Page 4 of Wed By Proxy

“It’s Leander,” Mathilde told him proudly. Leander seemed to her to be a vastly heroic name.

Robin halted on the step. “That’s too fancy,” he said shaking his head. “You want something plain like Smith or Jenkins.”

“Smith?” she repeated with displeasure, but Rob was vaulting himself onto a window ledge to peer down at the courtyard below.

“Gordon’s there waiting at the gate with the horses,” he said with relief. “Come on.”

II

Solstice Eve, Acton March

Guy Randall, Marquis of Martindale dropped the gnawed meat bone with a clatter and pushed the empty platter away from him with a belch. He cast a jaundiced eye around the hall and wondered how long he would have to sit here and show willing, before he could make good his escape. The company was starting to grow rowdy. The bride sat squarely in the groom’s lap, and there was much laughter and jocularity, neither of which was to Guy’s taste. A serving wench approached, and he narrowed his gaze at her. Her step faltered, and she held up the jug of ale to make plain her intent. Oh. He gave a curt nod for her to proceed and she filled up his drinking vessel, sneaking looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He ignored her scrutiny and she retreated, casting one last look at him back over her shoulder.

“Would it kill you to give the lass a smile?” rumbled Firmin, taking him by surprise.

Guy scowled at him. “When have you ever known me to smile at women?”

Firmin shook his head. “You’re too young to be getting the reputation for a woman-hater.”

A woman hater? Guy grunted. After all, what did he care what people said? And if it stopped serving wenches from wasting their smiles on him, then it was all to the better.

“You’d think that big black beard would be enough to put ’em off,” struck up Waldon, who sat the other side of him.

Guy turned his ferocious gaze on him instead. “You’ve a beard yourself,” he pointed out scathingly.

“Aye,” agreed Waldon. “But not the reputation for hating women, or a wife.” Guy braced himself for the moment when Waldon realized his blunder. Sure enough, he saw his friend stiffen and then look wide eyed toward Firmin, who gave him a small shake of his head.

For Guy did have a wife. A wife that none were permitted to ever speak of. A money-hungry, thrice wed, southern bitch of a wife, who even now paraded around the Argent King’s court, bearing his title as if it were his own severed head. How he hated her, and all she represented. The desecration of all his boyhood ideals and dreams. The brutal awakening to the cold reality of his life. He slammed his fist down on the table, but held himself back from speech. It took an effort.

“Guy…” started Firmin warningly, and he looked up to find the wedding revelers all staring at him fearfully. Clearly, they thought he was about to turn the table over and start bellowing. He passed a hand over his brow. He hadn’t really lost his temper in a twelvemonth. His hand shook slightly as he reached for his drink, before tossing it back. The musicians struck back up their tune and a sigh of relief seemed to pass through the room at a potential disaster averted.

“One more jug of ale,” he said in a low voice. “And I leave.”

“None could complain at that,” rallied Firmin. “You’ve been a generous overlord, and done Temur proud.”

“A right handsome wedding gift, you gave them,” joined in Waldon. “They’ll get a good start in life with that.”

Guy curled his lip in reply. All he had given them had been a purse of gold, and he had plenty of that. He disliked being dragged from his hearth during Yuletide, when he wanted to be sequestered away from all celebrations and making merry. He glanced over at his young cousin, the groom.

“Poor bastard,” he grunted, though even the most impartial bystander could see Temur was flushed and giddy with happiness and ale.

His new wife, Guy had not bothered to remember her name, had one shapely arm curved around Temur’s neck and looked just as triumphant as the groom. He would not let a woman get so close to his jugular, he thought grimly. Temur was a fool. But at least Temur’s bride had been of his own choosing, Guy acknowledged. That was more than his wife had been. He had been given the bleak choice of signing his fealty over to the southern king, along with half of his wealth, or face execution. The added bonus of being leg-shackled to a woman he’d never even met had been the crowning insult.

He’d been sat in a filthy cell when the papers had been placed before him with pen and ink. He had not even realized then, how complete King Wymer’s victory over his family had been. For with a wife he had married by proxy, a wife never actually given into his possession, his line had also effectively been severed. For how could he ever beget a legitimate heir to continue it or to inherit? On his death, his lands and his title would revert to the Crown. So really, he had signed away everything on that accursed day. Was it any wonder he was so bloody bitter?

He brooded over his cup for another half hour, before taking his leave and heading back. Was it his imagination, or did the company breathe a collective sigh of relief at his departure? He wouldn’t be surprised, for all everyone insisted his blessing was necessary. He was under no illusions that he was well-liked. How the hells was anyone else supposed to like him, when he absolutely despised himself?

Firmin insisted on accompanying him back, though Waldon stayed behind to celebrate the nuptials. It was a six mile ride from the village of Acton Dymock to his sprawling estate of Acton March. The large manor house was mostly plunged in darkness on their return. Candles had been left alight in the wood-paneled hallway, but there were no other signs of life.

“Will ye take no supper?” Firmin asked when Guy immediately headed past him to mount the shadowy staircase to his private rooms. He needed no light to guide his way.

“Nay,” he shook his head. He’d eaten a good supper at the wedding feast, but usually that would not mean he could not eat again. It was thinking of her that had made him lose his usually considerable appetite.

“I’ll bid ye good night then, Guy.” Firmin hesitated. Guy stood a moment on the stair, then it struck him his steward was about to wish him a happy solstice. He stared at him balefully and Firmin gulped and gave a nod instead, before turning away.

Firmin was a good steward, a good friend if it came to that. But Guy preferred his own company when he was feeling morose. As he undressed for bed, he noticed the driving rain that was starting to pelt against the window panes. It would be a cold, cheerless day on the morrow for all it was a feast day. In truth, he found it hard to remember a time when it had been any different.

He added a few more logs onto his fire and threw himself into his oversized canopied bed. The sheets were cold, and he cursed as he rolled this way and that, bundling himself up in the blankets. The wind was starting to howl outside. When the windows began to rattle, he realized that the rain had turned into hailstones. It was a filthy night. He spared a thought for any travelers abroad at this hour and was glad he’d left for home when he had. It might offer little by way of cheer or comfort, but it was shelter from the storm at least, if nothing else.