Page 9 of His Forsaken Bride

Roland crossed the room and shut the door behind him with a loud bang. He was still touchy over their father’s death. And by all accounts, burning the candle at both ends with wine, women and the tournament circuit. Oswald just hoped his younger brother wasn’t riding for a fall. They weren’t close and never had been. Was it too late to close the gap between them? Of course, he had more pressing problems, with this threat to his marital state. Not that Roland could help in any way, even if they were closer. Oswald took no-one into his confidences. He had always kept himself to himself. Linnet had been right. He had no close particular friends or confidantes. His powerful role at court did not encourage such bonds. His brother Mason was probably the closest person to him, and even he only knew the side of Oswald that he presented to him. The fact was that he was a very private person. And the idea of being pledged in marriage hit him in a raw place, as it was something his father had taken great liberties with when he was a young man. Match after match had been drawn up and then cast aside as another more lucrative prospect came into view. It had been humiliating to be bartered like goods and the only relief he found from the embarrassment was to remove himself emotionally and physically from the parade of young women who had been presented to him time after time as his future wife.

If Oswald had ever considered taking a wife it had been purely in the most theoretical of terms. He had vaguely imagined some help-meet who matched him in ambition and capability. Perhaps, someone in the mold of Lady Anne Sumner with her cool, quiet beauty and secretive, devious mind. She made an excellent spy, that much Oswald knew. And what else would he require of a wife, other than being presentable, even-tempered and willing to be put firmly on the sidelines while he furthered his career? The rub of it was, that Lady Sumner had been married for years to colicky old Lord Sumner, who despite his apoplectic appearance seemed determined to live to a grand old age. So Lady Anne was out of the picture, more’s the pity and could not factor in his solution to this current problem. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip as he considered what impediment he could cite to the King, when he suggested his marriage to the Cecil female. For that was what he was sure the King was about to do. He had no idea which of the Cecil girls had taken the King’s fancy, but clearly she had not fallen on her back when the King snapped his fingers. No, this female was made of sterner stuff. She wanted a ring upon her finger before bestowing her favors. And as the King was already on his second marriage, then Wymer must have promised to find her some nobleman to act the cuckold while he made her his royal paramour. And Oswald was damned if he would be the sacrificial victim. His lip curled. While it was true, he had no ambition to play the husband and father, he also had no intention of bestowing his title on one of the King’s bastards or giving his name to a high-born whore. His fingers played at his black signet ring as he twisted it about his finger. His own father would have been appalled at such a notion and it made him wryly smile to imagine the old baron’s reaction. For once father and son would have been of the same accord, he thought with wintry amusement. Something that had only happened very rarely, while Baron Vawdrey was alive. Returning to the problem at hand, he supposed he would have to go for good old consanguinity, which was a tried and tested impediment. No-one wanted cousins marrying after all, even the King. He would have to get that rogue Carleton to draw him up another forged family tree. It wouldn’t be the first time, though his own family wasn’t usually one of the entangled branches.

Once he’d made up his mind, he felt better and reached for an apple from the fruit bowl across the table. He would scribble a missive to Carleton and get a few good hours in at his study to work on the treaty. In fact, he thought as he took a bite into the apple, some fresh air might do him good. He was over-tired after working through the night. And quite frankly he was due some extended leave from court. It was high time he put in some groundwork in at Vawdrey Keep. His Father had died a full four months ago and he had done nothing with the estate, despite the full-set of plans in his desk drawer. Yes, he vowed as he rose and exited his apartments, turning toward the south aspect of the palace. He would go down to Vawdrey Keep and scout out the lay of the land before he hired a workforce to raze the place to the ground, and start the rebuild process. That would be all the rest he would need before returning re-invigorated to Court. He gave a brief nod satisfied with his decision. Then all would return to normal and he could forget all about this ridiculous notion of Wymer’s to see him married. Slipping through a concealed door in the wainscoting, Oswald made his way through the labyrinthine dark passages that criss-crossed the castle. Somewhere along the way, he caught up a plain black cloak from a row of hooks and threw it about his shoulders, concealing his black velvet doublet with ornate silver buttons. He drew a plain hood over his curling black hair, concealing his face in shadow. When he emerged some quarter of an hour later it was from an unobtrusive doorway near the bustling palace kitchens. He strode straight across the courtyard and exited the west gate into the crowded street outside. He had always loved the anonymity of a crowd. Oswald let the surging crowd of hawkers and market traders sweep him along, dictating his walking pace until he reached the city’s south quarter. Here, at the market square, he broke from the throng and headed down a narrow side-alley and then another, and then another until he was in a crooked little street with hardly any pedestrians or through trade at all. These were more specialist establishments, only frequented by those who walked on the shady side of life. And Oswald Vawdrey had been known to walk that path, when occasion demanded. He swiftly ducked under the eaves of a cramped establishment with a carved quill feather hanging from a chain on the roof, announcing the trade of its occupant. Inside he paused a moment, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dark cramped interior and the smell of musty old parchment, before he heard a voice grudgingly say: “Oh, it’s you is it, Mr Roberts? Thought I hadn’t seen you in a while.”

“Good morning, Mr Carleton,” Oswald greeted him smoothly. “Aye, tis indeed.”

“Humph!” The old man adjusted himself precariously on the tall stool he was perched on. He returned to adding blood red ink to a coat of arms he was drawing on a map.

Oswald leant across the counter and inspected the document with interest.

The old man growled at him. “This be for another client,” he pointed out irritably. If it wasn’t for the fact the ink was still wet, Oswald was sure he would have whisked it out of sight.

“And I commend your devotion to confidentiality,” Oswald answered him smoothly. “However, if you want that to pass for the Chassington Phoenix then you need to remove the second fleuron from its crest.”

The old man’s jaw snapped shut angrily. “Their arms has a double fleuron,” he objected. “I seen it right here,” his finger jabbed at another document under the counter.

“I’m sure. However, you have dated this map twenty years old and they were only granted the use of the second fleuron a decade ago.” Oswald smiled his blandest smile and the old man gnashed his teeth angrily and threw down his quill pen. “That fool never mentioned it,” he grumbled.

“I take it your client is the younger son,” murmured Oswald. “Alas, not the sharpest blade in the knife box. I suspect his plan to bilk more lands from the legal heir will fail. Despite your best efforts.” Oswald tutted his tongue. “Such a pity to squander your talents on so unworthy a cause, my good Carleton.”

“Hah! And let me guess, you have a much worthier cause for me to work on.”

Oswald bowed slightly. “As you say.”

“Well, it will have to wait!” grouched the old man, hunching his shoulder. “I got several pieces of work waiting on me.”

Oswald retrieved a purse from his doublet breast pocket and placed it unhurriedly on the counter. “I will of course, recompense you for prioritizing my task.”

The old man grunted and glanced at the purse. “Gold?”

“Carleton, you wound me,” he said gently. “Would I even dream of paying you with inferior coin?”

The old man nodded, “You’re good for payment, I’ll give you that.”

Oswald smiled at him.

“And what might this urgent task be that I needs must prioritize over my other work?” Carleton asked grudgingly. He eyed Oswald rather curiously. “I sometimes wonder…”

“About what, my friend?”

“What line of business you must be in that you so often require the services of a forger.”

“Getting curious in your old age Carleton? Alas, I think it better that you do not know me outside of this establishment.”

“S’what I figured,” sniffed the older man.

“I’m sure I’m not your only reticent client.”

“Far from it,” agreed Carleton with a dry cough.

“Then why the curiosity?”

Carleton frowned. “Dunno, especially.” He hesitated. “Funny thing is, I sometimes think I wouldn’t even recognize you outside of here.”

“Nothing funny about that,” shrugged Oswald. “I’m a very forgettable person.”

“No you ain’t, my lord. You’m just wearing a disguise.”