Page 9

I t was dark in the Great Hall, a huge fire blazed, and the room was lit up by dozens of candles. Excitedly, Gunnilde peered around, making note of all the nobles present. There was Lord Vawdrey and his countess, and there was Lord and Lady Schaeffer, and Viscount Bardulph and his wife, Lady Jane.

Further down the table were other ladies-in-waiting who Gunnilde hoped to get to know better now that she was one of their number—the beauteous Frances Lessimore, the dashing Osanna Spencer, and even the fascinating Lady Wymarka.

It occurred to Gunnilde that if she worked very hard to please the Queen, she, too, might get an epithet one day.

What could hers be? Gunnilde the daringly dressed?

Her heart beat faster even at the thought of it.

How many times had she watched the Queen’s ladies drifting around the royal gardens and fervently wished she, too, was permitted to mingle among them?

Instead, she had been forced to trail sadly in the wake of Harriet and her bookish friend Winifred Hawes until she had found some acquaintances of her own among the wider court.

The trouble with the new friends she had found was that once she had helped them untangle their love lives, they invariably went off to live a happily wedded life and she never saw them again. Colette Linfield was one such.

She had really liked Colette and believed they would be friends forever, but since she had left court, Gunnilde had not received a single letter from her.

The same was true of Mary Kingston. Once she had a betrothal secured, she had flitted back to rural obscurity, for she had come to court in the first place only to make her curtsey and find a spouse.

Even when Gunnilde had managed to befriend the popular Constance Northcott, it had not helped her own position one bit, for Constance moved between groups and did not seemingly mix their members of her own accord.

Besides, she had only managed to befriend Constance by pretending she, too, was interested in intellectual pursuits and that had been a big fat lie.

It had not taken long before Gunnilde had found out she was sadly unsuited for any of the meetings and societies that Eden so adored.

The lectures set her yawning, the music recitals set her eyelids drooping, and as for the poetry readings!

My gods, the sessions left her confused and scratching her head.

What in the world were these men twittering on about?

At least she did not have to pretend to be clever anymore!

Gunnilde gazed proudly down at the ruby brooch with three teardrop pearls that the Queen herself had bestowed upon her.

It now graced the front of her bodice, and Gunnilde could not keep her eyes from it, even as the celebration carried on around her.

The Queen and founder of the feast sat at the head of the table, toasting them and receiving congratulations on the appointment of her new lady-in-waiting. Gunnilde and her new husband sat midtable, surrounded by well-wishers and the premier courtiers of the land.

It did not really feel like a wedding celebration, but Gunnilde did not mind that, for she did not really feel married. Back home in Tranton Vale such an occasion would have been a very different affair. It would have been a joyous and boisterous occasion with much laughter, singing and shouting.

All of her family’s friends and neighbors would have been there to join the festivities. Gunnilde and her stepmother would have planned every roasted joint of meat, and any troubadour in the vicinity would have been welcome to come to Payne Manor and perform for them in her father’s hall.

For a moment, the contrast made her feel almost forlorn. Then she reminded herself that the groom her father had picked out for her had gone off to marry another. And in any case, she had wanted different things.

She had wanted to be a lady-in-waiting. She had wanted a place at court, and here at court, things were done differently. She nodded. Yes, this was what she wanted, and here at court, wedding feasts were not occasions of unbridled merriment. They were instead restrained and decorous.

In any event, there was music, for there were a couple of lute players strumming a tune of sorts in the gallery. There were no rousing words to sing along, and it was not the kind of tune you could clap in time to or shout out “Hie!” at the chorus, but all the same there was entertainment of sorts.

Mentally, she composed the letter home she would write, telling them of the refinement of the occasion. She would devote a whole page describing her brooch, she decided. That ought to distract them from the lack of a bride chase or any attendant horseplay. No one had even asked for her garter.

The King appeared shortly before the first course, and even he seemed well-disposed tonight, for instead of demanding who she was, he looked over Gunnilde and said, “Ah, very good, very good.” Strangely, the glance he sent toward the groom was not so benevolent.

“Not going to play us a tune, are you, Wycliffe?” he asked with foreboding. “I thought I’d send for Master Robkin this eve.”

Gunnilde clapped her hands with delight before noticing the Queen’s frown. Quickly, she lowered her hands.

“Like the royal jester, do you?” the King asked her, looking encouraged.

“Oh yes, sire!” Gunnilde confessed. “Though I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing him at such close quarters before.”

“A girl after my own heart!” the King pronounced, sitting back in his seat. “Well, we cannot disappoint the bride, now, can we?” he asked, turning to his wife.

Queen Armenal sighed and tilted her head in acquiescence, and the King snapped his fingers. “Have Master Robkin brought forth!” he bellowed.

Gunnilde bit her lip and glanced at her bridegroom, who was sitting very still beside her. Had she said the wrong thing? A sudden thought occurred to her. “Did you wish to perform a piece of your music for all present?” she guessed in a low voice.

“No, I did not,” he replied crisply. “I can think of nothing I would like less.”

Well...that was alright, then. For a moment, she had been worried she had deprived him of some great opportunity. Gunnilde relaxed.

“I do not like jesters,” he elaborated unexpectedly. “Rather like cats, they always know it and determine to single me out for their attention. I imagine as a bridegroom my lot will be even worse than usual.”

He did look very tense, Gunnilde reflected.

Unexpectedly, her heart went out to him.

Here she was all happy and content with her new position, her beautiful new brooch, and her seat at the table among all the exalted company.

And beside her sat Sir James, whose lot was now tied to her own, feeling quite the opposite.

She really knew very little about the man, other than him being a cold fish and the fact he was considered an accomplished musician.

What an awkward thing it must be, to write and perform music but hate to have an audience!

Maybe that was why he was always so moody.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you,” she vowed aloud and shifted a little closer to him on the bench.

He sent her a startled look. “You will?”

She nodded. It was the least she could do, especially as it was partly her fault Master Robkin had been summoned.

“Why do you look so surprised? Am I not your helpmeet in life now?” This question appeared to take him back even more, and seemingly he had no answer to it, for he opened and closed his mouth without saying a word.

“Is it the riddles you do not like?” she pressed on. “Or—?”

“I do not like any of it,” he said shortly. “I would much rather be left in peace.”

That seemed rather a lot to hope for, considering the circumstances. Gunnilde chewed her lip. “Mayhap we will be lucky, and he will content himself amusing the King?”

He sent her a skeptical look. “You think so?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “But never fear. I will support you.” She reached across and patted his hand reassuringly, then turned her head excitedly as jolly piping music heralded the arrival of the jester.

The next half hour, Gunnilde spent laughing so hard at Master Robkin’s antics that tears rolled down her face.

She did not forget her husband’s plight however, and whenever the jester’s attention turned their way, she would purposely command James’s attention, so he did not sit there like a startled deer in the hunter’s sights.

He had been quite right, she realized. The jester’s attention seemed instinctively drawn to those in the crowd that did not overly relish the entertainment he offered.

She needed to do whatever she could to shield her new spouse from Master Robkin’s ridicule.

He had been through enough this day already.

After the first few times she cupped her fingers about his ear to whisper “Pretend I am explaining the joke to you,” or clapped her fingers to his cheek to turn his face toward the goblet she was holding up to him, he seemed to accept her ministrations without resisting.

Indeed, when the jester started prancing down the hall purposely toward them, he panicked and grabbed at her sleeve, turning instinctively toward her. Immediately, Gunnilde whisked up off the bench and dropped down into his lap.

Only she could see the expression on James’s terse face. “Don’t be afraid,” she said earnestly, placing a hand on either side of his face. “Trust me.” Taking a deep breath, she squashed her face up against his, squeezing her eyes shut.

James tensed for a long instant, then she felt him relax against her, his breath warm against her lips. Had he spoken? She opened one eye and saw the jester’s striped tunic of yellow and blue hovering close by . Oh no!