Page 32 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Ballad? Which ballad?”

“I forget which one, but I’m pretty sure it had a Fair Margaret and a Sweet William in it.”

“That describes at least two thirds of the wretched things,” he answered with a curl of his lip. “It’s always fair someone and their lover who is neither sweet nor constant.”

“You are not a lover of ballads?” She turned her head sharply to look at him. “And you a musician!” In truth, she was more shocked by that than a knight who did not like jousting.

He shrugged his shoulder. “Their stories annoy me. They are always so dissatisfactory and so seldom make any sense.”

“How can you say so? Why, there are so very many of them to choose from. Sad ballads, tragic ballads, ballads where they all come to nasty endings, fantastical ballads where they get transformed into beasts—”

He turned to look at her. “That is precisely my point,” he interrupted. “Scarcely anyone is ever rewarded or punished as they ought to be. Cheaters, liars, even murderers frequently get away with their sins. Others suffer and perish for no reason at all. Sometimes the characters change from lover to brother, to father or son. Everyone has the same name and the story is all jumbled up and usually there is no moral within at all. It...irritates me.”

Gunnilde regarded him with interest. “What about poetry?” she asked. “Do you like that?”

“It depends,” he said cautiously. “The quality of poetry you come across in the palace can differ wildly.”

She sighed wistfully. “I wish I liked poetry, for it is very popular at court at present.”

“You do not care for it?”

“No, for I find poetry dissatisfactory. If you find ballads lacking, then I feel the same about poetry.”

He was silent a moment, and she thought he had dropped the subject. Then all of a sudden he asked grudgingly, “What is it you find so dissatisfactory about it exactly?”

“Well, I can never make out its meaning,” she explained eagerly. “On the page, it appears to be simply describing a yew tree or a cowslip and then everyone sits around and claps and says how terribly clever it is to reveal the truth about the nature of life or the humanity of man. It is all quite unfathomable to me.”

Unexpectedly, James laughed.

“It is not funny,” Gunnilde grumbled. “I can never penetrate the meaning, and I had to stop attending the poetry meet for I felt sure everyone would find me out.”

“I expect half the people there could not understand it,” he said dismissively.

“Constance even told me once that—” She bit off her words, looking suddenly stricken. “Oh, er—”

“What?” James asked. “What did she tell you?”

“Oh, I would rather not say, if you don’t mind. It is not really a fit subject for your ears,” she said apologetically.

“Not a fit subject for my ears?” he repeated, looking stunned.

“Yes, for you are very...proper, are you not?” She licked her lips nervously and James’s expression wavered from startled to something else, then back again. “After all, you said yourself that you do not like wine, wenches, and song.”

“When did I—? What the hells do you mean by that?” he said. “You hardly need to shield my ears from the conversation of two gently reared young women!”

Gunnilde regarded him with dismay. Oh dear, had she insulted him? “It’s just that, well, I don’t want you think I’m, um, trying to blacken anyone’s reputation!” she gabbled, feeling her cheeks turn hot as she grew increasingly flustered. “And you see, it was purely a misunderstanding! Poor Sir Douglas did not intend any offence by it, I am sure!”

“Sir Douglas? What the hells has he to do with this?”

Feeling quite overwhelmed by the vehemence of his reaction, and her own culpability in the affair, Gunnilde covered her face with her hands. The bed lurched and suddenly, his hands were at her wrists, dragging them from her face. He loomed above her. “Tell me, Gunnilde,” he said sternly. “Now.”

Gunnilde stared at him, her breath coming fast. “Oh! It was...really nothing,” she panted. “Just, silly really. But you see, I never dreamed that poetry could be improper, so you see, I wanted to ask her about it, but of course, Constance had burned it, so I never got to see it after all.” She could not keep the wistfulness from her voice.

“Constance burned what?” he asked tersely. Gunnilde’s hands were now pinned on either side of her head against the mattress and James was half on top of her. She could scarcely think, let alone breathe!

“The lewd poem!” she blurted.

James stared down at her, but to Gunnilde’s surprise, instead of holding her gaze, his eyes roamed over her face, resting more on her lips than anywhere. “What lewd poem?” he asked huskily.