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“Yes, I must agree, husband,” she said swiftly. “They have all been running riot for the past week. Indeed, James was forced to step in and break up a scuffle that broke out here the other day. It was all very shocking and no knights in sight to restore order.”

Bevan had the grace to look discomforted.

“I, uh, have had...some other business to attend to.” He coughed.

“Some trifling ailment to contend with, nothing serious, but I will own it has preoccupied me of late.” James wondered that he should look so bashful about it.

Mayhap it was something embarrassing that no knight would wish to own to.

Like a bunion from wearing too-tight shoes.

“Is that why that witch has been visiting you in your rooms?” Cuthbert asked with interest. The boys promptly all stopped talking and turned to look at Bevan, who turned quite red.

“She has only visited me here once!” he snapped.

“Besides, it’s none of your damned business, Ames!

” Cuthbert shrugged, having apparently taken no offence.

The other boys scuffed their feet and shot surreptitious looks at each other, whispering behind their hands.

Cosgrave gave a suppressed snort of laughter and almost got shoved off the bench.

James affected not to notice their horseplay.

“I trust your friend’s health continues to improve,” Gunnilde said politely after the heavy pause. Sir Ned looked blank. “We heard that Sir James Attley broke his arm.”

“Oh, Attley. I’m not so sure. I had the strangest letter from him yest’reen. I’m wondering if he might have been in the grip of a fever when he wrote it.”

Cuthbert looked up with interest. “Was it about Ancel?” he asked.

Sir Ned’s knife clattered on his plate. “Now, how the hells did you know that?” he demanded, looking thunderstruck.

Cuthbert shrugged. “Just a guess,” he said evasively.

Sir Ned spluttered and James wondered what on earth Cuthbert was talking about now. The boy was incredibly cryptic at times.

“Why, what do you suspect him of now?” Kit asked.

“Oh, just his usual tricks,” Cuthbert answered absently. “You know how he is.”

The others, it seemed, did know how Ancel was and left the topic alone, though Sir Ned still looked annoyed and sat there with a face like thunder.

Really, the fellow brought very little to the table in James’s estimation.

The rest of the meal went fairly smoothly, though Hal was forced to slap Hadrian’s back a good many times to dislodge something he had “swallowed down the wrong way,” and Cosgrave had a lively dispute with Kit about the wearing of cross garters during a vigil.

When appealed to, James professed he had always worn full armor to his but doubtless things had changed.

“You ought to try cross gartering,” Kit told him loftily. “You’ll never look back. The trick is to wear one above and one below the knee and then cross them. I like to wear black ones as they contrast the most with the color of your stocking.”

James thought Gunnilde perked up at this discussion, and she leaned forward to take a look when Kit held up one leg to display his garter technique.

“I always get the most compliments when I wear red ones,” Hal argued. “All the ladies like a red garter in my experience.” Cosgrave and Hadrian scoffed at the idea of wearing red garters. “You’re just too cowardly to wear ’em,” Hal commented serenely. “Besides, your legs are too scrawny, Cosgrave.”

“At least they’re not great meaty ham bones like yours!” Hal preened himself as though receiving a compliment.

“You couldn’t wear red garters to a vigil,” Cuthbert put in piously. “It wouldn’t be right!”

“I never said to wear ’em to a vigil!” Hal retorted. “I’m talking about wearing ’em when you’re at your wooing.”

James wondered if all his opinions had been so strong at that age or whether Hal and his contemporaries were just particularly fierce when it came to expressing themselves.

He glanced across at Ned Bevan, who was regarding Gunnilde with a dejected air.

James guessed he wanted to unburden himself and apologize for what had happened but had no idea how to go about it.

After seeing him, James was more convinced than ever that this knight was the one who had so wounded Gunnilde with his casually hurtful words.

In any case, Gunnilde was affecting not to notice his frequent glances.

Instead, she applied herself to her meal and addressed the rest of her comments predominantly to James or the boys.

At the close of the meal an hour or so later, James half expected Sir Ned to request some private conversation with her.

In the end, he dropped his gaze after wishing them a gruff good night and slunk from the Great Hall.

“Sir Ned seemed somewhat taciturn,” he commented as they made their way back to their rooms.

She looked a little surprised by his words. “That is not his reputation. Though he said he had some woes of late, did he not?” she added vaguely.

“Some health issue,” James agreed, wondering if she was really as unconcerned as she seemed about Sir Ned.

“Yes.” She paused. “He did not seem very bothered about his close friend’s injury though, did he?” Her tone was critical.

“No doubt they are always breaking bones on the tourney circuit.”

“Yes, I expect so,” she murmured, but her heart clearly was not in it, which surprised him, for was she not a keen follower of the lists?

When she had spoken of them the night before she had sounded so enthusiastic, she had almost swept him up in her tales.

In fact, he had wondered if a piece of music could not be composed around some of them. They were certainly dramatic enough.

“Did you notice how the boys addressed most of their questions to you this evening?” Gunnilde asked. “Expecting you to adjudicate in their disagreements.”

The abrupt change in subject took him aback. “I...suppose they did,” James said, though in truth he thought that might be due to Sir Ned’s moroseness.

“I thought it rather telling. They have certainly accepted you and Neville into their circle.”

“Yes,” he agreed, feeling a little baffled about this himself. They reached the door to their rooms, and he paused with his hand on the door latch. “Gunnilde,” he said impulsively. “Can you tell me that story again?”

“Which story?”

“The one about the lady left stranded in the castle on the moors.”

“The lady—?” She gazed back at him in surprise.

“The one whose home was falling into ruin around her.”

It took her a few moments before the light of comprehension sprang into her eyes. “You mean, Mistress Bartree’s tale!”

Had it really been about her? James had not remembered. “Yes.”

“Yes, of course!” She looked gratified by his request. “It can be your after-dinner tale,” she told him indulgently.

He pushed the door open. “And then you can perhaps retell me the one about the knight who spurned his wife for being too lowly.”

“When did I...?”

“Only to end up being brought to his knees for love of her.”

“Ohhh! You mean Jeffree de Crecy and his wife.”

“Was it them?” He frowned. “Yes, I think it must have been. Their names don’t really matter though. It’s the substance of the tale I want.”

Gunnilde clapped her hands together. “Are you going to write a ballad around them?” she gasped, eyes shining.

“No.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders drooped with disappointment.

“My talent does not really run to such a thing as ballads,” he admitted. “In truth, I am not good with words.”

“You never know, the tales might inspire you,” she said hopefully.

Which was his intention, but not for ballad writing. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, and Gunnilde’s face flushed with pleasure.

“Wait, let me first change into something more comfortable,” she said, heading toward the bedchamber. Suddenly she stopped, turning on her heel to look at him. “Or, perhaps...”

“Perhaps what?”

She flushed. “Perhaps we could simply ready ourselves for bed,” she suggested. “And I could tell you your stories there.”