Truly, Madly, Deeply. Romantic Novelist's Association

       May 1164

      Isabel Countess de Warenne was smiling as she supervised the flurry of activity in her chamber. Spring sunshine spilled through the open shutters, flooding the room with light and drawing in the garland scent of tender greenery. It was time to wash and scrub the linens, to beat the old season out of blankets and hangings, and to let new air into the room.

      She and Hamelin had married seven weeks ago, and the sky had done nothing but rain ever since. Not that they had noticed at first, being too caught up in discovering that sometimes, against the odds, arranged marriages were very compatible. However, emerging from their cocoon of mutual delight, the constant rain had been a source of nuisance and concern; it was a relief to see the sun.

      Hamelin was the King’s half-brother and had needed an inheritance to bolster his standing at court. She was the means of providing that inheritance –a wealthy widow, just over thirty years old with castles and vast estates to her name. They had known each other for several years from a polite distance that had not allowed any room for intimacy: glance and a bow at court; a curtsey and move on. That was until the King had given the command that they wed, and without recourse to refusal.

      The potential for disaster had been huge but the opposite had happened. It was a long time since Isabel had felt so happy and fulfilled. Indeed, after the death of her first husband while on campaign in Toulouse, she had not expected to ever feel whole again. But now the sun had emerged and the world was glittering and new, like a golden chalice sparkling with pale green wine, waiting like a loving cup to be shared.

      Hamelin had ridden out on the King’s business and she had decided to use the time to spruce up their chamber so that she could surprise him on his return.

      Her steward, Thomas D’Acre, entered the room and bowed. ‘Madam, there are men at the gate craving entrance,’ he announced, his expression screwed up and doubtful. ‘Their leader claims to be a close friend of my lord Hamelin, but I have not heard of him before and he is dressed like a ruffian. He gives his name as Geoffrey of le Mans.’

      Isabel had not heard Hamelin speak of such a friend, nor had she encountered anyone of that name at court. Although England was at peace these days, common scoundrels still abounded and with Hamelin away it would be the height of folly to admit someone lacking credentials. Perhaps there was a good reason for their arrival while her husband was absent.

      ‘I will come and look,’ she said, and bidding her women continue with their task, she followed Thomas to the gatehouse where she climbed the tower to look down at their prospective visitors. They were as Thomas had stated: a rough looking group, mud-spattered and clad in rough woollens, scuffed and disreputable. Their leader, red in the face, was bellowing at the gate guards, calling them turds and idiots, and waving his fist. Isabel could see a sword hilt poking out from beneath his cloak.

      ‘Tell him to come back when my husband is at home,’ she told Thomas, looking down her nose at such uncouth behaviour. ‘They are not dressed like noblemen or anyone he would know. If they are mercenaries looking to be hired, they can go and bide their time in Lynn.’

      ‘I thought that too, Madam.’ Standing tall and expanding his chest, Thomas went off to deal with the situation.

      Feeling like a bird with ruffled feathers, Isabel returned to her spring refurbishment, chivvying the maids and immersing herself in the task until she began to feel less perturbed. Incidents such as this brought back disturbing memories of the violent war for the throne that had engulfed England for fifteen years; when strangers at the castle gate meant danger of attack and no one could be trusted.

      The exquisite whitework embroidery on the new coverlet, the jug of spring flowers on the polished coffer, and the honey scent of beeswax permeating the room eventually worked their spell and Isabel was able to put the visitors to the back of her mind. She went to sit at her sewing frame in the embrasure, where she could look out on the lovely spring day while working on the tunic hem she was embroidering for Hamelin. Selecting a warm red silk, she threaded her silver needle and began work on the lion she had outlined yesterday.

      It was early afternoon when the horn sounded at the gate again. Isabel looked up from her work, her stomach lurching with anticipation and anxiety. When Thomas sent a squire to tell her that the Earl had returned, she abandoned her sewing and flew down the stairs to the hall, arriving to greet him just as he walked in from the yard.

      Her heart opened wide at the sight of him; his height, his thick tawny-gold hair and warm brown eyes with smile creases at their edges. She greeted him with a proper formal curtsey to his bow, and although she was past thirty years old, she felt like a girl in the first flush of new love.

      ‘Husband,’ she murmured.

      ‘Wife,’ Hamelin responded, the word full of intimacy and amused affection.

      Blushing, she took him up to their chamber so that he could refresh himself, and because she wanted him to see the changes she had made. She watched his reaction as he paused on the threshold and gazed round the fresh, refurbished chamber. ‘You have been busy,’ he said with approval. ‘Very restful indeed.’

      ‘Do you like it?’

      ‘I like everything you do.’ He pulled her to him, nuzzling her throat and kissing her softly on the lips. ‘I have to say the bed looks very inviting.’

      Isabel laughed and nestled against his broad chest. ‘Indeed it is, but you need to take your boots off before you try it. And are you not hungry?’

      ‘I’m ravenous but not necessarily for food.’ Giving her a wicked look, he sat down swiftly on the box chair at the bedside and began tugging off his footwear.

      Isabel dismissed the servants with a peremptory wave of her hand, and as the door closed behind the last one, knelt to help him with the task. With gentle fingers he removed her headdress and unwound her braids, letting her hair tumble around them in waves of heavy brunette silk: a sight and a privilege reserved only for a husband. He was indeed ravenous but he wanted this particular banquet to go on for ever.

      ‘We had some disreputable visitors while you were gone,’ Isabel said some considerable time later as they lazed in the aftermath of their lovemaking. ‘But Thomas saw them off.’

      ‘What do you mean “disreputable”?’ He had been stroking his forefinger up and down her bare arm but now he pulled back slightly, alert to the suggestion of danger.

      ‘Mercenary types looking to hire their swords but it might be wise to send men out to see if they caused troubled in any of the villages. Their leader claimed to know you but I doubt it. I told them to come back when you were home and that there was accommodation in Lynn should they wish to wait: I had no intention of allowing them under my roof.’

      ‘Did their leader give a name?’ There was a frown between Hamelin’s brows as he reached for his discarded shirt.

      ‘Yes, Geoffrey of le Mans. He was not the sort of person I would want to admit through my gates the way he looked and behaved. What’s wrong?’

      Hamelin had stiffened as she spoke the name and his frown had deepened.

      ‘Geoffrey of le Mans,’ he said. ‘What did he look like?’

      ‘Red hair, red beard with a white streak in the centre. Not a young man and dressed like a common peasant with manners to suit.’ Isabel bit her lip. ‘Surely you don’t know him?’

      ‘Very well indeed,’ Hamelin said grimly. ‘He’s my mother’s cousin and was one of my father’s most trusted knights, not to mention my tutor in arms and horsemanship when I was a boy.’

      Isabel swallowed. ‘He was dressed like a common hired soldier. Anyone looking at him would think he had mischief in mind!’

      ‘Life is not like a tale spun by a troubadour,’ he said curtly and began dressing rapidly. ‘If a man has been on the road for a while or met with difficult circumstances, he may not arrive at your door looking as if he’s about to dine at a court banquet.’