Page 2 of His Forsaken Bride

No, she never had, she thought dully. She’d always been so sensible and down to earth. Ambrose had always maintained he despised showy, hysterical women who made displays of themselves. She’d prided herself on her level headedness. Well, pride comes before the fall.

“Fenella!” She realized Orla was chafing her hands now between her own. “Get a hold of yourself! If…if you don’t want to go into a convent, well we’ll think of something else…” Orla gabbled.

“We will?” Fenella whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Help me, Orla,” she appealed directly. “If you ever valued me as a sister…”

Orla’s expression wavered. She looked flattered. Maybe I never did let her do enough around the place, Fenella found herself thinking. Maybe I was too managing as mistress of Thurrold and did not consider her feelings as daughter of the house? Why am I thinking of this now? Why can’t I focus on the crisis at hand?

“Let me think,” Orla prevaricated. “Let me think…” She darted a wild look at her as if expecting her to pass out or vomit at any moment. “Wait! I have something…” she said holding up a finger.

“What is it?” asked Fenella, passing her arms around Bors’ fat neck and holding him still against her. His big warm body felt solidly comforting.

“You could... counter-petition the king?” Orla suggested weakly.

“Counter-petition?”

“Beg him to take your loyalty into account as both subject and wife.”

It sounded weak to Fenella, but then she remembered something else... something her father had once told her, when he'd had a few flagons of ale. A grievance over a broken betrothal in her girlhood. If I had more of a taste for battle, my girl, he'd said brandishing a roll of parchment. I'd take this matter further. But I just don't have it in me to take on the likes of Baron Vawdrey. Fenella had never blamed him. Baron Vawdrey was a fierce, booming man with a great bushy beard and she'd always rather dreaded his visits. She had broken her heart at the time, to lose his handsome son as a prospective bridegroom, but it had all seemed rather unreal, even when it was happening. But now, she wondered, could this same document be used as leverage in her favor? Even out here in Sitchmarsh, she'd heard tell of Oswald Vawdrey's startling rise to ascendency at court. Word had it, that he had the King's ear. She glanced down at Bors who was looking up at her worshipfully and felt a sudden recklessness take hold. I can’t let my beautiful boy go homeless, she thought with a spark of spirit. And I’m damned if I’ll go quietly to a nunnery!

“Very well,” she nodded suddenly decided. “I’ll go to court and counter-petition the king myself.”

Orla squawked as Fenella rose to her feet determinedly. “You’ll what? Wait! Let us discuss this calmly…We need a man to present at court for you! You must write to your oaf of a brother, and…”

“No time Orla,” she replied grimly. “I will have to collect Gil on the way to Aphrany. Sitchmarsh Hall is not too far out of my way and Ambrose could have his audience with the King even as we speak.”

“True enough,” agreed Orla grudgingly. “But what can you do to halt it?”

Fenella was brought up short by this, then her spirit flared. “I may have something, and Ambrose has left me with no choice. I must be bold,” she announced dourly. “I’m riding to the royal palace at Aphrany.”

“You’ve run mad!” her sister-in-law screeched sounding scandalized. “What if your brother orders you home? What if-”

“He will do no such thing once I have explained. You can come with us if you like but you’ll need to fetch your cloak,” Fenella told her grimly as she headed for her chest of papers. Surely her father's old paperwork was stored in there? Jeoffrey Bernard had not believed in throwing anything away. She was sure the old betrothal paperwork would be in there still.

“I think it would be better if I stayed here and held the fort,” Orla called after her as Fenella started up the steps.

She wasn’t surprised and simply cocked an eye at Bors who lumbered up the staircase beside her. Orla was a poor horse-woman and would only slow them down she thought, practical to the last. She and Gilbert could ride at a cracking pace if they went alone and cover the entire journey in a day and a half. She leant over the balcony. “Orla.”

“Yes,” called up her sister-in-law.

“Take care of my boy while I’m gone.”

“You and that dog,” tutted Orla. “Oh, very well!”

**

The King’s Palace at Aphrany

Oswald Vawdrey dipped his pen in the ink pot and called, “Come in.” His eyes did not lift from the page as he dashed off another sentence and then blotted it. The mid-day bell had just rung which meant he had only an hour left to finish his first draft of the peace treaty for the King. A slight frown appeared between his brows as his secretary came through the door. Bryce looked distinctly uneasy. “I heard your step in the corridor,” Oswald said, in an attempt to put the younger man at his ease. Bryce looked a shade less unnerved and advanced across the room with a pile of paperwork. “Sit,” said Oswald when Bryce hovered uneasily in front of his desk. It crossed his mind again that Bryce might not last long in this role. This would be inconvenient as he was punctual and scrupulous and Oswald suspected, incorruptible. Unfortunately, he was also scared of him which was not something Oswald was sure he could remedy. Usually his friendly veneer worked just fine. Sadly, Bryce seemed to have caught a glimpse of what lay beneath the surface. And what he had seen had left him badly rattled. Oswald was not sure how he could make him un-see it. He lowered his pen and sat back in his seat. His secretary was staring at the pile of parchment in front of him. Oswald’s eyebrows rose.

Bryce noticed it and stammered, “I thought you were working on the new peace treaty with the North counties this morning.”

“I am.”

“B-but when I left last night all you had was my notes…”

“And very useful notes they were too,” said Oswald briskly. “Thorough.”

“You’ve written the whole thing,” said Bryce faintly.