Page 67 of A Most Forgettable Girl

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Gunnilde sat in the corner James had ensconced her in and gazed about her with interest. The tavern was indeed large, and the central chamber was a cavernous one of good size and proportion. The dark wood interior made it seem cozier, strewn about as it was with rough-hewn tables and chairs.

It was not well lit, though the side wall was illuminated by a huge roaring fireplace, against which three brightly dressed, though somewhat raggedy minstrels strummed their instruments and plied their trade.

The current tune was a rollicking one, the song telling of three travelers with vastly differing philosophies in life, banded together on some journey or other. They were a spoiled lordling, a crabby old scholar, and a humble miller’s son.

By the time James returned with a flagon of ale and two tankards, the travelers had reached a riverbank and were being quizzed by a hermit as ascertain their purity of heart. James plunked himself down opposite Gunnilde.

She leaned forward to accept her brimming cup with thanks. “Come and sit over here beside me,” she urged, patting the chair next to her own. “You will have no view of the performers from that vantage point.”

James frowned but rose to his feet and rounded the small table to sit down next to her. Feeling his eyes on her, she turned her head and gave him a quick, enthusiastic overview of the story. “You will like this one,” she said excitedly. “For there is not a fair heroine nor a faithless lover in sight.”

He leaned in. “Are you warm enough?” he asked, possibly noting that she had not yet removed her gloves or cloak. “Should we move closer to the fire?”

“Oh no, this will do me very well,” she assured him, stripping off her mittens and catching hold of his free hand. She lifted it over her head so that his arm was about her. “See? Perfectly warm now,” she said, shuffling her chair closer to his and resting her hand on his knee.

She did not look at his face, for she knew it always took James a moment to adjust to anything new. She heard him clear his throat and then felt him relax at her side. A burst of laughter rang out, and Gunnilde dragged her attention back to the ballad.

The miller’s son had said something foolish again, but she had no doubt that he would end up the victor of the tale, for she knew the convention well. As such, Gunnilde settled in to enjoy the saga to the utmost.

The refrain was a rousing one, and by the close of the ballad, a good deal of the patrons were singing along. “Oh, we’ll travel o’er hill and dale, and will not pause to rest, no! We will not pause to rest!”

Gunnilde was merrily humming along with the rest when the minstrels came to the close of their song and the pipe player snatched off his long-tailed cap to whip around the crowd in a quest for donations. James tipped the musician, who bowed and hurried away to rattle his hat at the far side of the room.

“What did you think?” Gunnilde asked, turning to James.

“Very entertaining,” he said promptly. “Though I felt the scholar’s fate was rather cruel.”

“True,” Gunnilde agreed. “But mayhap after he tumbled down that ditch and broke his pate, he reflected on how he could be a little kinder to hapless beggars who beseech him for a crust of bread.”

He gave a grudging smile. “Maybe.”

“You feel no sympathy for the lord’s son?” she asked. “Who wound up penniless, bare-arsed, and covered in mud?”

“He deserved it and should not have bandied with that weaver’s wife.”

“True,” Gunnilde reflected. “Though I fear she gulled him and was in on the scheme to rob him.”

“I’m sure his rich father came to his rescue eventually,” James said, shifting his hand over her back. For a moment she thought he was going to remove it, but instead he just seemed to be giving her lower back a quick rub.

“In any event, you must own there was a rough sort of justice meted out to all the characters. Was not that one of your complaints about ballads?”

“It was,” he agreed, then appeared to consider. “Yes, you are right. The miller’s son was the least offending of the three, I suppose, though he, too, was something of a knave when it suited him.”

Gunnilde nodded and took a swig of ale. “Could you play all of their instruments?” she asked, glancing over at the musicians.

James nodded. “Once I had accustomed myself to them.”

“I’m not musical at all.” Gunnilde grimaced. “I cannot even hold a tune.” He did not seem particularly bothered by this confession. “I’m a very creditable dancer though.”

“Are your feet cold?” he asked in an abrupt change of subject.

“Just my toes,” she admitted for she could not really feel them anymore.

“What color stockings are you wearing?”

“Um. Bright blue,” she answered after a moment’s contemplation. Why did he ask?