Page 3 of The Consolation Prize

“Your Highness—,” Vawdrey began placatingly.

“I won’t have it! A damn bunch of country yokels with nary a decent connection between them! Half of them could scarcely have been presented at court!”

“I am persuaded that you are not in earnest,” Vawdrey said calmly. “For you gave your word the princess’s hand would be awarded at the outcome of this event, and every man present knows the King’s word is law.”

The King’s face turned even more violently purple, and Una felt a sudden alarm that he might be taken off by apoplexy. She turned her eyes on the queen, but Armenal was murmuring behind her hand to one of her ladies in waiting.

“You must not upset yourself, sire,” Vawdrey said with a shrug. “For there is always some way of negotiating around these things, if needs must.”

Wymer looked up sharply. “I do not take your meaning.” he barked, a gleam of hope now in his eyes. “Do you tell me you’ve hit upon some way out of this damnable mess?”

Earl Vawdrey smiled a rather wintry smile. “Let me consider the matter, Your Majesty.”

Wymer grunted but relaxed back into his chair. “Aye, well see that you do, that’s all!” he said pettishly. “For I won’t abide by the winner of this piece of mummery, and so I warn you!”

Una risked another glance at Lord Vawdrey and found him looking thoughtful. She glanced back down at Otho who raised his sword to the restless crowd. They too did not seem happy that there was no clear favorite to cheer for. It seemed almost that they picked up on their King’s palpable displeasure and took it for their lead.

None of these competitors knew how to play to the crowd like the seasoned favorites did. In the last eighteen months, Una had come to a pretty shrewd knowledge of how fond these Southerners were of their pageantry. Caer-Lyoness was used to the flamboyance of the King’s champion, Sir Roland Vawdrey or the proud Jeffrey de Crecy. If they were to cheer for an anti-hero, they preferred the arrogance of Sir Garman Orde or the brutality of Lord Kentigern.

To them, Otho was naught but a grim-faced Northerner who fought without flair and only a dogged determination that gave them precious little by way of entertainment. There was no pomp or colorful display in his mud-colored shield or glamor in his plain helmet without plume. He carried no banner and barely seemed aware it was a spectator sport.

They had vastly preferred the extravagant loss of that good-looking fellow from the first round, Una thought wryly. What was his name? Sir Armand de Bussell. He had danced around for all the world as if he were on a stage. Feigning, he would go left and then going right, staggering from blows against his shield and tumbling to the ground as though grievously injured, before rolling to his feet mere moments later, rallying again.

The crowd had responded with glee to his antics, cheering and then sending up terrific groans when he had been bested by what seemed a lucky circumstance by his opponent. Since he had been defeated, the crowd seemed glum and depressed in spirit.

The announcement of the next combatants’ names evinced no ripple of interest and so the afternoon proceeded. Una could not be impervious to the growing disquiet or the fact the mood was turning uglier as the day wore on. She glanced uneasily at the King, but Wymer’s expression showed just as much disgust as the rest of the audience. The Queen, complaining of a headache, had disappeared after the first hour and Wymer had gestured for Una to move up into Armenal’s seat.

It seemed an inauspicious thing to do but she was the subject here, so Una duly moved her stiff structured skirts along and lowered herself with the usual attendant difficulties onto the Queen’s seat. Her ceremonial robes were hard to maneuver for they were stiff and rigid from the framework underneath. Wiping her brow, which was perspiring under the heavy headdress, she wondered how many more bouts they were to sit through before the eventual winner emerged.

The sun beat down on them as the contenders were eliminated one by one. To Una’s horror, Otho proceeded from round to round until there seemed a certain horrible inevitability about his ending up in the final two. With a sort of dull, resigned pain, she watched the very last opportunity of escaping from her cruel fate trickle through her fingers. She had always known her bloodline would be the death of her.

Quite apart from the impediment of their close blood tie, Otho was ineligible for the tournament on every single score. He had no loyalty to the Southern King he had been raised to despise, no estate to his illegitimate status, and he was competing under a false name. She had no doubt that these facts would be swiftly discovered in a matter of mere days, if not hours, and then what would happen? A double execution?

Una gave a faint moan and pressed a scarf to her mouth. She was sweating in earnest now, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the hot sun or pure unadulterated fear. Were her last living moments to include being married to her own brother, and then summarily executed? Just when she thought the history books held all the shameful chapters of her blighted family’s misdeeds, she found there was room for yet more infamy and scandal.

As though on cue, his current opponent yielded, and the crowd stirred restlessly to see Otho stand his ground, the final victor. A pugnacious expression on his face, he raised it to the royal box and Una gazed at him in despair. You wretched fool, Otho! Una thought bitterly, clenching her fists. Why would you do this to me? I was so close. So, so close to renouncing my title and finally losing this cursed name!

Just then, she noticed some commotion down on the sidelines. Earl Vawdrey was barring the announcer from entering the ring to confirm Otho’s win and was instead was sending in a group of entertainers. They looked a ragtag bunch of jugglers and acrobats, and in the center of them all was a swaggering court jester resplendent in trailing robes of red and gold.

“What the hells?” Wymer growled, sitting up in his seat. “Now what’s afoot? Why’s the fool entered the fray? I thought he wasn’t appearing till the feast. Blessed if I can make head or tail of this business!”

Una could only deduce that the court jester did not usually bring his revels to the competitor’s field and heartily regretted that he had done so now. He was the one person at court who dared to be downright rude to her face with impunity. She surveyed him now with dismay as he leapfrogged onto one of the acrobats and rode him like a horse about the arena with a demented look upon his face.

The crowd immediately erupted into laughter. The jester dismounted and performed three forward rolls upon the ground before leaping up like a jackrabbit.

“Hold, my good lords, my good ladies, gentles all!” he shouted, his voice carrying far and wide. “I must protest, most heartily at being left out in the cold from these proceedings. For His Majesty, the King, must needs grant me a boon on May Day, as is the custom.” He directed a look up at the royal box, and the King rolled his wrist in assent.

“Aye, that is true enough,” Wymer acknowledged grudgingly. “Good master Robkin.”

“Aha! Aha!” The jester bounded about the ring, appealing to the crowd. “Didst not thou hear that good King Wymer did promise me a boon?” The crowd murmured back an assent, curious at this late turn in proceedings. “Then, this I ask of thee my King,” the jester suddenly boomed. “That I am given sway over this tournament, in my official office of Lord of Misrule!”

Una felt the sudden frisson of excitement that ran throughout the audience. Lord of Misrule? That put a different slant on proceedings. Suddenly, Robkin held his hands out before him and clapped for attention. “Bring forth the prospect,” he yelled.

The acrobats and jugglers all looked around in great confusion, before suddenly converging on poor Otho, who was stood watching from the sidelines with some bemusement. They seized him now by the arms and bore him to stand in front of the fool.

“This?” howled Robkin. “You dare bring this before me? Nay, say it is not so!” The crowd reacted with amusement as he walked around Otho examining him like a bull at the fayre, prodding him with his long bauble stick’. “No, no,” he said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “This will never do!” He held up his hand for silence as the sounds of mirth grew from his audience. He stood a moment, cupping his chin as though in rapt concentration. Suddenly he spoke, with great deliberation. “His legs, in truth, are not bandy enough for to make him a goodly man in the stable,” he announced, slapping Otho’s calves until he was forced to jump from side to side to avoid the jingling stick, as the crowd dissolved into gales of laughter. “No, no,” he added, walking around to Otho’s back again and gesturing toward his thighs. “I mislike his stance. I’ faith, ’tis too wide! He’ll ne’er stand guard at the stable door, in truth, he’s more suited to a pigsty!”

Wymer guffawed, then seemed to remember his company. “Foolish fellow,” he said lamely.