Page 14 of A Most Forgettable Girl

She really knew very little about the man, other than him being a cold fish and the fact he was considered an accomplished musician. What an awkward thing it must be, to write and perform music but hate to have an audience! Maybe that was why he was always so moody. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you,” she vowed aloud and shifted a little closer to him on the bench.

He sent her a startled look. “You will?”

She nodded. It was the least she could do, especially as it was partly her fault Master Robkin had been summoned. “Why do you look so surprised? Am I not your helpmeet in life now?” This question appeared to take him back even more, and seemingly he had no answer to it, for he opened and closed his mouth without saying a word.

“Is it the riddles you do not like?” she pressed on. “Or—?”

“I do not like any of it,” he said shortly. “I would much rather be left in peace.”

That seemed rather a lot to hope for, considering the circumstances. Gunnilde chewed her lip. “Mayhap we will be lucky, and he will content himself amusing the King?”

He sent her a skeptical look. “You think so?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “But never fear. I will support you.” She reached across and patted his hand reassuringly, then turned her head excitedly as jolly piping music heralded the arrival of the jester.

The next half hour, Gunnilde spent laughing so hard at Master Robkin’s antics that tears rolled down her face. She did not forget her husband’s plight however, and whenever the jester’s attention turned their way, she would purposely command James’s attention, so he did not sit there like a startled deer in the hunter’s sights.

He had been quite right, she realized. The jester’s attention seemed instinctively drawn to those in the crowd that did not overly relish the entertainment he offered. She needed to do whatever she could to shield her new spouse from Master Robkin’s ridicule. He had been through enough this day already.

After the first few times she cupped her fingers about his ear to whisper “Pretend I am explaining the joke to you,” or clapped her fingers to his cheek to turn his face toward the goblet she was holding up to him, he seemed to accept her ministrations without resisting.

Indeed, when the jester started prancing down the hall purposely toward them, he panicked and grabbed at her sleeve, turning instinctively toward her. Immediately, Gunnilde whisked up off the bench and dropped down into his lap.

Only she could see the expression on James’s terse face. “Don’t be afraid,” she said earnestly, placing a hand on either side of his face. “Trust me.” Taking a deep breath, she squashed her face up against his, squeezing her eyes shut.

James tensed for a long instant, then she felt him relax against her, his breath warm against her lips. Had he spoken? She opened one eye and saw the jester’s striped tunic of yellow and blue hovering close by. Oh no!

Flinging her arms about James’s neck, she crushed herself against him, determined to block out the jester and his unwanted japes. After a moment, she felt James’s hands come up to rest at her waist. Cheering and whooping rang in her ears. Someone, who sounded remarkably like King Wymer, said loudly, “Lucky beggar!” and finally, the blur of blue and yellow moved away.

Gunnilde loosened her grip. She drew her face back from his. “He’s gone!” she whispered, shooting him a conspiratorial smile. James was breathing hard, the expression on his face hard to read. The poor thing clearly went in mortal dread of jesters. She wondered if his aversion extended to tumblers and jugglers as well.

Seeing he was still struggling with words, she rubbed his shoulder blades. “All is well,” she reassured him, turning her face to track the jester’s movements. “He’s making his way back to the King and Queen,” she murmured, starting to lift off his lap. “Shall I—?”

“No!” he said, yanking her back into lap, “Stay where you are for now.” At her surprised look, he reddened. “He might come back this way,” he muttered, dropping his gaze.

“Oh.” Gunnilde nodded. “Very well.” His fingers, which had been digging into her waist, relaxed their hold a little. She cleared her throat. “I’m a little thirsty,” she said. “Might I just—”

“Here,” he said before she could let her arms drop, grabbing his wine goblet and lifting it to her lips.

Feeling rather self-conscious, Gunnilde accepted a gulp of wine. Again, their fellow feasters cheered.

“A loving cup!” called one.

“That means you need to drink from it now,” she prompted him.

“I have been drinking from your cup all night,” he pointed out, his tone rather dry, but he took a swig nonetheless.

Gunnilde felt suddenly embarrassed, though she could not have said precisely why. She let her gaze wander over James’s shoulder and saw his brother watching them open-mouthed. She had never had occasion to speak to Sir Neville before but realized that presently was not the best time. Things had turned surprisingly lively in the Great Hall. Even the music seemed to have taken a jaunty turn.

Abruptly someone clapped their hands, and the noise died away. “The ladies-in-waiting will now withdraw to the bridal chamber!” the Queen announced. It occurred to Gunnilde to wonder where that might be, as before now she had shared Harriet Portstanley’s bedchamber. Surely poor Harriet would not be put from her own room?

She did not have long to ponder this, as her hands were caught hold of, and she was hauled out of James’s lap by a pair of giggling ladies whose names she was unsure of. Gunnilde barely managed a backward glance before she was whisked away from the hall and dragged down several corridors and up a flight of stairs toward the courtiers’ rooms.

It was not to Lady Portstanley’s door that she was led however, but a different one. Were these the Wycliffes’ designated rooms? she wondered as she was led straight into a bedchamber hung about with gloomy tapestries and illuminated only a small fire in the hearth and a pair of candles on the mantel.

Once inside the room, the Queen’s ladies spoke only in whispers as they helped divest her of her gown. Gunnilde noticed a few of them were rather standoffish and did not participate much. Lucy Melvin was one such. Instead of helping, she strode about James’s bedchamber with her arms crossed and her nose in the air.

“I feel quite sorry for Constance,” she muttered. “To be so soon forgotten.”