Alys angrily wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. Matthew had to be in love with someone else; that was the only reasonable explanation. He’d kept his feelings secret because he feared her reaction. They’d always told each other everything, but suddenly there were secrets between them, and possibly lies. She supposed it was natural. They were no longer children. They were a man and a woman, and a close relationship between them would no longer be viewed as innocent. No wonder Matthew had wanted to turn back as soon as they stepped out of sight of the wedding party. He didn’t want anyone to imply that anything improper had taken place. He feared the consequences.
Closing her eyes, Alys breathed deeply, trying to calm her sore heart. She wished her parents were still alive; they’d take her feelings into account, but Will would do whatever Bess thought best. He might be the man of the house, but it was Bess who’d make all the important decisions from now on. And now that Bess was mistress of the house, Alys’s only use was in her contribution to the housework. She supposed that in his own way, Will had her best interests at heart, but surely there was someone better suited to her than John Selby.
Alys tensed, her worries forgotten, when a stranger appeared on the narrow path. He walked along, his horse ambling behind him, his wide-brimmed hat shadowing the upper part of his face. Even from a distance, Alys could see that the man was well dressed, wearing a doublet of rich moss-green velvet with paning on the sleeves and chest and a wide lace-trimmed collar. His breeches, made of the same velvet as the doublet, tapered at the knee and were tucked into cuffed boots that were covered in a layer of dust.
Noticing Alys, he raised a hand in greeting and smiled. Alys gripped the log beneath her. She was alone in the woods with a man who was a stranger to her.
“Good day to you, mistress,” the man called out. He swept off his hat and gave her a courtly bow.
Up close, he was rather attractive, with thick chestnut waves falling to his shoulders and eyes that almost exactly matched his doublet. He was clean shaven, his generous mouth bracketed by laugh lines, and a gold hoop glinted playfully in one ear. He didn’t seem threatening, but appearances could be deceiving, and although he wasn’t wearing a sword, a handsome dagger was tucked into his belt. It would have been foolish in the extreme to travel on his own without a weapon, so Alys didn’t feel alarmed, knowing any man of means would carry some sort of protection.
“Good day, sir,” Alys replied warily, suddenly conscious of her faded bodice and skirt that had once been madder red but were now the color of rust.
“Is it far to the village? My horse lost a shoe,” the man said.
“Not very far.”
“Is there a competent farrier?”
“My brother is the blacksmith, sir. He’ll gladly see to yer horse.”
Alys couldn’t help noticing that the horse was a beautiful animal, its chestnut coat shiny and sleek and the mane gleaming like burnished copper in the sunlight that shone through the trees.
“Excellent,” the man said, smiling in obvious relief. “I’ve been walking for miles, and I’m hot and thirsty.”
“There’s a brook not far away. Ye can have a drink.”
The man nodded. “Will you show me?”
Alys was reluctant to go with him, but it was time she returned home, so she’d have to walk that way anyway. “All right.”
“May I know your name?” the man asked.
“Alys. Alys Bailey.”
“Jeremy Lockwood,” the man said, bowing again. “It’s a pleasure to know you, Mistress Bailey.”
Alys led the stranger to the brook, where he drank deeply and watered his horse, then they doubled back to the path and continued toward the village.
“Where are ye bound, Master Lockwood?” Alys asked.
“I have business at Ashcombe Manor,” the man said. “I was meant to be there hours ago.”
“It’s not far now,” Alys replied. “Ye can leave the horse with Will and proceed to the manor on foot.”
“I just might have to do that. Do you know the family?” Jeremy Lockwood asked.
“Not to speak to. They used to worship at St. Botolph’s before Master Ashcombe passed, but now they keep to their own chapel.”
“What of Mistress Marjorie? Is she a pleasant lady?”
Alys opened her mouth to reply but had no wish to be disloyal. Marjorie Ashcombe was always beautifully attired, or at least she had been before she took to wearing all black and hiding her hair beneath a linen coif. Some said she had Puritan leanings and shunned anything gay or frivolous. It was because of her newfound piety that she refused to attend St. Botolph’s, finding it too closely associated with Popish rituals to satisfy her need for austerity.
As for her looks, Marjorie was no great beauty, but she had youth and health on her side, as well as great wealth. To some gentlemen, that was all the beauty required.
“Mistress Bailey?” Master Lockwood prompted.
“I really couldn’t say, sir. I’ve never seen her up close.”
“Either your eyesight is woefully impaired or you’d rather not tell me the truth,” Master Lockwood replied, smiling. “St. Botolph’s is not so big that you
