Page 51 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Will had invited Aloysius Maybury to accompany him to a goose fair on the edge of town. It had rained much of the previous day, driving his mood still further towards melancholy. He needed distraction—he’d failed to pin down Hubert Pike and his associates, he’d failed to secure Isobel’s affections, and he’d failed to satisfy the Mathieson family. Though they were no longer attempting to ruin his reputation with blackmail, they knew Isobel had left, and as far as they were concerned, there could be no more perfect partner for him than Paulina.

This visit was supposed to be an antidote to those failures. He would make merry with Maybury, recall fond memories of their young and foolish days at Oxford together, and discuss the shortcomings of their fellow men.

“Thank heaven—the ground has dried out a bit.” Maybury prodded the toe of his high boot at the soil. “This would be a disaster otherwise.”

Will looked about him at the colorful booths and pavilions reflecting the glaring August sunlight and nodded his head. “Aye. I’ve barely been out since that infection in my leg. It does my heart good to revel in sunshine and fresh air.”

“Not sure I agree about the fresh air, good sir.” Maybury wrinkled his nose as they passed a hog pen. “Though something has done you good—I feared I would never again see color in your cheeks.”

“What is your meaning?”

“Oh, only that you’ve hardly had a smile on your face these past two sennights.”

What did he have to smile about? Very little, since that last encounter with Isobel. But he didn’t want to dwell on that. “Although my leg is healed, it pains me in the damp. Even warm, summer rain brings out an ache in it. I’m becoming old afore my time.”

A nearby hurdy-gurdy plucked out its first handful of notes, and young couples rushed to the open space in front of it for a country dance.

Maybury raised a questioning eyebrow. “Shall we go and see? ’Tis free entertainment, after all.”

Will strolled over and stood watching while the fairgoers, pink-cheeked and cheerful, kicked up their heels. The dance had none of the stately elegance he’d seen at court, or at Kenilworth when staying with his patron, Leicester. Yet, it afforded him amusement, something he needed rather badly. Taking a firm hold of the coin purse attached to his belt—just in case—he settled next to Maybury to observe.

The dancers comprised a true rag-bag of humanity. Some were children, hopping about gaily and getting in everyone’s way. An older gentleman was being steered around—none too gently—by his buxom wife. Will’s lip curled. Mayhap she hoped he’d be carried off early by the excitement, so she could become a merry widow. Drovers from the rural farms were wearing their finest clothing, making their stiff-backed bows in front of the rough-faced women who stood watching, in the absence of any obvious husbands. Many a young damsel sported a new ribbon or cheap gew-gaw purchased at the fair.

He should get something for Isobel while he was here. Even better, he should leap on Jennet and ride over to fetch her—she’d enjoy these simple pleasures, too, he was certain of it.

Although, having lived in a quiet part of London, she might struggle with all the noise. The field was awash with it—Will’s ears could barely distinguish between the different cries of the hawkers. Tinkers rattled their pots and pans together to prove their robustness while their swarthy-skinned wives clinked their jewels, inviting the unwary townsfolk into their pavilions to have their fortunes told. The whole hubbub of the fair was overlaid by the honking and hissing of the geese that had been driven all the way down from Norfolk.

Maybury glanced up at him. “That’s better—showing an interest in life again. I don’t know what has been on your mind of late, but it seems to me you need a tonic, something to stop all this unhealthy brooding. Give me your jack, and I’ll fetch us some mulled ale.”

When Maybury returned shortly afterwards, Will accepted the leather tankard and sipped at the warm liquid. His stomach objected.

“I know you meant well, sir, but this is disgusting. ’Tis is more like mulled small beer than ale. One might just as well drink lukewarm water.”

“Nay, indeed. Yon fair damsel informed me people in East Anglia drink it all the time. Are you hungry? Fancy sampling some pigs’ trotters? There’s a seething vat of them over there, which the vendor assures me are uncommonly good.”

Will shook his head decisively and grimaced at Maybury. “I breakfasted well—I thank you. Don’t think me ungrateful.”

He was, in truth, most exceedingly glad of Maybury’s company. The man was irrepressible. Despite the comparatively recent loss of his wife, he refused to mourn longer than was customary. He’d already hinted to Will on more than one occasion that he was in the market for a second wife.

Will took another swig of his ale, then winced and coughed as if he’d just swallowed a pin. “I intend no offense,” he told his companion. “But I’ve had my fill of this.”

He emptied the remnants of his drink onto the grass.

“Perhaps wine would be more to your taste. I saw a delightful young lady in command of a half-barrel of the stuff over yonder. Shall I fetch you some?”

“Nay, I beg you. Not unless I can sample it first.” He followed Maybury across the sward, neatly sidestepping a tethered bull about to lift its tail, and came to a halt in front of the wine seller.

She gazed up at him, hopefully, exhibiting a gap-toothed grin. Her teeth were stained red with the wine, and her tongue looked black.

Will shuddered, recalling that last night with Isobel, how he’d been in his cups, how he’d kissed her, and turned her away. Little wonder she’d evaded him—little wonder he’d not been welcomed at Marston House.

Why had he not just said what was in his heart? One could be angry with someone, without diminishing the love one held for them. Indeed, that ire might be magnified because one loved that person.

He loved Isobel. How could he love her any the less for knowing her own mind, for wanting to do what she thought was for the best? Her stalwart independence, her determination, made her even more of a prize. He didn’t want a wife who did nothing but flatter and mollycoddle him. The odd fight made relations between man and wife all the more piquant.

“What is it?” Maybury’s voice roused him from his reverie.