Page 121 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“There’s a lady stood over by the fireplace,” Prince Raedan spoke up, betraying the fact he had very sharp ears, “whose dress is embroidered all over with white roses.”

“Indeed?” Gunnilde turned in that direction. “Oh dear,” she fretted. It was Mistress Culmington. Hal had transferred his affections, she was sure of it, but when Hal strolled back into view moments later, he was escorting Patience Stanhope on his arm and listening most attentively to everything that lady had to say.

“Lord Vawdrey just arrived,” the prince told her quietly.

“Oh!” Gunnilde grabbed James’s sleeve, then hesitated turning back to the prince. “Would you like to come with us to greet them, Your Highness?” she asked, not liking to leave him unattended. He considered a moment before nodding and accompanied them as they made their way to where Earl Vawdrey was stood with his plump, pretty countess.

Greetings were exchanged and Lord Vawdrey looked surprised yet pleased to see the young prince in attendance. “I see Master Payne has tempted you from your rooms this evening, Your Highness,” he said with an approving smile. “No doubt, it is the lure of his sister’s entertainments that drew you out.”

“Well, he swore there would be no jesters present,” Prince Raedan answered succinctly. “That was sufficient a draw for me.”

James perked up at this. “You do not care for jesters, Your Highness?”

“No, I do not,” the prince replied decisively. He and James immediately began trading stories of unpleasant encounters they had undergone with jesters over the years. “My father won’t go anywhere without one!” Prince Raedan scowled.

Gunnilde’s hands were seized by Countess Vawdrey. “You look so beautiful this evening, Gunnilde, quite radiant,” Fenella declared, kissing her cheek. “I will not stand on ceremony with you, for we are traveling down to Vawdrey Keep on the morrow and I mean to tell Eden we are on the very best of terms. I hope you will not mind my exaggerating somewhat,” she said apologetically.

“Oh, not at all!” Gunnilde assured her. “I only hope that Eden will forgive me for not informing her of all my news firsthand. I have a half-written letter to her in my rooms that I should have finished days ago, only I have been so busy, you see.”

“I am not surprised, for there is always something afoot here at court. And tomorrow the Squires’ Revels commence in earnest, so you will be attending those for the next three days.”

“Oh, yes,” Gunnilde agreed. She had scarcely even thought of the approaching Revels this past week.

“I only hope the young prince can be brought to enjoy himself there,” Lord Vawdrey said in a low voice. “Your brother and his friends have done their best to interest him in proceedings but...” He pulled a face.

“They are boisterous, and he is reserved,” Gunnilde observed.

“Yes, quite so. Still, I had hoped the Revels would interest him. After all, if he were not a crown prince, he would be of an age to enter squire hood himself. Alas, it seems knights and knighthood do not interest him remotely.”

“Well, but there are different kinds of knights after all,” Gunnilde said, remembering James’s words on the subject. “Instead of regaling him with tales of Viscount Vawdrey or Lord Twyford,” she said, proud she had remembered to use their new titles, “why do you not tell him instead of modest, unassuming Sir Renlow?”

“Sir Renlow d’Avenant?” Lord Vawdrey echoed.

“Yes, for he is a vastly different kind of champion, is he not? James trained with him, you know, and apparently, he was always quiet and kind.”

Lord Vawdrey shot another look at James and Prince Raedan, who were now discussing the King’s favorite jester, Robkin, with many scathing comments. “Do you know, that is not such a bad notion. You may be onto something there, Lady Wycliffe,” he said thoughtfully.

“I think it sounds an excellent idea,” his wife chimed in. “Eden always said you were clever, and I can quite see why.” Clever? Her surprise must have shown on her face, for Fenella Vawdrey twinkled at her. “After all, there are different kinds of cleverness, are there not? It is not always derived from a book.”

At this point, Gunnilde noticed that Harriet and her mother had arrived, and Winifred and her young cousin. Excusing herself from the Vawdreys, she made her way over to them. The room was fast filling now, so she was hailed several times, and returned many greetings before she reached them.

She was just complimenting Harriet on her new tippets when an altercation broke out over by the fireplace. They all turned in surprise to find Sir Symond Chevenix sprawled on the ground and Hal stood over him, flushed and indignant.

“You take that back, you unworthy dog!” Hal shouted furiously. “You sully this maid’s fair name again in my hearing and I’ll whip you like the craven cur you are!”

Gunnilde’s mouth dropped open. “What the—?”

Pushing and shoving immediately started in the vicinity, along with a good deal of shrieking and screaming. Half the room surged toward the fracas, while the other half fled from it.

“Oh no!” Gunnilde turned toward the door to summon the royal guards, but they were already wading their way through the crowd. It was only after a moment that she realized they were not attempting to break up the fight, but rather to surround the Queen and the prince and protect them from any potential harm.

“James?” Gunnilde called, turning this way and that in vain, for she could not see her husband in the crush. Picking up her skirts, she pushed her way determinedly toward the front of the crowd to find her brother.

To her astonishment, she found James and Neville were already there in the thick of it with Cuthbert and Kit, surrounding a red-faced Hal, while Lord Vawdrey and Viscount Bardulf were restraining Sir Symond, who was now on his feet and seemingly furious. Gunnilde had not even seen the Bardulfs arrive!

“Get your hands off me, I say!” Sir Symond snarled, attempting to shake them off. Surprisingly, considering he was a decorated member of the King’s guard, he could not loose himself from the two courtiers’ grip. This fact seemed to enrage him even further.

“Now, now, don’t get your breeches in a twist,” Viscount Bardulf tutted. “What lamentable manners! Ah, but here is an arbiter, our hostess, to sort out this mess.”