Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s strange to consider how one simple thing could change one’s path. Maybe a heeded warning or a different route of one’s ship. Or, for this tale: a name.

Dinner in the Taylor house was much quieter than usual. Then again, for some reason Master George had found an errand for all seven apprentices, leaving it just him, his wife, and daughters at the table. The pot of stew was comically large without the wild herd of boys, and that was before Alison looked at the amount of bread on the table--it usually seemed too small, and now the basket overflowed with loaves they’d never manage to eat.

“We’ve not done this in a while,” Mother said, pulling her veil and cap from her head. The passage of time had faded the once golden waves into dull waves the color of almond milk. Alison was struck by the realization that her parents were old . Their hands didn’t shake, but she saw the lines on their face now. George seemed to have a permanent squint from a life of small, neat stitches, and Mother's once clear, green eyes were beginning to cloud over.

“We’ve never done this, right?” Lecia asked, looking to Alison for confirmation.

“I can’t remember ever being without any of da’s burrs.” She nodded, spooning portions of the steaming stew into bowls for the lot of them. Something was off. Not even the youngest apprentice, Thom, was with them, and he loathed being out after the sun went down. None of the seven would enjoy having to eat a late dinner. There was no solace in the crackling of the hearth, and Alison turned to the table to an expectant squint from George.

He took the bowl without a smile. “You and Stephen’s son seem to get along well.” 

Alison nodded, taking the time to unpin her sleeves and roll up the sleeves of her shift before she returned to the conversation. “He’s got a decent mind under that foolish red cap he likes.”

Lecia snorted, and Alison smiled over at her younger sister.

“Careful, we don’t want any broth up your nose.”

“That was almost a compliment.” Lecia laughed, throwing a torn morsel of bread her way.

Now it was Alison’s turn to snort, while she raised the spoon to her mouth, and she nodded. “Well, I like him well enough.”

George nodded, the aging tailor pursing his lips. Perhaps now he had reason to regret all the apprentices he had while also raising two girls, but Alison had never given cause for that. Instead, he lowered his spoon and wiped his mouth with the edge of their tablecloth—still stained purple from the last time the boys had snuck open a bottle of wine after dark. He fiddled with his cup before raising the one he shared with his wife to his lips, and jolted as he set it down.

Mistress Taylor winked at Alison, before murmuring, “You’re stalling, dear.”

George cleared his throat. “Two of my apprentices have asked for your hand.”

“Two?” Lecia’s eyes widened to the size of platters,. Then, her invisible brows pulled together, and she looked over the elder Taylor girl. “How could two boys be interested in that?”

“Someone who knows what’s good for them, that’s who.” Alison rolled her eyes, before frowning at George. “I expected Draper the harecop, but Edward?”

“He surprised me.” The master tailor shrugged, tearing apart more morsels of bread to wipe his bowl clean. Nothing but efficient, her father. Perhaps that was why he’d stalled. “I hate to lose the connections of the Drapers, but Edward has promised a house and many more gifts to you upon marriage, should you accept.”

Alison dropped her spoon, not even minding the broth that splashed across her kirtle. Edward. Edward? She stared down the table at her father still, searching the wrinkles etched into his skin for something. Perhaps the answer, or maybe just the excuse to speak about this later.

It was her mother who prevented flight, her hand rising to cover Alison’s on the table. “If you say yes, you’ll have to wait until after Advent to wed.” She tucked a wisp of hair back into Alison’s cap, green eyes warmer than the night. “Better wed a friend, than take the better business option.”

A blast of cold air heralded interruption. A fashionably dressed young man entered in a doublet that made his slim, fit waist even smaller, and his hose fit better than a glove. “Alice?” He asked, dark brows raising. At his elbow was red-capped Edward, with a bundle of logs in his arms.

“We were just speaking of you.” Alison smiled, pushing back from her spot at the table. Oh, it rattled the trestle, but her own world had been rattled by the double proposals. “Geoffrey, if you’d finish my wine I’d be mighty glad for it; I have words with Edward.” She gripped Edwards elbow and hauled him inside, shutting the door against the winter winds.

The blonde dropped his load of logs by the door, and followed where she led to the ladder by the loft. His dark eyes were wide and wary. The bite of the fruit that Adam choked on bobbed in his throat, while his mouth gaped slightly. This was a man she’d seen win a dagger from a knight at Sunday swordplay, and he stared at her like she was the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen.

“You proposed?” She whispered, glancing towards her family. What privacy summer would win them was lost from the chill of winter, and the other boys would be home soon.

“It was me or Geoffrey, and you loathe the fellow.”

“I loathe carousers.”

Edward shrugged. “The two are one and the same, we both kan it.” Then, he took her hand. “May I kiss this? Just to get the lusty fellow off of you, of course.”

“Yes.” Alison said, before raising her voice for the whole of the room to hear. “Edward, I accept your proposal.”

The handsome blonde raised her hand to his lips, and the touches of stubble that graced his jaw scratched against her skin. Despite the winter, his lips were soft, and Alison smiled at the bit of pink they left behind. He’d been borrowing her cosmetics again.

“What?” Geoffrey croaked, and Alison didn’t have to look to know how his face would look: his eyes would be wide, his face would sag like some disappointed mutt’s.

But Alison had never been the one to stop when a person was down. She turned, still holding Edward’s hand, and grinned at the handsome man who thought dressing like a nobleman made him as good as one. “Oh, you hadn’t heard? Edward presented me with a brooch last month, and I allowed him to pin to o’er my breast.”

Edward looked to her quickly, his grip tightening on hers. If her parents had any qualms about the claim—which George did, based off the sudden grey twinge of his face—there was nothing to do about it now. As a properly betrothed couple, even children borne before a wedding could be legitimate.

Geoffrey had turned from resembling a kicked puppy to a fish hauled up by the fishermen on the Thames. His mouth gaped and his hands flapped about, as though he could grasp words from the air itself, but no saints came to gift him wit. Alison had a thought to take pity on him, but he was the one with the wine glass in hand. That would be his solace, the cup which her lips had touched but once the entire meal. 

“Sard,” She straightened, making a show of looking over her soiled kirtle. “I must admit the shock of the offer caused me to spill my stew; I’ll go change. Edward,” The apprentice perked up at his name. His neck reddened at how she let her hand raise from hand to forearm, fingers trailing along the well-fulled top of the wool. “Care to join?”

Edward swallowed, but followed her up the ladder. Something dropped in the room below, followed quickly by a chorus of swears and something far, far more sweet:

“Geoffrey, you idiot!”

Meanwhile, she stripped off her outermost kirtle while her betrothed looked on with wide eyes. Once again he had that look of shock, though this time it was punctuated by a general redness of the face.

She threw the soiled kirtle at him. “Stop being a bobolyne, I want to do nothing immodest to you until after the feast.”

“You said yes.” He mumbled, still staring at her through a gap in the garment thrown over his head.

Pausing in pulling her other kirtle from its chest, she looked over at him. “’Twas like you said: you, or that grand gentleman on his way to buying nobility.” She rolled her eyes, and tore the blue the rest of the way from the chest. Funny to think how in four weeks, it’d likely be her wedding dress—while not the finest piece in her wardrobe, it had a fur lining better suited to the weather than her May Day green. “Though, surely you didn’t ask just to help your foul-mouthed friend.”

He laughed, low and accompanied by the rustle of fabric as he finally folded the kirtle she’d gifted him. “My father has been pressing me, and I’d rather marry someone I know I can live with.”

“Says the man who fully intends to run off to war the moment his apprenticeship is up.” Alison accused while lacing up the new dress.

“…And you’re mean enough to come along.”

Now it was her turn to gape. “You think I could handle battle for that? I’d faint at the mere clash of steel!”

He approached, and wrapped both his hands around hers. They were warm, radiating as much heat as the hearth, and Alison stepped closer. “You are the strongest girl I know, and you always talk about taking a pilgrimage when we get into the wine.” Edward kissed her knuckles, and smiled. “You’re saving me from marrying someone with expectations, and I’ll get you to Jerusalem.” 

She rested her head against his chest, inhaling the scent of cloves from the cloth. “Thank you.”

Advent had come and passed, and Alison still hardly knew what to do with the wedding. Sard, her mother had invited half the tailors in town, including members of the armorer’s guild, drapers, and more. Her paternal uncle the Cordwainer had brought three barrels of wine to their house, and all Alison could do was stare as her mother fussed and combed out her hair for the third time this morning.

“We should have applied bleach last week to lighten this.” The elder woman muttered with a frown towards the darker roots showing at Alison’s scalp. “Do you think we’ve time?”

“No, and I’ll leave it be after the wedding. Too much of a pain, maman.” Alison replied, rubbing the burned tip of a clove over her brows and lashes.

Her mother braided and unbraided her hair again.

She sighed. “Sard, go fuss with Lecia, you’ll tear out half my hair by the time of the procession.”

Alison the elder frowned, but backed away and left her to her own devices.

Which meant giving herself a good, hard look in the polished brass mirror before her. “Sard.” She muttered, before applying some tinted tallow to her lips. It was scented with rosemary, though the herb did little to cover the musk of the animal fat. Still, she admired the healthy color it gave to her mouth, and the mandrake product Matilda favored always made her break out in a rash. “I’m really doing this.”

“Second thoughts?” Edward’s face appeared in the mirror behind her, smiling. “We’ve got time, I can tell the priest to open the church, and damn the feast.”

“No, I just…” She frowned, and passed the balm to him. “Even now I always thought it would be Geoffrey. I’d suffer his carousing, and he’d always come back with some lovely gift and sweet words to kiss the wounds away.”

“You’re not some fancy lady who has suffer like that for the money.”

Alison laughed. “I’m the eldest, and  my father has no sons. Yes I do.”

Edward turned her stool around. It scraped awkwardly against the floor, and he grimaced slightly. Still, he knelt before her, and took both her hands in his—ah yes, a perfect way to warm the balm. His dark eyes gazed into hers, deep as the inky spread of the Thames at night. “I promise, I will make a fortune, and you will never have to suffer what he put you through.”

Alison swallowed, her throat tight. She gripped his hands tighter, only vaguely aware of the softening of his face.

“We don’t even have to live as man and wife. I will forever be your friend, far before I am your husband. I can free you to take on any lovers you wish. Allow anyone to pin a brooch upon your breast, grant your favors to anyone.” He smiled, “I promise.”

“Even if I try to divorce you,” She sniffled, choking back a wet laugh, “and claim that—”

“Call me the unmanliest man you’ve known,” He nodded. “Though perhaps you could save your tears for mass.”

She smacked his hand lightly, laughing. “Go, let me finish getting ready.”

“I’ll braid your hair.”

“Fine.”

Once the redness of tears were wiped away with tartar and her hair was neatly braided and pinned beneath her cap and veil, the couple descended towards the street. Edward was in his finest clothes: the green wool doublet he’d sewn last summer and yellow silk hose with an houppelande of red with rabbit lining. His red hat, which Alison hated to admit did suit him, had been outfitted with a silver brooch.

Alison, meanwhile, wore her blue kirtle with gold silk sleeves pinned overtop, and the skirt of her overgrown pinned up to reveal the black wool beneath. The pointed toes of her shoes poked out, providing a small pop of red to go with her betrothed’s wardrobe.

“You look like a knight.” She murmured to him, smiling. “Come summer, is that what you’ll be? Another fancy knight seeking the best way to hide the belly of too many tarts?”

“I’d rather enjoy becoming like Hawkwood.” Edward tilted his head. They walked behind musicians and their families towards the church. Behind them was a sea of friends, though it still seemed as if they were alone in the loft of the Taylor’s home.

Alison’s hand tightened around his. She looked forward, her smile hardening around the edges. Ahead in the crowd that watched, was Geoffrey. His hair was a mess from beneath his feathered cap, his doublet crooked and his shirt untucked beneath. She averted her eyes from his red, flushed face, only to notice his companion was all too familiar.

Another fake blonde like her, though her hair was not well-covered. Her hood hung from her belt by a liripipe, trailing gold rays distinctly marking the cloth.

Edward squeezed her hand back. “I realized, I never gave you a ring.”

She let out a breath, her shoulders relaxing. Pretending normalcy had never been her greatest skill, even when fama was her only advantage in the world. The slightest of smiles lit upon her lips, and she bent her head to whisper, “This was hardly a normal engagement. I never gave you a sleeve.” The blessing of the musicians was that they could not be overheard, even with the knowing that behind them were Lecia and Rolf and Gabriel, trailing holly and pine in their wake.

The cathedral ahead wasn't as grand as the ones she'd been to in order to watch King Henry and Joan marry some years prior, but it still cast a long shadow over the earth. Alison looked up to the architecture, the cream colored stones bright as a summer's day. Ironic, given the winter chill that hung in the air. The brightly colored windows shone with tales of the lord and his saints, while clubs adorned the arches. The tall, heavy wooden doors were shut and latched against the crowd of guildsmen and merchants who'd come on this day, with a city full of familiar faces watching with smiles and whispered words as they drew closer to the steps.

The musicians that led the way stepped aside at the base of the cathedral steps, leaving the way open to the true wedding party first. To one side stepped George and Alison Taylor, whose weathered cheeks gleamed with tears, and another stepped Stephen and his wife, whose nicest clothes still held the sweet smoky scent of the forge.

"Are you ready?" Edward whispered, looking towards his betrothed. His brow was wrinkled, and once again he squeezed her hand, then let his grip go slack, barely holding hers at all.

Alison's answer was to be the first to go up the steps, where the bishop stood in a robe of wool so blue, it was as though it was carved from lapis itself. As blue as the virgin's cloak, it was the perfect adornment for the day. Gold trimmed his cope, where saints painted by tiny silk stitches trailed along his shoulders. His white cap contrasted brilliantly with the brown hue of his skin, and all Alison could wonder is which family paid this parish to be the one to wed them so soon after Christmas.

"My children, today is a bless'd day for you, though before we proceed there are questions I must ask you." The bishop smiled, and for all his resemblance to a lavishly dressed date, he was like a beacon of kindness. Perhaps she could scratch bribery off the list of reasons they came to this church. "Are the two of you of age?"

Alison's smile tightened, and she heard a small chuckle escape from Edward's lips. She swallowed her own mirth, before bowing her head. "Of course we are. I must admit, I feel as though I am an old maid, marrying a man a year and a half younger."

The Bishop chucked in a way that was like a rockslide. "I see your parents present, but I must ask if you are in some way related that would prevent such a marriage to occur."

This time, Edward responded. "My parents came from Hollyoak, and only came to be citizens of London after I was born. There is no way I could be related to the Taylors, who are London through their body and soul."

"Master Taylor, if you could read the bride's dowry." The Bishop gestured to George, and his poulaines slapped up the granite steps in response.

"This indenture made on the twentieth day of November in the fourteenth year of the reign of King Henry the fourth, between Master George Taylor, guildmaster, and the Edward Stephenson of Hollyoak, apprentice, on the other part." George began, and already Alison felt her lids grow heavy. Even the accounts of the city's own ordinances were dull, and hearing the overly formal description of all she could offer to her husband for the second time would be exhausting. Still, she kept her smile plastered upon her lips.

“Whereas in an agreement made between the aforesaid George and Edward and other executors of the testament relating to the wardship and marriage of the aforesaid Alison Taylor, in the presence of the executors and of Sir William Babington, knight, Chief Judge of the Common Pleas and Surveyor of the aforesaid testament, the aforesaid George promised to the aforesaid Edward that if it happened that he took as his wife Alison, one of Master Taylor’s daughters, that then he would give with her to the benefit of both of them, in arrayment of her body and of her chamber, and in other stuff, the value of twenty marks and for as much that the aforesaid Edward has taken the aforesaid Alison, daughter of the aforesaid Master Taylor, as his wife, the aforesaid Master Taylor has given and delivered to the aforesaid Edward for the needs of both of them besides all her array of her body and of her chamber in plate and money to the value of twenty marks, that is to say, in plate: one mattress, six blankets and one serge, one green tapet, one coverlet with shields of sendal, seven linen sheets, three tablecloths, three feather beds, five cushions, three brass pots of the worth of sixpence, one brass pot worth tuppence, two pairs of brass pots, one latten candlestick, two brass plates, one grate, two andirons, two basins, one washing vessel, one iron herce, one tripod, one iron spit, one frying pan, one small canvas bag, seven savenaps, two pillows, one cap, one counter, two coffers, two curtains, one folding table, two chairs, six casks of wine, two glass goblets, ten ells of doeskin, and six silver spoons.”

As George folded closed the parchment that contained the marriage agreement and dowry, Edward produced a pouch from his doublet, and presented it to her. The black leather sachet was surprisingly heavy, and even the slightest movement resulted in a chorus of clacks. "For my wife, who from this day on will hold the key to everything." The gifting was tradition, but the way Edward said it felt truer than any other iteration of the presentation she'd heard. And she'd been to plenty of weddings before, with all her friends married before her. "May this purse grow to fill a cassone, with such a wise woman managing it."

Alison bit back her intended retort, instead grinning as, at last, the bishop began his sermon. He droned on in Latin, so Alison did not get the full meaning, but her French allowed her enough to understand the typical beats of a wedding sermon. The duties of loyalty for both members, the sin of adultery.

"Quod si oculus tuus dexter scandalizat te erue eum et proice abs te expedit enim tibi ut pereat unum membrorum tuorum quam totum corpus tuum mittatur in gehennam." The bishop quoted, before more latin that she did not understand followed. Whoever this particular parishioner was, Alison decided she liked him.

"Blessings and merry meet. Gentle lords and ladies, their bans having been published, we are here today to join Alison Taylor and the honorable Edward Stephenson in holy matrimony." The bishop said, finally drawing a close to the sermons. "In as much as this couple have pledged their troth to be married this day, we call upon Heaven to bless this union. Therefore if any one can show just cause, why they may not be joined together, by God's Law, or the Laws of the Realm; let them now speak, or else hereafter keep silent for all time."

Alison glanced toward the crowd, hoping that someone had possessed the foresight to hire a swordsman. From the state she'd seen Geoffrey in before, she half expected him to launch a singlehanded assault on the party on the cathedral's steps. However, there was no great commotion in the crowd, only a sea of expectant eyes: many of whom held household items and gifts.

"Lest it not be overlooked, however, there is rumor amongst the fair maid' people that any such objector shall be met with firm opposition from the groom himself." The bishop smiled, "There being no objection to this marriage let us continue. Edward, Will you have this woman to thy wife, and love her and keep her in sickness and in health, and in all other degrees be to her as a husband should be to his wife, and all other forsake for her, and hold thee only to her to thy live's end?"

Edward looked into her eyes, his own deep ones gleaming. In the winter light, they glinted with gold. "Aye, I, Edward Stephenson, take Alison Taylor to my wedded wife, to have and to hold at bed and at borde, for fairer for fouler, for better for worse, in sickness and in health, til death us depart. And thereto I plyght thee my troth."

The assurance warmed her like a fur lined cloak. Any anxieties left from fears of Geoffrey or of not loving the man before her disappeared. Edward was still her closest friend of all, that was the better choice in a spouse anyways.

"Will you have this man to thy husband, and to be buxum to him, serve him and keep him in sickness and in health, and in all other degrees be to him as a wife should be to her husband, and all others forsake for him, and hold thee only to her to thy live's end?" 

Alison nodded, and took Edward's hands in hers. "I, Alison Taylor, take thee, Edward of Hollyoak, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold fro this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to be honor and buxum in bed and at board, till death us departe, if holy Church will it ordain; and therto I plight thee my troth." By the end of the words, her lips were spread in a grin. 

"The rings, young maid."

Lecia approached from the bottom of the steps, and held out two brass bands in her hand, which the bishop made the sign of the cross over. Edward slipped the first over the third finger on Alison's dexter hand, and once he had, she did likewise with the other.

"By the powers vested in me by the Lord our God and the holy father in Rome the pope, I declare you man and wife."

The crowd cheered, and Edward lifted her hand to his lips for a quick kiss. Her face warmed, and she turned to the wedding party, slipping opening the purse of coins Edward had gifted to her. It was only a month's wages, but it was more symbol than anything else. She descended the steps and pressed a coin into the hands of the other apprentices, before turning to a collection of people in rough, faded clothing whose hats were laden with the pewter pins of pilgrims. To these beggars she gave three coins each with a smile.

"If you have the patience for after the mass, I will ensure a portion of the feast will be saved for each of you."

"God bless you," A weary looking girl of about her age said with a gap-toothed smile.

"It is the least I could do." Alison responded, before ascending the steps once more. This time, the heavy, carved doors of the cathedral creaked open, and it was time for the final step of the wedding: mass.

Mass was blessedly short, and afterwards musicians heralded the way not to the Taylor's residence, but the one that was now her own. Alison didn't know how Edward had done it, be it a gift from his parents--who, after finally gaining their citizenship, had found that owning and renting out property was just as lucrative, if not more so, than fine metallurgy--or the result of putting aside money for all these years.

Either way, she stared at a house that was almost nicer than the one she'd called home for all these years. From the street, it had already been a beauty, with a brick lower floor and an upper level of timber and plaster. Its windows glittered full of gemstones, while painted roses crept along the windowsill. The thatched roof she was so used to seeing was replaced by tile shingles, like that of a king’s. All this, for a single home. Even the doors were lovely, carved and painted with bright colors to stand out in the narrow street—hardly wide enough for two carts and pedestrians, but who in London was ever used to the thought of space? It was better than what she’d heard of Venice.

The front room of the ground floor was primed to be a storefront with fresh, clean reeds in a herringbone pattern on the floor, whilst a kitchen and vast amount of storage room could be found behind a wooden door on fine leather hinges. Stairs between the two sections led up to a second floor with two rooms and a ladder that led to a loft for storage. Edward quickly showed her through the house while their families set up all the tables and dishes for the feasts.

To finish the tour, he led her inside the bedroom, where at the base of an unmade bed sat a cassone. The wood was covered with red leather, which itself was studded with brass in decorative rosettes.

Her eyes widened, and she looked up at Edward. "What's this?" Quickly, she frowned. "You didn't rob a nobleman, did you?"

Edward laughed and shook his head. "This is an old family trunk. My...very great grandmother made it, and we've just embellished throughout the years." He produced an iron key from his purse and knelt to unlock the padlock on the cassone. The lock sprung with a heavy thunk, and he opened the chest. Inside were bottles. At least five were nestled a blue check blanket.

"What do the fancy folk exchange: two, three gifts?" He gestured to the glass bottles. "I know you aren't one for the stronger drinks, but this is Hollyoak cider. Hardly more alcoholic than ale, but it tastes better than bread. Consider this the first."

“I came with six barrels of wine, and you offer yet more.” Alison laughed, and she pressed a light kiss to Edward’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Laughter came through the floor, and the noise only seemed to increase by the moment. The door swung open and shut a number of times, and the thud of chairs and clatter of dishes soon came as well.

Edward looked to her, his cheeks red. “Well, they’ll be expecting us.”

“Here, before we go down: one of my gifts to you.” Alison reached beneath the uncovered feather mattress. Thankfully, her parents had already moved in the entirety of her dowry, and with it her gifts. The red silk cote had large, grande assiette style sleeves in a contrasting blue, in lines with what she’d heard of Italian fashion. Its sleeves, instead of being practically close-cut to the arm, fell in a long, loose bag, before tightening once again at the wrist. Brass buttons trailed down the front of the entire garment, which was cut to show off his fashionably tight waist. 

His eyes grew to the size of her brass plates. “You—you didn’t have to.” Slowly, his fingers reached out to touch the silk, and then recoiled. Edward’s carefully plucked brows drew together, and his chestnut eyes focused once again upon her face. The lump in his throat bobbed up and down. “How did you sneak this by me?”

“I paid another.” Alison smiled. For a Taylor, that was something practically unheard of, but she’d scraped together her savings for the fine gift. “Though, I did ask Rolf to steal a doublet for taking your measurements, so if you decide that you’d like to gain any weight, it’s not my fault.”

Edward held up his hands. “With your cooking, I’d likely get thinner.”

Alison laughed, smacking his forearm lightly. “Get changed, I’ve got to prepare for men trying to rob me of my garters all eve.”

When they descended the stairs, Edward had on his new pour point and Alison had changed out her tied ribbon garters for buckled ones. Her hood had been exchanged for uncovered hair, her blonde tresses plaited and pinned in two buns just behind the ears. Her hand rested in the crook of Edward’s elbow, and the heat of all the bodies downstairs erased all the chill of the upper floors.

Edith, Edward’s mother, had strewn holly and mistletoe all throughout the room, and gryphon tablecloths hung over the trestle tables set in a horseshoe pattern along the edge of the room. Candlelight flickered from the long tables from her brass candlestick and herse, and the slightly pungent scent of tallow rose in the air. The party cheered when they came into view, setting various small dishes along the tables. Winter stores were growing low, but Alison was grateful for all their generosity. The sweet scent of honey glazed ham, of spiced bread and vegetables in sauce rose to mingle with the smell of holly, crushed rushes, tallow, and cloves. The two chairs at the center of the most laden table were pulled back, and the newlyweds sank into them.

Edward poured watered wine into their shared goblet of clear green glass, and raised it high in the air.

“Mistress Taylor and I would like to thank all of you for your generosity on this day.” He looked around, a broad smile upon his lips, and stood once again. “Thanks to everyone who is present, we have a well-supplied home and a way to more than fill our stomachs this blessed evening. May you all make merry, and let us all join in the dance once the meal is over.”

“And the garters!” One man called, his cheeks already red. Apparently, some had already begun imbibing in the generous amount of wine set across all the tables.

Alison laughed, and rolled her eyes before placing her hand on Edward’s arm as his grip tightened on his glass. “Mon ami, while it is preux to wish that luck for your lady.” Her lips spread into a broad smile, and she rose alongside Edward. “You must be sober enough to make it to that late hour to catch them.” Then, she clapped her hands together, and raised her knife. “Now, let us feast!”

The meal passed peacefully enough, with Rolf and Thom and Gabriel cutting and serving the meat for all the guests, and whatever rowdiness had been raised at the mention of stealing her garters was forgotten as the rich flavors of carefully saved powder douce, pepper, and saffron danced across the tongues of attendees. Alison’s throat was never dry, and her cheeks warmed more and more as the various members of the guild came with gifts and congratulations for the pair.

“I never thought you’d pick such a lively bride,” said one with a singed beard and arms the size of an ox yoke. He winked at Alison, before placing a brazier on the table.

“A lovely groom for our Alice,” Marie laughed before pressing a roll of linen into her hands.

Sera, her veil edged in deep blue, approached with her tightly swaddled baby, and she placed the little boy in Alison’s arms. Her midnight eyes twinkled with stars, and her ivory skin glowed as she beamed. “For good luck.” She winked when Alison passed baby Isaac back.

Alison fought back a laugh. “I don’t recall this from your wedding.”

“I married a Parnas, we do these things differently.”

“Sard, I’d hoped you’d lead the dances.” Alison laughed before Sera returned to the side of her bearded husband. 

Others came with more dishes, linens, even an odd, rock-like item covered with hairs that the merchant swore was edible. All of them Alison asked Rolf to take to the spare bedroom, so she could sort them out later. Until finally, as the musicians began to draw up their instruments to fill the room with song and dance, the last guest approached their table.

Geoffrey was in just a bad state as he’d been in earlier, with all the flesh of his face flushed red as an apple. His usually thick, wavy tresses had been left uncombed, and they stuck together in dull, tousled locks. He hadn’t shaved in some time, and the beard stuck out at odd angles over his cheeks.

Tucked tightly against his side was the well-endowed blonde, whose kirtle was so tight upon her waist that the fabric creased sharply, and the lacing in the front of her gown threatened to spill open at any moment. Alison’s eyes quickly turned back to Geoffrey’s, her cheeks warming. God’s teeth, whatever she had against the whoring yaldson, his taste for beauty was something to be admired, but she grit her teeth at the choice of guest still. She dressed as richly as a noblewoman. The rose silk of her kirtle clung to every curve and stitches strained at her hips, a golden girdle circling them loosely. She stepped aside to dip into a curtsey, and Alison tried not to look at the copper curls that caressed the woman’s neck. He’d brought a whore to her wedding. Of course he had.

Instead of biting out an insult on this celebratory night, she looked to the gift in Geoffrey’s hands. A bentwood box painted with the life of St George. On the top was a beautiful tempura painting of George and the dragon, with flames curling around the famous knight. Edward accepted it with his lips in a grim line, and he lifted the lid.

Alison was far more busy watching Edward’s cheeks change from a jovial flush to scarlet that bled across his brow and neck. He stood, the box dumped carelessly into their stew, and his hands balled into fists so tight Alison could see the veins popping from beneath his sun-kissed skin. She’d seen Edward fight. He’d unhorsed men at arms in jousts, wrestled as well as Hercules, and his arming sword flashed like quicksilver when he cut to the buckler on Sunday mornings. It was impossible not to watch him as she danced hand in hand with Marie, for it was as though she was watching Perseus prepare to fight the gorgon.

She’d never seen him angered, though.

Edward was the most jovial soul in the entire merchant’s district, and his laugh had kept her from butchering her man dozens of times. Now, his chestnut eyes glowed like the embers of a burned house. The knotty coils of muscle hard-won from hours of labor tensed beneath his pourpoint, and he gripped his eating knife as though it were a rondel in a knights hand.

Whatever fire of anger had been stoked by seeing Geoffrey’s guest, it paled against Edward’s rage.

“Get. Out.” He managed between grit teeth.

Geoffrey, somehow still on his feet despite swaying like a boat at the wharf, laughed. “It’s just some jewelry for your bride.” His lips spread into an easy grin, and he took ahold of his lady’s arm. He turned—stumbling as he did—before leading his lady towards the door. Or, perhaps, it was she that did the leading. “Something I’d planned on giving to her on our wedding day.”

The lady smiled apologetically at Alison, and Alison gave her the slightest nod in return—what could she say? She would not disoblige a woman of her income. She merely wished her a better choice of customer.

Edward remained as tight as a bowstring until the door shut, and Alison laid a hand on his shoulder, rising as she did.

“It’s growing late, my friends.” She smiled tightly, looking around at faces of confusion and humor. London’s ever spinning whirlwind of gossip would inevitably find a way to twist the short exchange, but nothing Alison could ever do would stop it. Tomorrow, she’d wake either the most desirable of ladies or a loose woman herself, but tonight all that mattered was her home. She raised her and Edward’s nearly empty cup. “Please, allow my husband and I to retire.”

A couple of younger men and women whistled, and Alison’s face somehow grew warmer yet. The tension in Edward’s shoulders was beginning to ease, and he wrapped his arm slowly, lightly, around her waist. His touch was so light it was like a feather of down settling on the curve. No, she was a fractured bottle, primed to break if he touched her with anything more. Surely that had to be the cause of his hesitance—and his previous rage. How long had he been aware of Geoffrey’s slights toward her?

She looked up at him and beamed, taking in his face anew. After the long day, a shadow of a beard blued his jaw and cheeks, while his hair was neatly combed still beneath his red cap. In the dancing candlelight, the waves were burnished from brass. There was a slight bend in his nose, made more crooked from breaking it against Geoffrey’s fist during one of the more…shirtless fights she’d watched as a much younger girl. His cheeks were still scarlet, but she raised her hand from his shoulder to rest against the warm, prickly skin there.

The crowd cheered again.

“Let’s go.” Alison murmured, breaking away from his feather-light touch to lead the way to the stairs. As she did, she glimpsed her mother ushering the children outside with plates of food for the beggars who’d gathered in the cold. Others rose from their seats to follow them up the stairs, though all Alison was aware of was Edward’s breath tickling the back of her neck. The stairs creaked whenever he stepped, and he radiated heat like a fireplace.

She lifted her skirt to climb the stairs faster, and firmly shut the door behind Edward when he entered their bedroom. A voice complained through the wood about garters, and she removed one of her nice red garters with their stamped flour-de-lis decorations and threw it through a crack in the door.

“Give it to your lady! Have a good rest of your night!” She called, before pressing her back against the door. She shut her eyes, lightly hitting her head against the wood.

“I forgot about your other gift.” Edward murmured from the edge of their bed. He’d taken off his hat and was in the process of running his hand through his hair, leaving divots like garden rows. Silver moonlight caught along the slope of his hunched shoulders. 

“Show me in the morning.” Alison sighed, unknotting the lace at the top of her kirtle. “God’s teeth, I’ve even forgotten about yours.”

Edward looked up at her, a ghost of a smile curving his lips even in the dark. “What are you doing over there? You’re blocking the light.”

“Sard.” Alison laughed. Indeed, in her haste she’d forgotten to grab the merest candlestick, and the night had long grown dark. Orange light barely seeped through the cracks in the doorway, and the sliver of moonlight through the glass windows was hardly enough to see well in. So, as she loosened her kirtle enough to wiggle it down her hips and step out of the wool, she approached the bed. “Aren’t you going to prepare for bed?”

Edward’s reply was low and quiet,“I was hoping everyone would get bored and wander away, and I’d sleep in the other room.”

“That’s not necessary.” She scoffed, then shivered. The upstairs was nowhere near as warm as downstairs, and they had yet to cover the walls with tapestries.

He turned so the moonlight caught upon his crooked nose and the slope of his raised, pinched brows. “I don’t want you to feel press—“

“I want this.” Alison said, firmly. And when she did, she realized the truth in it. He’d fought for her, grown angry for her sake, and all that had led them down this path had been out of concern for her. Even if in her heart he was still the lanky boy with the two missing front teeth who’d taught her all the painful places to jab her elbows, the man beside her might find a place to grow roots.

Hesitantly, his fingers rose to his buttons and began to work them open. Alison did the same with her underdress, the white of her shift slowly revealed first as a line, then a wedge trailing down to her navel, and finally she stood up to remove that gown as well. She shivered, well aware of the loss of her garter as her stocking slid down her leg. As Edward shrugged out of his pourpoint and paltok, she lifted the blankets on the bed and slid between them, fluffing up the generously large pillows. Even in the moonlight, their deep plaid stood out, though something felt uncomfortable. Her scalp prickled.

Soon, the ropes of the bed shifted, and Edward’s warmth joined her beneath the covers. His leg brushed against hers, and she turned towards him in the bed.

“I probably messed up back there.” Edward whispered, a meek smile upon his lips. He brushed a lock of escaped hair from her face. “You haven’t undone your buns.”

“Ah, sard!” Alison swore, straightening. She’d wondered why her head hurt. Carefully, she fished out the brass pins and placed them on the floor beside the bed, leaving her braids hanging from above her ears.

Edward laughed as she worked, his hand shifting the blankets so they didn’t fall too far down. The motion brought his hand to her thigh, and she paused in unbraiding her hair to look at him. Her brow quirked up.

“Careful, I’m a married woman.”

His grin was lazy, and this time the touch was not as though she’d shatter. “And I’m a married man.”

Alison laughed, laying back down beside him. “Kiss me before I decide I’d rather sleep.”

Chapter Text

Edward snored like her childhood hound when she woke the next morning. It felt like someone was hammering the inside of her skull, and she squinted at the golden sunlight that streamed through their windows. She'd insist on installing shutters for their home and curtains around the bed next, if only to push off the inevitable of the sun's rising. Her mouth and throat felt as dry as the baker's flour-covered hands, and her nose was more clogged than it had been the last time she'd grown ill.

And people wondered why she hated wine.

Alison slid from the bed, careful to not wake Edward, whose hair stuck out at all angles, and picked up a blanket that had migrated to the floor at some point during the night to wrap around her shoulders. The shift was a little light for the chilly January morning, but she'd not wake her husband by digging through the bedding and searching the floor for the rest of her clothes.

She only had on one stocking, the other one lost at some point during the night, and she cursed the bare wooden floors as she descended the stairs to the warmer rushes. Holly was still strewn throughout, trampled by the dances that had gone on while she and Edward had...

Well, it was a wedding.

She tiptoed to the still-set trestle, and poured water from the ewer into the glass cup she'd drank from the night previous. The leftover wine turned the water pink, but she braved the stench that made her stomach turn and downed the glass before pouring another. This time, thankfully, the water was clear, and so was her head--slightly.

Someone had pulled the tempura-painted box from the stew and returned the lid to it. It had warped ever so slightly, just enough that she had to wrestle off the lid. Inside, the plain birch wood was padded with linen, and she could finally see what the cause of all the fuss was.

There were two different pieces of jewelry used to mark a married woman. Rings were the most traditional, and ones like hers were often engraved with the name of her partner or some form of verse, while others were more elaborate--Sera's had an entire pavilion on it worked from gold, and it was so elaborate she had to remove it in order to do any cooking, lest she spend the next few hours cursing whilst picking dough from all the crevices in the metal. Others chose brooches.   She'd never seen a marriage brooch in person before, they were more the accessory of nobility, and made especially for the couple. This was very similar. Two figures, one looking much like Geoffrey with all his elaborate cloth and jewelry, and an image of her stood next to him, the pair circled with lilies. Enamel colored their images and clothes, and it must have been worth a fortune to have made. Truly, it was a shame he'd jumped into that river without a boat or handhold. 

Along with it was a small pouch of grain and a jar of honey, along with words she knew from Johannes de Hauteville: My bride shall wear a brooch, a witness to her modesty and a proof that hers will be a chaste bed. It will shut up her breast and thrust back any intruder, preventing it's closed approach from gaping open and the enterence to her bosum being cheapened by becoming a beaten path by any traveller, and an adulterous eye from tasting what delights the honourable caresses of a husband.

It was as though he held no self awareness.

She dropped the parchment into the fully cold stew, but raised the brooch. She weighed it in her hand while sipping her water. Then, she raised it to the light, wishing she'd the same eye for metals she did for cloth.

"Sard, this could catch a pretty penny." Alison finally decided before she slipped it into her stocking. She sank into her chair, before grabbing a half-eaten roll from one of the other set places on the trestle table. With far less dignity than she'd carried herself the previous evening, she bit straight into the loaf, tearing more than a mouthful away and wetting the stale bread with a bit more water.

The stairs creaked, and down came Edward in just his nightshirt. His hair was just as bad as it had appeared from the bed, though one half was flattened by the pillow. He rubbed an eye, before smiling at Alison.

"Now that is the person I married. What great lady took her place last night?"

Alison replied by tossing him a stale roll.

He caught it before it almost smacked him in the face. His laugh was light and airy. "Always the charmer in the morning, Taylor." He walked easily to the chair beside her, and sat with both legs over the arm rest, his back against the other.

"God's teeth, Edward!" Alison covered her eyes. "How are you so....social?"

He poured her another glass of water, humming a jaunty tune. Usually, it was sung as a reel, but with just one voice it merely traveled up and down to the simple rhythm of Douce Dame Jolie. He affixed her with a look and quirked up a brow. Unlike her, he took the time to tear off smaller pieces of bread, dipping it in his own cup of watered wine to soften the hardening loaf.

"Oh, right." She rolled her eyes. "Well, get your hose on." Alison stood, and a knife stabbed between her eyes again. "Sard," She groaned, rubbing her forehead, "I'm never drinking again."

"Whatever are we to do with the other five barrels of wine?" Edward laughed.

Alison glared at him, and he held up his hands innocently. She looked him up and down, and turned away. "Don't forget your braies, and the high-necked gown might be a good idea for today."

"You're one to talk."

Alison flushed as she rushed upstairs to a mirror.

Spring 1414.

"So, why did you decide to prepare your dinner here?” Sera quirked up a brow. She was in her nicest clothes, navy gown going beautifully with her blue-trimmed veil. She plucked lightly at her lyre, humming a soft tune in front of the hearth. Spring was turning everything in the home’s small garden shades of green, but the muddy streets were still chilly, and every gust of air through the unglazed windows made Alison’s skin prickle.

"I'm here every Saturday." Alison shrugged, picking the bones from the fish Edward had picked up from the docks. She gestured to the room, full of unlit candles that were too short in their stands to light and keep going for the rest of their days of rest. The reeds laid in a herringbone pattern on the floor were trampled flat by a winter of life and dancing, and baby Isaac crawled across the floor. "Would be a terrible shame if you had a neighbor who didn't share meals."

David laughed, his voice eternally the gravel beneath a cart's wheel. If Alison went to his services, she might have fallen asleep, it was such a soothing voice. But she'd also seen him argue, and prayed she never had to debate holy texts with him. He rubbed his scruffy cheeks and leaned back in his seat, tugging on the cord that pulled a small horse across the rushes. "You'd be hard pressed to find another who picks up on your cues as easily as she does, Sera."

Alison smiled across the room at him. "Thank you." She tossed a few thin bones into a bowl to take out to the rubbish, and pushed the filleted fish down to Edward. "Could you put these over the fire?"

He rose and took the fish into the kitchen, and Alison turned to her friends: Sera with her beautiful curls braided into two buns over her ears, and David with the twinkling, tired eyes of an academic. Their cheeks carried a healthy glow. Sera's eyes narrowed with suspicion when Alison produced a parchment-wrapped object.

"What's that?"

"Come and see." Alison slid it across the table, her lips twisting into a crooked grin. "Besides, I thought handling an instrument was muktzeh."

"We're told to enjoy this day of rest. Music is part of that." David argued calmly, "Though Isaiah would say instruments aren't included."

"But if you heard me sing, there's nothing enjoyable about that." Sera laughed, setting aside the lyre to pick up the parcel.

“I told you David, come argue with me about something I know.” Alison slid the bowl of fish bones away and wiped her fingers on her apron, before narrowing her eyes at him. “Like those clothes. Sera, haven’t I told you tight waists only work with a paltok?”

Sera shrugged, looking wide eyed at the parcel in her hands.

David tore off a piece of bread, settling back in his chair. It only made his buttons strain against his belly more. “Sera doesn’t commission the tailor.”

“Well you’re clearly going to the wrong one.” Alison’s brows rose. She got up, carrying the bowl to the front door and tossing the fish bones into the street.

“I go to your father.”

Alison forced a smile, her face hotter than a smith’s fire. “You look great.” A laugh seeped its way into the tense reply, and she spent another moment out the door to let the spring shower cool her face.

Helène, the curvy woman from Alison’s wedding, waved as she passed in the street. In the daytime, she’d replaced the tell-tale hood with a veil of silk that almost certainly earned her a fine from the local council, but with a body like that, she was certainly doing well enough to afford it.

Alison’s face wasn’t cooler at all.

“Come in, you’re letting the heat out!” David called, and she turned back to the room.

“Alyss.” Sera said, her blue eyes still trained on the parcel. “How could you hand me this and go about as usual?”

“So, it’s worth that much.” Alison nodded, “I knew a goldsmith’s girl would be better at appraisal than the apprentice I went to.”

Sera’s calloused hands shook slightly when Alison took back the brooch. She’d waited all winter to start looking for a good price for Geoffrey’s misguided, frankly terrible wedding gift. Both so he’d never find out—it would be terrible for her father—and so that she hadn’t the savings laying around to put towards other adventures.

Her friend looked at her with raised brows. “Are you trying to tell me you’re a bigamist?”

Alison—and David—laughed, and Alison tucked a loose strand of hair back into her cap. “No, no, sard, I wish that was the reason for this piece of rubbish.”

Sera showed it to David, who tugged at his forked beard some more. His brows rose, and he nodded. “This is what Master Draper gifted you and Master Stephenson?”

Alison plucked it from Sera’s fingers and tucked it back into her purse quickly. Edward would be done with their meal soon. “Don’t tell him, but could you put me in touch with the people who could handle this…discreetly?”

“What about the Venetian ship?” David asked, picking Isaac off of the floor when he caught up to the horse.

She shook her head quickly. “No, every bit of cargo is sold for four times what it may be in Italy, but English goods hardly sell for more than they’re worth.”

Her eyes quickly moved to the creaking of leather hinges as Edward came out with a platter of fish and vegetables slightly charred by the fire. Steam gently curled up from the brass dish he set on the table beside a bowl of small loaves of bread, and Sera quickly went to unlock the cupboard for goblets and wine.

Alison met Sera’s eyes, and they exchanged a nod.

The Sunday streets of London always made Alison picture the packed streets of a pilgrimage site like Santiago or Jerusalem. It was a mess of bodies clothed in their best, rushing to the cathedrals and churches to hear mass before the day grew too warm to comfortably stand in silk in a room full of the smells of incense and bodies, made worse by the heat of hundreds of people and candles. Alison used a corner of her veil to dab a bit of sweat from her brow, wedged between Edward and Master George while the priest droned in Latin.

Alison bent her head, listening to the language she only picked up the vaguest of words from. She mouthed along, her fingers playing with the smooth beads upon her paternoster.

The priest, clad in the most gorgeously embroidered cope she'd ever seen, spread out his arms in a way that made the edges of his finery sparkle and gleam. Alison crossed herself.

And then, it was done. People rose from their cushions, and Alison's lungs began to clear. She rose quickly, then helped her father up. His back looked more bent than usual.

"Papa, I thought you were going to stop earlier in the day." Alison chided quietly, looping her arm through his.

"I rest when the work is done." George muttered, drawing himself straighter with a slight grimace.

Alison's own neck and back hurt, though she'd been helping in the shop less and less over the months since her wedding. Her fingers hadn't known the ache of pinching a needle from prime to  vespers. "Think of poor maman, alone with but a cold mattress. She worries."

Her mother hadn't shown any signs of worry. In fact, when Alison pointed to her for her squinty father, she was laughing at a joke told by the plump wife of a goldsmith. Her head was tossed back, and her eyes shut tight. Another friend of hers caught her elbow, and pulled her close to offer a touch of gossip. Heads bent together, they whispered and giggled like a couple of fishwives, hardly bothered by the sacred ground upon which they talked. Mass was as much a spiritual event as it was a social one.

"My dearest dillydown, she hardly looks bothered." George murmured. He pulled away from Alison's grip and waved down Master Draper, whose resemblance to Geoffrey--all lean limbs and angular features--sent ice through Alison at the merest glance. "Thom!" George called, and he was gone.

But just as soon as he was away, others came in. Matilda, with her fine, flax-bright hair poking out from her hairnet, dragged her away from Edward and their cushions, her grin wide. She was tall as a giant, and Alison had to take three steps for each of her one. "Alors," Matilda started in her french, "I heard that two days ago, our young master Geoffrey returned from a voyage."

Alison's brows rose. "I hadn't heard he'd left London."

"C'est rien, a contract for his brother." Matilda waved her hand, tugging Alison further into the slight privacy between arches in the Cathedral. "Mais, he claimed to have been struck by pirates!"

"Pirates?"

"Pirates."

"In the channel?"

Matilda nodded, before glimpsing another of their acquaintances over Alison's head and waving to her. "Marie! Marie! Oh, par dieu, wait until I tell you about the Drapers!" Matilda picked up her skirt and rushed over to tell her about the latest misfortune, while Alison merely soaked in the cacophony of hundreds of voices bouncing across limestone walls.

Not even the paintings and embroideries could dampen so many, and they bounced around until three sentences could intersect and seem as though they'd been spoken by but one person. Yet, the word pirate still stood out in Alison's mind, repeating with the tolls of distant church bells from somewhere across the street, or the river, or across the city.

Pirates.

Alison touched her purse, where the brooch she'd intended to exchange with a moneylender today weighed the whole thing down. She felt the metal through the cloth, cooling her fingers as much as the stone at her back did. Now the sweat pricking on her palms was not from the surprising heat of the cathedral, but from--

Pirates.

She sought out Edward in the crowd, though that would always be a challenge when she stood lower than most people in the room. Instead, she merely glimpsed the flash of red upon someone's head and elbowed her way with apologies through the throng of people until she caught the wrist of the hat's wearer. Smiling her relief, she looked up at the wearer of the red hat. It wasn't Edward.

One warm brown eye glinted from a sun-weathered face. His other, covered with a bandage. Sandy hair poked out every which way from beneath the hat, which itself was stained and faded. How she'd mistaken it for the cardinal red of Edward's hat, Alison couldn't say.

Beside the wounded man stood a woman whose clothes were similarly weather-worn, though of finer material to start from. The green doeskin had clearly once been much darker, but now stood as the color of fresh clover, with hems darkened by travel. Her mouse-brown hair—frizzed in a French fashion—was lightened by a patch of grey just beginning to develop at her temples, the whole of it tucked back beneath a pink hood with periwinkle embroidery. Her grey eyes widened at the interruption of whatever conversation they'd been having at the back of the cathedral.

The man laughed, pulling his wrist from Alison's grip—slackened by shock. "I applaud you for being so forward, but I'm bound to another tonight."

Alison's face blazed at the mere implication. "Apologies, I mistook you for another." She stepped away from the odd couple, brushing the hand that'd touched him on her skirt.

"Wait," The woman's voice cut through the cacophony clear as a blade, her accent twinged the same as Alison's own mother's, "perhaps you could be of help. I'm seeking a good, warm bed for my husband and I."

"There are many inns along the Thames. The Swan is a particular favorite, I've heard." Alison made to turn, but the woman—she had to be somewhere in her thirties, far too young to be greying as she was—caught her elbow.

"Even the Swan has bedbugs. We'll pay good coin for a meal and a bed."

Just then, Alison actually saw Edward, and waved him over. "I will show you the way when the bells chime for Sext. We can meet here, but I've got to prepare a space for you first."

Edward easily wove his way through the crowd, his cardinal felted cap decorated with a brass brooch--the one Alison's own mater previously wore, though Alison had been gifted it after betrothal. The warm colors went well with his sun-tanned skin and dark waves. "Mistress," He offered her his hand, before looking at the two strangers. Exchanging a glance with Alison, his brow rose slightly.

"I'm afraid you're to go to the yard without me," Alison said, covering his hand with hers. "When you see Rolf, could you ask if he'd like to spend the evening with my parents?" She looked back at the strangers, their odd clothes and the man's missing eye. The woman had too much powder and rouge on, clearly trying to seem younger than she was, despite whatever hard travel she'd taken to arrive to London. Her grey eyes shone steel-bright, quickly following her movements.

"Of course, Aliss." Edward nodded, then kissed her knuckles. Before he left, he stopped close as though about to say something. He squeezed her hand and gave her a look, before letting go and joining a group of fellow young men to take up the English tradition of Sunday archery.

"Your husband?" The one-eyed man asked, raising his brow. He reached up to tighten his bandage, but the hand paused at the jaw. Clearly, he decided to instead adjust the collar of his cote, which was out of fashion even by English standards.

The line between Alison's brows deepened. "Forgive me for being a bad host and forgetting to introduce you. I haven't even learned your names..." She'd at least seen enough to make a few guesses about these ill-dressed guests, "messire, madame."

The man made a noise of surprise as Alison dipped into a small curtsy, biting the inside of her cheek to stay pleasant beneath the eyes of saints and the heavenly father Himself. She would not be as terrible a sinner as man insisted she was.

"You may call me Margaret, Mistress Aliss." The woman who was also her own mistress said, before inclining her head towards her companion.

"I--Jimmy Rockporte, a pleasure to be your guest for the evening." The one-eyed man said, extending a well-calloused hand to her. Alison took it, and his lips brushed lightly against her knuckles. Despite his rough appearance, he stood and acted preux. Beyond the missing eye and layers of salt and dust, he had the look of a possibly attractive person, were he not likely a decade her elder. And, given the ill-state of his cote, the type of man who’d drive her mad. A man who didn’t repair his own clothes was not one for her.

“The pleasure is all mine, Margaret and Jimmy, esquire.” Alison looked towards the open doors. By now, most of the parish had filtered out to join in the relaxing fun of Sunday, and here she was speaking to two nobles who offered neither full name nor rank.

One thing was for certain, Rolf would be staying with her parents tonight, whether he liked it or not.

She smiled. “Sard, I must take my leave. My friends are waiting for me.” They weren’t, but she could hear the distant sound of horns and harps where they would be, Sera included. An hour of dancing, and then she had to prepare the house for the odd couple. Alison didn’t wait for permission to leave, instead turning with a large sweep of her skirts and striding out into the warm sunlight—a far more comfortable warmth than that of the chapel.

Alison wrapped herself in the bustle of London’s narrow streets, weaving along back alleys and between groups of socializing people until she found the music, where Matilda and Sera already spun and swirled along to a much quicker song than would ever be heard in the cathedral.

“Aliss!” Matilda waved, extending an arm for her to join in the circle that had formed for dancing along to the reel. Her voice was nearly overtaken by the overlapping lines of ‘sing cockou’, were Alison not already looking for her she would have entirely missed it.

It was hot. Sweat prickled at the back of her neck and in the space at the small of her back. Most of the women had taken off their overgowns and danced in just their kirtles, with gaps of shift and lacing showing when they moved just so, but Alison loved the reel too much to remove her own overgown to before starting. She picked up one side of her skirt and joined the circle, swept up in the rhythm of overlapping verse and drums.

She crossed between Matilda and Sera, swiping Matilda’s brass circlet as she passed with a light laugh. Between the song and the clash of swords from the other yard, it could hardly be heard, but she swirled to see Matilda with a similar grin on her rosebud lips. They passed the circlet between the three of them until they crashed into each other at the last repeat of ‘sing cockou’. Alison’s laugh quickly turned into a cackle as she held Sera’s arms to hold her steady, while Matilda found support on her husband’s arm. Her flaxen hair was doing its best to escape the hairnet now, with locks poking out every which way.  Sera’s dark curls weren’t much better. The late spring’s heat mixed with the lingering moisture of the previous night’s shower to turn her usually perfect buns into a mess of frizz that belonged to France. Which meant her own hair, which was unruly on a good day, was likely a disaster.

“God’s teeth, Aliss, did you sprout two sinister feet?” Matilda laughed, taking back her circlet to place on her head. It was crooked, but it fit. Lozenges were pressed into the metal.

“Shh!” Alison replied, frowning, “We just came from church, and here you are taking the lord’s name in vain.”

Sera, steadied now, dusted off her skirt. The next song was starting around them. “Like you don’t have an archer’s tongue.”

“Hell, at least I don’t bring God into it.” She protested.

Sera grabbed her hands and dragged her into the next dance.

She felt as though she had worn holes in the bottom of her shoes after all that dancing. Her dresses were entirely soaked through in the early summer heats, and her hair wasn't much better. Alison plugs a glass of wine off of one of the tables and made her way towards the yards where the men of London fought with swords and shields.

The sharp clang of metal on metal echoed across the stones until it rose to the roaring triumph of an army. Some had stripped down to their shirts to wrestle, while others had become so wrapped up in the heat of sparring to the point they had flecks of red on their shirts from missing the buckler. And there, in the middle of it all was Edward's red cap.

He had one hand on Rolf’s shoulder, the other on his elbow to guide the boy through a cut. His mouth moved as he worked, and the blade connected with the Gabriel’s buckler with a dull thud. Still, Rolf’s face lit up, and he mimicked the motion again when Edward stepped backwards, his arms crossed over his chest. This time, when blade connected with buckler, Gabriel swiped the blade out of the way with his buckler, and answered with a mirroring cut. Rolf leaned forward to catch the shot, and stumbled a bit.

Her heart twisted. How could she ask herself to leave them? Rolf was her charge, and still two years away from his majority. Her father had lost two apprentices this year, but would he take in Rolf fully by her request? She’d be leaving him behind as well.

Alison sucked in a breath, her hand going to the heavy purse on her belt.

Edward had the two continue at half speed while he raised his sword and buckler to face another. London always felt like a much larger city than it truly was, Alison had heard of plenty others larger, but she puzzled at the familiarity between the two. Edward clapped his shoulder and laughed after a quick pass resulted in a cut doublet, and the other grinned. His foe wasn’t the type to stand out in a crowd: hair too sandy to be brown but too brown to be flaxen, brown eyes, and no outstanding features that would cause Alison to take a second look, but he was remarkable anyway. His was a face Alison had never seen before in all seven years of knowing Edward.

The man stepped forward with a cut to Edward’s wrist, which Edward knocked away with his buckler before countering with another cut. Fighting with Geoffrey she’d grown used to them always following the same pattern like the beat of a heart, but this was unpredictable. They stepped and cut and skipped away with the ease of knights—though thankfully, they were less loud. Alison couldn’t imagine the sound of hundreds of knights in their full harness echoing about the cobbled streets.

She shaded her eyes with a hand to better watch, their blades moving quick as silver and flashing in the sunlight. They’d gone past cutting to the buckler, as most London men did. Edward and the stranger truly fought, grins plastered on their faces. Despite the slow, constant journey of the sun to shine straight into her eyes, Alison watched the stranger and Edward fight. It was the first time she’d seen real fighting beyond the scuffles of drunkards and feuding guildsmen. Very quickly—nearly heartbeats later—they were close and grappling. Edward reached for his foe’s dagger as he had none of his own, and the other—a much shorter fellow—shoved his leg between Edward’s and pulled him from his balance. Edward didn’t sail or fly, there was no grace to it; he collapsed on top of his foe, and a loud pair of laughs broke the uniformity of clashing metal.

“Watch this, Alys!” Rolf called. At some point he and Gabriel had drifted closer, and their freckled, pimply faces gleamed with sweat. Gabriel had rolled down his hose to his calves, leaving his bright orange points flapping in the breeze.

Alison beamed, “I’m watching!”

Rolf took that as his cue and stepped forward. He gripped Gabriel’s arm and twisted, so soon both boy and blade were sitting in a cloud of dust.

“Look at you!” For the first time in her life, Alison stepped into the fighting yard. She hugged Rolf, pressing a smiling kiss atop his head, then offered a hand to Gabriel on the ground.

“I get to throw you next time.” Gabriel mumbled, snubbing her help as he rose. He dusted off the seat of his braces and ruffled his hair—which, at a point past his collarbones, was in desperate need of a shearing.

“Next time, I’ll be sure Rolf throws you into a barber’s shop.” Alison countered with a crooked grin.

Gabriel stuck his tongue out while Rolf tugged on her silk sleeve. He looked up at her, light brown eyes wide. Still so young, her heart twisted at the thought of leaving him behind. But she couldn’t bear to bring him to war either.

“Are you upset with me?”

Alison’s face softened, and she guided him free from the silvery sounds of fighting. “I’ve no reason to, unless you have something to tell me.”

Rolf let out a breath, and the rigid line of his shoulders disappeared. For a while, they were quiet, and Alison stood with the boy close to her side. Most thirteen-year-olds would act as if they were too old for this—hell, even Lecia had stopped trying to hug her—but Rolf was not other thirteen year olds.

“Did I do something to offend you?” Alison asked.

He shook his head. “You don’t want me around your guests.”

Alison shot Edward a dirty look across the yard before she pulled Rolf into a tight hug. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that.” She smoothed a hand over his coarse waves. “I thought you’d be startled by a strange man, and I didn’t wish to cause you any night terrors.”

He drew away, a frown very much like Edward’s when he was planning on doing something stupid in the name of bravery on his face. Alison might’ve laughed at how he puffed out his chest as though he were a cock in spring if it weren’t Rolf. “I’ll be fine.”

Alison ruffled his hair. A small smile lit upon her lips. “Be home by sext, eh? Don’t want to be a bad host.”

Rolf nodded, a determined gleam in his honey eyes. She ushered him towards the fighting once again. Rolf caught Gabriel by the shoulder and took up another stance.

“And make sure Edward isn’t late either!” She called, shaking her head. Then, it was no longer a day of rest for her.

She’d enlisted the help of one of the beggars from her wedding during the first weeks of marriage. The girl—Tiffan—was a wonder in the kitchen, and Alison was glad of being a landlady purely for the ability to pay someone else to cook for her. It was with Tiffan’s help that Alison managed to refresh the rushes in the hall and lay out the spare feather mattress in the bedroom she and Edward shared. No matter Rolf’s courage, she’d not leave him alone at night with such rough-looking strangers in her house.

By the time she left to meet the guests at the cathedral, Tiffan had filled the house with the heaven-sent scent of rosemary and salmon.

Just as the bells of sext rang over the city of London, Alison watched her guests approach the cathedral steps. They’d clearly been to some sort of bathhouse in Southwark—water still dripped over Jimmy’s shoulders and Margaret’s veil was sheer and heavy with water. Her brows rose, there were supposed to none open on Sundays.

Cleaned up, they resembled far more respectable folk. Jimmy almost resembled a knight—if a knight could survive seeing half a battle. His face was washed and his scraggly beard had been shaved away to reveal a narrow, pointed jaw. His tunic was clean and bright once the crust of salt was removed. Meanwhile, Margaret’s cheeks were flushed and her face was powdered. She’d plucked her brows into thin archers, much resembling the noble ladies who never wished to admit their age. Her grey-flecked braids turned golden in the late day’s light.

“I feared you’d forgotten me.” Alison remarked dryly, walking down the steps to meet them. Both were horribly tall, which made her long for a few more fingers of height. She was hardly even close to a fathom, and there they were reaching the measure easily.

“We could never, goodwife.” Jimmy bowed to her, sweeping his feathered cap off his head.

Alison shifted uncomfortably, before latching onto the topic that would get him to rise quickest. “I am surprised, I thought the bathhouses weren’t permitted to operate today.” Alison started off, gesturing for the two travelers to follow. “Even in Southwark.” She added under her breath. She raised her hand to Hélène, whose striped hood had been replaced with a good silk veil in the summer’s heat.

Hélène smiled, waving back. Alison faltered at the flash of dimples on the woman’s face, only for Margaret to loop her arm through hers.

“Who said we used the bathhouse? The Thames is right there.” The lady smiled, and her skin did have that oddly soft texture that came from salt water.

Alison laughed. “If I wanted to bathe in waste, I’d bathe there. If you ask kindly, I can have Tiffan or my boy draw fresh water for you.”

Margaret’s brows rose. Her silver eyes gleamed with curiosity, but it was Jimmy who spoke, “You don’t look of an age to have a boy old enough.”

Alison turned them down a side path to Cordwainer’s Lane, shaking her head. After the latest outbreak, plenty of girls her age had gotten wed and bore children as quickly as possible. She’d just avoided the altar as desperately as others avoided the ill. “He’s my apprentice, though he’s as good as ward to me.”

Both of their foreheads crinkled, but thankfully no comments were made. Even calling Rolf an apprentice was wrong—she was no master of the guild—but he was her charge, and she’d not let anyone tell her otherwise. The gravel crunched beneath their pattens, and they finally came to the street upon she lived. Alison waved briefly at the woman in the garden across the street—the garden of another house she owned, one of her wedding gifts. The rent of the two gifts she’d received for her marriage could pay for her livelihood alone, but she kept that income locked away. As much as Alison loathed sewing, she’d rather live off an honest day’s work.

And there was home. Rolf had taken some gesso and tempera to the timbers and replaced the old flowers with gold and red acanthus vines. “Here’s home. Not much, but I’ve a proper mattress set out for ye gentlefolk.” She dipped slightly before opening the door.

“You can’t just wear a paltok!” Rolf shouted. The opened door cast a ray of golden light on the sight of the two boys—in this moment, Alison certainly struggled to call her husband a man—wrestling over a cote. Rolf was on his toes, trying to pull the garment over Edward’s head, while Edward held the hem of it as far away as possible.

“What a charming family.” Margaret said, sweeping inside with a small glance at Jimmy. The one-eyed man’s shoulders shook with barely concealed laughter.

Alison sighed. “My love, put on the cote.”

“It’s too warm.”

“I’m not greeting guests in my shift, and neither should you.”

“Told you.” Rolf gestured to Edward with two fingers.

Alison gasped, “Who taught you that?” She quickly took Rolf’s hands.”

“You did,” Rolf murmured, then looked over her shoulder at the guests. His eyes widened, and his mouth made a small “o”.

She turned to see both giggling, Margaret’s grin hidden behind a remarkably rough-looking hand. Perhaps they weren’t so gentle after all.

“Your man reminds me of someone back home.” Margaret’s said at last, finding a place for herself on a long bench.

“Oh?” Alison watched as Edward disappeared red-faced down the hall to put on his cote. “Who, if I might ask?” Her brows raised.

“My good friend.” Margaret smiled. Her stony eyes grew distant, warming up to be more like storm clouds. “She would meet with everyone in her shift and a loose gown, if she had her way.”

“Less.” Jimmy added with what might’ve been a wink.

Alison’s eyes widened. “Your lady wife? I thought—“

“Where are you from? You don’t sound English.” Rolf had taken up residence on the bench next to Margaret, his honey eyes narrowed.

Jimmy smiled easily, and crouched by the bench. “We’re welsh.”

Rolf frowned. “Mistress Alison is Welsh, and she doesn’t sound like you.”

“My mother hasn’t lived there since she was a girl.” Alison chuckled a bit awkwardly, “I apologize, he—“

“Is only protecting his loved ones. Quite preux for a boy your age, eh?” Jimmy smiled and patted Rolf’s shoulder before he moved to another bench.

“I’ll go check on dinner.” Alison turned and stepped into the kitchen, resting her head on the other side of the door. “I’ve made a mistake, haven’t I?”

“Curse your charity.” Edward agreed, leaning over the salmon on the grill. He’d still not buttoned his cote, and his hair was curling after all the day’s heat and sweat.

Alison took a moment to soak up the way the hearth’s orange light caught on the bridge of his nose and curve of her lips before replying with a small smile. “The most generous hospitals are the most bankrupt. Our lord said it’s easier to walk through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven.” Once he looked up, she pressed a light kiss to his forehead.

“There is one benefit: you never cook salmon for just us.”

“I never cook.” She laughed, patting his cheek. He had the shadow of a beard, and it scraped her skin.

“That and,” he pulled her close by the waist, and pressed a firm kiss to her lips, “Tiffan used the good wine for the sauce. She’s spoiling them.”

“They’re paying very well.” Alison laughed. “Come now, finish dressing. I’m half-starved.”

Margaret and Jimmy stayed for a week. Then, as rumors of pirates filled London, they disappeared on a strong wind. Edward had remained in his paltock nearly the whole time with his sea-dark eyes carefully trained on their hands.

“I don’t trust them.” He murmured one night over hippocras, while Rolf slept on the mattress feet away. They were gone the next day. Were it not for the purse of ten pounds—nearly an archer’s annual wages—Alison would have thought them to be ghosts.

She sold the brooch the next week. They had a fortune hidden away by now, enough for a country estate, surely. As the summer went on, rumors of campaign grew. Then, the winter came and went, and finally rumor came with men looking for archers and men at arms.

Edward itched to sign up. Every day, when they walked hoe from her father’s shop, his pace slowed at the sight of the inns with their tables of knights drawing up contracts to fulfill their required lances.

“Rolf comes of age in May.” Alison promised, and prayed it would be enough. It was late April, and parliament had approved the young King’s petition. More war. Alison didn’t understand any of it, the country was low on coin and the French ecus were so worthless the kingdom couldn’t pay their ransoms, yet ships gathered with spear-like masts on the coast.

“I want to give him one of the rentals, and the management of the others.” Edward replied, “They’re yours, but—“

“I’d rather he manage those affairs than another.” Alison smiled as they halted in front of an inn. She’d heard from Edward’s parents that one of the knights drawing contracts up in this inn was from Hollyoak. Perhaps Edward was familiar.

“So you’ll come with me?”

Alison nodded. “I’ve saved to buy you a sword, so you can do more than merely salute the French.” She raised two fingers, a mockery towards the threats of Poitiers.

“And here I’d thought you’d wait here to continue blushing at Hélène.”

“I don’t—“

“You’re welcome to.” Edward smiled, before approaching the inn. “She’s beautiful.”

“And I’m a married woman.” Alison said. She took off her hood as they entered and shook the water from it, before glancing around to find the arms that she was told to locate. There it was: Quarterly, gules and or, an oak tree argent, a lion rampant azure. The knight was ruddy-haired and younger than she expected, though that was all. She pointed Edward his way, but he waited to approach.

“After we’re rich from French coin, I’ll make you a wardrobe of silk.” He promised, his sea-dark eyes meeting hers.

“After we’re rich, you can take me to see Jerusalem.” Alison countered with a smile. “And that silk can buy our badges.”

Edward sank to the rushes in front of her, both her hands in his. He looked into her eyes so deeply Alison feared he could see through to all her fears about the coming months. He looked so deeply those fears were almost soothed. “Alison Taylor, my beloved wife, I swear that after a year’s campaign, I will take you to Jerusalem and Nazareth, so you may walk the same paths as our lord.”

Something tightened in her throat, and Alison swallowed quickly. She blinked the blur of tears away, and pulled him to his feet. “Go, make your oaths to a lord.”