Truly, Madly, Deeply

by Romantic Novelist's Association

  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.

  Living the Dream

  Katie Fforde

  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 pleas
ant 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.

  Her three children, two sons and a daughter, all married or with partners, were all keen on the idea of a paid-for holiday in a luxury holiday home. ‘Lovely to have built-in baby-sitters,’ said one son. ‘Good to have time to catch up with the sibs,’ said another.

  Isobel made the booking. Now she would live the dream. She would become charismatic, beautiful, in spite of her nearly sixty years. She wouldn’t just be ‘good old Mum’.

  What she hadn’t envisaged when she’d been searching for the perfect house was the amount of cooking and washing up a family holiday with grandchildren entailed –all in a kitchen a lot less well organised than her own. It was not so much ‘living the dream’ as ‘living the washing up’. What had seemed such a good idea in January, when she booked the house, now seemed a terrible idea. As for her transformation into the heroine of one of those books, she felt more like the faithful family housekeeper than her employer.

  The men all loved cooking –that wasn’t a problem –except they used every implement in the house and while they sloshed water around quite a bit, they somehow never actually cleared up. Considering they had cooked this seemed sort of OK, but it was the same when she cooked. Her husband wiped half washed saucepans with clean tea towels, which meant very soon none of the tea towels were clean.

  She realised sadly that she was not a matriarch, she was a woman who was a member of a book group, shopped in Waitrose and had to travel with her own pillows. And while, during the holiday at least, she had some trappings of the Yummy Mummy –the pale marks on the shoulder of every garment, the faint odour of sour milk, and Babybels loose in her handbag ready to feed a hungry toddler at a moment’s notice –she didn’t feel remotely yummy. And she didn’t even have a wicked past to look back on either. She’d married young, had children and stayed married. Her life was completely free of delicious memories of past loves. What had always seemed something to be admired now seemed plain boring.

  At least the holiday was going well. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Days on the beach with the children, with Grandpa willing to go rock pooling, buy ice creams and carry small children for miles. And later, meals cooked and served at the huge table with ample quantities of wine. Yet somehow she still found herself doing most of the donkeywork. Everyone was happy to fill the dishwasher but no one wanted to empty it, carrying the clean things to a cupboard across the kitchen. It was a job Isobel hated too but still found herself doing it several times a day.

  One morning, when she’d got up early to do the washing up that the men had sworn they’d do, she went on strike halfway through. She made herself a cup of tea and took the visitors’ book out onto the terrace. The sun was shining and no one else was up. She felt entitled to a few moments not looking after people. These moments were hers.

  Earlier, when they’d first arrived at the house and were reading the instructions to the Aga and the telephone number of the woman who ‘did’ plus the way to the nearest beach, which was several miles through traffic-filled lanes, Isobel had looked at the visitors’ book. In it had been a name she’d recognised. A man she’d known briefly and rather fancied –Leo Stark –had obviously stayed at the same house with his family. They’d both been married when they met but she was fairly sure there’d been some sort of spark.

  On impulse she went to find her phone and emailed him. After all, there were no other ways she could rebel that wouldn’t impinge unpleasantly on someone else. This was a little private thing that would go no further.

  ‘Dear Leo, I’m sure you won’t remember me, Isobel Dunbar, but we met at the McCreadys’ once. We’re staying in the house where you stayed last year. Such a coincidence, I had to get in touch.’

  Feeling very slightly naughty, and so cheered up, she went back into the house to finish the clearing she had abandoned.

  Very much to her surprise she had a reply from Leo. She sneaked a look, feeling wonderfully teenage, while supervising the two-year-old’s porridge consumption.

  ‘Isobel! Of course I remember you! How could I forget? And by an amazing coincidence we’re down here too! Do you think you could manage a lunch? Not the whole family, just us?’

  She was so shocked and delighted she couldn’t even think of replying. She just held her glorious –and guilty –secret to herself. She whizzed through the chores and even made up some batter for pancakes for breakfast. She almost ran down the lane to the little shop that stocked everything a holidaymaker might require and was open almost continuously. She panted back up the hill clutching croissants and maple syrup.

  ‘Mum!’ said her daughter, a plump baby on her hip. ‘You didn’t get any nappies while you were in the shop, did you? We’re nearly out.’

  ‘Sorry, darling, I didn’t know about the nappies and just thought it would be fun to have pancakes.’ The adrenalin shot of the email protected her from resentment. ‘Now, shall I take Immi so you can start frying?’

  All day she was superwoman. She packed a picnic of homemade pizzas and sent the whole lot off to the beach. ‘I’ll meet you at lunchtime. There are just a few things I want to do here!’ she said, as she waved them off.

  Then she ran to her phone. ‘It’s as if I have a lover!’ she told herself, slightly breathless, as she switched it on. The thought of having a lover was like being submerged by a huge wave and then being lifted up by the same wave. She couldn’t decide if the feeling of exhilaration matched the feeling of utter doom. It was while she was feeling ridiculously happy she wrote a quick reply: ‘That should be possible. When did you have in mind? Not today,’ she added hurriedly.

  She doubted if Leo had had to tidy the kitchen, go shopping and make pancakes –not to mention the picnic –in order to have a few moments to send an email, but was very pleased to hear the ping of a reply while she was clearing up sodden towels from the shower. It was him. He mentioned a pub in a little village a reassuring distance from the house: ‘Tomorrow any good? We’re going back at the end of the week.’

  ‘Lovely,’ she wrote back, not giving herself time to think further. If she passed up this opportunity it wouldn’t
happen and she’d regret it for ever. ‘One o’clock?’

  Feeling as guilty as if she had made a pact with the devil, Isobel made her way to the beach, bringing chilled bottles, extra cardies and some sunscreen with her.

  ‘Oh great, beer,’ said one of her sons, taking a couple of bottles out of her bag, which had been very heavy.

  ‘That’s fine, darling,’ Isobel muttered. ‘It was no trouble bringing it at all…’

  The following morning Isobel got everyone’s attention at breakfast time –as far as one could, given that they all had separate distractions. ‘I’m going out for the day,’ she said. ‘I’ll be taking the car.’

  ‘What do you want to do that for?’ asked her husband, utterly bemused.

  ‘Oh you know. I just need a bit of time on my own. “Me time”.’ She bit her lip to stop herself adding ‘because I’m worth it.’

  ‘Will you be back to help with bath-time?’ asked one daughter-in-law. ‘You promised to read Otto a story!’

  ‘I’ll be back in plenty of time for that.’

  ‘This is a bit out of left-field, isn’t it?’ said a son.

  ‘Yes, and what about supper?’ asked her daughter. ‘What are we having?’

  ‘Why don’t you decide?’ she asked. She turned to leave but before she had got out of the room her daughter stopped her.

  ‘Don’t you think you ought to at least wash your hair first?’

  Isobel laughed. ‘Oh no, my hair is just fine.’

  She managed not to spray gravel as she drove away, feeling as if the family car had turned into a getaway vehicle. In her Cath Kidson shopper, like stolen goods, were as many of her clothes that she felt she could get away with taking, and her entire make-up kit. Her holiday packing had not included control pants or a sexy dress but she had bought a couple of new tops and some new linen trousers that were quite flattering. She knew of a public lavatory with quite big cubicles, she’d do her changing there.