Page 10 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Have Sir James fetched hither immediately,” the Queen instructed. “Gunnilde, you will go into my bedchamber and await my summons there. You may look over my Book of Days. It is generally much admired.”

Gunnilde stood amazed, but Mistress Bartree caught her elbow and directed her along the passage to the Queen’s spacious bedchamber. “So, I just...sit in here?” she asked, gazing about her at the sumptuous furnishings and decoration.

Magnatrude Bartree gestured toward a stand bearing a gorgeously illustrated book gleaming with gold leaf. “Her Majesty gave you gracious instruction how to employ yourself,” she said sternly. “Do not touch anything else.” She backed out of the room, her beady eyes still fixed on Gunnilde till the last.

Gunnilde watched her retreat, still open-mouthed. What in heaven’s name was happening? She could not seem to grasp the situation at all. And to which Sir James was the Queen referring? There were several that Gunnilde was aware of.

There was Sir James Attley of course, the knight under whose tutelage her brother was currently learning the ways of knighthood. There was also Sir James Henderson, an old crony of her father’s, though it was unlikely he had been to court in the past fifty years. There was even that disagreeable Sir James Wycliffe, she reflected, pulling a face.

Sir James Attley was perhaps the most likely, she decided desperately. Mayhap Hal had come to court at last? The letter she received from home had indicated she would likely see him soon, for the last tournament of the year had taken place at the end of October and the next was not until March.

But then, why would Gunnilde find herself in hot water over Sir James Attley’s appearance? A sudden uneasiness entered her soul. Sir James was a close friend of Sir Roland Vawdrey and Sir Ned Bevan... But it couldn’t be anything to do with that business, she told herself firmly. It was just on her mind from the version of events she had told the Queen. Sir James had not even been at Vawdrey Keep that time.

A small page in pale blue hose appeared in the doorway, his hair almost obscuring his eyes. “If it please you, my mistress has sent me to see if you have need of aught,” he said obligingly.

“Your mistress?”

He straightened up proudly, whisking his hair out of his eyes. “Mistress Bartree.”

She had her own page? Why was Gunnilde not surprised? “How kind,” she said brightly. “What is your name, child?”

“’Tis Unwin, miss.”

“Well, Unwin, I would be most grateful if you would come and keep me company a while.” She smiled at him. “It would be a great kindness in you for I am somewhat afeared sat here all alone in a queen’s bedchamber.”

His thin chest puffed out and he advanced into the room. “You needn’t be afeared, miss,” he assured her cautiously. “You have full permission to take your ease.”

“Until the Queen calls me,” she agreed, lowering herself onto the window seat and patting the cushion beside her.

“That won’t be for a while,” Unwin said with confidence as he crossed the room to join her. “That Sir James is in with her now and he’ll take a time, for he’d a face like thunder.” A certain relish entered his manner at the retelling.

“Sir James?” Gunnilde seized on this eagerly. She cleared her throat. “Now which Sir James would you be referring to, I wonder? Sir James Attley?” she asked hopefully.

“Attley? Nay, that’s not his name,” Unwin responded, shaking his head. “Isn’t he the one attends the royal tournaments?”

“Yes, that is so,” Gunnilde agreed absently. “Well, if not him, then perhaps ’tis my old neighbor from home, Sir James Henderson?” she ventured, however unlikely the scenario that her father’s friend should journey to court. Mayhap there was some news from home, she thought, desperately clutching at straws.

“Nay, I never heard tell of any Henderson,” Unwin replied, blowing his hair out of his eyes. Really, Mistress Bartree should get the child’s hair trimmed. He looked at her expectantly, as though keen to hear her next guess.

“Um, well, is not that council member with the limp called Sir James something?” Gunnilde quavered.

“That’s Sir Jacob Brentford,” Unwin corrected her, looking smug.

“I can’t think of any more,” Gunnilde lied, sending the child a sidelong look.

“Would you like a clue?” Unwin asked obligingly.

She nodded. “Yes, please.”

“It’s that handsome one that always looks so moody. The one what writes the music.”

Gunnilde’s heart sank down to her slippered feet. “Not...Sir James Wycliffe,” she said hollowly.

A grin broke over Unwin’s face. “The very same,” he said, swinging his legs. “He don’t half look mad. Do you want to know a secret?” he asked, leaning in close. Almost against her better judgment, Gunnilde nodded again. “I heard tell his betrothed up and left him for another!” Unwin confided hoarsely. “Vanished in the night.”

Gunnilde gasped. “Did she really?” Constance? Constance did that? Highly proper and dignified Constance ran off into the night with Sir Douglas? She could scarcely believe it, feeling both equal parts gratified and shocked. Oh, Sir Douglas must be quite giddy with joy, she thought, flushing with pleasure. How thrilled she was for him. Never had a knight striven harder to win his maiden’s favor.

Unwin nodded, looking pleased by her response. “Only you can’t tell no one,” he warned. “It’s all a big secret and the families don’t want it to get out. The Queen herself is handling the matter and promised to seek out the guilty parties and make sure repar—repar—” He gave up on the word. “Justice is done,” he concluded.