Chapter 3
Alys
June 1639
Alys stood at the edge of the crowd, her hands clasped, her eyes downcast, her shoulders tense. This was meant to be a happy day, but Alys saw it for what it was—the beginning of the end.
When her mother had died five years before, Alys had done all she could to look after her father and brother. Will had still been an apprentice then, learning smithing at their father’s side. He’d always been an earnest lad, too serious to indulge in any high spirits or to see the humor in a joke, but Alys loved him. Will was her champion, her protector. As they’d stood by their father’s grave a year ago, he’d promised he’d always look after her and nothing would change, but then Bess Sweeney had taken an interest in him and everything had changed, practically overnight.
Alys forced herself to look up and smile at the bridal couple as they exited the church porch and walked through the crowd of onlookers, accepting hearty congratulations and wishes for a long, happy life together. Two trestle tables had been set up in the Sweeneys’ yard, since the whole village had been invited to the wedding of their only daughter. Alys had spent the past three days helping Mistress Sweeney with the cooking and baking. It was only proper that Alys should contribute to the big day, but to her, it felt like a funeral.
She watched her brother’s solemn face as he inclined his head to accept congratulations or smiled as someone complimented his bride, all the while holding on to Bess for dear life. Alys knew Will well enough to guess what he was thinking. How could a girl like Bess Sweeney be genuinely in love with the likes of me? Will was a good man, no one would dare say otherwise, but he was neither handsome nor witty, and idle conversation did not come easily to him.
Alys suspected he dreaded the evening ahead, when after good food and strong ale, it’d be time for the dancing, and then the bedding. Bess would revel in the attention and accept the bawdy comments with good grace, blushing prettily and pretending to be shocked, but Will would be uncomfortable, mortified that every man, woman, and child knew what he’d be doing later that night. He had no desire for that sort of attention, even if his bride happened to be the prettiest girl in the village and every man of his acquaintance, young or old, would be happy to swap places with him, this night or any night.
Alys moved away from the crowd and walked toward the Sweeney house. Mistress Sweeney would expect her help, and she was happy to give it. Keeping busy was a way to keep her fears at bay. Perhaps she was overthinking the situation and living with Bess would not be as difficult as she anticipated, but there could only be one mistress in a household, and it would no longer be Alys. At best, Bess would treat her as a sister, and at worst, she’d become a servant in her own home.
The wedding feast seemed to go on forever. Alys barely sat down long enough to sample a slice of rabbit pie or taste a spoonful of syllabub. Mistress Sweeney ran her off her feet, ordering her to bring in the empty dishes and refill the pitchers of ale. At last, Alf Horner rose to his feet. He was now past seventy, but his fingers were still nimble enough to pluck at the strings of his lute for hours to the great pleasure of the villagers, who rarely got a chance to dance. Alf’s son played a reed pipe he’d made himself, and the two were Ashcombe’s only form of musical entertainment.
It was nearly midsummer, so it was still light, but lavender shadows of twilight were beginning to wrap the wedding guests in a dusky veil of approaching evening, and the first stars twinkled in the sky, the nearly full belly of the moon skimming the treetops as it rose into the heavens. The evening was warm and fragrant, the breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers and freshly cut grass.
“Will ye honor me with a dance, Mistress Bailey?” a soft voice asked as Alys stopped in the yard long enough to tap her foot in time to the tune Alf was playing.
She didn’t need to turn around to know who her admirer was. John Selby was long past thirty, a man twice widowed and in the market for a new bride. John could be described as handsome, but the way he looked at Alys sent shivers of apprehension down her spine. She feared that kind of attention and chose not to court it.
“I’m afraid I’m rather busy just now, Master Selby,” Alys replied.
“Come, Alys, surely ye can stop long enough to enjoy a dance. It is a wedding, after all.” He held out his hand to her, his dark gaze compelling her to obey. “We must remind the bride that she’s not the prettiest girl in the village. Ye are.”
“It’s her wedding day. Let her enjoy it,” Alys replied tersely, wishing only to get away.
“Ye shouldn’t be so hasty in yer refusal,” John said, his hand dropping to his side. “Ye might have need of me one day soon.”
Alys tried to decipher his inscrutable expression. What did he mean by that?
“Come now, Alys. I won’t ask again,” John Selby cajoled. “And I don’t see anyone else vying for yer attention,” he added cruelly.
Now that he’d pointed it out, Alys realized he was right. No one had asked her to dance, not even Matthew. She looked around but couldn’t see Matthew among the dancers or seated at a table, nursing a cup of ale. Where had he gone? She’d seen him
