The tall stone tower keep of his home, encircled by a tall stone wall studded with towers, was the single most beautiful sight Jocelyn had seen in days, since he had left, in fact. The afternoon sun reflected off the armour and weaponry of the sentries patrolling the walls, and his own banner flew proudly at the very top of the keep, stretching out in the wind to declare his ownership to the world.

A ripple of chatter ran through the men following him on foot and horseback at the sight. Jocelyn listened with tolerant good humour as his men at arms set about the pressing business of planning what exactly they were going to do now the oft dreamed of moment of their homecoming had arrived. It was a simple business really, for all their overcomplification. If you had a family you visited them first, or else your wife and/or mother sat waiting for you with her second best iron skillet and a scowl fit to wither your manly courage into a small blob. If you didn’t have family you went to the kitchens or tavern and exploited the returning hero aura to get as much free food and drink as you could.

Up on the ramparts extra men were running into position. Jocelyn squinted and shaded his eyes with a hand. Most of the men had crossbows, and once in position they set to winching the strings back and loading. Men with hand to hand weapons dispersed at even distances along the wall. The drawbridge remained up. Jocelyn dropped his hand back to his saddlebow, impressed despite himself at the way his wife had maintained discipline in the castle.

When they had closed half the remaining distance a new figure appeared up on the gatehouse, this one dressed like a woman. “Ah, Richildis,” commented Jocelyn, aiming a cheery salute he didn’t exactly feel at the figure. Characteristically she ignored him. “Cold hearted bitch,” muttered Jocelyn.

Still the drawbridge did not lower. Surely those up on the walls could see his banners by now? For an uncomfortable moment Jocelyn had visions of himself sat here outside the walls, shouting futile threats while the bridge remained up and Richildis laughed. He turned in his saddle to check his pennant was flying properly; it was, along with his other flags.

He checked back at the walls; the defensive attitude continued with no signs of recognition. “What in the bloody blazes of hell does the damned woman think she’s doing!?” Right; plan. He was not going to act like he was afraid; it was his wife and his castle, God damn it! But nor would he obligingly trot on up only to be shot full of crossbow bolts if Richildis had taken up with the steward and was desirous of an end to their marriage. That would be a bloody embarrassing way to die.

Jocelyn beckoned to his squire. The youth rode up beside him. “Alain, your young eyes are sharper than mine, see anything wrong?”

“They’re not lowering the bridge, my lord.”

“God’s toenails! I know that, damn you! Anything else?”

“Looks like the lady Richildis up there on the gatehouse, my lord, and if my eyes aren’t deceiving me that looks like Gauthier next to her, judging from his stance and all.”

“So they’re definitely our people?”

“I’d say so.”

“So why is the damned woman pissing about? We look like us, and we’re not waving burning brands about and shouting death threats, so we’re hardly mistaken for enemies.” They were almost in range of the crossbows now. Jocelyn signalled a halt. If he ended up looking daft he’d be sure to inform Richildis of his displeasure later. At length.

“Sir!” Alain pointed at the gatehouse. The drawbridge lowered and a lone horseman rode out, the bridge winching up behind him as soon as his horse’s hooves had cleared the wooden planks.

“Oh, Christ on the cross!” swore Jocelyn. “I’ll have her hide for this!”

The horseman rode up within hailing distance and reined in. He stood in his stirrups and shouted, “My lord! Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me! Who else would it be, you thrice damned fool!? Try opening your bloody eyes and take a look at my banners!” Jocelyn flung an arm to point at the assortment of flags behind him. “And check the livery too – mine!”

The horseman waved back at the castle in a prearranged signal; the drawbridge began to lower again and the men on the walls stood down.

Jocelyn spurred his horse over to the messenger. “What is this God damned game my wife is playing?”

“My lord, you and your men returned six days ago in the company of Raymond de Issoudun.”

“No I bloody well didn’t!”

The man pulled a face. “Aye, so we saw just in time. They had the banners and all, damned convincing, my lord.”

“Oh, brilliant!” declared Jocelyn to the sky. “Just bloody brilliant! I’m gone for a short time and someone tries to steal my bloody castle!” He signalled to his men to move out again.

He passed the rest of the short journey to his castle in a smouldering rage.

Safely in the bailey Jocelyn climbed down off his horse. He scarcely got two steps before he heard pounding feet and his exuberant daughter yelling, “Papa! Papa!” His black mood evaporated, and he knelt down on the muddy cobbles of his courtyard, bracing himself for impact. Even so Mahaut nearly bowled him over as she crashed into him. She squeezed him in a tight hug, her little face buried in the curve of his shoulder, making Jocelyn worry she might cut her face on his mail. “You’re not dead!” she said with such joyful exuberance Jocelyn found himself smiling broadly.

“No, I’m not dead.”

Mahaut looked up at the others who had returned home with Jocelyn. “Thierry’s back,” she commented, before sticking her thumb in her mouth.

She wasn’t the only one to notice his eldest son’s return; Richildis, emerging from the gatehouse, froze as she spotted the boy on his pony. She hitched up her skirts and sprinted the rest of the distance, ignoring her husband to get to her son.

Mahaut pulled her thumb out of her mouth with a popping noise. “She always tells me off for running. It’s not fair!”

Looking at his wife fussing over their son Jocelyn was inclined to agree; it wasn’t fair. He stood up, taking Mahaut’s hand in his, grimacing only slightly when he found her thumb was still covered in drool. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t suck your thumb any more? You’ll make your teeth go crooked.” She mumbled something contrite and scuffled at the floor with one foot. Jocelyn ruffled her hair. “Come on, let’s go join the others.”

Mahaut smoothed her hair back down and stood her ground. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she scolded. “Beautiful ladies don’t have messy hair.”

Jocelyn grinned roguishly. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure there.”

“Why?” she asked curiously.

“Er … well, I mean after you’ve been rescued from an evil knight by your one true love you’re bound to be a bit ruffled about the edges, right?”

“Oh. That. I guess.” Mahaut looked beseechingly up at him. “Papa, can I have a new comb, please? A really, really nice one with a pretty pattern on it? Please? I’ll be ever so good, I promise.”

“Well …”

“See, if I ever get rescued I want my hair all neat and nice and all.”

“I don’t think you’re going to need rescuing for some years yet; you’re much too young.”

“Oh.” Mahaut’s face fell. She sucked her teeth, mind visibility working at full capacity. “But,” she ventured carefully, “you never know, though, right? So it’s better to be prepared, just in case, right?”

Jocelyn made a few mental adjustments to the list of gifts he’d brought back, assigning Richildis’ comb to Mahaut instead. He sent up a small prayer of thanks for the heaven sent inspiration which had spurred him on to pick the comb instead of hair ribbons; more proof of God’s favour towards him. “We’ll see later, when I’ve taken my armour off.”

The girl beamed brightly, knowing she’d won. “Thank you, papa!”

They began to walk over to Richildis and Thierry. “I pity your husband,” teased Jocelyn.

“He’s going to love me, you know.”

“Of course he is.” As if he’d let anyone but the best and most worthy get his slimy hands within five feet of his little girl! Thank God he had another ten years before he needed to start looking; he knew entirely too well what men were like … women too, for that matter.

At their arrival Richildis reluctantly looked up from her careful examination of Thierry’s bruised hand; she inclined her head to Jocelyn. “I am pleased you are back, my lord.”

“And I’m pleased to be back.”

A small scuffle broke out between the children; Mahaut trying to look at her brother’s injured hand, proclaiming that as a kind and gentle noble lady she was supposed to bandage people and stuff, while Thierry gruffly insisted he was perfectly well and barely even noticed he was hurt at all, and anyway knights got hurt all the time.

Jocelyn said sternly, “Thierry, be nice to your sister. Mahaut, don’t pester your brother. Now run along.” To Richildis he said, “Thierry’s hand’s nothing to be worried about, just a bruise he got while learning the sword. He didn’t block properly, or so I’ve managed to wring out of him. Don’t fuss over the boy, Tildis; it embarrasses him and you’ll make him soft.”

“I suppose I should just be thankful he is back.”

“Exactly,” replied Jocelyn with a tight lipped smile.

Richildis digested that with down-turned brows. They were still in the public eye, and simple courtesy, and curiosity no doubt, demanded she ask, “All in one piece?”

“All in one piece,” he confirmed smugly. “Not even a scratch.”






Half an hour later, after giving thanks in the castle’s chapel for his safe return and removing his armour, Jocelyn settled in the solar with his wife, a cup of ale and a mutton pie.

Richildis left him no time to relax and gather his wits. “Why are you back? Why is Thierry back? You said not until the English king was here, and he’s not. Did something go wrong?”

“Ah.” Jocelyn sank his teeth into his pie. He chewed and swallowed hastily, scorching his tongue on the hot gravy. “Jesú! Damned thing felt cool enough.” A driblet of gravy boiled its way down his wrist; he wiped it away on his other sleeve before he could burn too badly. He was uncomfortably aware of Richildis’ disapproving gaze. Conscious of his wounded dignity Jocelyn growled, “I saved Yves’ nephew’s pasty arse when the little moron made a bunch of mistakes; course he whined to uncle about big bad me stealing his authority. I was already in poor favour thanks to my disagreeing with Yves’ fantastic plan to ruin Ardon entirely, which he’s done. The place is devastated; it’ll take years and a lot of money to rebuild, and people’ll need moving in from outside if there’s any hope of even trying. I got sent away, no longer required he said, but really too competent and so showing up his sodding nephew. A used chamberpot has more brains than Yves; the nephew takes after his uncle, but worse, if you can believe it. They weren’t happy that I was the one credited by the men with much of the success and glory, not that there is any when mowing down peasants like so much damned hay. I grabbed Thierry on the way out; snatched him out from his lessons, stuck him on his pony and got the hell out of there as fast as I could.”

That hadn’t been part of his plan, but Jocelyn had soon taken advantage of what the Good Lord had offered him, adjusting his plans for this latest divine gift. He’d fought bravely and competently for his lord, so well his jealous lord had turned on him. With all the hurry and sudden unexpectedness in his departure, and the fact he’d left behind much of Thierry’s belongings, he’d obviously been rescuing his son, Yves’ hostage for his good behaviour. That done he’d had no more part in the butchery he’d protested against from the start, duty discharged and family safe. He was at home, guarding what was his from Yves’ potential reprisal and waiting for his king to arrive so he could loyally trot out to his side and fight with him against the traitor with the exact same bravery and skill he’d recently demonstrated.

Remembering about the pie still clutched in his hand Jocelyn bit off another mouthful, this time mindful of the gravy. The food stuck in his throat and he had to work to force it down, his hunger abruptly gone. “Speaking of Ardon, I’d better ask how our guests are doing. The girl and the nun?”

“Elianora … well, she’ll talk if you speak to her and she’ll do things if you ask her to, but otherwise? She just sits there, staring off into empty space. I’ve heard of this before, but never seen it; the mind just can’t cope, so off it goes, sometimes to return, sometimes not. The nun spends much of her time with her, trying to coax her back to the world of the living.”

Unable to recover even a hint of his earlier appetite Jocelyn placed the partly eaten pie down on the broad arm of his chair. The filling began to ooze out, much to Richildis’ guarded distress, but Jocelyn didn’t even notice. He wiped at the gravy on his sleeve with his thumb. “Well, the good news is that when the king gets here and straightens things out she’s going to be sole owner of a badly damaged castle and ravaged fief peopled by the dead. That’s the best news, and it’s damned poor. And of course as an heiress…”

“She’ll be sold off to the highest bidder and forced to marry,” said Richildis, finishing his sentence for him with far more self composition than he was managing.

“Indeed, and she’s no family to protect her; Yves butchered the lot.” Her father’s, brothers’ and betrothed’s heads were all mounted on spikes and displayed on the castle walls, just above the splintered main gate. They’d been coated in tar so they’d last longer before they rotted. “So there’s nothing to be done, but from the sounds of it it’s best not to tell her just yet.”

The gravy stain was not budging, not that he’d expected it to without water. Spots and smears against the deep green of his sleeve, dark brownish, almost like dried blood. Jocelyn brushed one final time at the wool and then tore his eyes away; he was seeing blood everywhere these days. Fools fired up on legends of heroes might call it cowardly guilt, but it was common, far more common than those who’d never seen blood spilt might like to believe. Cowards killed at a distance and Jocelyn had always thought this was why; not the danger, but the fact three feet of cold steel left no impersonal space between you and your victim. Recalling his mind to the conversation Jocelyn said, “I’ll speak up on her behalf, do what I can. Simple Christian charity.”

He saw an unfamiliar expression spread across his wife’s face, unfamiliar when aimed at him but one the children often prompted. A kind of surprised pride. “They told me what you did; it was very brave and … decent.”

His reply was brusque, “It was nothing special.”

“You behaved nobly-”

“No.” He relived again the instant when his sword had come down on a skull, cleaving it through nearly to the jaw. It’d been in the brutal room to room fighting when the keep had finally fallen; the man had jumped out at him with a blade and he’d reacted on years of hard trained instinct. Except it hadn’t been a man, just a skinny boy in patched, worn clothes and a kitchen knife clutched in his hand. “No,” he repeated. And there it went; the soft expression he’d waited so long to cause flitted away, turning to confusion, then back to the usual politely guarded mask. “Tell me about this attempt to steal my castle.”

“A group of men with your banners and livery rode up with a group of Raymond de Issoudun’s men; we – I – thought it was you, so the gates were opened and the men stood down. We realised it was a trick just in time and pulled the bridge up; we shot a few as they broke off and rode away to safety, but only one of the men we recovered survived. He’s safely locked up; I thought it best to leave him to you.” Her head bowed and her voice dropped to no more than a whisper. “My stupidity almost cost us everything. So much for all my fine words. So easily fooled …”

Jocelyn didn’t bother to try and comfort her; he’d learned long ago he could do no right there. “I’ll take this to the king when he arrives, see what justice I can get.” It didn’t take more than a few seconds for Jocelyn to see how useful this could be; God truly did love him. He could spin this beautifully; he’d done his best by his liege out of loyalty and fear for his son, then when his duty had been judged, by his liege himself, finished he’d rescued his boy and returned home. This attack was obviously a reprisal; Yves’ revenge for his taking his son back.

“You were right; you did need to go. If you hadn’t Yves might have come here instead of Ardon.”

“He hasn’t, and he won’t.” It was only afterwards Jocelyn realised that he’d said that in the same way he usually comforted the children. Astonishingly it seemed to work; she didn’t recoil and get defensive or scornful. Spurred on by this unusual mood of theirs Jocelyn stood up and held out a hand to her. “Come to bed. I’m no good at fancy words like a knight’s supposed to be, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think or feel.” Jocelyn frowned, labouring with a task he usually gave up on without even trying; wording his feelings. “I … just feel lonely. I don’t want to be alone. Please? I’ll try and be gentle since you like that. I don’t want to be alone … and nor do you.”

She sat there without moving so long Jocelyn’s hand slapped back down against his thigh. All the time she continued to look at him with a certain measuring air. Very slowly she pushed herself to her feet. “Since you’ll only keep asking …”






Eleanor nibbled a morsel of quail and wondered if this could count as her wedding feast, after all she had got married this morning. Stuck here at the high table between her brother and Llwellyn, unable to even see Fulk in his place in the low tables, eating what passed for a plain meal for the palace, dressed in her normal clothes instead of her court finery, and faced with an uninteresting evening and lonely night. Well, she’d always said she didn’t want much of a fuss.

Seeing her sardonic smile Llwellyn asked in his Welsh accented English, “Is something amusing, your highness?”

“Amusing, no. Painfully ironic, yes.”

“Pray pardon me if I ask to be included in the humour.”

On her other side Hugh stopped speaking; Eleanor could feel the sudden tension rolling off her brother. This was a perfect opportunity; Anne had not yet had much time to try more peaceable methods of securing a meeting with Hugh, but in the end this way would probably be the best. “If you wish,” she told Llwellyn, pitching her voice so Hugh could overhear. “I was thinking that I once swore I would only marry someone I considered a fitting match. Now I have found that person here I am, sat next to you, someone I passed over.” She heard Hugh’s sharp intake of breath with a kind of grim satisfaction. It was a minor lie; she had vowed never to marry full stop. Funny how things changed.

The Welshman’s dark eyes narrowed. “I am loath to think what a fitting match for you would be.”

Eleanor folded her arms, feeling the reassuring shapes of her wrist knives beneath her loose sleeves, her right hand resting just above her left elbow where the garrotte she carried was hidden. “Llwellyn, if you had a thousand years I am sure you would never guess, and that is why you would never be a good match for me. You simply do not have the wit, cunning or imagination.”

Hugh clamped one hand on the top of her arm; he leaned close and said in a tone which did not invite discussion, “Dear sister, I am horrified to hear you are not feeling well. You should retire to the solar. Now. I shall come up and see how you are feeling later.”

“How very diplomatic of you, Hugh.”

As Eleanor began to stand up Llwellyn told her, “A cheerful little fact to warm you through the long days ahead, princess. Welsh men do not beat their wives. Remember that, and me, when you upset your husband.”

With complete confidence Eleanor said, “He would never harm so much as a hair on my head. I stand by what I said before – you are a pathetic little man.”

“Such confidence; I would love to be there when you discover you are wrong.”

“You would have a very long wait, you see he likes my little quirks.”

Llwellyn sneered. “If it would get me a royal link and a tidy dowry even I would pretend I liked you for a short space. The more you gain, the more you pretend, and you will admit he is gaining a lot.”