Their leaves were glossy green in the autumn sunlight. Torches were set at intervals along the road, though they would not be lighted until night. Music and laughter drew one to the colorful stalls even if one was feeling as morose and heavy-headed as Hugh was. The air was balmy, the sky bright blue as carts carried ladies and men from the keep to the fair—but not Mathilda. She rode at his side, her yellow gown slapping his legs. Every time he edged away, she maneuvered her horse closer. A groom ran to take their reins when they reached the fair grounds, on the outskirts of the village. Mathilda immediately looped her arm in his and smiled up at him. He glared at her. “Do not ask my opinion on anything.” “What of my gown?” She smoothed a wrinkle only she could see. “Yellow makes you look…yellowish.” She frowned. “Then I shall look for material fit to make a better one. Have you a color you prefer?” Hugh pursed his lips. “I like brown. Mud brown.” Two hours later, they had two servants trailing them with armloads of fabric and trim.
