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“Yes, since you ask. Scarlet stockings and those ridiculous flimsy shoes of yours with the ties.”

“I see.” In spite of herself, Gunnilde was impressed he possessed such an inventory of her wardrobe. He had been paying more attention to her attire than she had ever realized. “After that we can address your hair,” he added coolly.

An hour later they were in the stands watching Kit compete in the long jumping final. Gunnilde’s hair was once more dressed in her signature style. She even wore ribbons twined about them to add a finishing touch.

In return for his high-handedness, Gunnilde had requested James don once more his new doublet and another pair of paneled stockings. He had complied without complaint, and they now looked as fine a pair as any present as they sat side by side in the audience.

So fine, in fact, that Viscount Bardulf had appeared at her side during one of the frequent breaks to complain.

According to him, it was too bad of her to make Wycliffe so polished and presentable.

Gunnilde had managed a genuine laugh at this and was grateful for his display of friendship, for she fancied she was being eyed with a good deal of speculation by the crowds.

The King was not in attendance today, so after Prince Raedan, the most celebrated spectators were probably the Marquess and Marchioness of Martindale. They had come to watch their squire, Robin Geddings, compete and were very vocal in shouting their encouragement to him.

“Yes, Rob!” shouted Lady Martindale. “Do not spare him!”

“Northerners,” Bardulf tutted. “So barbarous in their ways! I do like Lady Martindale’s headdress though, what say you?”

“It gives her a pleasing effect of height,” Gunnilde agreed. “But I think the black velvet is too conservative. She should wear brighter colors. Perhaps the same in a blue silk would be pleasing to the eye.”

“Hmmm,” Bardulf considered. “You could be right. She will end up losing it, if she does not refrain from hanging over the side of the stand like that.”

It seemed her husband agreed, for Lord Martindale drew her back, wrapping a protective arm about her shoulders. Gunnilde sighed. “They are a handsome couple, are they not? Lady Bardulf did not accompany you this day?”

“Alas, my poor Jane is recovering from a head cold at present.” His cynical expression softened. “I will permit her to do nothing but sit around wrapped in blankets, drinking syrup. I want her well for the Solstice.”

He stayed a good ten minutes before drifting away, and Neville got up to go and fetch them some refreshment leaving her and James alone in their box.

“Were you in love with Sir Douglas?” he asked her suddenly, his conversational tone so at variance with the question that it took a moment for its meaning to sink in.

“I will not take offense if you were ,” he continued in a measured voice, “for it happened before my time with you. Last night, I overreacted. I was...rude. I hope you will accept my apology.”

“I am not, and have never been in love with Sir Douglas!” Gunnilde burst out.

His shoulders relaxed. “I am glad to hear it.”

“What about you? Were you in love with Constance?” She really ought to have asked him this before, but gods, she had never actually considered that possibility at the beginning. She had been so sure that he was cold and unfeeling. Then later on, she had been too scared to ask.

“No, I was not,” he answered firmly.

They both stole sideways looks at one another. “Well, that’s alright, then. We have neither one of us ruined the other’s life,” she said, swallowing.

“Ruined?” He seemed surprised by her words. “No, I should say not.”

At this inopportune moment, they heard footsteps tramping down their stand. James looked over her shoulder and Gunnilde saw his look turn wary. She turned and found Sir Palmerston du Vrey, a senior member of the King’s guard, approaching, accompanied by two soldiers.

“Is it my imagination or are they heading toward us?” she asked nervously.

“It would appear so,” James answered grimly.

Sure enough, the footsteps came to a halt at the end of their line, and Sir Palmerston cleared his throat. “Sir James,” he greeted him. “The King has sent me to request your presence, and that of your good lady wife, imminently.”

“He did, did he? Where?” James enquired coolly.

“His Majesty awaits you in his throne room.”

Gunnilde’s heart sank. If the King was in his throne room then he was still presiding over Sir Elias Northcott’s appeal. They were being dragged into proceedings. And there would be an audience too, she thought numbly. An audience to this catastrophe.

“Very well,” James answered in a level voice. “We will accompany you there.”

“Wait!” cried Neville, who was clattering down the steps, wine jug in hand. “You must not proceed without your friends and family!” Setting down the wine on the steps, he started gesturing madly to the squires down on the field.

Immediately Hal, Cuthbert, and Kit detached themselves from the other squires and vaulted over the barrier to enter the crowd.

“But they will miss the last event,” Gunnilde pointed out. “Was Cuthbert not competing in it?”

“It is of no matter,” Neville answered dismissively. “We had decided all this beforehand. In any case, Kit has won his event.”

Accepting James’s proffered hand, Gunnilde stood up and allowed herself to be shepherded out of the stands to the accompaniment of much whispered speculation.