamber and tipped his fair burden, almost entirely naked he noticed now, into the middle of his own bed. She squeaked as she hit the mattress and scrabbled for her blanket which was currently wrapped around her left knee. Guy had to turn away, and after kicking the door shut behind them, he turned his attention to safer quarters, restoking the dwindling fire in the hearth.