10

10

The sun had long set by the time Konrad left the practice field. He ran a damp cloth over his face and neck before pulling his jerkin on over his shirt. He glanced over at Jakeman who had already started packing up his discarded armor.

“A good day’s practice, my lord!” Sir Douglas Farleigh called out, and Kentigern raised a hand to him in a farewell gesture. He was damned if he knew why, but some of the youngsters, like Farleigh, seemed to be going out of their way to persecute him with their friendship these days.

“Let’s get out of here,” he rumbled at Jakeman who was strapping his breast plate to the back of his horse. His manservant nodded, hastening to fetch the discarded pile of lances.

“Do we return to the house on Lime Street?” Jakeman asked.

“Where else?” Kentigern asked irritably. His servant had brought the last of their things from The Jennet Treethat very morning.

“I heard that several more knights arrived in the capital this day,” Jakeman replied calmly. “The king is holding a banquet tonight at the palace welcoming all knights to this summer’s tournament.”

Kentigern scowled. “I received no invitation.”

“It’s open to all competitors,” Jakeman responded unruffled. “There were notices posted on all the city gates this morn.”

Kentigern considered the prospect. “Who’s arrived?” he asked abruptly. “Vawdrey? Orde?”

“Sir Roland and Sir Garman have both arrived today, my lord,” Jakeman responded promptly.

“Good,” Konrad grunted. It would be the first tournament this year where all the major players were present, he thought sourly. “What about that arrogant bastard, de Crecy?” If he was going to beat the best, they may as well all be present.

Jakeman looked thoughtful. “I have not heard tell of Sir Jeffree,” he admitted, then seemed to hesitate.

“What?” Konrad barked suspiciously.

“It’s naught, only there is some rumor doing the rounds that Sir Jeffree is recently married.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Konrad demanded, swinging himself up into his saddle. “I am lately married. I fail to see why that should influence my tournament attendance.”

Jakeman shrugged his shoulders slightly. “As to that, my lord, I am sure I couldn’t say.”

Konrad glared at him. Jakeman’s tact could sometimes be damnably annoying. “What of de Bussell?” he growled, thinking of the impudent dog who had lately taken the northern princess to wife.

Jakeman shook his head. “He is not expected, my lord.”

A pity, Konrad thought bitterly. He would have enjoyed rubbing Armand de Bussell’s face in the dirt for his damned impertinence in laying his filthy hands on the princess. He was a fair competitor too, Konrad acknowledged grudgingly, when he kept his focus on the competition field. You never knew with de Bussell whether he would pose a threat or not.

Dismissing all thought of his rivals, Konrad let his thoughts wander back to the same subject that had been plaguing his mind all morning. The black-haired beauty he had left in the early hours of the morning. For some reason, he could not quite banish the vision of her that rose in his mind’s eye or the disquieting memory of washing her maiden’s blood off his cock.

For some reason, he recalled particularly vividly the expression in her eyes when he had left her lying on the bed. It was not just her rounded, lush body that was soft and yielding, but her feelings too. She had expected him to tarry and give her gentle words after her deflowering, he supposed with scorn and a hint of something else. Discomfort.

Why he felt this way he knew not, for he had not led her to suppose he would be a considerate husband. He had not misled her at all. Beddings were never enjoyable for virgins, he reflected with an irritable shrug of his shoulders. If she had been told aught else, then they were the ones to blame for her expectations, not him.

For some reason, Renlow flashed into his mind and the conviction that Renlow would not have given sweet Aimee such a wedding night. His jaw tightened. She must have bitterly repented the impulse that had seen her swap places with her mewling sister. Renlow would not have strode from the bedchamber, leaving her a pale, trembling wreck in his wake, that was for damned sure. He cursed beneath his breath.

“My lord?” Jakeman looked across at him.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “Let’s get out of here.”

It did not take long to make their way through the city reaching the impressive looking townhouse Gerold Ankatel had bought for his daughter in the prosperous quarter of town. Konrad looked up now at the looming black and white monstrosity and dismounted, passing the reins to his manservant so Jakeman could lead Actaeon to the ostler he had employed in the next street.

Steeling himself, he walked into the house and found the entrance passageway quiet and unobstructed. The door to the buttery was wide open, showing evidence of some industry. The mounds of furniture had been removed, and all the room contained now were two large ale casks and some sacks of grain. Konrad pulled the door shut and carried on to the door that opened into the largest room, the dining chamber.

He checked on the threshold thinking it was empty, before perceiving his wife was sat very quiet and still before the unlit fireplace. In her lap were two unopened packages which she seemed to be regarding with some blankness. When he cleared his throat, she looked up quickly, shoving both packages behind a cushion.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said with studied brightness. “You have had a good day?”

“Tolerable,” he answered, coming into the room. He wanted to ask what she had hidden behind the cushion. Unwelcome bride gifts? He felt strangely curious. Instead, he looked about. “Where is everyone?”

“Golda is in the kitchen supervising the new staff,” she answered after a moment’s pause. “Our cook, Stirling, joined us today and a manservant named Matthews who seems a very capable fellow.”

He collapsed into a large chair opposite her and regarded her broodingly a moment. “I thought you didn’t approve of letting old servants take over new households,” he found himself pointing out rather bluntly.

Aimee frowned over his words. “I don’t think I quite – ?”

“When it came to your sister, at least,” he interrupted her.

Her expression cleared. “Oh, I see. Well, it is a little different in this case. I have not been sat here all day while Golda takes the lead, if that is what you’re thinking.” She gave him a rueful smile.

“What have you been doing, then?” he asked brusquely. Strange to say, he was actually interested in her answer.

“Overseeing the unpacking and the furnishing of the house,” she answered promptly. “A carpenter came out this afternoon to see to a few things that needed doing. Then I made an inventory of the items we still need.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I have been very busy, for all I now seem at leisure.”

He grunted. “And how would it have been different if you had ended up with Hilda instead of Golda?” he heard himself ask.

Aimee looked just as surprised by his question as he felt voicing it. “Well,” she said slowly. “Hilda would have done her utmost to get under my feet, tutting at every decision I made and imploring me to remain in my bedchamber, while she imagined a hundred slights against me which she would then pour in my ears, whilst assuring me that she was my only ally,” she finished dryly.

Kentigern’s eyebrows rose as he turned this over. “Why would your father keep some tiresome woman in his household?” he asked.

“She was my mother’s servant before his,” she answered simply. “He will never turn her out for that reason alone.”

“No, just palm her off on one of his daughters,” he pointed out.

“I’m sure he thought he was doing Ursula a kindness,” she said mildly.

“She sounds more of a hindrance than anything.”

“Yes,” Aimee agreed. “Though in truth, she does not irk Ursula as much as she does me.”

He thought there was probably a reason for that but managed to hold his tongue. No doubt her sister would encourage such mawkish thinking. Once again, he congratulated himself on having avoided taking the elder Miss Ankatel to wife.

“Supper will be served in here in half an hour,” his wife said with a studied casualness that made him immediately wary. “Perhaps you could send word to your sister and cousin informing them of the fact?”

He regarded her in silence a moment and saw her color rise before she turned her face away. He was just supposing there must have been some ruffled feathers when he heard a footfall he recognized in the passage outside. “Jakeman!” he hailed his servant loudly.

The sandy colored head peered into the doorway. “My lord?”

“Run up a message to Mistress Magnatrude and Freda, would you? Tell them they are expected in the dining chamber in half an hour.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He glanced across at Aimee, but she was avoiding his gaze. “My sister is obstinate,” he found himself explaining gruffly. “She … has not had the easiest life.” Aimee’s expression was polite, but she did not press him for any more detail. For some reason, this spurred him on more than if she had actually shown interest. “Before the war, she was betrothed,” he let slip. This did capture her attention.

“It was called off?” she asked, then her expression fell. “He did not die?” she squeaked, lifting her hand to her mouth in dismay.

Konrad smiled grimly. “He wed another, on the eve of the Battle of Demoyne. Can’t say I blame him, as things looked bleak. Likely, Kimarne did not think to spend another night in a woman’s arms.” Aimee’s lips formed an unspoken ‘oh’. “But Magnatrude did not see it that way. She took it hard.”

“Yes,” Aimee answered sympathetically. “I can see she might have.”

“His wife was low born, an alewife from his own household,” he found himself continuing. “Magnatrude saw that as added insult to injury.”

For some reason, that made his pretty wife’s color bloom forth again. “I see,” she said quietly. “And he did not try to cry off from his hasty marriage when he lived to see another day?”

Konrad shook his head. “His wife never gave him cause to regret it. Nine months later she was delivered of his son and heir.”

Aimee regarded him steadily. “I suppose that secured her position,” she observed frankly. “Should you like a son?” she asked with a directness that almost floored him.

“Of course,” he heard himself answer, though in truth it was not something he had considered in years. Not since he had lost his birthright. Of course, their marriage had returned that to him.

She nodded thoughtfully, and Konrad noticed a servant had entered the room bearing a tray with pitcher and goblets. He sat forward in his seat as she plunked it down on the table and poured their wine. This must be Golda, he guessed, noting her steely-eyed gaze and firmly compressed lips. And though Aimee might not realize it, this woman was just as staunchly partisan as Hilda would have been.

“I should wash and change before eating,” Konrad muttered, hauling himself out of his chair. Aimee came politely to her feet. He frowned at her. “You don’t need to do that now.” She sat back down again, and he left the room.

By the time Konrad returned, Aimee was sat at one end of the dining table which was covered in dishes. He heard footsteps in the corridor outside. Sure enough, his sister came around the corner in a sober gown of dark red that he was sure she used to wear back in her court days. Freda followed on close behind her.

“Well, is not this nice,” Freda said fluttering her hands about to incorporate the whole room. “A vastly handsome chamber.”

Magnatrude slid into the chair to his left, and Freda hesitated a moment before sitting next to her.

He glanced pointedly at his sister.

“Good eve, brother,” she said colorlessly, and he guessed she must still be sulking about her prolonged sojourn to the southern capital.

“Well,” he said. “And what have you been about all day? Moping about the place or making yourself useful?”

The heavy silence that greeted his words told him all he needed to know. Freda had the grace to turn very red, but his sister was rigid with anger.

“As you know, brother,” she said in a furious undertone. “I am only here under protest!”

“What protest? I sent for you to celebrate my nuptials as any good brother would. You came soon enough.” He was tactful enough not to mention the purse he had sent to facilitate her journey.

“I did not think you would actually detain me at this accursed place!” she hissed.

Konrad rolled his eyes. “Stop being so dramatic, Trude, for the love of the gods,” he said. “You’re no girl.”

“Then don’t use that childish version of my name, then,” she snapped. “For neither are you in your infancy, brother.”

He glanced down the length of the table at Aimee, but she was selecting a bread roll with careful deliberation. It crossed his mind to summon her to the vacant seat at his right, but he might as well have something good to look at if he was forced to suffer his sister’s carping.

“H-how was your day, cousin?” Freda asked in failing accents. “Were you practicing your sword skills?”

He opened his mouth to give her a stinging set-down only to notice Aimee look up with interest. “Quintain,” he corrected her briefly.

“Practicing your quintain?” Freda quavered doubtfully. “You will have to forgive my ignorance, cousin. Is that the name of some other weapon in your arsenal?”

Feeling Aimee’s eyes still on him, he cleared his throat. “’Tis a device for training with the lance,” he corrected her grudgingly.

“I see,” Freda nodded, looking gratified. Sensing another equally foolish question hovering on her lips, he turned instead to his wife.

“The royal tournament is in three days,” he said abruptly. “Will you attend?”

Aimee’s face brightened. “I would love to.” Her dimple flashed out, distracting him.

“Will any prominent northern houses be in attendance?” Magnatrude asked, looking up quickly.

“Aye, very likely,” he answered, without taking his eyes off Aimee.

“Then I, too, should like to attend,” his sister said in a confrontational tone.

His glance flickered toward her momentarily. “I’m not stopping you.”

“How do we go about securing seats?” Aimee asked, before Trude could harangue him further. “When Ursula and I attended Kellingford, our hosts, the Wycliffe’s, arranged it.”

“Kellingford?” Konrad repeated. “You attended when?”

“Last October,” she replied, looking strangely self-conscious about the fact.

Konrad cast his mind back and remembered his uncharacteristic loss to Renlow last year and frowned. Typical that would have been the tournament she attended. He was still glowering about this as the first course was served which was a tasty broth served with strips of preserved meats and flatbreads.

Freda cleared her throat. “These seeds,” she said, turning over her flatbread. “Are most curious. Flavorsome too,” she added hurriedly.

“They are anise and caraway,” Aimee explained. “Both are beneficial to the digestion. My father imports and sells many such herbs and spices.”

Freda’s face fell, and she lapsed into an awkward silence. Really, did she expect his new bride to try and conceal her origins? He shot a sardonic look at his cousin, but she was careful to avoid his gaze.

“I will make sure to let them know you will attend,” he said gruffly. “The tournament, I mean.”

Aimee looked gratified. He did not look to his sister or cousin. “Perhaps you could suggest a tailor for my sister’s use,” he said, ignoring the way Trude bridled. “She needs some new gowns made up. My cousin also.”

“Oh,” twittered Freda. “I am sure my own needs are amply met by my existing wardrobe.” He ignored this, as her cuffs were plainly fraying for all to see.

“Of course,” Aimee responded. “Mr. Fulcher in Kiln Street is sure to give satisfaction. He is patronized by a good many court folk.”

“I am sure –” Magnatrude started stiffly, but he cut her off.

“Have him come to the house as soon as ever he may to attend on whoever has need of him. If Trude has no use for a new gown, then have him see to Freda or your own wants.” Both his cousin and sister turned quite crimson at his words, though for different reasons.

“Aye, husband,” Aimee said after a moment’s pause. “I will send for him directly.”

He gave a swift nod, and the second course was set down on the table by a solidly built male and a nervous looking boy. It was roasted steak in a red wine sauce accompanied by a mushroom plate-pie.

Konrad applied himself to this with such absorption that the lack of table conversation did not unduly bother him. Freda made a few desultory comments to the table at large to which he thought either his sister or wife made murmured reply. He abstained from the final course, a tart of preserved apricots, cherries, and hazelnuts, and quit the table, making his way up to his bedchamber.

Konrad checked on the threshold, thinking for a moment that he had mistaken the room. In addition to the huge platformed bed hung about with its curtains, the room now contained several large and handsome pieces of furniture including a huge cabinet with decorated doors and a spectacularly decorated trunk. He eyed these a moment in silence and then turned to look at the fancy doublet laid across the bottom of the bed. Had Aimee Ankatel presented him with yet another gift?

As if on cue, he heard the tap on the door. Immediately, he knew it was not Jakeman and span around. “Come in!”

His wife appeared in the doorway, smiling brightly. “My lord, I trust your new furnishings are to your liking?” she enquired politely.

Konrad paused before he made reply. He wondered if now was the moment for some plain speech between them. “Come in,” he said slowly. It was a large room, and he gestured vaguely toward the seating area by the window. She surprised him by coming in quite readily and closing the door behind her.

He had expected some trepidation on her behalf, but she showed no unwillingness to be alone with him in a room with a bed. In view of the uneasy memories of last night that had plagued him all day, that did relieve him somewhat. She walked to the center of the room and turned about to face him, tipping her head to one side. “Yes?”

“Be seated,“ he said and watched her sit in a chair by the window. After a moment, he joined here there, lowering himself into the chair facing hers. “I think we should set some things straight.” Instead of looking nervous, she gave him an encouraging smile. Konrad took a deep breath. “I think of this house as your domain,” he said flatly. “Just as Bartree Castle will always be mine.”

She nodded her head, though he was not sure she took his meaning at all. “You can put whatever you want in this room,” he stressed. “I will not object because I do not consider myself to hold any sway here.”

She frowned over his words. “My father gave us this house as a wedding gift,” she pointed out.

He huffed out a breath. Clearly, she had not taken his meaning. For a man who habitually spoke with brutal frankness, he was finding it damned hard going for some reason. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair. “Look, Aimee, your father was quite open about what he wanted from our union.” She blinked but did not speak, so he pressed on. “To speak plain, he wanted a stud for you and a title for his grandchildren.”

Instead of turning pale at his blunt speech as he had imagined she would, she turned instead a little pink. “My father has always liked children,” she murmured. This confounded him for a minute, as he had expected her to protest his words.

“Well,” he said gruffly. “Be that as it may. I can understand that you might need time to accustom yourself to the position you now find yourself in.”

“Find myself in?” she interrupted him. “You misunderstand, my lord. The choice was all mine.” She took a deep breath. “My father wanted a good marriage for me, it is true, but it was I who picked you out for my bridegroom.”

Konrad stared at her uncomprehendingly. What? “But Renlow?” he floundered blankly. “Your sister – I thought – ?”

Aimee gazed back at him with a puzzled expression. “What about them?”

“Was Renlow not your intended groom?” he demanded.

Aimee’s mouth dropped open. “Sir Renlow?” She shook her head. “No, of course not!” She sounded quite indignant at the notion. “I told my father after Kellingford that it was you I wanted.”

Her answer had Konrad reeling. He gazed at her in stupefaction.

“Sir Renlow was always intended for Ursula,” she stressed carefully, then frowned. “Was that not plain from the outset?”

He cast his mind back to the meal at her father’s house. “I do not think your father ever explicitly stated which of you was my intended bride,” he admitted slowly.

Aimee blinked. “And you did not think to ask?”

“It didn’t really matter,” he answered with a shrug and saw the hurt expression that leapt to her eyes before she could disguise it.

“Oh,” she said faintly, then swallowed. “So, you assumed Ursula was for you, then?” She twisted her hands in her lap.

“Yes. She was the elder of you two after all.” When she said nothing, he added, “As I am older than Renlow.” Why did she look suddenly so anxious, he wondered.

“W-when did you realize?” she asked in a high, unnatural voice.

Some inner prompting warned him against answering this. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her it was in front of the priest, not when she was gazing at him with such an expression of dismay on her pretty face.

“Why?” he asked instead. “Why me?” It hadn’t been what he was going to say. He had no idea why he was even asking it.

I told my father it was you I wanted.

The discreet tap at the door almost made him jump out of his skin. “Come in,” he barked without thinking, for he recognized the knock as Jakeman’s. The door opened, and his servant entered the room. He paused just inside the door, halting with surprise when he found his master was not alone.

“Forgive me, my lord, I did not mean to interrupt.”

“My wife was just leaving,” Konrad snapped back. Her shoulders slumped, and she stood, directed a brave smile in Jakeman’s direction, and exited the room. He stood and turned to watch her leave, unable to stop himself. Jakeman’s quietly spoken words did not even register with him. She had set her sights on him after Kellingford.

Kellingford? Where he had lost! He could not quite comprehend it.

“My lord?” Jakeman asked hesitantly.

Konrad waved an impatient hand. “What was it you wanted?” he asked irritably. “Speak up, man! I can barely hear you!”

Inexplicably, for the next hour or so, Konrad found himself unable to settle to anything, even oiling his blade. He flung it away from him in disgust and found himself considering striding down the corridor in search of his wife. What the hells had she meant by telling him that?

Why in the name of the gods would anyone think him a matrimonial prize after watching his defeat at Kellingford? If anything, that was the one time that idealistic young fool Renlow had appeared in a positive light. Did lovely Aimee Ankatel think consoling losers a more amusing role than rewarding victors? Gazing about the bedchamber at the lavish bed hangings and luxurious furniture did not make him one whit more reconciled to his role as her stud.

Maybe she did see herself in the role of the benevolent benefactress, righting all his wrongs and earning his undying gratitude. And if so, what of it? Women often got foolish ideas into their heads, or so he had heard said, by other men at least. Even if she had thought to act the role of benevolent wife, a voice whispered in his head, did she deserve the punishment of a rude and neglectful bridegroom? She was young and over-indulged, but she was not spoiled or arrogant. On the contrary … she was … words failed him at this point. He didn’t know what she was precisely, but she hadn’t deserved him for a bridegroom, that was for damned sure.

To escape his growing unease, he found himself, half an hour later, setting out for the knight’s banquet at the palace. He reasoned to himself that he would at least glean some useful information about his competitors there. Once among his peers, he would shake off the discomfort of his new wedded status and forget the disquiet his temporary luxurious lodgings inspired in him.

However, once stood in the feasting hall, he found himself immediately regretting the impulse to attend. He was far from gregarious by nature, and functions such as this one left him cold. He performed his duty by making his bow to the southern king and retreated to a dark corner to fester as he usually did when surrounded by revelry. A passing servant offered him a drinking vessel, and he took it, more for appearance’s sake than anything else.

As he stood among the shadows, Konrad’s eye traveled over the familiar banners hanging from the rafters, proclaiming the participants in the upcoming summer tournament. His own hung as usual with the top five, denoting his anticipated performance, but to his surprise, he saw Sir Roland Vawdrey’s shield now included a coronet. When had that bastard succeeded to a title?

As his eye wandered, he realized Vawdrey’s was not the only banner to have altered. Orde’s remained the same colors of black and white, but his heraldic device had changed altogether. He was just pondering the meaning of this when a voice hailed him boisterously.

“Kentigern!” Turning, he found Roland Vawdrey heading in his direction. In his muscular arms he held a swaddled bundle which he thrust toward Konrad with a proud smile. “My daughter.”

Konrad gazed down at the pink face of the infant. It was scrunched up in an expression of irritable discomfort. Above its face was a shock of black hair. When her eyes did force their way open, they looked murky and seemed unable to focus on either of them, before closing them again.

She looked rather like a baby fieldmouse to Konrad’s mind, all blobby and indistinct. He groped about for some comment that her sire would find acceptable, but his mind was a perfect blank. It wasn’t even a son and heir. He marveled at Vawdrey’s expression of awed gratification as he gazed down at his firstborn.

“Her name is Agnes,” Vawdrey told him in hushed tones.

“A fine name,” Konrad managed after a moment’s silence. “Named for her mother’s sake?”

Roland shot him a look of annoyance. “My wife’s name is Eden,” he pointed out.

“Oh.” Konrad shifted onto his other foot, but still Vawdrey hovered. “Why has your banner changed?” he asked abruptly.

Vawdrey looked at him blankly a moment. “Oh, that,” he said in the manner of one recalling something wholly insignificant. “Been made a viscount. Want a hold of her?” he offered, in the manner of one bestowing some grand favor. It took Konrad a moment to catch his meaning.

“Gods, no!” When the new father looked instantly incensed, Konrad added uncomfortably. “I know nothing of babies, I might grip her too tight or drop her.”

Vawdrey’s shoulders relaxed at once. “You’ll soon learn when you’ve one of your own,” he commented with a worldly-wise air.

Kentigern was so flabbergasted by this notion that he just stared first at Vawdrey and then at the baby. “How old is it?” he asked grudgingly.

“Two months. A good size, you’ll agree,” Vawdrey boasted. Was it? Konrad gazed at it doubtfully.

“None of Mason’s hellspawn were half so impressive,” Roland continued, gazing foolishly at his daughter. “As for Oswald’s, his twins were tiny for ages.”

“How many has Cadwallader got now?” Konrad asked, thinking with dislike of Mason Vawdrey, who been a large reason why the north had fallen. Fucking bastard had been an inspired general.

“Four,” Roland answered absently. “Lily, Meg, Archie, and Ben.”

“Two sons?” Kentigern observed with disfavor. Stood to reason. Lucky bastard had always fallen on his feet.

“Not as pretty as Agnes,” Vawdrey replied, dipping his head closer to the baby and using a doting voice that Konrad could only suppose he reserved for speaking to it with.

Konrad made a revolted face. Who on earth wanted pretty sons? Vawdrey was losing the fucking plot. He glanced at the child again. “How long before it walks?”

“Eh? Oh years, I expect,” Roland replied airily. When the baby’s mouth started working and she gave a whimper, he straightened up. “Looking to feed,” he said hurriedly. “I’ll take her back to her mother.”

Konrad nodded with relief, and Vawdrey scurried off.

“Did he try to get you to hold it?” asked a voice from his left, which was his blind side. He wheeled about to find Garman Orde regarding him wryly.

“What?”

“The baby,” Orde spelled out.

Konrad grunted. Why the fuck was Orde now wanting to talk about babies? “What’s with the new banner?” he asked, redirecting the conversation by nodding toward the pennants at the far end of the hall.

“New title,” Orde explained briefly. “My grandfather died.”

“Your grandfather? Who was he?”

“Earl of Twyford.”

“Your grandfather was the Earl of Twyford?” Konrad was honestly surprised he had not heard tell of it before. Twyford was an old and venerated northern title. Unlike Vawdrey, Orde was a countryman of his and a fellow northerner. They had served in King Magnur’s army together, but he had certainly known nothing of his noble lineage.

Orde grunted in affirmation but showed no interest in pursuing the topic. “You hear about de Bussell and the princess?” he asked.

Kentigern stiffened. “I did.”

“You hear he took her with him last month to compete at Areley Kings?”

Konrad squinted at him. “What?”

Orde nodded. “He won too. Made her tournament queen.”

“The fuck he did.”

A brief smile touched Orde’s lips. “Saw it with my own eyes.”

“He beat you?”

Orde shook his head. “I went out early. Injury. He beat de Crecy in the final round.”

Kentigern absorbed this a moment in stunned silence. “De Crecy was having an off day, I suppose. It happens.”

Orde shook his head. “De Crecy was not having an off day. De Bussell fought like a demon. Lenora has this theory that old Armand has never really had his heart in the game before now.”

His heart? Kentigern lowered his goblet. He squinted at Orde. Was this bastard quoting his wife to him now, like she was some kind of expert on jousting? Surprisingly, he knew full well who Orde’s wife was. Everyone knew who Lenora Montmayne was – or had been. The fairest maid in all Karadok.

She had lost that title when the red pox had swept through the capital the summer before, her famous face falling victim to its ravages. Or so popular opinion held forth. Kentigern had regarded the pock marks and reddened skin on her face with skepticism. They were not scars as he knew them.

Still, he held a certain grudging admiration for Lenora Orde, as she was now known. Or rather, the Countess of Twyford. He might go so far as to admit, only to himself of course, that he even felt some measure of fellow feeling toward her. One of his fondest memories was awarding her the winner’s garland at Roget’s Ford early that year, just to piss off her husband who had been first runner up.

He recalled the look of murderous rage in Orde’s eye now and had to stifle a smirk into his wine goblet. In truth, the awarding of the tournament wreath was a mere afterthought to Konrad. He usually bestowed it wherever it would cause the most irritation. He had given it to Vawdrey’s wife in the past too, much to her husband’s ire.

“Heard you’d got married,” Orde commented.

“What of it?”

An uncharacteristic smile tugged at Orde’s lips. “No need to spring to your defense,” he muttered. “It happens to the best of us.”

“What does it have to do with you anyway?” Konrad demanded belligerently.

“Naught,” Orde shrugged, with as close an expression of affability that Konrad had ever seen on that surly bastard’s face. “You’re not the only newlywed here tonight, as it happens.” Guessing he was referring to Renlow, Konrad glanced about for his brother-in-law.

“You seen de Crecy?” Orde continued.

Konrad turned back to Orde in surprise. “De Crecy? I’d heard he wasn’t attending.”

“He showed up today with his new bride in tow,” Orde said, lowering his voice. He cocked his brow and nodded in the opposite direction to the one Konrad had been looking in.

Jeffree de Crecy was sat glowering across at a female in a drab gown of brown wool with a matching brown veil. Even Konrad knew that only veils of crisp white linen were worn at court. She looked like a nun, a plain faced nun moreover, and a total mismatch for de Crecy, who he loathed but had to admit was a handsome bastard, with his short blond beard and piercing blue eyes.

“That’s his wife?” Konrad asked blankly. He couldn’t even make out her hair color, it was scraped back so severely behind the dark veil.

“No one can make it out,” Orde continued in a low voice. “He looks as though he’d like to strangle her, and you should hear the way he speaks to her.”

Catching sight of the angry glance de Crecy flung at her across the table, Konrad felt a strange stirring of pity for the wretched wench. She looked poor as a church mouse. Magnatrude’s gowns were shabby, but you could see that at one time they had been grand enough. De Crecy’s wife looked like she would be more at home on a farm than at a king’s court.

The least that arrogant bastard could have done was buy her a new gown for the occasion, Konrad thought dispassionately. He watched as she lifted her head and met her husband’s furious gaze full on. She lifted her glass to toast her new husband with an expression which Konrad could not quite place. De Crecy turned crimson and rose unsteadily from his seat to fling away, leaving her sat quite alone. For an instant, Konrad could have sworn he saw the woman smile to herself, then she obscured his view by sipping at her wine. Mayhap this time he would award the crown to de Crecy’s bride? That would have the bastard choking on his own spleen.

“Where is she, then?” Orde asked, snapping him out of his observations.

“Who?”

“Your new bride,” he elaborated. “Everyone’s dying for a glimpse of her.”

“Not here,” Konrad responded briefly. It occurred to him that it would make perfect sense to everyone if de Crecy’s bride was Aimee, while his own was that rather homely creature sat by herself.

“You did not bring her to the feast?” For some reason, Orde looked surprised by this.

“It is not obligatory to bring one’s spouse, that I’m aware.”

Orde directed a pitying look at him. “’Tis plain to see you are but newlywed,” he murmured.

As Konrad could think of no reply to this, he merely scowled before glancing around. “I do not see your own wife,” he pointed out. For once.

“She’s seven months along now,” Orde replied promptly. “And long tired by this hour. She should probably have stayed at home, but ...” He shrugged as though he had little say in the matter.

Something about his indulgent expression made Konrad uncomfortable. Orde had gone soft. “Seems to me you should be the one carting Vawdrey’s infant about,” he pointed out snidely. “To grow accustomed to it!”

“Oh, I have,” Orde responded comfortably. “You forget, my wife is first cousin to Vawdrey’s.”

It would be hard to forget something he had not been aware of in the first place, Konrad thought, but did not voice.

Orde drained his cup. “Lenora will be waiting for me to join her me in our chamber.” He clapped a hand to Konrad’s shoulder, startling him. “I’d best be joining her, or she’ll be sound asleep.”

With this startling announcement, Orde turned on his heel and made his way out of the hall. Konrad gazed after him blankly. The whole world was going mad, he thought. Then he noticed Douglas Farleigh making a beeline for him and helped himself to another flagon of mead. The feast had not turned out to be the distraction he had hoped for.