Truly, Madly, Deeply. Romantic Novelist's Association

the injustice of his words.

      Hamelin sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. ‘Would you say that if the Christ Child came calling dressed in rags? Would you turn Him away because you were not to know?’

      Her own anger began to rise. ‘So by that rule do you expect me to admit every beggar and vagabond that arrives at our gates and sit them at our table?’

      ‘By that rule I expect you not to judge people by their appearances. You have offended not only my kin but a very fine and old friend, and this might cost me that friendship.’ He stood up, his face flushed with anger. ‘Go and consult your mirror and your etiquette concerning the matter of true courtesy. You will greet all guests as my guests, not just your own.’

      Isabel watched him, a lump of misery in her stomach that felt like a lead weight. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked as he stalked towards the door.

      ‘To find him and atone where I can, because I doubt he will want to come back this way after the treatment he received.’ He clattered from the room and she heard him calling to his men.

      Isabel gave a soft gasp and pulled the covers over her head. She was angry at the way he had spoken to her but she was chastised too. She should have investigated further and not been so swift to judge. She had been too involved in sprucing up the bedchamber and too wary to consider further. Refusal had been the easiest road to take.

      It was the first argument of their marriage and her heart was bruised in a way that it would never be bruised again.

      Riding on the Lynn road, Hamelin encountered a large alehouse that had recently brewed a fresh batch as denoted by the bunch of evergreen hanging on a pole outside the door. Dismounting, he handed his horse to his squire and entered the establishment. The trestles were full of drinkers; Dame Agatha’s brew was famous and when the sign of the bush went up outside her dwelling, men flocked to taste her ale. Seated around a table at the back of the room was a motley group of men, muddy from travel. They looked weary but well able to handle themselves, especially one with a beard of rust and silver, and sharp grey eyes.

      Hamelin signalled to the pot boy and walked over to them. ‘I hear you have been creating mayhem over at Acre, cousin,’ he said, as he sat down on the bench. ‘My good wife thought you were up to no good.’

      Geoffrey of Le Mans raised his brow. ‘I came to wish you well of your marriage,’ he replied. ‘I did not expect to be turned away from your gate like a common vagabond.’

      ‘I am sorry for that. Had I been home, it would have been a different matter. It is a pity no one was there who would recognise you, but they were my wife’s attendants. After all the troubles of Stephen’s reign, the Countess is wary –and justly so.’

      ‘You make excuses?’

      Hamelin gestured at his friend’s rough tunic. ‘You must admit that you are hardly dressed to announce your rank.’

      Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. Hamelin met his gaze steadily, feeling like the youth he had once been, training under the knight’s stern scrutiny. ‘Well, that is true,’ Geoffrey said after a long moment. ‘But we had suffered a difficult sea crossing and I thought we could make ourselves presentable at your fine castle –but we were turned away.’

      ‘I am sorry for that, as I have said, and so is my lady, and I have come to make amends. You are very welcome at the castle, although I will understand if you choose not to ride back my way.’

      Geoffrey gave him another long look. ‘Perhaps I shall ride your way, and look forward to a welcome, but it will be in my own time.’ He leaned forward on the trestle. ‘Now, since you have a full pitcher in front of you, let us catch up on old times, and then move on to new.’

      ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Hamelin said with a smile.

      It was very late, and Isabel had given up on Hamelin when he finally returned to Castle Acre. She ran to her chamber door but immediately thought better of it. Whatever was said was probably best done in private, not in the hall.

      Her heart started to pound as she heard footsteps on the stairs. Hamelin opened the door and walked in. His tread was steady; he was not drunk but as he came to her she could smell drink on his breath.

      ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I should not have been so swift to judge.’

      He touched her face. ‘I am sorry too. I should not have been so swift to castigate you for your prudence. There has been no harm done. Geoffrey saw the humour in the situation and agreed that he could have arrived better presented. He swears he will wear his best robes next time he comes to visit.’ He gave her a large embrace. ‘You must not mistake me if I ever come home in muddy boots!’

      She gave him a little push, feeling giddy with relief that the awkward moment was over and all seemed to have been resolved. ‘I thought you might not come back,’ she admitted.

      ‘Why would I do that? Geoffrey is good company, but you are more beautiful and I would rather sleep in my own bed than on an alehouse mattress.’

      That made her feel guilty for a moment, thinking of the troop she had turned away, but Hamelin’s evident good humour made her cheerful enough to set it aside.

      ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Bring your cloak and walk with me.’

      Strolling at his side, with his arm around her waist, and the world to themselves, Isabel felt the last of her unease slip away and was supremely content.

      Standing on tiptoe, she murmured in Hamelin’s ear, and when he turned to her with an exclamation of delight, she smiled and drew his hand to her womb and kissed him in the moon-silvered night.

      Hamelin was out riding when the troop of horsemen arrived at the gates of Castle Acre. Isabel was inspecting a new horse in the stables when Thomas came to her with the news. ‘Sir Geoffrey of le Mans is back, my lady,’ he said wryly.

      ‘Bid him enter and be welcome,’ she replied in a calm voice, although her heart had begun to pound. She decided she had better follow Thomas to the gate and greet them herself.

      She was in time to see the great wooden doors creak open and a band of riders trot through the gateway, clad in rich garments and furs that would not have looked out of place at a tournament parade. The horses had been groomed until their hides shone. Harness gleamed and sparkled, sunbursts dazzling on bits and stirrups. Even the pack ponies were spruced, with smart saddlecloths and scarlet ribbons plaited in their manes.

      The leading rider swung down from a glossy black stallion and knelt to her, elegantly flicking his blue woollen cloak out of the way. The cuffs of his tunic were embroidered in red and gold, banded with small seed pearls. Behind him his men dismounted and knelt too in a jingle of harness and shiny equipment. ‘Geoffrey de le Mans, your servant, Madam Countess,’ he said. ‘I trust I meet your exacting standards today.’

      Isabel curtseyed and knew she was blushing because her cheeks were hot. ‘I have no complaint sire,’ she said. ‘Please accept my apology for the previous occasion and be welcome at Castle Acre. Will you come in and take refreshment?’

      Before the kneeling man could reply, Hamelin rode through the gate at a canter, his garments and horse mud-spattered from a swift ride over moist ground.

      A smile lit in Geoffrey’s eyes. ‘Who is this vagabond?’ he demanded. ‘Shall I see him off for you, Madam?’ He set his hand lightly to his gleaming sword hilt.

      Isabel laughed, ‘I can do that for myself if I so choose,’ she said, entering into the spirit of the teasing.

      Hamelin clapped Geoffrey on the shoulder and then turned to his wife. ‘I would far rather be taken hostage to good food, fine wine shared with friends and kin, and then a warm bed shared only by my wife.’

      ‘I am sure that can be arranged,’ Isabel said demurely as he slipped his arm around her waist.

      The company entered the castle together. Once inside, Geoffrey formally presented Isabel and Hamelin with a wedding gift