Avery had decreed that the guests must deck themselves out as Greek and Roman heroes or goddesses. This sent an exhausted Alys to the gardens in search of laurel with which to make suitably classical-looking headdresses. She’d made sure to ask Jacob to cut it for her, not being keen on any further confrontation with Kit when she had so many other things about which to think.
She now sat in the sunny courtyard between the two wings of the house, a basket of greenery at her side, fashioning laurel wreaths. It was a mindless occupation, giving her time to think about the visitors lately arrived at Selwood Manor, and affording her a much-needed rest.
The presence of Richard Avery had lightened Sir Thomas’ mood. She’d no idea why the latter was so rarely cheerful when he had more reason to be so than his bereaved brother-in-law. What cause had Sir Thomas to repine? He’d never lost a wife or a child—he’d never had any. She herself was barely recovered from the loss of her family in an epidemic of the sweating sickness. And that had been a full five years ago. The Four Humors must be unevenly apportioned in Sir Thomas’ constitution, to make him so often melancholy.
“Deep in thought, my lady?”
She looked up as a shadow fell across her. There stood Richard Avery, fully costumed as a Greek hero. With his blond hair curled to caress his face, and the thin linen tunic accentuating the lithe shape of his body, he was a sight to melt any woman’s heart. He smiled at Alys, then winked. “I do hope that laurel crown’s for me.” He stooped to look over her shoulder. “I feel this costume is lacking something.”
“I’m making this laurel crown double. It will be awarded to the best poet this night—who’ll be chosen by the mistress of the house.”
“Ah, that divine goddess, Mistress Aspinall. But what does a woman know of good poetry, when none are able to rhyme as well as a man?”
She bridled at that. Was he being pompous, or teasing her? “Think you that rhyme is the only way to construct a poem? What about meter and rhythm?”
“Oh, I see you wish to dispute with me!” Avery made a wry face. “Very well, rhyme me a rhyme, and I’ll mete you out a meter!”
“I’ll do better than that, for rhyme is meat and drink to me.”
“Ah.” He pressed his fists against his slender hips. “So, you like to pun. I know not if it is meet that you should pun with me, as I am renowned for my wit.”
“Say not for your wit, for the owl is wiser than you.”
“How so? An owl is a mere bird.” His blue eyes danced.
She thought quickly, desperate not to be outdone. “Ah, but you have only the one, whereas the owl has two wits.”
“Two wits? Two… oh! Too-whits!” He threw his head back and laughed. “Fie, you are too clever for me, Mistress. It may be that you are making the laurel crown for yourself, after all.”
She turned the garland around in her fingers and dragged her gaze away from his smiling face. “Alas, nay, for I shall be too busy organizing the entertainments to participate in them.”
“Oh, no, sweet lady.” He seized her hand and kissed it. “I would not have you excluded for the world. Your tongue is a whetstone upon which I may sharpen my wit—I’ll fight much better with a good foil against me. I shall speak to Mistress Aspinall, and see that you are relieved of mundane duties.”
Alys smiled as she watched him stride away. Avery’s flattery had warmed her, and she felt more than equal to the challenge of besting him in a poetry contest. Her confidence much boosted, she hastily finished the laurel crown and hurried away to devise some manner of costume for herself.
And prayed he would be able to use his silver tongue to persuade her cousin to let her have some pleasure for a change.
Chapter Nine
Sunday morn dawned bright and fair. Alys lay a-bed a while, recalling the events of the previous evening, Richard Avery’s so-called masque.
In her opinion, it had been sadly disappointing. So much of the Aspinall’s wine cellar was breached, everyone’s wits were too addled for rhyming. Sir Thomas in his cups was a man who liked a song, and every time someone suggested a different entertainment, he’d struck up another tune on his lute and overcome all opposition. When he’d finally tired of this, the dancing had begun, although most people were too drunk to follow the steps.
Nonetheless, it was all taken in good heart—there was uproarious laughter as one dancer after another fell, or toppled onto somebody’s lap.
Alys had but little time to spare, ensuring the feasting and drinking ran smoothly, but she couldn’t help notice Richard Avery’s gradual loss of dignity. His face became ruddy and sweaty, the laurel wreath he’d stolen from her hanging rakishly over one eye, making him look more like a drunken Dionysus than the Apollo he claimed to be.
Kate had seemed little better off—a puzzle, as she’d drunk but little. Indeed, Alys could have sworn to it neither Kirlham nor Avery had imbibed a great deal, but the wine seemed to affect them powerfully.
The clanging of a distant bell reminded her she should be rousing the household to go to church. Hastily, she dressed, nibbled on a stale manchet roll, and joined the subdued party that made its
