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T he Portstanleys, keen to squash any hint of scandal, graciously accepted the invitation to meet outside the Queen’s rooms that afternoon.

After an hour holed up in their bedchamber, Gunnilde emerged in a blue velvet gown with gold brocade sleeves, apparently ready to impress her fellow ladies-in-waiting.

Despite the mismatched sleeves, James would not have thought the dress so very jarring if it were not for the fact she had swept up a good deal of the front and pinned it with a brooch to reveal the underskirt, which was of an altogether different color, a deep pink rose.

The Queen had been right; Gunnilde, it appeared, was determined she would not fade into the background. As for her hair, it seemed he had depended rather too much on the fact that once married she would be obliged to obscure her crowning glory.

Somehow, she had skirted this convention, for though a veil was duly draped over the top of her head, she had arranged two smaller puffs of hair at her temples, which evaded the covering altogether and stood out proudly for all to see.

Employing great tact, James declined to comment on her appearance, merely offering her his arm. To his surprise, Gunnilde swept a critical look over his own ensemble. “You do not intend to change?” she asked.

“I do not.” There was absolutely nothing wrong with his own restrained elegance, he thought indignantly.

“Oh.” She accepted his arm without further comment, and they made their way to the appointed meeting place and greeted the Portstanleys cordially. However, soon after, they found the Queen’s rooms to be practically deserted.

“But where is everyone?” Lady Portstanley asked, looking about in surprise. “Last time I was here, I was jostled from pillar to post.” Her mousy daughter murmured some soothing reply and both looked toward James expectantly.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he admitted. The only court events he paid attention to were educational. “Perhaps the Queen is having one of her outdoor events?” he guessed, remembering some of her summer spectacles.

“In November?” Lady Portstanley asked incredulously.

“What was that portrait viewing Neville mentioned this morning?” Gunnilde queried. “Did he not say it was in the King’s rooms? I wonder if it could be that.”

James shrugged. It seemed unlikely to him. “I don’t think he said whose portrait it was,” he added when she seemed to expect actual words by way of response.

“Perhaps it is someone exciting!” Gunnilde said, her eyes lighting up. “Let me just ask.” She flitted off and James was left with the Portstanley women.

“Someone exciting?” Lady Portstanley ruminated. “I wonder, could it be some explorer or enlightened thinker, do you suppose?”

In King Wymer’s state rooms? James rather thought not. “I suppose it could be,” he answered diplomatically.

He turned to the daughter politely, expecting to hear her thoughts on the matter, but she stood twisting her hands together, silent as a stock.

Mercifully at this point, Gunnilde reappeared, having apparently received her answer for her eyes were agleam.

She caught hold of both his own and Harriet’s sleeves, drawing them closer to her.

“You will never guess!” she whispered with barely concealed excitement.

“A new portrait of the prince, no less! Commissioned for his thirteenth birthday. Shall we go and see it?”

James suppressed a groan. He failed entirely to see what was exciting about a portrait of a royal child, even if he was heir to the throne.

“The young prince!” Lady Portstanley uttered, sounding impressed.

“Prince Raedan,” Harriet breathed.

Despite their forward thinking, both ladies seemed keen to view the portrait. Given little choice, James inclined his head to show his willingness, and they turned about and made for the King’s rooms.

“I wonder if he is fair-haired like King Wymer?” Harriet said to her mother as James and Gunnilde dropped behind them.

“Sure to be, child,” her mother answered confidently. “His own mother’s hair was fairer even than the King’s.”

Harriet sigh floated back over her shoulder reaching their ears. “Poor Queen Eleanor,” she said sadly.

“Do you remember the King’s first wife?” Gunnilde asked James.

“Barely. I saw her once at Caer Lyoness and was all but a child at the time.”

“Was she beautiful?”

“Not that I remember.”

“What was she like?”

James screwed up his face with the effort of remembrance. “She was pale, tall for a woman, and had a melancholy disposition.”

“And her apparel?”

“I do not recall what she was wearing.”

Gunnilde sighed. “Did your brother happen meet her at the same time?” she asked hopefully.

James found himself bristling at the implication Neville might have formed a more detailed impression than himself. “Neither of us ‘met’ her. We were merely present in the Great Hall on some saint’s day or other,” he answered irritably.

“I will have to ask him,” she murmured.

The King’s rooms were heaving, and anyone with a claim to a title seemed to have shown up that day to gawk at Prince Raedan’s portrait. Seeing the press of people, even in the outer chambers, James did not feel optimistic at how long this would take.

Turning to his wife, with vague ideas of rearranging their plans, he found her eyes bright with anticipation as she surveyed the crowds. “Everyone is here!” she said, bouncing up on her toes to view the masses.

“Look!” She gave his sleeve a sharp tug.

“There is the princess, with the King! I mean”—she looked around to check no one had noticed her slip—“there is Lady de Bussell ,” she corrected herself.

“Her husband must be here too; he would not let her travel to the winter capital without him.” She turned this way and that in search of Sir Armand.

James cleared his throat. “You are acquainted with the de Bussells?” he asked.

“Oh yes! For they attended Father’s tournament this year, even though it is one of the smaller and most rural events on the tourney calendar. It was most gratifying, and do you know, she sat at the long table with us as kind and gracious as any lady you ever met!

“Never made any fuss or pother unlike some I could mention, and she was nothing like what everyone used to say of her before she married. Why, they used to say all manner of things about her! And all quite false and unfounded!”

Fortunately, the buzz of conversation around them was so loud that James doubted anyone could hear Gunnilde’s indignant tone. “But there! You must already know this for you will have met her when she resided at court,” she concluded.

“Yes.”

She waited expectantly. “And was she not beauteous?”

“Er,” James considered. “She was tall and seemed unhappy,” he concluded.

Gunnilde eyed him with deep dissatisfaction. “Your description for every woman seems to be that they are tall and sad,” she decided.

James found he was forced to defend himself. “She wore very ugly gowns when she lived here at court. She looks quite different now. Besides, I would not describe you as tall and sad.”

“No? And just how would you describe her?” drawled a nearby voice, and James turned to find Viscount Bardulf regarding him with lazy amusement.

As was his custom, Bardulf was dressed so eye-catchingly that James could only blame the heavy crowd for missing his approach.

This afternoon he wore a tunic of azure blue decorated ostentatiously with gold thread and a gold chain about shoulders decorated in blue stones.

Fortunately, today he was accompanied, for his wife was on his arm.

James found Bardulf tended to temper his barbed comments somewhat when his proper viscountess was present.

“Alisander,” the lady murmured now in faint reproach. “You are intruding on a private conversation.”

“Nonsense, Jane, the Wycliffes are but recently wedded and must understand they are a spectacle for the rest of us to enjoy.”

James stiffened but Lady Bardulf was already turning to Gunnilde with an apologetic smile.

“How do you do, Lady Wycliffe. I hope you do not feel too conspicuous in your new status, I remember only too well how wearing such events can be in those early days of marriage.”

“Oh, not at all, Lady Bardulf!” Gunnilde assured her, giving her a curtsey. “I am delighted to join the Queen’s ladies and most keen to embrace the opportunities it affords me.”

Bardulf’s eyebrows rose, and James braced himself for the worst. “But what a commendable attitude,” Bardulf said, tipping his head to one side. “You must remind me, Wycliffe, from what stock such a sensible wife sprang.”

“I am the daughter of Sir Aubron Payne of Tranton Vale,” Gunnilde supplied helpfully, not waiting for James’s reply.

“The Paynes of Tranton Vale,” the viscount echoed, tapping his chin. “Hmmm...sounds somewhat familiar.”

“My father holds a tournament there, every May,” Gunnilde said proudly. “You have perhaps heard of it, my lord?”

“No, but then, I am no lover of the tournaments. They are so brutal,” he complained, “and lacking in finesse. My poor Jane does not enjoy the rowdiness of the crowds, and as for myself I do not like the hard benches in the stands. You sit there shivering in the winter months and, er, perspiring in the summer ones.”

“Oh.” Gunnilde’s disappointment was clear for all present to hear. “I cannot imagine why your lordship should have heard tell of Tranton Vale in that case,” she admitted frankly. “For it has no other claim to fame.”

“I must humbly disagree!” he answered promptly.

“You underestimate yourself, my dear Lady Wycliffe. For it is your own fame that has preceded you.” Viscount Bardulf’s eyes met James’s innocently before they returned to Gunnilde.

“Does not everyone whisper of Mistress Payne’s daring choices when it comes to fashion?

Of her philanthropic nature when it comes to aiding the cause of hopeless lovers everywhere? ”

Gunnilde’s eyes widened. “They do?”