Truly, Madly, Deeply

Elizabeth Chadwick

Born in Bury, Lancashire, ELIZABETH CHADWICK began 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.com At Twitter @chadwickauthor On Facebook https://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.chadwick.90

The Rough With The Smooth

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.’

‘And what if I had admitted him and he had turned out to be a thief and cutthroat? How was I to know?’ Tears prickled her eyes at 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 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.

Katie Fforde

KATIE is 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.

Living the Dream

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.

‘Darling, I want to take the whole family on holiday. Jenny said the other day they couldn’t afford to go away this year and I suddenly thought what fun it would be to get together.’ She glanced at him and then went on. ‘It would be good for the grandchildren to spend quality time with each other.’

Rather to her surprise he didn’t grunt when she said ‘quality time’. Instead, he nodded. ‘And we pay for it all?’

‘Yes,’ Isobel said firmly. The children would never give up their holiday allowance to go to Cornwall if they had to pay.

‘OK,’ he said, and went back to his scale model of the Cutty Sark.

Isobel went back to the house, half annoyed that he hadn’t said, ‘But I wanted to take you to Antibes,’ and delighted that he’d agreed to her plan.

Her husband’s early retirement had been a bit disappointing. She’d imagined lovely days out and meals in pubs now they had time to be with each other but mostly he made models. And nowadays, if she asked him if she looked all right, he always said ‘fine’ but never glanced in her direction.