Page 23 of A Most Forgettable Girl

James screwed up his face with the effort of remembrance. “She was pale, tall for a woman, and had a melancholy disposition.”

“And her apparel?”

“I do not recall what she was wearing.”

Gunnilde sighed. “Did your brother happen meet her at the same time?” she asked hopefully.

James found himself bristling at the implication Neville might have formed a more detailed impression than himself. “Neither of us ‘met’ her. We were merely present in the Great Hall on some saint’s day or other,” he answered irritably.

“I will have to ask him,” she murmured.

The King’s rooms were heaving, and anyone with a claim to a title seemed to have shown up that day to gawk at Prince Raedan’s portrait. Seeing the press of people, even in the outer chambers, James did not feel optimistic at how long this would take.

Turning to his wife, with vague ideas of rearranging their plans, he found her eyes bright with anticipation as she surveyed the crowds. “Everyone is here!” she said, bouncing up on her toes to view the masses.

“Look!” She gave his sleeve a sharp tug. “There is the princess, with the King! I mean”—she looked around to check no one had noticed her slip—“there is Lady de Bussell,” she corrected herself. “Her husband must be here too; he would not let her travel to the winter capital without him.” She turned this way and that in search of Sir Armand.

James cleared his throat. “You are acquainted with the de Bussells?” he asked.

“Oh yes! For they attended Father’s tournament this year, even though it is one of the smaller and most rural events on the tourney calendar. It was most gratifying, and do you know, she sat at the long table with us as kind and gracious as any lady you ever met!

“Never made any fuss or pother unlike some I could mention, and she was nothing like what everyone used to say of her before she married. Why, they used to say all manner of things about her! And all quite false and unfounded!”

Fortunately, the buzz of conversation around them was so loud that James doubted anyone could hear Gunnilde’s indignant tone. “But there! You must already know this for you will have met her when she resided at court,” she concluded.

“Yes.”

She waited expectantly. “And was she not beauteous?”

“Er,” James considered. “She was tall and seemed unhappy,” he concluded.

Gunnilde eyed him with deep dissatisfaction. “Your description for every woman seems to be that they are tall and sad,” she decided.

James found he was forced to defend himself. “She wore very ugly gowns when she lived here at court. She looks quite different now. Besides, I would not describe you as tall and sad.”

“No? And just how would you describe her?” drawled a nearby voice, and James turned to find Viscount Bardulf regarding him with lazy amusement. As was his custom, Bardulf was dressed so eye-catchingly that James could only blame the heavy crowd for missing his approach. This afternoon he wore a tunic of azure blue decorated ostentatiously with gold thread and a gold chain about shoulders decorated in blue stones. Fortunately, today he was accompanied, for his wife was on his arm. James found Bardulf tended to temper his barbed comments somewhat when his proper viscountess was present.

“Alisander,” the lady murmured now in faint reproach. “You are intruding on a private conversation.”

“Nonsense, Jane, the Wycliffes are but recently wedded and must understand they are a spectacle for the rest of us to enjoy.”

James stiffened but Lady Bardulf was already turning to Gunnilde with an apologetic smile.

“How do you do, Lady Wycliffe. I hope you do not feel too conspicuous in your new status, I remember only too well how wearing such events can be in those early days of marriage.”

“Oh, not at all, Lady Bardulf!” Gunnilde assured her, giving her a curtsey. “I am delighted to join the Queen’s ladies and most keen to embrace the opportunities it affords me.”

Bardulf’s eyebrows rose, and James braced himself for the worst. “But what a commendable attitude,” Bardulf said, tipping his head to one side. “You must remind me, Wycliffe, from what stock such a sensible wife sprang.”

“I am the daughter of Sir Aubron Payne of Tranton Vale,” Gunnilde supplied helpfully, not waiting for James’s reply.

“The Paynes of Tranton Vale,” the viscount echoed, tapping his chin. “Hmmm...sounds somewhat familiar.”

“My father holds a tournament there, every May,” Gunnilde said proudly. “You have perhaps heard of it, my lord?”

“No, but then, I am no lover of the tournaments. They are so brutal,” he complained, “and lacking in finesse. My poor Jane does not enjoy the rowdiness of the crowds, and as for myself I do not like the hard benches in the stands. You sit there shivering in the winter months and, er, perspiring in the summer ones.”

“Oh.” Gunnilde’s disappointment was clear for all present to hear. “I cannot imagine why your lordship should have heard tell of Tranton Vale in that case,” she admitted frankly. “For it has no other claim to fame.”