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I t was crowded in the Great Hall. The high table was not occupied, so it looked as though there was to be no royal presence this evening.

Gunnilde felt a stab of disappointment, but this was quickly dispelled when she noticed how much busier and noisier it was than usual.

It seemed that a good few more tables had been inserted into the throng.

“All the tournament rabble are turning up,” Neville said cheerfully. “Now tourney season is done for the winter.”

Tournament rabble? Gunnilde was surprised by this remark, for were not knights lauded wherever they went?

Certainly, they were welcomed with open arms at Tranton Vale, where her father considered it an honor to host them.

Something whizzed past her ear and hit an unfortunate lad to her right smack in the face. Luckily it was only a bread roll.

A roar of laughter went up from a nearby table, and James towed her in the opposite direction. “We’ll sit here, I think,” he said, glancing about with a hunted expression. “I can find no quieter spot.”

Gunnilde, Kit, Cuthbert, and Neville sat themselves down. She wondered if Hal would turn up anytime soon. He had returned to his quarters to see if his mentor had any tasks for him to perform before supper. Maybe Sir Ned had him polishing boots or running errands down at the stables.

“It is certainly very crowded tonight,” she said, noticing a bunch of ladies-in-waiting at the next table who were tutting and primming their mouths to see such antics.

“Disgraceful!” Millicent Everidge pronounced loudly to her neighbor Lucy Melvin, but for all that, Gunnilde thought her eyes were trained avidly on the newcomers, and there was a good deal of whispering going on.

None of their number thought to look across at Gunnilde, she noticed, or to send a nod or a wave of acknowledgment her way.

She could not see Estrilda nor Mistress Bartree and supposed they must be dining with family or other friends tonight. Presumably the Queen was dining privately with the King. A servant halted beside her, setting goblets and wine down on their table for them.

Gunnilde had scarcely thanked him when she heard her name shouted. It was Hal, making his way toward them, waving and looking animated. Though he had spotted them, he still appeared to be looking for someone else in the hall.

“What are you waiting for?” Kit quipped as Hal halted beside their table. “A written invitation?”

“I am just looking out for Sir Ned,” Hal said, swiveling round. “He said he would join us anon.” Gunnilde almost choked on her wine. James produced a handkerchief, and she dabbed it to her lips.

“Keep it,” he muttered when she tried to return it.

“Sir Ned won’t join us tonight,” Cuthbert said with quiet confidence as he poured out three more cups of wine. He looked straight at Gunnilde. “You need have no fear of that, my lady.”

Gunnilde felt herself flush. Why did Cuthbert have to be so damned perceptive?

A horrible suspicion crossed her mind that Cuthbert might know something of the embarrassing occurrence at Vawdrey Keep.

He was Roland Vawdrey’s squire after all.

Could Sir Roland have repeated something of the event that occurred in September? Surely not.

She did not think for one minute that Eden’s husband would have pieced together what happened, with her running off to court afterward. To Sir Roland they would have been two separate events entirely. Half the time she was sure he would forget her name if not for Eden briskly reminding him of it.

No, he would have forgotten all about his friend’s insensitive remarks that day, she reassured herself.

He certainly would never dream of repeating them in front of his squire.

Would he have repeated them in front of his wife though?

She considered this a moment. This was a good deal more likely, for husband and wife were very close.

Somehow though, Gunnilde could not quite believe it in this instance.

Knowing Eden’s directness, she had to believe her friend would have addressed it with her frankly and at once.

She would certainly have demanded that Sir Ned apologize, and as no apology had been forthcoming while she remained under their roof, she could not believe that Eden had ever been apprised of the matter.

Reassured, she relaxed once more. No, Cuthbert must be acting on uncanny instinct alone.

“Why do you say that Sir Ned will not come?” Hal grumbled. “I tell you, I heard him say so with my own ears.”

“He is not coming,” Cuthbert repeated sagely.

Hal huffed and rolled his eyes. “Kindly drop the prophesying for one night,” he begged but he sat down all the same, as though he took it for fact. “Come, Dustin, sit on my lap,” he coaxed his little dog. “I can’t eat soup with you teetering on my forearm.”

“Is it soup?” Gunnilde asked, for now the specter of Sir Ned was dispelled, she found she was hungry.

“Aye, root vegetable and salted bacon, if I’m not mistaken,” Hal replied, for he had a keen nose to match his appetite. Moments later, a large tureen of soup was placed down upon their table, and the servant started ladling it out and passing it around.

“Do you take your dog everywhere with you, Payne?” Neville asked critically as Hal dropped a piece of bacon into Dustin’s tiny waiting jaws.

“I do,” Hal responded promptly. “What else is a dog’s purpose, if not companionship?”

“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?”

“Five and twenty.”

“Well, there you have it!”

“Ever competed in a tourney?” Kit demanded.

“I have not.”

Hal and Kit promptly lost interest and commenced scraping their soup bowls. He was one of those noncombatant knights, their silence seemed to say, the dull dog. Gunnilde felt the need to defend him, but while she cast about for something to say, Cuthbert spoke.

“For all that, I’ll wager you serve your forty days’ service a year, Sir James,” he said. “As is the duty of a knight to his sovereign.”

“I’ll take you up on that wager,” Kit said. “I’ll bet he doesn’t. I’ll bet he pays to skip them. My own father did that for ten years,” he added scornfully. “I still say it’s ’cos he got too fat to sit on a horse.”

“Well? Which is it?” Hal demanded when James did not speak.

Gunnilde cleared her throat. “I don’t think—”