Page 8 of The Favourite

3

It was three nights later that Alisander’s resolve snapped, and he found himself once more approaching Lord Vawdrey. This time, during a feast in the Great Chamber. It was no easy feat to sidle up to anyone when one was dressed as extravagantly as Alisander, but he fancied he had made an art of it by this point.

Still, he did not flatter himself that Oswald Vawdrey was unaware he was being stalked. Not by so much as a raised eyebrow did he express surprise when Alisander addressed him. Indeed, he might even have moved to the shadowy far side of the hall in order to give him that very opportunity. Alisander would not put it past him.

“That matter of which we spoke the other day,” Alisander said softly.

“Yes?” Vawdrey did not turn his head, and it was possible their fellow revelers did not even realize they were conversing.

“Have matters progressed?”

“Oh, indeed. Time marches ever on and awaits no man’s pleasure.”

“Has the lady in question …?”

Vawdrey bowed his head. “She is past mortal cares by this point.”

Alisander sent a quick look at the King who had been moody and fretful all night. “I thought he seemed a little off his oats tonight.”

“Oh, the King’s distraction has quite another source, I assure you.” At Alisander’s vague noise of query, Vawdrey looked grave. “The good Bathilde is failing, and the King is taking it hard.”

“Bathilde?”

“The King’s Nurse.”

Alisander pulled a face. They were sentimental, these Karadokians, with their childhood bonds. He doubted his own sovereign, Wilhelm, even acknowledged he’d once been a puling infant. Yet here was the mighty Argent Lion, the king who had united all of Karadok, sniveling over his aged nurse.

“Whoever will tuck him in at night when she is gone?” Alisander murmured facetiously.

Instead of bridling at this slight to his monarch’s manhood, Earl Vawdrey looked suddenly thoughtful. “I don’t suppose the Queen could be persuaded to step up into the role?” he remarked. “Perhaps you could suggest it to her? Sadly, she is not at all amenable to my influence.”

That was putting it mildly, Alisander thought, examining his nails. Armenal bitterly resented the fact the King could barely blow his nose without Oswald Vawdrey first flourishing a handkerchief in his face. A musician approached, strumming his lute, and a pair of lovers dodged behind one of the columns. They fell into a mutually agreed silence until all three interlopers had moved away.

“You want me to suggest to Queen Armenal that she takes over Bathilde’s duties,” Alisander murmured, “folding his stockings and fetching his milk?” He could not keep the skepticism from his voice and, indeed, made very little effort to even try.

Oswald Vawdrey nodded, refusing to be drawn. “In a manner of speaking,” he agreed mildly. “After all, there is no denying that the King is susceptible when it comes to feminine charm. Bathilde provides him with familiarity and comfort; she always has. Oh, his mistresses have warmed his bed throughout the years, it is true, but they have never commanded his loyalty or true affection as she does. Imagine, if a woman were only able to take on the combined function of both roles. What sway would such a woman hold at court!”

Alisander narrowed his eyes. “I doubt very much that this idea has only just occurred to you,” he commented dryly. “Do you expect me to believe you have not been raising stables full of beautiful women to capture his attention over the years?”

Vawdrey snorted. “My dear Bardulf, many have tried over the years to produce such a paragon. Do you imagine Lady Helen appeared at court fully formed and armed with every artifice to tempt a king without the tutelage of an ambitious man?”

That gave Alisander pause. “Her uncle groomed her to snare a king?”

“Of course, he did.” Vawdrey nodded and exchanged a few pleasantries with a passing noble. Alisander accepted a goblet of wine from a servant.

“And now that lady is gone,” Vawdrey continued seamlessly as soon as the coast was clear. “I fear there will be the usual undignified scramble to thrust some new fancy under his nose.” A look of distaste passed over his handsome features. “Then we shall have the whole tiresome process of vetting whose pocket they are in and just whose words they are whispering in his ear.”

Alisander was amused. “You sound so suddenly weary of intrigue, my dear Vawdrey.”

“Intrigue, never, but I confess the matter of the King’s peccadilloes is tiresome to me. It would be so much neater if he would simply fall in love with his own wife.”

Alisander choked on his wine. “After twelve years?” he spluttered as soon as he had swallowed the offending mouthful. “They have been at odds ever since she stepped off her ship!”

Vawdrey shrugged, looking entirely unabashed. “Why should he not? The Queen is a handsome and resourceful woman. You simply need to put the notion into her head so that she makes the requisite effort to snare him.”

“Why should I?”

Vawdrey directed a surprised look his way. “My dear Bardulf,” he said reproachfully. “Is it possible that you have forgotten your role as ambassador in this country? Surely, your duty to the Western Isles dictates you should wish its favorite daughter to be the most powerful woman in Karadok?”