Page 106 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Oh yes.” Master Gregory nodded. “Though, for my part, rather less than I was used to.” He sighed. “A lot of my own contemporaries did not make old bones. They did not all have dutiful daughters to look after them,” he added ruefully.

“Mistress Justina seems a very capable woman,” Gunnilde concurred.

“Oh, she is that,” he agreed with a chuckle. “She makes sure I join her at table and clear my plate at mealtimes! I am very fortunate to have two young people who care for me.” His eyes traveled fondly over James, then he seemed to remember present company and turned back to her. “And your, er, own situation, my dear? Your father is...?”

“My father has a young wife to take care of him,” Gunnilde said cheerfully. “He has no need of a daughter to keep him in good health.”

“I see, I see.” He nodded. “And you have, er, brothers and sisters?”

“I have a brother, Hal. We look out for each other. He is at the palace now as a matter of fact. Fortunately, he and James seem to deal fairly well with one another.”

“That is important,” Master Gregory said fervently. “Marion and I often wished we had been blessed with more than one child but alas, it was not meant to be.”

“Marion was your wife?”

“Yes, indeed.” His eyes grew even more watery. “She was a good woman. Down to earth, like Justina, but a man like myself needed a good practical wife to keep my feet on the ground. She kept the hearth swept and the rent paid. Without her, I would have been quite lost.”

“I hope with time, I may become invaluable to James,” she admitted wistfully.

“Oh, I am sure you already occupy a place of great significance, my dear. Why, James told me himself what a clever and educated young lady he was betrothed to.”

An unpleasant jolt ran through her as she realized he must have been describing Constance. He would hardly have described her in such terms. She cleared her throat. A swift change of subject seemed the best stratagem. “You must have met James’s parents many times over the years, I think,” she said with a brittle smile.

The older man frowned. “Not as often as you might think. When James was a young boy, I visited Wycliffe Hall for his lessons. After that he came to my abode in Caer Lyoness. His mother would write to me to check on his progress as a student, but rare was the occasion we actually met. I daresay I have never met his father above twice in my life.”

“I see,” she answered thoughtfully. “And how many years have you lived now in Aphrany?”

“Oh, it must be above some six or seven years now,” he decided. “My daughter married, and I moved here with her. Happily, James winters in Aphrany with the royal court, so I still see plenty of him.” He beamed good-naturedly. “I have been fortunate indeed.”

They spent the next hour pleasantly enough. Master Gregory meandered through the room retrieving various instruments and returning to the settle to demonstrate how they were played. A good few of them it seemed were his own, though he thought of them as much James’s these days.

“My fingers are so stiff some days, I can scarce manipulate the strings. Besides, Justina prefers them to be confined to the attic. She says I have a tendency to let my paraphernalia trickle down the staircase.” He pulled a contrite face. “I’ve always needed a lot of organizing,” he confessed, making Gunnilde laugh. For a moment there had been something of the scolded boy about him, despite his wrinkles.

Soon after, two of James’s musician friends arrived, a short, friendly individual called Arthur Billingsley and a tall, quiet fellow named William Chamberlain. They carried instruments of their own over their shoulders and spent a couple of hours learning the piece with James before he declared it was time to set off for Barnabus Hall.

They had only a twenty-minute walk, which would have been more like ten if they had not been accompanied by Master Gregory, still no one seemed to mind. The musicians all carried two instruments apiece, and Gunnilde took Master Gregory’s arm, more to steady him than for an escort.

They made quite a merry party as they started down the street. Gunnilde looked about with interest for though she had visited Aphrany a few times since her arrival in the capital, she did not know it well. The quarter they were frequenting today appeared to be filled with workshops, producing pottery and textile goods.

On reaching Barnabus Hall they found a raggle-taggle bunch of musicians awaiting them on the threshold, stamping their feet and blowing on their fingers to keep out the cold. James introduced her to two of their number, Jim Horsham and Thomas Sanders.

It appeared the others had tagged along with them and James needed an introduction as well as she, although a couple of them he appeared to know by sight or reputation. They did not tarry long outside the hall, for it was cold without and the air was damp.

Inside, Gunnilde sat quietly on a wooden bench, as the others moved up the front to set up. She kept her gloves and cloak on, for there was no fire and the dark wood interior of the building was not terribly warm.

By this point she was familiar with the haunting refrain of the piece, for she had heard James, Arthur, and William practicing snatches of it back at Master Gregory’s. Now, she got to hear several of the disjointed parts played together by a variety of different instruments. It did not take long before she got swept up in the music.

Every time they stopped to go over some passage that did not sound to James’s liking, she had to bite back her protest. It sounded divine! More than anything she wanted to hear it played all the way through!

Having said that, listening to Arthur Billingsley piping out a lilting melody by himself had her sitting up straight in her seat to hear him. He was certainly a very accomplished musician. After his solo, they all stood up in turn and played their parts separately. James pulled a couple of them aside, correcting them on certain notes and making them go over it again. Finally, he had them play certain sections in unison. Gunnilde found herself craning forward and clutching her mittens together tightly. If only poetry was as enthralling, she thought breathlessly. Then she would understand why it was so popular!

Finally, after many false starts, they played continuously for several minutes without interruption, and at the close of it, Gunnilde found her face wet with tears. How beautiful and heart-breakingly tragic and truly wonderful it was, she thought, using her mitten to mop up her tears.

As the splendor of the music faded, she felt suspended for a moment in a sublime reverie where all hopes and cares of the real world had faded away, leaving her quite at peace. She was not sure how long she sat there feeling strangely moved. Only that as the feeling faded, other less blissful thoughts intruded.

Along with her realization that James was incredibly talented, an uncomfortable awareness stole over her of her own stupidity. How utterly ridiculous she had been thinking that she could help James direct his gift into more appropriate channels. She cringed to think of her avowals to secure him more success, of her efforts to make him write instead a ballad.

Her cheeks flushed hot to remember how she had assured him that she would aid him with his career at court. What a little fool he must have thought her! No wonder he had not taken her seriously. How she must have embarrassed him with such talk. Biting her lip, Gunnilde resolved never to mention such a stupid thing again.