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“He does serve them as a matter of fact,” Neville cut in indignantly. “Tell them, James. He rides around muddy fields in the winter and dusty ones in the summer, practicing sieges and battle strategy and the gods only know what, like a good knight of the realm and true.”

James frowned. “I do, but only because I cannot afford the alternative, which is to pay the penalty.”

Hal relaxed, as though his own honor had been on the line. He fixed a stern eye on Kit. “And the next time you intimate a member of my own family is too fat to serve their King, I’ll dunk your head in the water trough, you just see if I don’t!”

“I never said he was too fat!” Kit objected. “I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I? I said my own father was. He had to have a special chair made last spring after he got stuck in his old one.”

“Well, I’ll thank you not to imply things,” Hal retorted, somewhat mollified.

James looked up from his empty soup bowl. “And now your health has taken an upturn, Neville, you’ve some days to make up in your own service,” he pointed out. “I can’t afford to pay for you to skip yours either.”

Neville groaned. “I’m only about ten days behind. I can make them up in the spring.”

“And you so newly knighted,” Hal said with disapproval. “You do not even carry a dagger at your hip! Why, you ought to be out there—”

“Righting wrongs and practicing at the pell?” Neville said mockingly. “We’ll see if you’re still so eager in four years’ time, my lad! For my part, I’ll wager none of you will be!”

It was not to be expected that such an inflammatory statement would be allowed to pass. All three squires immediately gave rebuttal as they helped themselves liberally to more soup.

Gunnilde leveled an apologetic look at James. “I fear you are not used to such a lively table.” She remembered how dull and ponderous it was sat at table with the Portstanleys. Likely that was more the pace and tone they should be cultivating.

Ignoring this, he looked at her empty bowl. “If you want a second helping, I will need to wrestle it from them. Let me know now before they drain it dry.”

Gunnilde gave a startled laugh. “I have had ample and would rather fill my stomach with roast meat. I am impressed you would perform such a feat on my behalf though. Growing boys can be feral when it comes to food.”

“Like a pack of wild dogs,” he agreed after the tiniest of pauses.

“Your brother seems to fit right in with them,” she observed, pleasantly surprised about the fact.

“It seems Hal is right,” he said dryly. “Neville’s days of squire hood are not so very far behind him.”

A rousing cheer went up, interrupting them, and Gunnilde looked around to see the cause. It seemed to be the appearance of servers carrying in platters of roasted meats.

“It is very jolly tonight, is it not?” Gunnilde commented, picking up her goblet and taking a sip. “I have never known it so lively.”

“ Jolly is one word for it, certainly.”

Again, she found her heart going out to this husband of hers. She guessed he would not have had such easy camaraderie with his fellow squires back in his own day. He was too stiff and standoffish for that.

“Will there be no music tonight?” Kit demanded, glancing up at the empty gallery.

“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.”