Page 12 of A Most Forgettable Girl

This pronouncement caused Mistress Payne’s eyes to widen like trenchers. “To whom?” she burst out in astonishment.

The Queen looked a little annoyed. “Why to Sir James, of course! Who else?”

Mistress Payne gasped aloud at this, her head whipping around to skewer him with a disbelieving stare. This time he could well believe the Queen’s words had shocked her. He took a perverse sort of pleasure in her horrified incredulity.

“What?” she yelped. “But I—I—” Her protests seemed to stick in her throat. She swallowed, then hope appeared to flood back into her eyes. “What about my father’s consent?” she asked wildly, as though a drowning woman spotting land in the distance.

The Queen made a scoffing sound. “Clearly your father does not think marriage it is the priority for you, my good Gunnilde, else he would have arranged a match for you as soon as your first, it fell through, would he not?”

James’s ears pricked up. So...he was not the only one with a failed betrothal it seemed.

“You must not fret over this matter,” the Queen continued sagely. “Your father, he will concede to my judgment in this matter, I am sure. Did he not send you to court to mingle with the leading lights of the land and elevate your prospects?”

Mistress Payne’s expression alternated from desperate to doubtful and back again. James surmised her father did not give a rush light for such things, however she could hardly vocalize this to the Queen, so for once she behaved wisely and held her tongue.

“I am sure his forgiveness will be forthcoming when he hears of your most impressive elevation to lady-in-waiting to Karadok’s Queen,” Armenal said slyly.

Gunnilde’s expression went from anguished to dazed disbelief in an instant. It was plain she could not quite believe her ears. “M-me?” she breathed, pointing to her bodice. “A lady-in-waiting to Your Highness?”

The Queen beamed, finally pleased with the reaction she had evoked.

“Oh, Your Majesty!” Gunnilde’s voice shook with emotion. “Oh, I can scarcely believe it!” She took two impetuous steps forward before she could stop herself, and the Queen extended a beringed hand. James watched through narrowed eyes as Mistress Payne hurried to clasp it.

Slowly, one of her hair buns started to unravel. He watched, strangely fascinated as it snaked loose and then swung down, a thick pale yellow expanse of hair which extended past her waist. In her distraction she barely seemed to notice the mishap.

“Oh, Your Majesty,” she repeated joyfully. “I am honored beyond belief!”

“Of course you are,” Armenal said indulgently. “Now turn to Sir James and give him your formal acceptance of his suit.”

All pleasure drained from her expression as she turned to look at him. “I accept,” she said woodenly and gave a stiff curtsey. He bowed shallowly in return. Well, at least in this, their feelings were mutual.

They were given an hour’s reprieve to ready themselves before reconvening in the Queen’s private chapel. James used that time to return to his palace quarters and fetch his brother. He should have at least one family member to stand beside him on such an occasion.

Fortunately, he merely felt numb by this point, so Neville’s amazement washed over him instead of infuriating him further. When his brother seemed to realize there was nothing to be done except to change into his best doublet, he fell mercifully silent, though ’twas plain he was itching with curiosity.

They made their way, side by side to the Queen’s chapel, sober and resigned, their moods matching for once. At the chapel they found Lady Portstanley, who James vaguely recognized, and her plain-faced daughter, whose name he did not recall. Both looked anxious and seemed determined to avoid direct eye contact.

“Did you say the Portstanleys were her guardians?” he muttered in an aside to his brother.

Neville merely shrugged. “I know precious little of the matter,” he whispered back with some asperity. “Should you not have ascertained as much before you offered for the girl?”

It was James’s turn to shrug. “There was no time.” His brother shot him an odd look, but James was not inclined to explain, and in any case the Queen had now arrived escorted by her favorite attendant. She made way to the front pew, all wreathed in smiles and clearly overflowing with benevolence at having got her way.

Neville’s head swiveled to look at him interrogatively, but he pretended not to notice. Next the bad-tempered lady-in-waiting marched up the aisle, stony-faced and accompanied by a little page with an untidy haircut.

Last, but not least, the bride appeared, her hair once more done up in two ornate whorls. She had changed her gown, James noticed, presumably for her best, which was of a deep rose hue. The sleeves of this one were mercifully intact, and he thought for a moment she had dressed modestly for the occasion.

When he joined her at the front however, he found this gown was no less flaunting than the rest of her wardrobe for it had a series of holes about the bodice, giving flashes of a paler pink undergarment peeking through.

“Sir!” the cleric said in a voice stiff with outrage, and James made haste to face front. To his surprise, he found it was none other than the Bishop of Badsbury eyeing him balefully. He had not expected such an exalted personage to perform the ceremony, but he supposed if anyone could command his participation it would be the Queen.

“Might I ascertain if we can begin?” the right reverend asked crisply. James nodded and the bishop’s disapproving gaze moved to the bride. At the sight of her hair, he recoiled slightly before a look of grim determination overtook his jowly face.

Taking a deep breath, he gave a brief, if bleak overview of marital duty, before plunging without more ado into the vows. Both repeated them dutifully and toward the conclusion James was surprised to feel a jab in his side. The small page had appeared there and was thrusting a ring into his fingers.

Lifting it, he found what looked to be a devotional ring of gold decorated with raised quatrefoils and some lettering. The need for a ring had not even occurred to him. He flushed and the boy winked at him before beating a hasty retreat. Gunnilde, seeing his hesitation, held out her left hand, fingers spread.

He jammed the ring onto her middle finger, realized his error, and had to grasp hold of her to draw it back off and try again. The contact was a shock. Her hand, which he had thought would be cold and limp, was warm and jumped in his own, as though she, too, felt the shock of their connection.