Romantic Association - Truly, Madly, Deeply

‘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 of a set of silver gilt spoons for the high table, wrapped in a valuable purple silk cloth. Once they had thanked him and marvelled at the exquisite workmanship, he produced another set and presented them to Isabel with a flourish. This time the spoons were fashioned of rustic, crudely carved wood, standing upright in a plain earthenware jar.

‘For any eventuality you may come across,’ he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Isabel thanked him. ‘You are very thoughtful,’ she said gravely. ‘I promise that I shall always hold them both in equal esteem.’

Author’s Note

Isabel de Warenne was a wealthy widow who married King Henry II’s illegitimate half-brother Hamelin in 1164. Hamelin took her name as his as far as the family line went and they seem to have had a long and happy marriage blessed by a son and three daughters.

Castle Acre in Norfolk was the core castle of Isabel’s estates, but Hamelin went on to build a magnificent fortress in Yorkshire at Conisburgh. The couple will feature significantly in my forthcoming trilogy about Eleanor of Aquitaine, The Summer Queen, The Winter Crown and The Autumn Throne .

KATIEis currently the President of the RNA and the author of twenty books. She lives in the Cotswolds with her husband, some of her three children, and three dogs. Her hobbies include being a member of a choir and Lindy Hop, a new hobby which may or may not be continued.

She declares herself to be the RNA’s biggest fan.

Isobel had always been a fan of those books set in Cornwall, where the sea roiled (there was never a book when it didn’t) and the sun danced like stars on the waves. Either the sun shone like it hadn’t done for years in real life, or the sky brooded and storms blew, lightning highlighting the passion of secret lovers, or murders, or books containing the dark secrets of the ancient family.

There was always a matriarch, always beautiful, and either with an amazing talent for something –opera singing, poetry, painting –or with a secret. Every man she met fell in love with her, even when she was in her seventies.

Life was not like this for Isobel. She had a perfectly happy life but as she had got older, her confidence had begun to wane and she longed to be the sort of powerful, charismatic older woman who starred in those books.

She also wanted the beautiful house in Cornwall. Instead of the large, detached house with plenty of garden on the edge of a very pleasant town, where she had brought up her children and where she and her husband still lived, she yearned for a wild cliff top, or the bottom of a wooded valley, either an ancient farmhouse, a large Victorian mansion, or even an architect-designed modern house with spectacular views. All of these imaginary houses would have some sort of dwelling in the grounds. Her favourite daydream was a boathouse; there was something very sexy about a boathouse.

One year, she decided to make her dream real. She searched the internet exhaustively and eventually found the perfect house. It didn’t have another dwelling in the grounds but it was right on the river and the views were sensational. She went to find her husband who was working on a model ship in his shed. He was always working on a model ship in his shed, apparently finding this more absorbing than the company of his wife, now the children had all left home.