Page 49

N o sooner had Gunnilde entered the Queen’s chambers than she was accosted by Viscount Bardulf.

“Ah, Lady Wycliffe. Thank the gods . I was preparing for unmitigated boredom for the next hour. Come and sit with me.”

He was dressed today in a bright green tunic trimmed with gray fur.

Gunnilde especially admired his dark orange hose, and a very flashy gold chain he wore from shoulder to shoulder all set with large green stones.

They surely could not be emeralds, could they?

She sank down onto the cushioned bench next to him.

“Now, tell me what you have been about,” he said, propping himself on one elbow.

“For it is very dull here this morning. The Queen is yet to make an appearance.” He shot her a sideways glance.

“These days if she is not sequestered with the King in his apartments then she is shut away with The Bartree. It is too bad, really, none of her other ladies are given the opportunity to distinguish themselves. No doubt she will emerge when she is ready.”

“Yes,” Gunnilde agreed wistfully. “There was some mention of my being made a woman of the bedchamber when I first became one of her ladies-in-waiting, but I have not dared to try and muscle my way in there for fear Mistress Magnatrude would surely give me short shrift indeed.”

“You should try,” he told her promptly. “Just march in there and start folding the Queen’s stockings. What, pray, could Mistress Bartree do about it?”

“March me right back out again with my earlobe pinched between finger and thumb,” Gunnilde responded promptly.

He laughed. “You could be right. But really, faint heart never won fair maiden. Speaking of which, how goes your wooing? Apace I hope.”

Gunnilde gave a start. “What do you mean?” To her embarrassment she felt her face flame bright red.

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you not an acknowledged champion of lovers? I quite understood you espoused the cause of the lovelorn in the palace.”

“Oh.” Gunnilde relaxed. For one horrible moment, she had thought he was asking if she had managed to secure her own husband’s affections. “I had to give all that up when I married,” she explained. “James did not think it fitting that his wife should be instrumental in such a role.”

“Beneath his dignity, was it?” he asked dryly. Gunnilde shrugged. “And how is Sir James navigating married life?”

Gunnilde thought fleetingly of James passed out cold the night before and shivered. The whole thing had given her the most awful shock. “He is coping remarkably well,” she said, lifting her chin.

Viscount Bardulf’s eyes gleamed. “Is that so? I thought I caught a glimpse of him in a common tavern the other evening but perhaps I was mistaken. It certainly does not sound like something Sir James would partake in.”

Gunnilde’s eyes widened. “Did you not notice his companion?” she asked.

A smile played about his mouth. “I hope I am not so indiscreet as to speculate on her identity.”

“It was me,” she said bluntly, in case he had thought James had been consorting with some other woman. He laughed. “I am not remotely discreet,” Gunnilde admitted. “I think that is why the Queen likes me.”

He looked thoughtful. “You could be right.”

Gunnilde frowned. “I wonder that you did not introduce yourself.”

“I did not think you would appreciate me interrupting the two of you in that moment. You seemed very...occupied with one another.” His eyes held a distinct gleam, and it occurred to Gunnilde that he might have seen James fondling her feet.

She cleared her throat. “I take it that Lady Bardulf was not with you.”

He shook his head. “My Jane would not care for such an establishment. She is a jewel which shines brightest in the right setting.”

Gunnilde considered this. “Lady Bardulf is very lovely.”

“She is,” he responded at once. “She is my greatest treasure.”

The soft way he said it almost took Gunnilde’s breath away.

“How did she win your love?” she heard herself ask before she could stop herself.

“I ask for academic reasons, you understand,” she added quickly.

“Though I no longer dabble in affairs of the heart for others, I confess it is still an arena that interests me.” Stop talking, Gunnilde , she upbraided herself.

He tipped his head to one side. “In truth, Jane stole my heart before I was even aware of its existence. It was quite disconcerting at the time. But she sustains its survival outside of my chest through a hundred daily gestures.”

“Such as?” Gunnilde asked, clasping her hands together.

He gave her a considering look. “You are fond of apparel, are you not? Why don’t you try getting a gown made up with some device from your husband’s coat of arms,” he said, surprising her greatly. “Jane surprised me once by having serpentine devices beaded into her bodice.”

The memory seemed to carry him away for a moment and he smiled dreamily to himself before coming back down to earth. “It was most efficacious. Now, tell me, what beast does your husband’s family adopt for their crest? Some domestic animal perhaps with dull plumage and an uninspired appearance.”

Gunnilde eyed him sternly. “You are quite wrong, my lord, for the chivalric beast of the Wycliffes is a unicorn.”

“A unicorn, no less!” he exclaimed, looking impressed.

“That is certainly far more imaginative than I should have supposed. Well, henceforth, Lady Wycliffe, you must have your mittens embroidered with unicorns, your slippers emblazoned with unicorns, your buttons engraved with unicorns, your...” He paused as though struck by some notion.

“I have it! You must affect a unicorn’s horn as part of your hair arrangement!

Only think how striking it would be! And you are particularly known for your horns, are you not? ”

“A unicorn’s horn?” Gunnilde repeated skeptically. “How do you imagine I would go about affecting such a thing?”

“I have not the smallest notion, but you are a resourceful woman and could doubtless come up with something.”

“I think I prefer the idea of unicorn mittens and slippers,” she confessed. “Perhaps I could get some embroidered on my sleeves or bodice.”

“What about these things?” Viscount Bardulf suggested, flipping one of her snowy white tippets. “Could they not be adorned?”

“My tippets?”

“Is that what they are called?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Do you not know? But...how funny! They originated here in Aphrany with you, did they not?”

“With me?”

“Yes, for I saw you in some when I first came to court. You wore red ones over a black tunic, and I made sure to ask what they were called, for I thought them very striking. I was told they originated in Vlandivar and you were the first to wear them here at court.”

Lord Bardulf looked pleased. “I like to trial such fashions,” he said modestly, “but I often discard them just as quickly. It has been said of me, I believe, that I am such a leader of fashion that by the time the rest of court has caught up with me, I have long moved on.”

“But it was me that said that!” Gunnilde exclaimed, feeling gratified.

“Yes, I know,” he said, sketching her a bow. “A vastly pretty compliment, I thank you.”

“But how did you know?”

He tutted, “You must realize how things get overheard and passed along, my dear Lady Wycliffe. Court is positively rife with such whisperings. Besides, a very impudent young squire approached me and asked if I was the Lord Bardulf he had heard so much about. He quoted you as igniting his interest and asked for the name of my tailor.”

Gunnilde had just opened her mouth to find out of Hal’s friends that must have been when a small cough sounded at her elbow. Turning, she found Mistress Bartree’s page, Unwin, stood there. His hair was a good deal tidier than the last time she had seen him, he must have had a trim.

“My mistress sends her regards to Lady Wycliffe and requests her presence in the Queen’s bedchamber,” he announced with a bow.

“Well, aren’t you honored,” Lord Bardulf drawled.

Gunnilde blinked. “I will come at once,” she said, getting to her feet.

She turned to Lord Bardulf and bade him a good morning before hurrying after the boy’s slender figure.

She checked her appearance in the doorway, ensuring her coiled puffs were still tidily pinned at her brow, and that her ruby brooch was on straight.

On entering the Queen’s bedchamber she found only Mistress Bartree present. The older woman looked up from where she was tidying a box of jeweled pendants. “Lady Wycliffe,” she said curtly. “Sit you down. The Queen will be out presently.”

Gunnilde could only surmise that Queen Armenal was in her garderobe. She sank down onto a low seat and folded her hands to wait. “Is there nothing I can do to help? Perhaps I could—?”

“No,” the other woman responded shortly. “The Queen likes you because your prattle amuses her. Leave the tidying away and care of her to me. Some of us do not have your pretty ways. Let me serve her in the ways I can.” Her words came out half choked in their vehemence.

“You do not like me,” Gunnilde said matter-of-factly, “but I, too, must be allowed to wait on Queen Armenal.”

Mistress Bartree pursed her lips. “I realize that and have said my piece.”

Gunnilde suppressed a sigh. “I never thanked you for providing a ring for my wedding ceremony. It was kind of you. I will be able to let you have it back soon, for my husband has promised to procure me another.”

Mistress Bartree did not look up from her task. “I don’t want it back,” she said without emotion. “I no longer have use for it.”

Gunnilde glanced down at the ring which currently adorned her finger. “I assumed it must be a family piece,” she said.

“No.” The older woman averted her eyes. “Not my family anyway.”

So...it was given to her by another, Gunnilde surmised. A man? She eyed Mistress Bartree with interest. “It was given you by way of a love token?” she guessed boldly.