Page 69

T he first day of the Revels’ finals dawned crisp and cold. Gunnilde slipped from the bed and padded over to the window to gaze out at the December morn. It looked like a hard ground frost, though mercifully no snow had fallen to spoil the events.

Picking up her mantle, she threw it over her shoulders and returned to the bed where James was still sleeping.

Bennett had not yet lit the fires and the room was chilly.

She turned to look down at James’s sleeping face, brushing his curling auburn hair out of his eyes. She felt so terribly proud of him.

They had not actually returned to their rooms until the early hours, as their guests had shown a remarkable reluctance to disperse.

There had been much excitement over the evening’s entertainment, the excellence of the food, Hal’s scuffle, which to Gunnilde’s surprise many ladies seemed inclined to view as the height of chivalry, and lastly the debut of “I Dare Not Show the Love I Owe,” whose reception had surpassed even her wildest dreams.

There could be no doubt that this would bring an influx of new patrons. Even last night, several courtiers had approached her with a view to engaging James’s services. Others had enquired when next his masterpiece was being performed, as they wanted friends or family to hear it.

Gunnilde was certain that he would soon be in great demand, and it was all down to his own merit. Even Mistress Bartree had been quite won over by his music. She had been most gracious to the musicians and when asked, had professed herself both honored and humbled by his work.

James stirred, and Gunnilde held her breath.

Mistress Bartree had not been the only one who had been uncharacteristically quiet the night before.

At the latter end of the evening, James had appeared quiet and reticent.

Mayhap the music sapped all his energy? He rolled onto his back and flung out an arm. “What time is it?”

“Early. Bennett has not come yet.”

“Hmm.” He opened one eye. “Of course, he could be neglecting us again, after giving his undivided service yesterday,” he suggested.

“True.” Gunnilde touched the tips of her cold toes to James’s leg, and he frowned.

“Have you been up already?” he asked, reaching down to seize her feet in his warm grasp. “Why are your feet so cold?”

“I just went to look out of the window,” she confessed. “I wanted to make sure it had not snowed. ’Tis the first official day of the Revels after all.”

He snorted. “They’ve been rumbling on for at least two weeks now.”

“Yes, but the winners will be crowned at the end of this week.”

“How do you feel this morning?” he asked, still rubbing her feet. “Happy with how it went last night?”

“Of course, how could I fail to be?”

He shrugged and looked evasive. “Bevan and his witch did not show up.”

“No, they didn’t, did they?” she ruminated. “But I do not think we can take offence for his invitation was issued quite late.” He slanted a glance her way but made no comment. “Why do you look at me like that?”

“No reason. I was just considering the original intent of the occasion,” he responded.

“The original intent?” Gunnilde queried.

“Well, yes. It wasn’t to debut my music, or even celebrate the impending Revels, was it?”

Gunnilde was silent a moment. “No,” she agreed, withdrawing her feet from his lap. “It was for me to lord it over my former acquaintance, was it not? To make them bitterly regret spurning me.” She lifted her chin. “Tell me, James,” she asked quietly, “do you think I fell short of my aim?”

“Certainly not,” he answered promptly. “You had two royals show up, no less. Your childhood friend was chastened, and Conway looked like he would fall at your feet given only the slightest opportunity.”

“You think so? Then why do you imagine I might be disappointed with how things went?” He did not speak. “Because Sir Ned did not show up?” Gunnilde persisted. “I told you, we are now quite reconciled. I harbor no ill will toward him.”

James’s expression hardened. “I am not so forgiving as you it seems.”

Had he woken on the wrong side of the bed this morning?

Gunnilde surveyed him doubtfully. “Did you speak to your cousin Lady Gilchrist last night? Only she seemed a little preoccupied. She asked me if you had shared the contents of your mother’s last letter with me, and I was forced to admit you had not. ”

He grimaced. “Trust me, there was precious little worth imparting. My mother is one of those distant, discontented types. Always taking offence at something or other.”

What sort of things? Gunnilde wondered, pleating the bedsheets. “The Queen spoke to you a good deal last night,” she ventured.

“Yes,” he agreed grumpily.

“Did she mention your mother’s letter at all?”

“No, she was talking about something else entirely.” At her querying look, he added offhandedly, “My being appointed royal musician.”

Gunnilde’s heart thudded. “Really? Did she...did she offer you the post?”

“She said she would speak to the King about it. She seemed fairly confident about it, however.”

“But that’s...that’s wonderful, James. Isn’t it?” Gunnilde was puzzled. Surely this was good news. Why did he look so discontented?

“Is it?” he asked irritably. “She seemed to think you were set against the idea?”

Gunnilde stared at him. “I?”

He shrugged. “That’s what she said.”

“But I’ve never...” Vague memories drifted back into Gunnilde’s head.

A disagreement with Mistress Bartree where she had denied she was currying favor purely to secure such an appointment for her husband.

She flushed. “Oh! But that was merely a discussion of vague ideas at that time! It was never mentioned as an actual possibility!”

No wonder he was out of sorts, Gunnilde thought, her heart sinking.

He must think she had been trying to sabotage his career, not promote it.

“At the time I had that foolish notion that you might achieve acclaim through writing ballads,” she said desperately.

“Please believe me, James. I would never have willfully jeopardized—”

A bump on the door heralded Bennett’s arrival, and he pushed it open with an armful of logs, making for the fireplace, eyes carefully averted. James swung his legs out of the bed and cleared his throat.

“Is Master Neville still abed?” he enquired of Bennett.

“I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him this morn,” Bennett answered. “Likely he’s still snoring his head off, after all that dancing into the small hours. Those musician friends of yours didn’t pack up until long past midnight.”

“He did dance a good deal, did he not?” Gunnilde said brightly. “He danced with both Harriet and Winifred unprompted, which pleased me greatly.”

“It’s who your brother danced with that might cause more of an issue,” James said dryly. “He will soon be getting a reputation where women are concerned if he is not careful.”

Gunnilde bit her lip. She supposed by stuffy Wycliffe standards Hal had caused something of a scene. Doubtless his family would be appalled to hear of brawling at a banquet held in their family name. She knew full well her own father would only laugh and call it youthful high spirits.

Belatedly, it dawned on Gunnilde that this was yet another reason for him being out of temper.

How foolish she had been thinking the night had been an unqualified success!

He must think her the veriest simpleton for saying so.

Likely, it was only just occurring to him how much of a liability she was proving to be as his wife.

Two hours later they stood shivering in the wooden stands watching the lance toss final. Even Neville, who had been so enthusiastic about the Revels, seemed somewhat depressed in spirits, though Gunnilde suspected that might be due to how much wine he had imbibed the night before.

The final two had been whittled down to Cosgrave and a young man named Willard Peyton. It was a close-run thing. Neville managed a rousing cheer when Cosgrave took the honors, then relapsed into moody silence.

Gunnilde pulled her cloak tighter about her, willing her teeth not to chatter in the bitter December air.

She noticed several of her fellow ladies-in-waiting packing out the stand opposite them.

Not the maturer of their number like Osanna Spencer or Margaret Pryor but the younger faction were there in droves.

Even Lucy Melvin, who turned her nose up at everything.

Estrilda caught her eye at that moment and waved a scarf enthusiastically in her direction.

Gunnilde waved and nodded back. She felt quite relieved about the distance between them so she would not have to answer any quizzing about Hal.

According to Neville he was not particularly strong in this event and was conserving himself for the wrestling which was next.

She had caught only one glimpse of her brother so far that morning, when he had helped set up the targets for the spear throwing.

He had been wearing a pale blue scarf tied about his upper arm.

Nervously, she wondered whose colors he was displaying now, before casting the thought out of her mind.

Hal’s amours were the least of her problems.

“I cannot see Lady Portstanley here or her daughter,” Neville said in desultory tones, peering out of his hood.

Gunnilde wondered if there was a reason he was avoiding saying Harriet’s name aloud.

Her eyes met with James’s before she quickly looked away.

She did not want him to think she was plotting and scheming love matches once again.

“Did they promise to attend?” James asked after a significant pause. “Only the Revels don’t really seem like their sort of thing at all.”

“They may have intimated as much, depending on the weather,” Neville replied with a casualness that did not seem entirely genuine. “I am surprised they find it too inclement to venture out. Despite the cold, it is a clear, bright day after all.”

“Harriet has something of a weak chest, I believe,” Gunnilde said. “If it is too cold, it can cause her to cough.”

Neville’s frown relaxed. “She is quite delicate,” he agreed. “Mayhap I will call on her after and let her know how the Revels went.”

Privately, Gunnilde did not think Harriet would care much who could throw a lance the furthest, but then she remembered her friend’s sparkling eyes as Neville had led her into the dance. She might appreciate his visit after all.

A buzzing and jostling started through the stands, and Gunnilde turned her head to see what was causing the commotion.

To her surprise it was the arrival of the King, escorted by four of his King’s guard.

Sir Symond was conspicuous in his absence.

The King crossed to where Prince Raedan was seated under a royal canopy with Dustin sat in his lap.

The King joined him there and more chairs were carried across to seat his retinue.

“Well, I never did see such a thing!” Neville exclaimed. “Have you ever known Wymer to attend the Squires’ Revels before?”

James shook his head. “This will be down to your brother,” he said, addressing Gunnilde.

“Do you really think so?”

He nodded. “Wymer arrives just as Hal’s best event is about to commence. It cannot be a coincidence.”

Neville coughed. “Actually, Hal is the heavy favorite for both the wrestling and the staff fighting,” he pointed out with pride.

“Though he has some stiff competition today. Gordon Fairfax is a strong competitor.” Gunnilde hid her smile.

The friendship of James’s brother with her own still pleased her and gave her hope that perhaps their families were not so very incompatible after all.

“Here they come now,” James announced, and Gunnilde leaned forward, laying one gloved hand on the wooden barrier before them. She would concentrate on the Revels and put all else from her mind for now.