1150AD England
Isabella listened to the sounds o f the castle stirring. She looked at the empty space in the bed beside her and smiled. It had been over two years since Hamon had died and she still counted her blessings every day.
As with most marriages, t heirs had been arranged, for her father’s convenience, to merge their two adjoining estates. At first she was indifferent to his choice; she was fourteen and she had to marry someone; her own preference was meaningless. Hamon was presentable enough and was polite in her family’s presence. After the marriage though it was a different Hamon who took her to the marriage bed. The act she’d been curious about and even anticipated with some hope and only mild trepidation had for eight years become a nightly ritual of pain and disgust.
But now! She smiled again. She was mistress of a great castle with a vast number of servants and wealth she’d never imagined. She had power over her own life and the responsibility of others as well. Isabella was aware she was known as the Ice Queen but rather than being insulted she rather enjoyed the title and did her best to live up to it. It wasn’t just that her husband had thought her cold and she’d certainly not enjoyed his sweaty thrusting, but being icy helped when you were a lone woman in charge of so much.
T here were times when she was lonely—if her bed seemed sometimes too big, it was worth it. Ice Queen or not, she was the Lady of Godestone and no man was going to take that from her.
There was a timid knock on the door and her maid, Joan, entered with a jug of water for Isabella’s morning wash.
T he girl poured the water into a bowl and drew back the heavy curtains around the bed. Isabella washed her face and hands and gestured for Joan to help her dress.
“How would you like your hair today, my lady?” the girl said nervously. “I have been practising a new style,” she added hopefully.
“Just as usual.” Isabella had no desire to be anything other than plain and competent, or at least as plain as a beautiful woman could be.
In s pite of her nervousness Joan was adept at braiding the long thick red hair. As she sat beneath the girl’s ministrations Isabella pondered on what would have become of her, and Godestone, if she had been a woman such as Joan. Afraid of her own shadow. She would have been swept up in the wars between Matilda and Stephen long ago, bartered like a counter for her possessions. She had been lucky, yes, but she had also worked hard to hang on to what she had.
I t was only a few minutes until Isabella was ready. Her beauty was indisputable but she was not a vain woman, and any ideas that her looks gave her an edge over other women had been knocked out of her by Hamon. Beauty could be a curse and these days she did her best not to appear in any way alluring.
“ My lady!” Isabella looked up in surprise as she reached the bottom of the stone stairs. Her seneschal was rushing in through the front door, breathless and wide-eyed. “My lady, there are armed men approaching the gate.”
Isabella frowned. England was at war with itself and any armed band was of concern. Stephen and Matilda had been fighting for control for many years now, and although Stephen currently occupied the throne, Matilda’s young son Henry had now become a major player in the fight to rule.
“How many men? And what standard do they carry?”
“No identifying standard or banner, my lady. I would say around twenty men.”
She nodded. “I will go and see for myself.”
“But my lady . . .”
With a swirl of her skirts she turned back to the stairs she had only just descended and he followed anxiously behind her.
Once on the roof of her keep, she hurried to the walled edge and shaded her eyes against the morning sun. Sure enough down below her was a group of men approaching but although they were clearly armed they didn’t appear to be about to attack. Rather they were weary and dusty from the
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