Page 50 of A Most Forgettable Girl

James looked startled. “Does she have a mysterious and tragic past?” he asked with surprise.

“Yes, she does, and everyone knows of it,” Gunnilde answered with exasperation. “Why is it you never know anything of your fellow courtiers?” she puzzled aloud.

Instead of answering this, James set down his knife. “How is her past tragic?” he asked, sounding like he was not entirely sure he wanted to know.

Gunnilde brightened, ignoring his grudging tone. “Well,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “The way I heard tell, her castle was burned to a blackened shell when the north fell, and she was left to molder in a virtual ruin for years until her brother sent for her. And in that time, she had transformed from a young and beauteous maiden into the cold, embittered woman we all know now.”

She clasped her hands together, quite entranced with the image she had created. “Can you not picture her, James? Walking up and down the ruins, growing paler and gaunter and older, rather like a ghost herself.” She shivered pleasurably. “Is that not high romance?”

James did not look convinced. “It merely sounds dismal to me. And the mystery you mentioned? Wherein does that lie?”

“Ah well,” Gunnilde said, holding up a finger. “I suspect there was a romance once, buried deep beneath the pyres. Who knows, but that the embers do not still smolder. Look,” she said, drawing off the gold ring from her wedding finger and passing it to him.

“I have already seen it,” he said, but took it all the same.

“Look closer! There is a lover’s inscription running around the band.”

He turned the ring to the light and read aloud, “I cannot show the love I owe.” He frowned. “Doesn’t sound much like an avowal of love,” he said critically before passing it back.

Gunnilde was annoyed by his dismissive words. “There could be a hundred reasons why he could not outright declare himself!” she said impatiently as she slipped it back onto her finger. “You just have to use a little imagination.”

“I must be lamentably lacking in imagination”—James shrugged—“for none spring to mind.”

Gunnilde gave a huff of breath. “Well, what if...I don’t say this is the truth of the matter, mind you, but what if her lover was committed to another?”

James appeared to be struggling with the idea of the Queen’s current favorite embroiled in an illicit love affair. He shook his head and opened his mouth. Before he could answer, Gunnilde bounced up in her seat. “I can see you are about to say something disparaging, so I beg you will not trouble to speak. And before you lecture me, I will add that I have no intention of sharing that scandalous theory with aught but you. And you do not count.”

“Why do I not count?” he asked, bristling at once at the perceived slight.

“Because you are my husband,” she explained. “It does not signify when I confess to a scurrilous thought if it is only to you. For you are required to conceal all my faults and flaws from others as though they are your own, is that not so?”

He looked taken aback by the sentiment. “And will you perform that same office for me?” he asked, a pucker between his brows.

“Of course,” she responded without hesitation. “It is all part of the pact of married life.” She picked up her goblet and held it aloft. After a moment’s pause, James echoed the gesture, and they tapped their drinking vessels together.

“To the pact of married life,” he echoed, a thoughtful expression on his face.

15

James felt annoyed with his behavior as he divested himself of his clothes before bed. He had been surly company over supper he was sure, and resentful of stupid things that were of no consequence. Gunnilde would start thinking she had married a sullen fellow with nothing to recommend him.

She had carried the brunt of the conversation as it was and given him much grace. Neville always complained he was snappish and prickly in private life, but James had not cared much what his younger brother thought. It was different with a wife though. He needed to indulge her more if she was to carry on tolerating him as a spouse. He shot a sidelong look at her as she tipped her basin of used washing water out of the window.

“The rest of the jug is yours,” she said, straightening the wash and dry cloths and approaching the bed. She dropped her mantle and James hastily looked away from the view of his wife in her see-through shift as she clambered into bed. He cleared his throat but disappointingly could think of nothing to say as he crossed to the washbasin and began his ablutions.

“What would you say,” Gunnilde began tentatively, “if I asked you to take me out in Aphrany one evening a week?” She was lying down now with her hands folded across her stomach.

He dropped his washcloth in the basin and had to fish it back out again. “Yes,” he answered briefly. “I would say yes.” It was the least he could do. He did not have to turn his head to know she would be all smiles at this. It was faintly embarrassing that so little would satisfy her.

“Wait,” she said guiltily, “for I have not yet explained to what type of establishment I wish you to take me.”

James shook the water from his eyes and turned to contemplate her. She had started pleating the bedsheet between her fingers. He had seen her do this before. She must do it when she was nervous, he realized. She was also refusing to meet his gaze with her own. “Just where is it you wish to go?” he asked suspiciously.

“To a tavern,” she answered at once. “I wish to sample the entertainment available at the taverns of Aphrany.”

He might have known it would be something outrageous. Why in the name of the gods? “You wish to take fashion inspiration from tavern wenches?” he guessed wildly.

Gunnilde gave a startled laugh. “That had not occurred to me, in truth.”