Page 64 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Aye, I would have thought there would be music at the palace at every meal,” Hal agreed, looking across at James as if he should know. “Music aids with the digestion, does it not? Wycliffe is a musician,” he reminded his friends.

“Why don’t you play us a tune now, Wycliffe?” Kit suggested.

Gunnilde leaned hastily forward. “He is eating and besides, you forget that James is primarily a composer.” The three boys looked back at her as though the distinction made little difference in their book. “In any case, the King and Queen do not dine with us tonight, do not forget. If they were here with us, I am sure there would be music.”

“You only play for kings and queens, Sir James, is that it?” Cuthbert asked with a challenging lift to his eyebrows. Why was he needling James like that? Gunnilde frowned at him.

“I seldom perform these days,” James replied briefly.

Neville coughed. “I doubt music would be heard above the clamor in any case.”

Hal frowned. “Surely, that depends on the kind,” he argued. “If it were the type with a tabor where everyone claps or stamps then it would be sure to be heard.”

“When people are eating, their hands tend to be too occupied to clap in time to music,” James said at the same time as his brother chimed in, “That’s not at all the type of music James writes, you barbarian!”

It was a rambunctious meal, and over the next few courses, the boys would frequently draw Gunnilde’s attention to some knight or other they espied across the hall and regale her with accounts of their performances at recent tournaments.

“Did you hear tell of Sir Renlow at Beres Caple?” Kit wanted to know. “Gutsiest thing I ever saw in my life. His hand clearly broken; he just had Pargeter lash the lance to his arm. Went on to beat my master with the flushest hit you ever saw. Took him clean off his saddle. Twyford could not even begrudge him the win, and you know what a surly bas—what he’s like,” he corrected himself with a quick glance at Gunnilde.

“He is a very able competitor,” Gunnilde agreed absently.

“Who?” asked Kit, looking up. “Twyford or Renlow?”

“Well, both,” she admitted, “though it always takes me a moment to realize who you mean when you say Lord Twyford. I still think of him as Sir Garman Orde.” She cast a sidelong look at James. Was he bored by all this tourney talk? On impulse, she reached over and covered his hand with hers.

He turned his head to look at her, but when he spoke, it was to the table at large. “I know Sir Renlow d’Avenant,” he volunteered surprisingly. “We were squires together.”

“You know Renlow?” they clamored eagerly.

“What was he like back then?” Hal demanded.

James frowned. “No one would have expected him to excel in a tournament setting. He was...quiet,” he admitted. “Modest. Kindly to animals.” He seemed to struggle for more descriptors.

“A little odd?” Cuthbert suggested slyly, though strange to say it did not sound like an insult when he said it.

James nodded. “He struggled with many aspects of the training but he never gave up.”

The boys all brightened. “Sounds like Renlow,” Kit commented.

“If I breathe, then I strive,” Cuthbert quoted.

“Is that Renlow’s family motto?” Hal asked with interest.

Cuthbert nodded. “Or at least it will be. One day.”

19

The boys did not accompany them on leaving the Great Hall. Instead, they bade them a swift good night with a promise of seeing them on the morrow once their training was done.

“Do you suppose they are up to something?” Gunnilde wondered suspiciously as they made their way back. “Only that farewell was rather hurried, and Hal’s manner a little too offhand for my liking.”

“Who knows,” James replied. When she did not look satisfied with this reply, he added, “They are likely up to some mischief but there is precious little we can do to contain them.”

Gunnilde sighed. “You are in the right of it, I know, but as an older sister I cannot help but be apprehensive.”

“Instead of worrying about their mischief making, why do we not set about our own?” he suggested, making her catch her breath.

“Mischief making?” She echoed, her eyes widening with delight. “Pray, what did you have in mind, husband?”