Romantic Association - Truly, Madly, Deeply

Nico continues with his chopping. ‘You can only go on so long, Polly. The time comes…’

‘You are good to me,’ she says with a rush of emotion.

Helena wipes her hands on her apron and grabs Polly’s hand. ‘Do you remember…afterwards that you came to stay with us and we looked after you? That makes you family.’

The onions were making Polly cry. She holds on to Helena’s hand. ‘I suddenly thought I didn’t want to be alone today. And Nico…’

Nico stopped the chopping.

‘Nico, you knew Dan. For just a few seconds, but they were important ones. You shared the moment of his death.’

Nico frowns and Helena shakes her head at him. ‘Go on Polly.’

‘I can’t go on thinking about it. I can’t go over, and over the details any more.’

‘At last,’ says Nico.

‘It’s as if I am travelling over the same ground, over and over again, and never getting anywhere.’ She pauses. ‘I never arrive, however carefully I prepare.’

Helena extracts a clean knife from the rack and hands it to Polly. ‘The tomatoes need chopping. Can you do that?’

Polly smiles. ‘In slices?’

‘If you like. They’re for the sauce.’

‘But I must do it right.’

‘You do it the way which suits you,’ said Helena.

Polly sets to, the red flesh falling away from the knife blade and the seeds spurting onto the board in a crimson gel. Just like blood . She hesitates.

‘Go on Polly,’ urges Helena. ‘It’s getting late.’

Polly smiles at them both to show that she is perfectly in control. Her movements gather speed and dexterity.

Helena adds a handful of thyme to the saucepan. ‘A bed is made up,’ she says. ‘No need to go back to the hotel.’

She glances at her watch. At this moment, the ferry would be berthing at Skopolos and a brief, but intense, regret flits through her mind. Then it is gone.

She glances up at the laid table where her place is waiting to be occupied. The image of Dan, held so long and violently in her mind, dims and softens into the bearable.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

Born in Bury, Lancashire, ELIZABETH CHADWICKbegan telling herself stories as soon as she could talk. She is the author of more than twenty historical novels, which have been translated into sixteen languages. Five times shortlisted for the Romantic Novelists’ Association Major Award, her novel To Defy A King won the historical prize in 2011. The Greatest Knight , about forgotten hero William Marshal, became a New York Times bestselling title, and its sequel The Scarlet Lion was nominated by Richard Lee, founder of the Historical Novel Society, as one of the best historical novels of the decade. The Summer Queen , the first novel in her new trilogy about Eleanor of Aquitaine was published in June 2013.

When not at her desk in her country cottage, she can be found researching, taking long walks with her husband and their three terriers, reading, baking, and drinking tea in copious quantities.

She can be contacted at her website www.elizabethchadwick.comAt Twitter @chadwickauthorOn Facebook https://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.chadwick.90

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.