Page 1 of Her Baseborn Bridegroom

I

Cadwallader Castle, the Summerlands, the Kingdom of Karadok

The two figures looked down on the mellow gray stone edifice, which sat majestic and comfortable in its ancient setting of expansive green pastures. The view shimmered in the midday sun under a blue summer sky. Two solitary tents fluttered in the field to the north of the castle, looking out of place with their bright stripes and bold flags. Even from his current vantage point, Mason fancied he could make out the Vawdrey black panther and the spotted leopard of the Cadwalladers. A sense of peace and contentment hung over Cadwallader Castle. A sense of peace that the two riders were only too aware they were about to shatter all to hell.

Mason looked across at Sir Oswald, who shifted uneasily in his saddle. “Let’s get this over with, ” said Mason.

“Devil take Roland for leaving this task to us,” Oswald muttered bitterly. “Young fool. Our father overindulged him.”

Mason shrugged a massive shoulder. He noticed these days that Oswald increasingly referred to Lord Vawdrey as “our father” despite the fact that Mason was bastard born. Oswald would never have done that before the recent campaign in the North where Mason had been showered in battle glory. The fact that they shared a father had been well known at Vawdrey Keep but rarely spoken of. Since the war in the North though, things had changed. Everything had changed.

Mason’s dark eyes scanned Lady Linnet Cadwallader’s estate. It was a pretty piece of land, even if its mistress was rumored to be hideously ugly and misshapen.

“Men have closed their eyes for less in the marriage bed,” he commented crudely and saw Oswald wince slightly. He, unlike Mason, had been raised a knight. Mason’s elevation was very recent and still a cause of great scandal at court, where the nobility thought you should only be born to knighthood. Lucky for Mason that King Wymer had decided to shake up his ranks. And his victories in the field had bought him fame if not fortune.

“No doubt what our father thought when he signed the betrothal contract,” Oswald sighed. There he goes again with the “our father” business, thought Mason with a faint frown. He grunted in response. He was known for his sword arm, not his conversation skills. He just wanted to get this bullshit over with. He considered that if Roland was man enough to get betrothed, he should be old enough to jilt the bitch himself.

“Let’s go,” he growled, spurring his horse forward. He didn’t bother looking back over his shoulder. Since the battle of Demoyne, he knew exactly who led and who followed. Everyone knew.

“Seems surprisingly quiet,” Oswald commented some forty minutes later as they slowed their horses to cross the drawbridge over the moat. “Not much fanfare for a wedding.”

“We should be glad of that,” Mason replied drily, though in truth his brother was speaking his own thoughts aloud. He looked round at the quiet courtyard, which, indeed, seemed rather undermanned for a feast day. Mayhap because the bride was an invalid, he reasoned to himself. Still it seemed strange. He remembered the two forlorn tents, but you would surely need more than two to house the festivities for all the guests, serfs, and vassals on a fine estate like this one.

“Be ye Vawdreys?” hailed a voice from the left, as a page about twelve years of age ran forward in azure-blue livery with golden roundels spangling his sleeves and tights.

“We be―are,” Oswald corrected himself hastily.

The page straightened his tunic self-consciously and executed a bow. “I be Cuthbert, page of this House. This way, me lords. Diggory, Jed, do take these here lordships’ horses.”

Mason didn’t bother to correct the lad that he was no lord but instead dismounted and passed his reins to the waiting groomsmen, who eyed them curiously.

“This way, me lords,” the page instructed, diving through a doorway to their right and leading them towards a tall, winding tower.

Mason followed, surprised not to be taken to the great hall. Surely a fine castle like this would have a great hall at the very heart of it.

“Ho lad, are you taking us to Lady Linnet’s guardian?” Oswald called up from three steps behind him. Cuthbert was either slightly deaf or ignoring them as he whistled a merry tune while tripping ahead of them.

“Not far now, me lords,” he sang back at them. “Nice day for a wedding, b’aint it?”

Mason ignored this, turning instead to look out of the narrow fortified window strip, which was just wide enough to shoot an arrow through in times of defense. Curiously enough, from this vantage point you could only see the two gaily colored tents, oscillating in the breeze. It occurred to him that their somewhat random position could have been chosen for someone viewing from this very tower.

“Why have you stopped?” asked Oswald, who had now caught up.

Mason shook his head slightly, and they made haste to catch the now out-of-view page at the top of tower. When they reached the door, it was ajar, so Mason pushed through it despite his brother’s murmured protest. He caught sight of Cuthbert’s bright costume first in the gloom of the room. Despite the summer’s day, all was in darkness and there were no windows at all to let in any light.

“Welcome, me lords,” said Cuthbert with a flourish and gestured to a seat where a slight figure sat blinking at them through large, pale-green eyes. “May I present to you your bride, her grace Lady Linnet Cadwallader of Castle Cadwallader. Defender of the people and holder of the keys of the duchy.”

Mason glanced back at Oswald, whose eyes were wide with dismay. This was not the lady’s guardian. This was the lady herself.

She gave a small gasp. “I did not expect―that is, welcome, my lords.”

Mason gave her a hard stare but could make out nothing save a large headdress covered in a linen veil and two pale hands clutching each other tightly.

“Light the sconces, boy” he ordered testily. “I can’t see a damn thing.”

“Mason!” his brother remonstrated. “My lady, I apologize. We have been much in the battlefield and our manners have grown sadly rusty.”

She gave a dismissive wave of her hand at this. “It does not signify. Please, Cuthbert, do as his lordship asked.”