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“G unnilde told us what you were about last night, Wycliffe. Why don’t you tell us all about it?”

James froze and turned to look at his brother-in-law. Hal could not possibly have said what he thought he had just said.

“Aye,” Kit agreed cheerfully. “Gunnilde says you’ve the makings of a fine ballad maker and she’s every faith in you.”

James relaxed. Oh that. “Where is she anyway?” he asked, glancing about the sitting room.

Hal, Kit, Cuthbert, and Hadrian Kellingford were sat up to the table feasting on heaped dishes of roasted fish and toasted bread which they were slathering in butter.

James’s stomach rumbled. He walked over to the table and sat down on the bench next to Kit, who moved up to make him room and passed him a plate and a knife.

“Neville’s taken her over to meet the Ashdowns,” Cuthbert explained, swallowing a mouthful of bread. He nudged the platter of roast fish closer to James. “She was feeling left out, not having met them yet.”

“Oh.” James helped himself to a large piece of bread and covered it generously with butter. For the life of him, he could not understand everyone’s preoccupation with the Ashdowns. Still, if anyone was to perform that office, it should have been him, not his brother.

“Gunnilde told us all about her plans for you to become a famous ballad writer,” Hal reiterated. “So come on then, don’t leave us in suspense. Tell us about this ballad. I’m fond of a ballad myself so I’m a pretty fair judge,” he said modestly.

James paused. “Er...” Four expectant faces turned toward him. “It’s true, Gunnilde would like me to take up writing ballads,” he admitted, scooping up some fish. “But in truth I do not think I am suited to the writing of such things. I’m far better at writing music than words.”

“A few words shouldn’t trouble you!” Hal scoffed. “We can help you, can’t we, lads?” Cuthbert and Hadrian made noises of agreement.

“Right willingly,” said Kit, who was apparently in a good mood today. “What is your hero’s name?”

James cast about him without inspiration. “He should be false rather than sweet” was the only thing that sprang to mind.

“How about...False Billiam,” Kit ventured.

“False Billiam?” Hal echoed, nodding his head. “Not bad. Has a sort of ring to it. He sounds a disreputable sort. Now, who’s he courting?” He rubbed his hands together. “It has to be Fair someone. Mayhap Fair Eliza.”

“There’s to be no courtship,” James answered firmly. “Instead of a romance I was thinking it could be a tragedy. False Billiam could...have some kind of ailment.” He shrugged. Yes, that was it. An ailment. Ned Bevan had an ailment, not him though. He was in perfect health.

“What kind of ailment?” Hadrian asked, looking intrigued.

“A bad one. The kind where body parts drop off,” James answered with decision.

The boys all sat up with interest. “You mean, so he loses a limb in every verse?” Kit queried.

“Inspired!” Hal decided.

“Yes,” Cuthbert chimed in. “You could start out with small things like a finger or a thumb and then build up to larger limbs.”

“You do not think that would alter the tone of the piece?” James asked with misgiving. It sounded more comical than tragic.

“Yes, it would make it better,” Hal replied firmly.

“Only consider,” Cuthbert suggested, “if you start all flowery at the beginning, everyone expects it to be one way, but then in the second half it turns funny, only think how surprised everyone will be!”

“And the last body part can be his twig and berries,” Kit said eagerly. “But in every verse leading up to that one, the audience has to think will be his pizzle. Like, have a rhyming part to it, that ends up being something entirely innocent. You know the trick of it, I expect.”

“I really don’t,” James responded.

“Like have him lose his fizzle, instead of his pizzle,” explained Kit.

“What the hells is a fizzle?” Hal demanded.

“I couldn’t think of anything that rhymed,” Kit admitted.

“Then how is Wycliffe to?” Hal asked with disgust. “He already told us he’s no wordsmith!”

“Very well, then,” Kit responded with dignity. “Have him lose a lock , as in a bit of his hair, then in the next line, tumpty-tumpty-tumpty off fell his cock .”

The boys all groaned. “That’s terrible, Montmayne,” Cuthbert said, speaking for the group.

“’Tis plain to see you’re no poet!” Hadrian hooted.

“I never said I was!” Kit responded hotly. “Very well, let’s hear your suggestions, if you’re so superior at rhyming than I!”

“Ignore him,” Cuthbert said, turning back to James. “It could definitely work. And then for the next ballad, you could make it really tragic. Have False Billiam get an ulcerated leg.”

“But make it really foul smelling, puss filled, and oozing,” Hadrian put in enthusiastically. James lowered his piece of toast.

“That does not sound romantic at all,” Hal objected. “What you should do, instead of giving him an ulcerated leg, is have False Billiam thrown from the castle ramparts, or else dashed to death under some horse’s hooves. Have him die some noble death like that.”

“Why could he not plunge to his death whilst also possessing a rotting leg?” James asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

Hal sent him a stern look. “Now you’re not taking it seriously.”

James’s lips twitched. It was true, he was not taking it seriously.

“Then he could come back and haunt the Fair Eliza for playing him false,” Hadrian concluded with satisfaction. “You always find ghosts in ballads.”

“There is no Fair Eliza,” Kit reminded him. “Did you not hear Wycliffe say so?”

“In truth, I have no intention of writing this masterpiece,” James admitted before another row broke out. “I am convinced I would make a very poor job of it.”

“A pity,” said Hal, shaking his head. “I’m half inclined to have a stab at writing it myself.”

“Please do. I make you a present of my idea.”

“Really?” Hal asked eagerly. “I will say that’s handsome of you, Wycliffe. If I happen to make my fortune with it, I will give you a portion.”

“What about me?” Kit demanded. “At least part of the idea is mine.”

“Yes, the rubbish part,” Hal said dampeningly.

Before a full-scale row broke out, the door opened and Gunnilde and Neville advanced into the room. James started to stand, before realizing no one else was so polite. Gunnilde met his eyes with her own and gave him a shy smile. James felt his color rise.

“Ah, here you are, James,” Neville said, brightening. “I just took Gunnilde along to meet the Ashdowns.”

“Sit ye down,” Hal said. “Move up, lads, Neville needs a place at table. The food arrived while you were gone. No, don’t worry about m’sister, she can sit on Wycliffe’s lap.”

“Hal!” Gunnilde murmured in reproach, though James found he was not unwilling.

Somewhat imperiously, he held his hand out to her, and she rounded the table with downcast eyes.

She squeezed onto the bench beside him, not quite on his lap but certainly pressed in close, for there was not much room.

James did not mind, for it gave him an excuse to pass his arm about her.

Hal sloshed ale for them into two cups and pushed them across the table.

“A couple of letters arrived this morn. One of the pages delivered them,” Neville announced as a curl of butter dropped from his knife and onto his sleeve. “Damnation! This is a new tunic,” he muttered, scooping it back up with his knife.

Hadrian guffawed. “Clumsy oaf.”

The boys joined in, judiciously abusing his brother’s new tunic along with his clumsiness. James ignored them, for plainly this demonstrated Neville had been accepted as one of their number.

“What did you think of the Ashdowns?” James murmured in Gunnilde’s ear, wanting private speech alone with her, no matter the subject.

“They seem entirely amiable,” she answered, nibbling daintily on a piece of toast. “They were very welcoming and professed themselves vastly pleased to meet me.”

“Who do you suppose the letters are from?” Neville asked. “I did not recognize the seals.” James frowned at him, not caring much about any letters at present.

“They might be replies to our invitations to that supper we are hosting here in the small gallery,” Gunnilde volunteered a little nervously.

“Have some fish,” James urged her, seeing she had selected the smallest piece of bread on the platter.

“I’m not really hungry,” Gunnilde replied in a small voice.

James frowned. “Not feeling ill, are you?”

“No, of course not!”

“Not like you to turn your nose up at good plain fare,” Hal chimed in. “What ails you?”

Gunnilde opened her mouth as though to deny any such thing when her eyes lit up and she dropped her hand to squeeze James’s thigh in warning.

“As a matter of fact, I am feeling a little peaky this morning,” she said, turning to Cuthbert.

“I did wonder if you might be able to send that witch of Sir Ned’s my way. ”