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“Promise coins.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “He was keeping our contract open.”

**

As it happened, they did not make it to the tournament to watch Roland joust as Oswald was called into an emergency privy meeting. He sent a hastily scribbled note to his wife, via his assistant, apologizing and promising they would attend the next one. Of course, he could have told her to attend without him, his conscience pointed out, irritating him. Roland’s friends would no doubt have been pleased to escort her and she made a number of good female friends at court already. But tournaments tended to be a rowdy affair with a public gallery and the thought of her attending without his escort was somehow unacceptable to him. He glowered at the thought of her bumping into the likes of Thane and his new bitch of a wife. He’d be damned if he’d see her at their mercy. Of course, he reminded himself, Fenella had said that the sight of Thane no longer distressed her. The thought of that bastard having the nerve to upbraid her on her ‘unnatural’ behavior galled him, but his wife seemed averse to him bringing Thane to account and these days, he simply did not wish to displease her. After all, he had gone back on every single promise he’d ever made her. As a husband he wasn’t entirely sure he was doing a much better job than that worm, Thane had. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Nearby someone cleared their throat and he looked up in surprise to find the chamber had pretty much filled with council members, while he had been reflecting on the state of his marriage. He signaled to Bryce who signaled to the footmen to carry in the large covered canvas. A murmuring broke out among the ranks as he stood up from his seat. “My lords,” he said. “The King has called this extraordinary meeting today, for us to discuss the matter of the Blechmarsh princess.” He nodded to Bryce who whipped off the black covering to reveal the large oil painting depicting the Princess Una sat astride a large black destrier and holding a sword.

“Gads!” remarked Lord Sutton with disgust. “She’s an ill-favored wench!”

“Which is the horse and which is the princess?” asked Lord Caterby snidely. “Their nostrils are nigh-on the same size!” A burst of laughter greeted Caterby’s pronouncement. Uncomfortably, Oswald chose this moment to remember Fenella’s words about men’s shortcomings being so much more easily overlooked than women’s. Caterby was an ugly bastard himself, but it had never held him back. He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, let us focus on the issue at hand,” he urged.

“Which is?” asked Lord Schaeffer looking up from shuffling his papers.

Oswald smiled faintly. “Marriage,” he said, and heard gasps all around him. “His majesty has been struck with inspiration on how we may negate the threat of the last of the Blechmarsh line.”

A ripple of disbelief ran through the occupants of the room. A few of them scoffed at the idea the King had come up with any such plan.

“Wymer’s plan you say?” cried Lord Caterby.

“A likely tale,” snorted Lord Sutton.

Oswald ignored him. “Candidates, gentlemen, if you please,” he said looking around the room expectantly. “I need not explain, I hope, that they must be lacking in both ambition and an overly impressive lineage. After all,” he paused heavily. “A wife is raised or lowered to her husband’s status, is she not?”

Lord Sutton rubbed his moustache speculatively. “There is something in what you say, Vawdrey,” he agreed cautiously. “If we marry her off to some low-born knave then she herself becomes…” he looked around expectantly.

“Why, nothing more than the legally wedded wife of a lowborn knave,” chortled Sir Reginald de Bomfrey.

Lord Schaeffer looked horrified. “She is a princess of the blood,” he said censoriously.

Oswald gave him a hard stare. “Would you rather she shed that blood, in order to retain her elevated status?” he asked softly.

Lord Schaeffer quickly shook his head and stared down at the table top.

“Just how fat a purse is the King offering with her?” asked Lord Caterby frankly. “The poor fool would need some inducement.” He looked back toward the canvas and visibly blanched. The rest of the room turned their gaze on the portrait and Oswald narrowed his eyes at the oil painting. Did Una Blechmarsh really bear the stamp of her father’s features so faithfully, he wondered? Or was that merely a conceit of the artist who had been keen to flatter him? That massive frizz of yellow hair must surely be a wig, he reasoned. And could she really be so stocky and muscular of build? In his experience, women seldom had such barrel-like chests and wide square faces.

“Why, she looks just like a man,” said Sir Reginald derisively, cutting across his ruminations. “Look at the size of her great meaty fists! Legs like great ham-bones!” he shuddered. “Good luck to the poor bastard that ends up leg-shackled to her!”

All in all, it had been an extremely wearisome day, Oswald reflected as he locked his desk drawer. The handful of names that had been half-heartedly offered up as prospective bridegrooms, had all been dismissed by King Wymer as a damned insult. After four years in office, he recognized the beginning of an uphill struggle when he saw one. This problem was going to rumble on for weeks if not months before he managed to force a solution through. He rubbed his temples distractedly and looked up to find Bryce standing silently in the doorway with a document in hand.

“I’m finished for the day, Bryce,” he said rather sharper than he’d intended.

“You’ll want to receive this one, my lord,” his assistant said mildly.

“Oh?” He somehow doubted it. “What is it?” he asked impatiently, as he rounded his desk and outstretched his hand.

“Something the King had me draw up,” said Bryce, bringing him up short.

“The King?” asked Oswald. Why the hells would Wymer ask his assistant to draw him up some papers? Bryce handed the document over and Oswald saw at once that it bore the heavy wax seal of King Wymer. As his eyes scanned the document he nearly swallowed his own tongue. It was the official annulment of Fenella’s first marriage to Sir Ambrose Thane. He looked at Bryce who had tactfully withdrawn his gaze and was looking over his left shoulder. “It’s been finalized?” he asked, even though he held the proof in his own hand.

His assistant nodded. “And notification of the fact sent to Sir Ambrose.”

Oswald breathed out a ragged breath. “You were right,” he conceded. “I needed this after today.” He was almost tempted to sit back down, but he was eager to get back to Fenella.

“Congratulations, my lord,” said Bryce.

Oswald’s gaze snapped back at him, but his assistant looked his usual serious self. “What did the King say?” he asked suspiciously. “When he commissioned you to act on this piece of work?”

Bryce coughed. “His majesty – ah – expressed the wish that it might restore to you the peace of mind and evenness of temper that you are famous for.”

Oswald pulled a face, for he was under no illusion that the King would have phrased it anything like as tactfully. “And your reply?”