Page 62 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Even the garderobe?” Neville asked snidely and gave a guffaw.

James leaned forward. “Need I remind you your sister-in-law is present,” he chided his brother. Neville looked immediately contrite and apologized though Gunnilde had not taken the slightest offense.

“I like your hair, Gunnilde. Do they wear it that way at court now?” Cuthbert asked.

“I do,” she responded airily. “Apparently they wear it this way in Kloberg presently.” Or was it Vlandivar? She had forgotten.

Cuthbert nodded. “I have heard they are leaders of fashion there,” he responded.

“Better at dressing than fighting,” Hal agreed. “Is that not so?”

Neville agreed, pointing out the ambassador from Kloberg, who was sat nearby in a soft wide-brimmed hat. Gunnilde eyed his headwear with interest and then turned to James, trying to imagine him in such a hat.

“I think it looks very distinguished,” she murmured. James glanced from her face to the hat and back again without comment.

“It would look well in a better color,” Hal conceded, screwing up his eyes. “Mayhap a scarlet or a royal blue.”

“I believe it is called a chaperon,” Neville put in, keen to show his knowledge. “But only coxcombs such as Lord Bardulf wear them at present.”

“That just means everyone else will be wearing them in three months’ time,” Cuthbert said. “Is that not so, Gunnilde?”

“Why do you ask Gunnilde?” Kit asked, setting down his goblet.

“Clearly, my Lady Wycliffe is a leader of fashion herself, not a follower,” Cuthbert answered, and Gunnilde felt a glow of pride.

“Eh? Why do you say that? Oh, you mean those puffs of hair at her brow.” Hal’s puzzled expression cleared. “I did wonder about those myself.” He looked toward Gunnilde quizzically.

Gunnilde found herself in no hurry to explain she had created her hairstyle from the merest hearsay. Instead, she addressed Cuthbert’s comment. “Lord Bardulf is such a leader of fashion that by the time everyone has caught him up in some garment, he has wearied of it already and discarded it.” Neville laughed at her words while the others listened with interest.

“I am sure he would be flattered to hear you say so, my lady,” Cuthbert remarked.

Gunnilde wondered, remembering Lord Bardulf’s barbed words from the other day. She still felt a little hurt by the exchange though James had told her not to take it personally. Feeling her husband’s eyes upon her face, Gunnilde turned to look at him, and this time he did not look away.

“You do not like the soup?” he asked.

Gunnilde glanced down. “No, I do,” she assured him, dipping her spoon back into the bowl. “I was just distracted by the talk of fashion.”

“You do not wear your sleeve streamers today,” he commented, keeping his voice low. Despite this, Gunnilde noticed everyone at the table was following their conversation avidly.

“Sleeve streamers? Oh, you mean my tippets.”

“Yes.”

“I intend to wear them on the morrow.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Good? Gunnilde lowered her spoon. “You—you like them?” she asked, her heart giving the strangest little skip.

“Yes.”

Yes? She hid her answering smile in her soup spoon. James was not looking at her now but concentrating on his food. Was he blushing? No one was talking now, and the only sound at the table was the steady slurping of soup.

Gunnilde cleared her throat. There must be some polite conversation to instill manners in the boys. “Does it seem a very long time ago that you were a squire?” she asked her husband.

“Yes, thank the gods,” he replied.

“It cannot be so long ago as all that,” Hal said critically. “How old are you?”