Page 4

T hree Days Later

“Gunnilde, what have you done now?” Harriet Portstanley hovered in the doorway looking pale as milk and practically wringing her hands.

Gunnilde turned from the looking glass where she was trying to achieve the “ram’s horn” hairstyle she had heard so much about recently.

Sadly, having heard only a thirdhand account of it, her efforts were largely guesswork.

She regarded Harriet blankly. “Naught that I am aware,” she said, lowering her hair comb. “Why?”

“You must have! Mother is simply beside herself!”

“Well,” Gunnilde ventured cautiously, “I did not attend that talk on black and yellow bile that she recommended, but she knew about that for I told her as much at supper last night.”

Harriet waved this aside. “It’s not that! She’s used to you skipping improving lectures by now. No, it’s something else this time. Something far worse!” Her voice swooped low with horror.

Gunnilde considered this as she thrust another couple of hairpins into her rolled up braids.

In her experience it was better to be safe than sorry when it came to the potential of her hair experimentations to tumble down.

“I really cannot think,” she admitted. “Shall I come now and see what vexes her?”

“It’s a little late for that!” Harriet’s voice wobbled. “There’s a royal attendant waiting to escort you at once to the Queen’s presence chamber.”

“The Queen’s presence chamber,” Gunnilde repeated in astonishment. She had never penetrated further than the outer rooms previously. “Really?”

“You need not look so gratified! It is hardly an honor when you are called there in disgrace!”

Gunnilde’s careering spirits plummeted at once. “Disgrace?”

“Why pray do you imagine Mother is so put out?” Harriet asked, sounding exasperated. “It is one thing that you are not high-minded, Gunnilde, but it is quite another to—to court scandal and dishonor as you do!” Poor Harriet’s voice cracked over the last words and she gave a suppressed sob.

Scandal and dishonor? Gunnilde regarded her with dismay. “When have I ever—?”

“You cannot possibly have forgotten that whole affair with Colette Linfield and John Fulsham,” Harriet said primly, though in truth Gunnilde almost had forgotten it.

It had been over a month ago after all. “You were certainly implicated in that business, and if not for Mother’s good name, you would have suffered the consequences, I am sure!

“You were given the benefit of the doubt that time, but let me tell you, if it were not for Viscountess Vawdrey, Mother would have washed her hands of you after that! Just look at you!” Harriet cast a despairing look at Gunnilde’s hair.

“What have you been doing to yourself? Where is your caul? Hurry, you must put it on and look decent.”

Gunnilde patted her rolled braids. “You do not wear hair nets over this particular hairstyle,” she said with a confidence she did not entirely feel. “It is a new look called ‘the ram’s horn.’ You are supposed to be able to make out the whorl. That is the whole point.”

Harriet’s mouth primmed up. “I have never heard of it.”

“Surely you heard tell of the bishop’s sermon last week, highlighting the evils of lady’s hairstyles?” Gunnilde replied unthinkingly.

Harriet let out a yelp of indignation. “You are not supposed to take his excellency’s admonishments as fashion advice, Gunnilde!” she said, aghast.

Gunnilde bit her tongue instead of pointing out that if she had no pretensions to high-mindedness, then assuredly Harriet had none to fashion. “It was not only the bishop!” she pointed out defensively. “The letter from the Vlandivarian ambassador referred to it also! Everyone is speaking of it.”

“You’re beyond hope!” Harriet said, throwing up her hands. “You will be sent packing in disgrace after this; I have no doubt. Now do hurry! You cannot keep Master Winstanley waiting any longer.”

Master Winstanley? Gunnilde’s eyes flew wide. Everyone knew he was the Queen’s favorite attendant. Setting down her remaining hairpins, Gunnilde obediently followed Harriet out of the bedchamber to find Piers Winstanley awaiting her in the hallway, resplendent in a tunic of silver and blue.

He smiled faintly at her. “Mistress Payne?” The query in his voice caused her a pang.

She knew full well who he was, but he needed confirmation of her identity.

She nodded and gave a little curtsey. He bowed and then made for the door without more ado, opening it and gesturing for her to precede him.

Gunnilde did so, with one backward glance over her shoulder to find Harriet and Lady Portstanley watching them with matching expressions of foreboding. She flashed them a brave smile, and then Piers followed her through the doorway and they were headed toward the royal chambers.

All the while, Gunnilde’s mind raced. She did not want to be sent back to Payne Manor.

How could she return when she had achieved precisely nothing thus far in her stay at court?

Not only had she failed to catch the Queen’s eye in the past two months, but she had also failed to forge any real lasting friendships with her fellow courtiers.

Her stepmother would not be surprised by Gunnilde’s failure but still, it would sting. The only thing she had ever done which had impressed them was befriend Viscountess Vawdrey. What remained for her at Tranton Vale? Naught but her childhood memories.

Her friends and neighbors had all married and moved away. Everyone had moved on with their lives. It was the way of things. Even Hal did not reside there anymore, for as a squire now he toured the country ten months out of the year.

Gunnilde racked her brains as to what she could possibly have done to have caused the Queen’s displeasure. Queen Armenal had not spoken to her once since her presentation, and even on that occasion, she had looked bored, her dark gaze barely resting on Gunnilde before it had moved away.

In spite of herself, Gunnilde’s spirits rose as the attendant led her straight through the outer reception rooms, a flick of his wrist causing the guards to open the heavily decorated doors into the more select chambers peopled by the Queen’s chosen few.

She tried not to stare about her like the gauche young countrywoman she was, but after all, this might be her only opportunity to see the Queen’s personal quarters firsthand.

A set of double doors led into the presence chamber itself, and this room seemed very grand and formal and nothing like the intimate setting of Gunnilde’s imagining. The Queen was pacing about on her dais, gesturing excitedly with her hands toward a formidable-looking attendant dressed in purple.

Gunnilde knew at once this was Mistress Bartree and that she was the Queen’s current favorite despite the fact there were many far younger and prettier ladies to be found at court. Around the room clustered various small groups of Armenal’s chosen lords and ladies engaged in murmured conversation.

Surely, Gunnilde thought fervently, she was not the reason the Queen was looking so agitated? Her step faltered, and she cast a quick look at Master Winstanley, but his expression remained serene even as he marched right up to the dais and presented his bow.

Gunnilde stayed two steps behind him, feeling her face turning very red as the courtiers quietened down and turned toward them, their expressions openly curious.

“Yes?” Armenal said loudly. “Who is this you have brought before me?”

Piers Winstanley straightened up. “This is Mistress Payne, Your Majesty,” he answered.

“Payne?” Armenal’s eyes darted questioningly to her lady-in-waiting, who coughed and stepped forward to whisper in her ear.

“Ah yes!” she said and turned back to Gunnilde, raking her with a keenly assessing glance.

Gunnilde straightened up. It was one thing to inwardly quake before your Queen but quite another to appear poor spirited.

“So, you are Mistress Payne,” the Queen mused, her eyebrows shooting up. “I see I quite wronged the bishop. I thought he was making up things to be outraged about these days, but now I see such extraordinary hairstyles do exist.”

Gunnilde felt a thrill of pride run through her, even as she heard the speculative whispers of the crowd, who seemed to be drifting closer.

“I think,” the Queen began hesitantly, then gave a decided nod, “that is, I am sure I will take Mistress Payne into my private sitting room for a comfortable little talk, just the two of us.”

Gunnilde was sure her eyes must have bulged out of her head at this point. She stared, and she was not the only one. Mistress Bartree directed a hostile glare her way, and the rest of the room erupted in disappointed murmurings that swelled to almost alarming proportions.

“Come!” the Queen said imperiously, stepping down off the dais. “Follow me!”

Instantly, Mistress Bartree fell in step behind her, and Gunnilde trailed helplessly in their wake.

“Just the two of us” seemed to include the Queen’s favorite, more’s the pity.

She had never felt less like indulging in a tête-à-tête.

Both women seemed alarming, if anything, Mistress Bartree even more so than the Queen.

Still, given her lack of choice in the matter, she would have to make the best of it.

Mayhap she could even turn it to her advantage, she thought nervously, passing through two more doorways and finding herself in a smaller chamber, decorated with gold and green wall hangings.

After all, she could hardly make a worse impression than she had at her presentation when her formal curtsey had gone largely ignored.