Page 123 of A Most Forgettable Girl

Damnation. James spent what felt like the next hour being tortured by a lot of needless questions and seemingly artless exclamations from the Queen. He could scarcely follow what she was saying, so distracted was he.

Gunnilde could not seem to stay still in one place. One minute she was conversing with the Bardulfs, the next with the Vawdreys, and after that with the young prince again. Everywhere she went, she took Mistress Bartree with her in what James could not help thinking was his place.

Mistress Bartree appeared somewhat dazed, and rather flushed. She clutched Gunnilde’s arm, and every so often, Gunnilde would touch her hand or rub her upper arm in an encouraging gesture. He must have become used to being the sole recipient of his wife’s encouraging gestures, for James felt quite put out by it.

The Queen droned on in his ear like a buzzing gnat. “We must certainly see what we can do for you. I underestimated you, my dear Sir James, I see that quite clearly now.”

Now Gunnilde was leading Mistress Bartree over to the musicians and introducing her to every one of them. Billingsley bowed low over Gunnilde’s hand, and James practically gnawed on his own knuckle.

Apparently, Billingsley could not be trusted where women were concerned. He had some kind of irresistible charm, or so the others maintained. James himself had seen precious little evidence to support such a statement, though the fellow was a damn good vielle player.

“Gunnilde was quite wrong, I can see that now,” the Queen observed, momentarily jolting him out of his jealous stewing.

“What do you mean, Gunnilde was wrong?” he demanded, returning his attention to the Queen.

Queen Armenal looked taken aback. “Well, about the role of royal musician, my good sir. The appointment should clearly be yours. You were born for it.”

“Royal musician?” James stared at her. Was she in earnest? “I thought Master Palmore occupied that role.”

The Queen waved this aside. “Master Palmore has held that role for fifty years or more and has not composed a note for over half that time, nor come to court. No, it is merely a courtesy role by this point. Wymer’s father appointed him, and my husband, having no interest in the arts, has never replaced him.”

She looked at James quizzically. “Did Gunnilde not tell you? There is a handsome allowance attached to the post and many attendant honors. I take it you would be interested?”

James sat up. After all, it would mean the end to all his monetary woes. “I would,” he responded promptly.

Queen Armenal looked smug. “I shall speak to Wymer on the morrow, but rest assured he will not deny me in this request. I have many matters I would deem worthy subjects for your compositions,” she said archly. “A whole list of them, in fact. Tell me, have you ever perused the tapestries produced by my Court of Love and Beauty? They are displayed in the upper solar.”

James paused. In truth, he had glanced over them when they had first been hung, but they had left little to no impression on him. “I have not,” he lied, thinking it prudent.

She looked somewhat disappointed by this. “Oh, well, I think you will find them an excellent source of inspiration for future works. I would like to discuss the matter in depth with you at some point, but perhaps we should wait until you have been officially appointed to the role, but as I say, the post is as good as yours. Congratulations, Sir James.”

He gave her a perfunctory smile. “You are all that is gracious, Your Majesty.”

A look of unease passed over her features. “And, perhaps that was not the only thing I have been wrong about,” she said enigmatically, looking from James to Gunnilde and back again. “If I was mistaken...”

But James was already up off the bench and bowing. “You must excuse me, Your Highness, but my duties as host necessitate, I must now leave you.”

“Oh, of course, Sir James, your consideration for your guests does you credit.”

But it was not his duties as host that were at the forefront of his mind, but rather his privileges as a husband. Where the hells was his wife? James swept around the room in search of her, but the place was damnably full now with people milling around everywhere, showing no signs of leaving, despite the lavish supper and the entertainment being concluded.

“A nice flush hit, you have to give him that,” he heard Neville opine.

“Oh, Hal’s strong as an ox,” Cuthbert agreed. “None of us can best him with a staff or at wrestling.”

“He’s burly, that’s why,” Kit observed. “Built for strength. Now if Sir Symond had turned tail and run, he never would have caught him. That’s what I would have done in his shoes.”

Neville snorted. “Well, you couldn’t have done them in your own, or you would have tripped over them, my lad!”

James turned sharply in the other direction and practically collided with his cousin, Lady Gilchrist.

“Oh, James!” she said with some relief. “Here you are at last. I most particularly wanted to speak with you. I had a letter this morn—”

“Have you seen my wife?” James interrupted her. He had no intention of discussing his mother’s feverish letter writing. He knew she was seriously displeased and could not care less about the fact.

“I think she was somewhere over yonder,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “But I really think—”

Feigning deafness, James moved on. It suddenly occurred to him that Gunnilde might be speaking to those dull siblings from her home county. Stifling an exclamation of annoyance, he scanned the room for a blond moustache, or a large shapeless headdress.