Page 35 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“So, then, you’ve been a knight all of a twelvemonth,” Cuthbert commented dampeningly.

“Who knighted you?” Hal demanded.

“Sir Raymond Buxton.”

“Never heard of him,” Kit said, sounding unimpressed.

“Why should you? He is a courtly man of education and refinement,” Neville responded smartly. “Not some ruffian brawler like your own masters, I surmise!”

Gunnilde’s face fell, for Kit’s master was none other than the fearsome Garman Orde, while Cuthbert served the King’s champion. It was unlikely they would allow such an insult to go unchecked.

“Hah! So, you admit your master is no swordsman?” Kit retorted, flinging a chicken bone over his shoulder. To Gunnilde’s surprise, he seemed entirely unruffled by the slight to Lord Twyford’s honor. As for Cuthbert, he had an arm draped over the back of the bench and appeared to be making himself entirely comfortable. “I’ll warrant your Sir Desmond—”

“Raymond!” Neville snapped.

“—has never had so much as a sniff of combat,” Kit continued disparagingly. “I daresay,” he added darkly, “that the fellow perfumes his hair.”

“And what if he does?” Neville fired back. “Perfume is in much demand here at court among the eminently civilized. We do not care to smell of the stables when we consort with our womenfolk.”

Hal snorted but strange to say, the atmosphere in the room seemed to have lightened considerably with the exchange of barbs. Neville, who had been complaining of a sore throat moments ago, looked positively bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He sat himself down, and looked toward Gunnilde expectantly. “But where is James? Surely not still abed?”

The door pushed open before she could answer and her husband reappeared, carrying two brimming jugs of ale. Neville’s mouth dropped open to see his brother so peculiarly garbed, but James barely seemed to notice. “Fetch the cups off the shelf, Neville,” he directed him. “Enough for everyone.”

Neville jumped up and the ale was poured. Gunnilde turned back to Hal, who had fallen silent. “Now, Hal,” she began again. “Firstly, you must understand my marriage was at the behest of the Queen herself!”

“Seems a damned odd thing for her to have done, if you ask me,” Hal muttered, casting a darkling look in James’s direction.

“Well”—Gunnilde spread her hands wide—“truth to tell, neither Sir James nor myself had a lot of say in the matter. We were married by the Bishop of Badsbury in the royal chapel and the Queen’s favorite lady-in-waiting provided the ring.”

She held it up for Hal to examine, but he ignored such a trifle, instead focusing on James, who was now handing around the ale. “He looks a frippery fellow, not at all what I would have chosen for you, sister,” he said, shaking his head. “And what’s more, I cannot believe he is what you would have chosen for yourself.”

Mercifully, Bennett appeared at this point bearing a large tray of cheese and savory crackers.

Kit and Cuthbert fell on this gladly and even Neville helped himself to a cracker. Casting a sidelong look at her brother, Gunnilde could tell it cost him dearly to turn his nose up, but he stuck to his principles, the light of hostility still coldly shining in his eyes.

“Is that Dustin I spy?” Gunnilde asked, hoping to direct the conversation into happier channels. Hal glanced down at the small white fluffy head peering out of his tunic.

“Aye, course it is,” Hal responded. “Who else would it be?”

Gunnilde reached out a hand to pet the little dog’s head. Dustin trembled with excitement and gave his shrill little bark.

“Aye, good lad,” Hal said, and narrowed his gaze at James. “You like dogs, Wycliffe?” he asked with deceptive mildness.

“I do,” James responded promptly and Gunnilde breathed out for though he was unaware of it, a lot had rested on his answer. Hal could never abide anyone who did not like dogs.

Her brother relaxed infinitesimally. “Own one?”

“I do not.”

This was clearly a point against him. “Why not?” Hal asked suspiciously.

When James hesitated, Gunnilde cut in. “My husband does not live an outdoor life,” she explained helpfully. “He is a musician.”

“Oh, yes?” Hal’s reply was unenthusiastic.

“Some of his compositions have been performed at the cathedral at Caer Lyoness,” Gunnilde boasted.

Hal grunted. “Well, I play the lute,” he pointed out, “but that doesn’t prevent me from owning a dog, now, does it?” He turned back to James. “What else do you do?”