Page 6 of Wed By Proxy

“Did they rob him?” Guy asked, his eyes returning to the small figure shivering in front of the fire.

“No,” admitted the first beadle grudgingly.

“There was his horse,” the second beadle reminded him.

The first beadle perked up. “Ah yes, they stole his horse, milord.”

“You’re saying they’re a pair of horse thieves, then?” asked Firmin, shooting a puzzled look at Guy.

Thurston sucked the air between his teeth and frowned. “I think that’s a bit much, indeed I do,” he said gravely. “I couldn’t support a charge of horse thievery, upon my soul.”

“Now Master Thurston!” Objected the first beadle. “What would your pa say, if he knew you wasn’t a-doing of your duty?”

“He’d say a lot more if he knew I unjustly supported a hanging charge,” Thurston responded with spirit.

“But what I say is this,” interrupted Firmin. “What the devil has any of this to do with Lord Martindale?”

“He,” said the first beadle pointing at the smaller boy. “Said as he knew Lord Martindale, who would stand as character witness for him.”

The smaller boy’s eyes had been drifting shut, as he relaxed in the heat of the fire. They snapped open now and clashed with Guy’s. “Boy, come here,” Guy said firmly. The older boy’s hand shot out to stay his friend, but he was gently shaken off.

“It’s alright, Rob,” he heard him murmur, then he walked around the table until he stood directly in front of Guy. To his astonishment, all Guy could see in those large hazel eyes was curiosity. No shadow of fear or trepidation showed in their depths. He returned the gaze, and instead of denouncing the little wretch, he found himself asking curiously: “How is it that you know me, boy?” Firmin’s sharply indrawn breath showed how far he was acting out of character, but Guy did not break eye contact and the boy gazed steadily back at him. “Because, my lord,” he whispered. “I am your wife.”

III

Mathilde waited expectantly for Lord Martindale to react, but if anything he only seemed to go very still in his seat.

“What was that the boy said?” rumbled someone. She rather thought it was the grizzled looking latecomer, but she did not have eyes for anyone other than her husband at present. She was wholly engrossed taking in all his glory. He was tall and powerfully built with broad shoulders and strong limbs. He was clearly master here, with his rich, booming voice, yet he opened his own door which she found strangely fascinating. Things must be very different here in the north, she thought.

Both her former husbands had been old men, but this one was young, even that black beard covering what she was sure was a strong jaw, could not obscure the fact. She was wildly encouraged by his kindness to her and Rob by providing them with fire and blankets. He was clearly both thoughtful and generous, and her heart swelled to find him so. By some miracle, her mother had hit on a bridegroom who was not wholly past prayers.

Suddenly he came to his feet, staring straight ahead of him a moment. Then he spoke, two words, “Follow me,” and strode past her. Mathilde blinked, and quickly followed, cries of “My lord!” and “But where are you going?” ringing in her ears. He paid no heed to them, so neither did she. He flung open a door on the opposite side of the hall, and disappeared through it. Mathilde hurried after him. He did not look back over his shoulder, but instead plunged down a dimly lit corridor and then up some stone steps. She paused at the bottom of the steps which were steep and winding, and felt a flicker of panic rise up, which she swiftly extinguished. Her days of being scared of her own shadow were behind her, she told herself sternly.

She had travelled the length of the kingdom, dressed as a man. She had hitched rides on carts. She had slept in common taverns, on hard wooden benches, and even once, under a hedge. She had haggled over the price of a loaf, been cuffed round the ear by an irate stall-holder, and that very morning she had been in her first fight in defense of the innocent. In short, she had earned her spurs. She was not about to fall at the final fence.

Steeling herself, she started up the steps, listening to the ring of Lord Martindale’s — her husband’s — boots against the flagstones. He took very large strides, and she wondered if he was scaling two steps at a time. Her fitness levels had vastly improved over the past month, but she was no match for him. When she finally reached the top, panting slightly, he stood, a shadowy figure next to another open door. It appeared he was expecting her to walk through this one first. She hastened to comply. He followed her through the door and shut it after him, turning a key in the lock. Then he stood a moment, leaning back against the door, regarding her through narrowed eyes.

Mathilde glanced around at the bare room, but there really wasn’t much to look at. A bed was in the corner and a battered trunk under the window. Other than that the only furniture was a small table and a rickety-looking chair. She turned back to Lord Martindale, who slowly folded his arms.

“Prove it,” he said shortly.

Mathilde blinked, wondering how she was supposed to do that. “You did not send me a betrothal token,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “My father’s name was Lord Douglas Doverdale. But you probably negotiated the marriage terms with my mother.”

He shook his head. “Wrong.”

Mathilde stared at him. “Wrong?” She faltered.

“There was no negotiation,” he said in a hard voice. “I signed the papers in a prison cell. And it was not the Doverdales who brokered the marriage.”

Mathilde’s mouth dropped open. “But—”she broke off confusedly. It was certainly true that it had been conducted far differently to her previous two marriages, she thought with unease. He didn’t have one foot in the grave for one thing, and she hadn’t been given any gifts. When she glanced back at him, she found he was still watching her closely. “Who did then?” she asked in bewilderment. And when had he been imprisoned?

“Your king,” he said, as though the words left a bad taste in his mouth. Of course, he was a northerner, thought Mathilde. He would have supported the Blechmarsh claim to the throne. “Or rather, his advisor, Lord Vawdrey.”

“Oh,” she said, realizing this reaction was vastly inadequate. She shivered, feeling suddenly cold again. Her clothes were still damp and there was no fire lit in the room.

“How do I know you’re her?” he asked again, and Mathilde suddenly noticed that his glower was a little menacing. Doubtless it was the shadowy room, and the fact she was tired and had spent most of the day in a dank cell herself.

“I’m not sure how I can prove it,” she said in a small voice. “You can ask me any question about myself, but …” she trailed off, not wanting to give voice to her sudden suspicions that he knew very little about her, and maybe cared even less. She bit her lip hard, willing it not to wobble and blinking hard. She was a boy, she reminded herself. Or as good as. She did not cry.