Susan Paul - The Bride Thief

“I’m very sorry, my lord,” said Robert, the steward, as he followed his master into his working chamber, “but it cannot wait. The lord of Gyer requires an immediate reply.”

“The lord of Gyer is making a damned nuisance of himself!” Hugh informed his stoic minion as he paced the chamber, dressed in nothing more than a velvet robe. “It’s the middle of the godforsaken night! He probably had a spy here for weeks, just waiting for the moment when Rosaleen and I would shut our chamber door before he sprang. What a pestilential lot of relatives I’ve got.” Swinging about, he pinned his steward with an angry glare. “Couldn’t you have taken care of it, Robert? Forged my name or something? You know how much I hate this sort of thing.”

Spreading the parchment missive flat upon his master’s “ working table, Robert gave a calm, long-suffering sniff. “Please, my lord. The lord of Gyer’s servant must be on his way at once with your reply.”

“Damnation,” Hugh muttered, falling with a thump into the chair behind the table. “I’m going to kill Alex the next time I set sight on him. What in the Fiend’s name does he want, anywise? I hate being a nobleman.”

“That’s not what you said last week, when Lord Farron was christened.”

The earl of Siere made a face of disbelief. “Of course I wasn’t unhappy with it while Farron was being christened. What man is going to be unhappy when hundreds of people are cheering at his newborn son? Are you going to tell me what Alexander wants, or must I read this damned missive myself?”

Straightening, Robert folded his hands behind his back. “It regards your younger brother, Sir Justin. The lord of Gyer is displeased with his behavior of late and wants you to find him a wife.”

“F-find him a wife?” Hugh repeated, choking over the words. He gaped at his steward. “By the rood! Why in God’s name does he want me to do it? Alex is the eldest in this family. Let him find Justin a bride.”

“But you’re the highest-ranking, my lord. The lord of Gyer was right to put the matter in your hands.”

“Highest-ranking,” Hugh said with a snort. “That’s as good an excuse for shrugging trouble onto another man’s shoulders as I’ve ever heard.”

“My lord…”

“Oh, very well.” Hugh took the document up and began to read it. “I’ve got better things to do than sit down here arguing. What’s Alex’s complaint, then? I thought Justin was doing well at Talwar. And he and Christian Rowsenly have made Briarstone profitable, have they not?”

Robert cleared his throat discreetly. “The lord of Gyer seems to believe that they’ve turned Briarstone into a brothel, my lord. He’s not very pleased with the reports he’s had.”

Hugh lifted his head. “A brothel? Have they, now? Well, what’s wrong with that?” His voice took on a defensive tone. “It was very nearly a brothel when I had the managing of it, before I married Rosaleen and got forced into becoming the earl of Siere. Nothing wrong with brothels, though you may not be in the habit of visiting them. I spent some of the best years of my life running in and out of brothels while I was naught but a soldier for King Henry, may God rest his soul.”

“Aye, my lord,” said Robert, staring calmly down his nose at his increasingly irate master. “I’m certain that’s true. But one of the duke of Gloucester’s closest advisors stopped at Briarstone to spend the night and was displeased to be asked by the guards at the gate how much money he wished to spend for his pleasures. Sir Justin drove him off at sword point when the gentleman refused to pay anything. Needless to say, he returned to London and complained to the duke, who in turn complained to your brother, Sir Alexander, who—”

“Who decided to shove the matter into my lap,” finished Hugh, more thoughtfully. “I can scarce believe Justin would do such a thing. He’s ever been most sensible, very like Alex. Surely there’s a better way to calm the lad down than by shackling him with a wife. Ever since that Feltingad wench turned him down—”

“Lady Alicia Sherringham, my lord.”

“Yes, her,” said Hugh, waving a hand about. “Alicia Sherringham. Dim-witted wench if I ever saw one. Justin had a lucky escape when she ran off with that furrier from Carstairs. I hear she chattered the man into an asylum before twelve months were out. I’d hate to see Justin end with a similar fate.”

“But Sir Justin grieved for her, my lord,” Robert reminded him. “Remember the tournaments he attended that first year after she left him?”

“Aye,” Hugh said grimly. “And during the three years after that. It was as if he courted death. He was none too pleased when Alex and I finally arranged to have him disqualified from such events. ‘Twas another year before he spoke to either of us, and even then he was bitter. Perhaps…” He fell silent, thinking. “It may be, Robert, that Justin needs a wife. Who have we got available in the way of brides?”

June 1426

Three days left. Only three. I wonder if she’ll ever forgive me?

The view from his chamber window did nothing to ease the tension that had shadowed Sir Justin Baldwin like a plague for the past month, since he received the missive sent by his brother, the earl of Siere. London, spread out before him like a crazily patterned tapestry, wasn’t the sort of inspiration that gave a man—any man—an overwhelming feeling of confidence. Of course, it didn’t help that he hated cities and towns. If he’d been home at Talwar, or even at Briarstone, everything would be different. With space to move and clean air to breathe, he might be able to think clearly enough to avoid his chosen course, but here, bound tight in London’s stench and madness, he could barely think at all.

She’ll forgive me. She must. If I had more time to woo her gently, I would. But with only three days left…

Pushing from the window out of which he had spent the past half hour gazing, Justin moved to stand before the polished steel mirror in his rented chamber. His dim reflection gave him little pleasure. His hair was overlong, he thought, frowning and running his fingers through the dark strands to smooth them. He should have had it cut— would have had it cut, if he’d had more notice. But with so little forewarning about the match that had been arranged for him, he’d been fortunate to achieve London as quickly as he had. Not that it mattered. The bride who’d been chosen for him had greeted him with less enthusiasm than Justin, himself, exhibited.

“I owe you for this, Hugh,” Justin said aloud, softly. “I most assuredly do. Could you not at least have chosen a willing lady for me?”

A knock fell on his chamber door, and at his spoken invitation, it opened.

“Good day, Chris,” he said in greeting as Sir Christian Rowsenly, the lord of Briarstone, made his way into the room, dressed in finery that equaled Justin’s.

“Almost time,” said Sir Christian. “Are you ready?”

Ready? Justin thought silently. Oh, yes, he was ready, whether he wished to be or not. If he failed in this final attempt, everything he had spent so many years working for would be taken away. Lost to him completely. All for the lack of a bride. Thus the duke of Gloucester had commanded, at the earl of Siere’s bidding, and thus it would be.

“Yes,” he said, bending to pick up his light dress sword. With a sure movement, he sheathed the beautiful weapon, which had been skillfully fashioned by his own hand. “I’m ready. ‘Twould not help our cause to keep Lady Evelyn waiting. My friend,” he said as he approached Sir Christian, setting a hand upon the other man’s shoulder, “I thank you for all you have offered to do to aid me in this matter. Only promise that you will take every care this day. If Lady Evelyn or her father should discover our intent before we have done, I will not want you sharing my rightful punishment.”