Page 39

G unnilde 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?

He stood up and returned to his original chair opposite her own. “Slip your foot out of your boot,” he said, “and slide it under the table. I’ll warm it up for you.”

“What?” Gunnilde was taken aback. “Take my foot out? In company ?” She glanced about them nervously.

“It is not polite company,” he pointed out.

“Besides, no one would blink an eye, even if you were to put your foot in my lap in full view. We will not be so indiscreet as that,” he assured her.

Put her foot in his lap? Gunnilde was faintly scandalized.

He patted his thigh. “Set your foot right here.”

Gunnilde glanced at James’s ale cup. Maybe it was stronger than his usual fare, but in truth he had scarcely touched it.

Feeling the tips of her ears turn hot, Gunnilde scooted her chair closer to the table and then slipped her foot out of one red leather boot and extended her leg under the surface of the table.

She exclaimed seconds later when James’s warm hand closed about her toes, guiding her heel to rest against his leg.

He smiled at her and Gunnilde had no notion why she felt so suddenly breathless.

He cupped his hands carefully about her toes, until they grew warmer by gradual degrees.

Not as warm as her cheeks though, which she thought must now be poppy red.

In the flickering firelight he looked different somehow. Maybe it was the fault of the purple bruised eye which gave him a disreputable edge, but for whatever reason, Gunnilde could not stop gazing at him. She felt as though her eyes were inexorably drawn to him, despite their surroundings.

He was wildly handsome, of course, but he had always been annoyingly handsome, so it was not that. Whatever it was, it made her feel like she could scarcely focus on anything or anyone else present.

The musicians soon appeared again, having downed some refreshment and counted their pennies. They reintroduced themselves for any newcomers and asked if there were any particular requests for them.

A few well-known songs were shouted out by the crowd, and Gunnilde shot an anxious look at James. However, instead of looking irritable or even resigned, he seemed wholly absorbed in stroking her toes as the minstrels started piping out a well-known tune called “Fair Janet to the Bothy Came.”

“At least it’s a Janet,” she said loudly, so he would hear her above the din. “Not a Margaret.”

“There are hundreds of Janets,” he replied dryly.

“Probably more than there are Margarets.” He stroked his thumbs firmly over the arch of her foot and cradled her heel.

It was a good thing she was not ticklish.

Still, she felt unaccustomedly skittish, almost nervous around him all of a sudden. How absurd!

“Why are they always so fair, that’s what has always bothered me.

Why do none of them have crooked teeth or an overlarge nose?

” Gunnilde coughed to cover her quavery voice.

It was only James. Why did her voice sound so strained?

“Or do you suppose that is mere convention,” she forced herself to continue.

At least her voice sounded steadier. “Like all queens are described as fair and all kings good?”

“Very likely,” James agreed. “Are you ready to swap feet?” Gunnilde reclaimed her foot and slipped it back into her boot, wriggling her toes. They did feel a lot less like chips of ice.

“Give me the other,” he prompted. Briefly, she contemplated telling him he should not act in such a fashion in a public inn. It was highly improper. The crazy idea crossed her mind that he might be toying with her. She caught her breath. The idea was, well, she did not know what it was precisely.

But no, he would not. This was James after all. Awkward, somewhat endearing James. She was being silly, she told herself, and stuck out her foot. He caught a firm hold of it in his grasp, almost making her whimper. Pull yourself together, Gunnilde!

“You have nice ankles,” he said astonishingly. Then he muttered something she did not quite catch. It sounded rather like “Shapely, like the rest of you,” but she knew that could not be right.

She cleared her throat. “You are supposed to be warming my toes, not fondling my ankles,” she informed him with dignity.

“I can do both.”

Gunnilde shot a suspicious look at him. It occurred to her that it might be his fault she was reacting so oddly. Was he teasing her? Maybe that was why she was feeling so suddenly shy around him. Maybe she should tell him sternly to stop trifling with her.

However, James did not look remotely playful or flirtatious. He looked entirely matter-of-fact. “I like these stockings too,” he continued thoughtfully, “though not as much as your crimson ones.”

“My presentation stockings?” Gunnilde asked, forcing herself to speak sensibly. “The ones that cost my father fifteen shillings and scandalized you so much?” He nodded. “We could get you a pair?” she suggested, testing him.

“I’d rather get you some more.” Well, thought Gunnilde. There went her notion that he was going to prove a frugal husband. “Should I send for a tailor to attend us at the palace?” he suggested, making her heart leap. “After all, we will likely need something new for your banquet.”

Forcing down her instinctive excitement, she said, “ Our banquet, and don’t you mean a hosier?”

“That, too, but you wanted more tippets, do not forget.”

“Perhaps we ought to wait until my father sends my dowry,” Gunnilde replied sensibly, biting her lip.

He shrugged. “I will take it out of Neville’s allowance,” he answered, straight-faced, but she was pretty sure he was joking.

She leaned forward, hesitating. “James, do people sometimes find it hard to tell if you are teasing?” she asked. He looked blank, as though no one had ever commented on such a thing before. “Not me,” she clarified quickly, “I can tell. I was just wondering about...others.”

“I don’t think I tease anyone else,” he answered simply, then dropped his gaze back down to her foot.

Gunnilde opened her mouth to argue this could not possibly be true, when she found she believed him.

She tipped her head to one side and settled back in her seat to watch him.

The famous James Wycliffe was sat in a common inn, rubbing his wife’s stockinged feet.

Anyone who did not know him would doubtless think it a loving gesture that spoke of great familiarity.

What did she think of it? She was not so sure, but she certainly could not imagine him performing the office for anyone else. Did that signify anything? “Have you ever—?” She broke off.

“What did you say?” he asked, looking across at her. A rowdy discussion behind them had spilled over into heated words. He glanced in that direction before releasing her foot and rounding the table to sit back down beside her.

“Sometimes fights break out which you won’t see in a private parlor,” he said apologetically as she replaced her boot. “If you start to feel uncomfortable let me know and we can move on from here. There are three more taverns on this street.”

“I feel entirely safe with you,” Gunnilde replied truthfully. “But if you have had your fill of these minstrels then mayhap we should move on to the next establishment.”

James nodded, getting to his feet and reaching down for her. He pulled her cloak tight about her and lifted her hood, fastening it under her chin. “Put on your mittens.”

“Anything else?” Gunnilde asked. He was definitely acting differently tonight. She just could not quite put her finger on how.

“Yes. Stay close to me.”