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Flinging her arms about James’s neck, she crushed herself against him, determined to block out the jester and his unwanted japes.

After a moment, she felt James’s hands come up to rest at her waist. Cheering and whooping rang in her ears.

Someone, who sounded remarkably like King Wymer, said loudly, “Lucky beggar!” and finally , the blur of blue and yellow moved away.

Gunnilde loosened her grip. She drew her face back from his.

“He’s gone!” she whispered, shooting him a conspiratorial smile.

James was breathing hard, the expression on his face hard to read.

The poor thing clearly went in mortal dread of jesters.

She wondered if his aversion extended to tumblers and jugglers as well.

Seeing he was still struggling with words, she rubbed his shoulder blades. “All is well,” she reassured him, turning her face to track the jester’s movements. “He’s making his way back to the King and Queen,” she murmured, starting to lift off his lap. “Shall I—?”

“No!” he said, yanking her back into lap, “Stay where you are for now.” At her surprised look, he reddened. “He might come back this way,” he muttered, dropping his gaze.

“Oh.” Gunnilde nodded. “Very well.” His fingers, which had been digging into her waist, relaxed their hold a little. She cleared her throat. “I’m a little thirsty,” she said. “Might I just—”

“Here,” he said before she could let her arms drop, grabbing his wine goblet and lifting it to her lips.

Feeling rather self-conscious, Gunnilde accepted a gulp of wine. Again, their fellow feasters cheered.

“A loving cup!” called one.

“That means you need to drink from it now,” she prompted him.

“I have been drinking from your cup all night,” he pointed out, his tone rather dry, but he took a swig nonetheless.

Gunnilde felt suddenly embarrassed, though she could not have said precisely why.

She let her gaze wander over James’s shoulder and saw his brother watching them open-mouthed.

She had never had occasion to speak to Sir Neville before but realized that presently was not the best time.

Things had turned surprisingly lively in the Great Hall.

Even the music seemed to have taken a jaunty turn.

Abruptly someone clapped their hands, and the noise died away.

“The ladies-in-waiting will now withdraw to the bridal chamber!” the Queen announced.

It occurred to Gunnilde to wonder where that might be, as before now she had shared Harriet Portstanley’s bedchamber.

Surely poor Harriet would not be put from her own room?

She did not have long to ponder this, as her hands were caught hold of, and she was hauled out of James’s lap by a pair of giggling ladies whose names she was unsure of.

Gunnilde barely managed a backward glance before she was whisked away from the hall and dragged down several corridors and up a flight of stairs toward the courtiers’ rooms.

It was not to Lady Portstanley’s door that she was led however, but a different one.

Were these the Wycliffes’ designated rooms?

she wondered as she was led straight into a bedchamber hung about with gloomy tapestries and illuminated only a small fire in the hearth and a pair of candles on the mantel.

Once inside the room, the Queen’s ladies spoke only in whispers as they helped divest her of her gown.

Gunnilde noticed a few of them were rather standoffish and did not participate much.

Lucy Melvin was one such. Instead of helping, she strode about James’s bedchamber with her arms crossed and her nose in the air.

“I feel quite sorry for Constance,” she muttered. “To be so soon forgotten.”

“Oh, hush, Lucy!” another cautioned her as she set the Queen’s brooch down carefully on a nearby table.

“Do you forget—” She broke off her words and bit her lip.

Forget what? Gunnilde wondered but was distracted from this when she noticed how Estrilda Rheinholdt held up her best gown, her eyebrows exaggeratedly raised.

“Do the Portstanleys have mice in their quarters?” she asked archly.

Another poked a finger through one of the pinking holes and they both collapsed into helpless laughter.

“Ignore them,” a dark-haired lady recommended as she removed the many hairpins from her head. Gunnilde thought her name was Margaret something, possibly Mistress Margaret Pryor. “Goodness, you do use a lot of pins!” A rapidly growing pile of them was stacking up on the bedside table.

“I told you it was her real hair,” Osanna Spencer said with satisfaction when another lady looked disappointed as Gunnilde’s long braids were unwound and hung down her sides.

Lucy Melvin sniffed. “I’ll not believe it until I see the braids taken out.” As plucking fingers were already seeing to this, Gunnilde held her tongue.

“You see!” Osanna said triumphantly when her hair hung loose about her like a pale gold cloak.

“It is so plentiful!” Lady Wymarka Kloch marveled drawing a comb through Gunnilde’s tresses. “Tell me, what do you treat it with? Crushed chickweed? Or goat’s dung?”

“Neither,” Gunnilde spluttered . Goat’s dung? There was more giggling.

“I tell you, it is obvious when a woman’s hair is bulked out with flax,” Osanna said knowledgeably. “My mother has a neighbor who does it and I can see the signs from a two furlongs away!”

Lucy opened her mouth on a retort when they heard three knocks on the outer door. “The bridegroom is here!” announced a well-rehearsed voice. Instead of being brought to the marriage bed by a group of friends and family, James had been escorted by royal attendants.

The ladies-in-waiting all gasped and rushed toward the bed, pulling the covers down.

“Jump in!” they entreated her, and Gunnilde made haste to follow their advice for it was a cold day in November and her thin shift did not offer much by way of warmth.

They flung the blankets up around her, tucking her in.

“The bride is ready!” Frances Lessimore sang out as they all drifted out of the room.

“It seems a shame for Sir James to be wasted on the likes of her,” Gunnilde heard one of them lament in retreat. “I always thought he was destined for great things.”

“Such a pity!” another agreed sadly.

That feeling from earlier returned briefly, the one that made the backs of her eyes prickle. Then the door closed behind them, and she took a deep breath.

She had got what she wanted. Nothing more, nothing less.