Page 15 of The Consolation Prize

“No, for I had one this morning,” she assured him. “Please don’t trouble yourself on my account, I will be quite content to await you here.” She gave him a smile, which she hoped was convincing, and watched him disappear out of the door with a sinking heart. Try as she might, she could not rid herself of the fear, however irrational, that it was the last she would see of him.

Of course, she was being ridiculous, she told herself firmly. He was known to the King, and skipping out on his obligation would be no easy thing for him to do. Besides, she had no reason to doubt him, other than his obvious reluctance to take her to wife. Since she had told him about the treasure, he had fallen in with her plans more or less. But oh, how she wished she had not been forced to fall back on the promise of those most ill-gotten gains. She felt a twinge of unease and did her best to dismiss it. But what if others had talked, and the treasure had long since been dug up and carried away?

She had no choice, she reminded herself as she accepted the cup of wine from the returning servant. She had needed to bring something to the table in order to strike their bargain. Her poor self was scant enticement these days. If not, she would scarcely have been offered as a consolation prize. She took a sip of the wine and washed her hands and face, unpinned her braids, and removed her overdress to lie on the bed in her gold-colored kirtle.

She hoped she might take a nap, but alas, sleep did not come. Instead she piled up the cushions behind her back and slowly sipped her wine as she tried not to worry overmuch about what was to become of her. If she could have kept busy, then she could have kept such worries at bay, she thought, but she could not get her sewing out now, not when everything was packed away so neatly and she did not know at what time Sir Armand would return.

It wasn’t like she dabbled with a bit of elegant stitchwork like some ladies. Una did not do fancy needlework. Plain sewing was all her nurse had taught her, and she had made her own undergarments and nightgowns for years now, though it might not be considered proper employment for her station. While under house arrest with Lord Mycoft, his housekeeper had taught her how to expand her repertoire, to include outer gowns and tunics. Indeed, sewing for her eventual freedom and walking every inch of the grounds of Mycroft Hall had been what got her through those three long years of house arrest.

Her sole pleasure and occupation at court over the past eighteen months, apart from attending the many tedious court events, had been planning and sewing her wardrobe for her eventual freedom. When she had plucked up the courage to ask for materials, she had been sent brocades and satins and velvets enough to make her gasp with delight. Wymer, unlike her father, had not seen anything amiss with such a request. He had made no comments, at least to her face, about making silk purses out of sow’s ears.

In the privacy of her own room, she had sewn surcoats and tunics and kirtles aplenty. She had pieced together hats and hose and sleeping caps until she could turn her attention on her future bridegroom’s wardrobe. She felt gratified when she remembered the fine figure Sir Armand had cut in the burgundy and gold outfit she had made him. She had never made a garment for a man before and had been a bit worried she had overestimated the proportions. After she had sewn it, she had definitely thought she had cut the tunic on too generous lines, but Armand had no problem filling out the shoulders to perfection.

Her thoughts dwelt on Sir Armand de Bussell a moment, with mingled feelings. In some ways she could wish he was a little less striking, if truth be told. The contrast between them would be all the clearer when the groom was so handsome. Still, once he had abandoned her on his estate, the difference in their looks would make no odds. Maybe then, people would start to finally take her on her own merit.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts and she hurried to answer it, to find it was the servant bearing their supper on a tray. Una took it with thanks and explained that she did not know what time her husband would return, so not to bother clearing it until morning. She then set it down on the small table and placed a cloth over it. As for herself, she had no appetite, for her stomach roiled with unease. Besides, she had eaten well at the palace at midday and did not need anything now. Luckily it was good plain fare, a meat pie with bread and cheese. When her husband did return, he could eat it as his leisure.

Una braided her hair into one single plait down her back and undressed to her shift. Climbing into the bed, she left one candle burning and closed her eyes. Finally, she allowed herself to contemplate what action she could take if her husband did not return. The most obvious course would be to return to the palace. It would be humiliating, of course, but she had likely suffered worse embarrassments.

Then again, she thought, her pulse picking up, maybe she could just disappear? She wondered how much gold exactly she had left in her purse. Enough to flee Caer-Lyoness doubtless, but was it enough to buy a small place in some obscure corner of the kingdom where she could conceal herself for the rest of her days? She doubted it somehow. She was only four and twenty. There would be years and years she would need to support herself for. Then again, there was her dubious marital status. Could a marriage be so easily overlooked when it had been consummated? She wasn’t sure.

Then, just to comfort herself, she allowed herself to imagine a completely unrealistic future where she could support herself by her own wits alone. Perhaps she could stay here, right under King Wymer’s nose, in his summer capital? She could return to The Stone Crow tomorrow and ask Bess to advise of cheap quarters where she could set herself up as a seamstress, plying her needle to earn her bread.

A smile curved her lips even as a tear trickled down her cheek. It was a nonsensical dream, but it did give her some respite from the harsh reality of her situation. In her fantasy, there were no guilds or restrictions on women’s means of earning a living. There was no prejudice against Northerners to drum her out of business. It was a lovely place where everyone would welcome her as a neighbor and a citizen, and she would never be found wanting again.

Her husband woke her in the early hours, hammering on their door. Una, a light sleeper, woke at once and found the candle still burning in its holder. She picked it up and crossed the room to let him in. For a moment, she thought he was drunk again, for his appearance was certainly disreputable in the candlelight. Then she noticed the gash above his eye and the dried blood crusted on his nose. She ushered him inside and bolted the door behind him.

“Are you hurt? What happened?” she asked in concern. He waved these questions aside, making for the basin of water. “Should I ask for more hot water?” she asked setting the candle down and fetching him clean cloths.

“Nay, this is fine,” he said dunking his split knuckles under the water and wincing. “Ouch.”

Una reached around him and dunked one of the cloths in the water. She had experience enough, and that gash needed cleaning. He stood still while she pressed the cold cloth to the wound, lathering up his hands with soap and washing away the dried blood.

“Were you set upon by thieves?” she asked.

He appeared to consider this. “Yes,” he said finally. “In a manner of speaking, that is exactly what happened.”

Una tutted sympathetically. Poor Sir Armand! And all this time she had been thinking quite uncharitably that he had left her in the lurch. “Do not despair,” she said, keen to make it up to him in wifely solicitude. “Recollect that I have the purse of gold that Bryce gave into my keeping. All is not lost.”

He gave her a sideways look. “I did not say they robbed me.”

“Oh. You managed to fight them off, then?” He must be better able to handle himself in a fistfight than he was on the competition field, she thought.

“Yes,” he said briefly, drying off his hands.

She noticed he was eyeing her shift and realized it was a bit immodest to walk around in. “Your supper is on the table,” she told him, placing the candle there and retreating to huddle under the covers of the bed.

He walked over and peered under the cloth. At the sight of the meal, he seemed to perk up considerably and pulled up a chair to wolf it down. Una watched him in the dull gleam of the candlelight, with her elbows resting on her knees. She wanted to question him but knew full well she had promised nothing but dutiful compliance.

When he had eaten his fill, he sighed. “That’s better,” then rose to start undressing. Una noticed he had lost his hat, for his dark curls were bare and there was a long rent up the leg of one of his chauses. She did not mention either as she knew an accommodating wife would not comment on such things.

“Is your business now concluded, so we are at liberty to leave Caer-Lyoness tomorrow?” she asked tentatively.

“We’ll leave at first light,” he told her with a yawn, and came toward the bed. “Do you not mean to ask me where we are bound?”

“If you are agreeable to tell me, then I would be most interested, of course.”

He frowned slightly. “We make for Tranton Vale. It’s an annual tournament on the rural circuit.”