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J ames lowered the sheaf of papers he had been holding. “You and Viscount Bardulf have decided to be friends?” he repeated, frowning. “Why?”

“He said it would be mutually beneficial,” Gunnilde explained. “He said we could gossip with one another with perfect impunity and count on each other for high praise before others.”

While James pondered this, she added, “After he spoke to me, Osanna Spencer and Patience Stanhope both condescended to head my way and make polite conversation for a while. They were really very nice and complimented me on my tippets.”

“How nice of them,” James said sarcastically.

He was not sure how he felt about Viscount Bardulf consorting with his wife.

Bardulf liked clothes and shoes and making an exhibition of himself.

What if Gunnilde found she liked the flamboyant viscount better than she did her own husband? The thought was a disquieting one.

Gunnilde drew her toe across the floorboard.

She was wearing her flimsy court shoes and through the cutouts he could see her stockings today were of brightest yellow.

“Do you have any objection to my being friends with Lord Bardulf?” she asked.

“If you do not want me to, then I will, of course, decline the offer.”

James huffed out a breath. “There is no need,” he said shortly.

“I have not the smallest objection, why should I?” His query came out more belligerently than he had intended, but Gunnilde did not seem to notice, for she relaxed and sent him a grateful smile.

Perhaps it was not an outright lie. He did want to please her after all.

It should not be so difficult to earn a wife’s approbation, James reflected. Though, perhaps others found such things easier than he seemed to. “I suppose you can now invite him and Lady Bardulf to your banquet,” he ventured.

Gunnilde gasped, looking up with shining eyes. “Of course! What a good idea!” She beamed at him. “Oh, well done, James!” Stupid to bask in such praise, but he could not seem to help himself. “Wait, I must start a list,” she said, reaching for ink and quill.

“Perhaps not right now,” he reasoned. “We said we would meet your brother and his friends in the Great Hall for supper.”

“Oh, is it time to go down already?” They both walked toward the door and awkwardly halted before it.

James made a grab for the latch and held it open for her.

“Thank you,” she quavered. Outside in the corridor, she looked rather flustered taking his arm.

Why was she so on edge? Usually, she was the one who made these small gestures easy while he was the one who hesitated and turned awkward.

“Did you spend much time with Her Majesty today?” he enquired, as they started walking.

“Oh, er, yes. She was very kind and apologized for overlooking me for the past couple of days. She has not been feeling quite herself, she said, and that she has been prioritizing the company of her married ladies of late. So, it was through no fault of my own that I have been excluded.”

“You are also a married lady,” he pointed out, unable to stop himself.

“Oh yes, but so newly that she perhaps does not think that I count.”

He frowned. “I wonder that Mistress Bartree has not also been left out in the cold, in that case.”

“Well, I would not be surprised if she has been,” Gunnilde replied. “She has been attached to the Queen’s side at all times, but I fancy she has been rather ignored. She has looked bleaker than ever these past few days.”

“Hmmm.”

“What?” Gunnilde asked, looking up at him with flattering attention. “What are you thinking of, James?”

“It’s just...did not Neville say the Queen was well-known to favor her unwed ladies? I wonder what has changed of late that she is now seeking out the married ones among their number?”

She nodded slowly. “To be sure, it is something of a puzzle,” she agreed. “In any case, she said things will be back to normal soon and that I could come and help her dress on the morrow, which is a high privilege indeed.”

Something about her manner seemed a little off, James thought. Surely, she should be aglow with excitement at this new development? Yet her smile looked forced and her manner strangely offhand in the retelling.

She must merely be pretending to be unaffected, he decided.

Her jitteriness this eve was probably a betrayal of her true feelings.

Deep down, she was nervous about further advancement and assuming new duties to the Queen.

It was the only explanation that made sense.

How to give her husbandly comfort, that was the question.

Clearing his throat, he reached across to pat the hand resting on his arm.

Gunnilde’s gaze flew to meet his own. “Do not worry,” he said, hoping he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

“Her Majesty is sure to be pleased with your attentions,” he said, wishing he sounded smoother in his assurances.

“Oh...Her Majesty,” she said in a lackluster manner, as though she was not thinking of her at all. Who else’s good graces would she be wanting to get into? James wondered uneasily.

They were approaching the Great Hall now, and James was surreptitiously observing her from the corner of his eye when someone crossed the corridor to stand directly in front of them.

Someone large and bulky. They came up short, and James eyed the newcomer with disfavor.

“Sir—” he started when Gunnilde gave a ragged gasp.

The tall, broad newcomer bowed, his expression very grave. “Lady Gunnilde,” he addressed her, quite improperly, his voice deep and his eyes riveted to her face. Gunnilde’s fingers on James’s arm instantly transformed into claws as she dug them into his sleeve.

“Your name, sir?” James demanded when neither spoke, though he had already formed a suspicion as to the newcomer’s identity.

“James,” Gunnilde said in a strained voice. “This is Sir Ned—I mean, Sir Edward Bevan of Knollesley.” She gave a feeble smile. “He is currently acting as Hal’s mentor in his training. Sir Edward,” she said, swallowing, “allow me to present my husband, Sir James Wycliffe.”

James surveyed the knight coldly. Not that he would notice, for he gave James only the shallowest of bows. James topped this by bobbing his head in scant acknowledgment, likely the rudest greeting he had ever bestowed on anyone in his life.

“My lady,” Sir Ned said raspily, two slashes of high color along his cheekbones. He raked a hand through his hair. “I wanted—that is, I hoped to have a word with you. Hal invited me to join you for supper but—”

“You must certainly join us, Sir Edward,” she assured him, in a high, artificial voice. “I assure you, we will be most offended if you do not. Is that not so, James?” she asked a trifle desperately as she turned toward him in appeal.

“Of course,” he answered, and Gunnilde smiled at him tremulously. Instead of releasing her grip of his arm, she now held on to it fast with both hands. Strangely, the clinging gesture soothed him somewhat, especially when he saw Bevan’s gaze dwell there. “You must sit at our table and welcome.”

Sir Ned’s gaze flickered back to meet his and he inclined his head. “That is generous, Wycliffe, thank you.”

James swept past him, escorting Gunnilde into the hall.

It did not take him long to spot his brother-in-law, for Hal was holding forth to a table full of his cronies.

Not only were Kit and Cuthbert sat in attendance, but also Hadrian Kellingford, Cosgrave, and the boy with the snub nose whose name he had forgotten, if he’d ever known it.

Grimly, James made his way past the other tables to join them.

He would rather not have been besieged on all sides by noisy lads, but it seemed he had little choice in the matter.

Then he noticed the sour expression on Sir Ned’s face as he lowered himself onto a bench opposite them.

He was even less happy about finding himself surrounded by squires.

James’s mood brightened perceptibly, especially when the boys began accosting Bevan, and he was forced to give them his attention while James saw Gunnilde seated. Hal leaned across the table. “Where’s Neville?” he asked above the din. “Thought he’d join us here tonight.”

James threw a glance about the hall. “He must be dining with friends.”

“Maybe the Ashdowns,” suggested Kit wistfully. “I expect they lay on a pretty good supper spread. Lucky devil. He might have included us.”

“You’ve met the Ashdowns?” James asked in surprise, thinking of the elderly sisters across the corridor.

“Aye for Neville introduced us,” Cuthbert explained. “They promised to come and watch us compete in the Revels.” As both sisters were in their seventies, James was a little surprised to hear this.

“Mistress Ruth said she might lay a wager on my winning the wrestling,” Hal said with a failed attempt to look modest.

“Only after you invited her to feel your arm muscles,” Kit interjected witheringly.

James turned to Gunnilde, who sat quietly at his side. Noticing his querying look, she said, “Did you know I have not yet met the Ashdowns.” She sounded rather sad about this fact.

“I will have to introduce you,” he said, realizing he had been remiss in this quarter.

She nodded, then squared her shoulders and turned to face Sir Ned. “How are you finding your visit to court, Sir Edward?” she asked loudly, in order to make herself heard above the general din.

Bevan looked up, a hunted look on his face. “Busy,” he answered, casting a jaundiced eye over the boys laughing and jostling each other around him.

“You have found yourself much involved with the Squires’ Revels?” James asked. “Curious, I have not seen a single knight attached to their number since they arrived.” Bevan’s eyebrows snapped together, and he opened his mouth on some swift rejoinder when Gunnilde forestalled him.