Page 43 of A Most Forgettable Girl

James rather dreaded to think how his brother-in-law might have described him. He glanced over his shoulder and found him deep in conversation with the Kellingford lad.

“Don’t worry, he never said you were handsome,” Cuthbert reassured him.

They had just reached the steps and James paused. “Mayhap he did not think it worth mentioning,” he replied tersely.

“Well, I know you do not,” the strange boy replied, “but most people would think it worthy of note.”

James frowned at him and then started down the steps. “You have been training this morning?” he asked, attempting to show polite interest.

“Yes,” Cuthbert agreed but did not seem anxious to elaborate in any way. “Sir Ned was asking after Gunnilde most particularly. He was taken aback to hear she was wed.”

And what is it to him? thought James irritably. “Who is Sir Ned?” he asked aloud, then felt some vague stirrings in his memory. “Was he the one who brought you all to court?”

“Yes.”

“And which one of you is his squire?”

“None of us are, strictly speaking,” Cuthbert replied. “Though Hal is acting the part at present. Sir Ned’s real squire is Ancel Somers.”

“And who is Ancel Somers?”

“Well, now, that is the question,” Cuthbert muttered, and seemed to be thinking about something else entirely. Suddenly he seemed very far away, though walking at James’s side.

“Was he the one who broke his neck?” James asked, harking back once more to the conversation of the night before.

“It wasn’t his neck; it was his arm. And no, that was not Ancel but Sir James Attley, Hal’s true mentor. He and Sir Ned swapped squires.”

“Oh yes, I remember now,” James recalled. But why was the boy laboring the point? He seemed to attach some strange significance to the fact.

“Sir Ned was staying with us at Vawdrey Keep in September before Gunnilde left for court,” Cuthbert said in an expressionless voice.

Slow cogs turned in James’s brain. “Was not Gunnilde at Vawdrey Keep last summer?” he asked aloud.

“She was there from July to September,” Cuthbert confirmed, his eyes meeting James’s.

So then... James halted on the bottom step. Presumably at least some of their stays would have overlapped. A sudden suspicion sprang into his mind. Was it possible that Sir Ned was the one who had insulted his wife so grievously? The effort of remembrance was a strain. James had been distracted the previous evening and following the conversation had been difficult at times with so many present.

Thinking of it now, he could not help but wonder if it was before or after the mention of Bevan’s name that Gunnilde had turned quiet and pale? He strongly suspected it was the latter. Nice, and eminently forgettable. Anyone who would describe her thus must be an arrant fool. “Who is he, this Sir Ned?” he asked bluntly.

“Sir Edward Bevan of Knollesley,” Cuthbert reeled off obligingly. “He is a knight who tours the tourneys and sees more success in the melees than the jousting. He is tactical and strong and one of the closest friends of my master, Roland Vawdrey.” Softly he added, “He is also riding for a fall.”

“So, then he is another like Hal’s former master. I suppose it is a consequence of competing.” James eyed Cuthbert sidelong. “Do you claim to see into the future, Ames?” he asked abruptly.

“Oh, I get the odd glimpse or two, nothing more.” The lad shrugged. “They just come to me. Like dreams.”

“Like seeing white cliffs in connection with Gunnilde?”

“Something like that,” Cuthbert agreed, “yes.”

James was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, “And just what is Sir Ned about to break in this upcoming fall of his?”

Cuthbert smiled a rather pitiless smile. “His heart,” he answered in the voice of a seer, and James shivered.

They spoke no more until they reached the hall, which was busier than usual at this time of day. James found himself scanning the crowded tables for his wife without success. “She’s not here,” he threw over his shoulder at Hal. “Let me just go and ask where she might be.” He strode up to a table where several of the Queen’s ladies were sat whispering to one another.

“Good morning, ladies,” he addressed them with a small bow. “I am looking for my wife, she attended the Queen’s chambers this morning, but it seems she has not accompanied you to the Great Hall.”

There was a chorus of Oh Sir James and Good morrows and many smiles and the like. Belatedly, James recalled Gunnilde confessing the other ladies-in-waiting did not seem to like her very much. An uncomfortable notion crossed his mind that they might have excluded her and left her behind.