“Lady, are you ill?”
“I am perfectly well,” she said coldly. Was the seneschal watching her more closely than usual? She had never liked Hugo, but he did his job well and she had never had reason to find fault with him. He’d been Hamon’s man, but she tried not to hold that against him, and he had been invaluable in the early days after her husband died. But she had never entirely trusted him and lately he seemed more skittish than usual, as if he had a guilty conscience.
“Come, we must prepare the men,” she said and hurried back down the stairs and from there out into the castle bailey.
Once she’d called together her garrison she began to give her orders.
“Although I’m sure these men will not cause trouble when they see we are well prepared,” she said, “we must be alert in case they are foolish enough to try to take the castle.”
“Yes, my lady.” The garrison captain appeared ready for anything. He began ushering his men into strategic defence positions along the castle walls and inside the bailey.
Isabella waited on top of the stairs, before the huge oak doors of the keep, and nodded to the gatekeeper to give them permission to enter. If their visitors thought they could just ride in and overtake Godestone Castle they were in for a rude shock, she thought grimly. Her men were well trained fighters and she trusted their loyalty completely.
Still she held her breath when the gates opened and the men rode in.
They were all big men on their large destriers, dressed in chainmail but bare headed. The leader looked relaxed as he approached her, and now she saw his hair was golden in the spring sunshine. She could not imagine why the earlier sight of him had affected her so. He was just a man.
Smiling, he slid easily off the black horse, handing the reins to the lad who ran to him. He wore chain mail over his tunic and a heavy sword was strapped about his waist, and he looked dusty. There was a long scratch across the chain mail on his chest, the metal bent and torn, as if he had lately been in a fight. When he walked towards her she noted he had a slight limp.
“My lady,” he said, bowing low. “I am Alric of Wenton. Thank you for allowing us entry. We have come from London. My men are weary and we would appreciate a chance to rest.”
“Of course.” She gestured to Hugo to deal with the horses and the men. “Will you take refreshment?” she added, turning back to Alric. That was when she realised that he was standing before her, looking up at her from the step below, and his piercing blue eyes were soaking in every inch of her. As if he planned to sit down and dine on her.
She shivered. She’d had many men desire her, but she suspected that after the death of her husband their desire had more to do with her lands than her body. She had never been at all inclined to succumb to their beseeching, dismissing them with the coldness that had only enhanced her reputation as the Ice Queen.
But there was something about this man, something that made him different.
In an attempt to discover what it was, she stared back at him, inspecting him as closely as he was her. His muscular body was honed by war. Isabella was tall for a woman but if he’d been on a level with her he would have towered over her. His face was handsome, there was no doubt about that and with his brilliant eyes and his smiling mouth . . .
“. . . Most grateful, my lady.”
Isabella realised uneasily that he’d spoken and she hadn’t heard what he said. That was not like her. She nodded brusquely and turned away. She could hear Alric following behind her as she walked through into the great hall, holding her head high and her back straight.
The seneschal had already given the order for food and drink to be made ready for their unexpected guests and the servants were bustling about the tables and benches where the men would sit. Alric came toward her and she noted he was still limping, perhaps a little worse than before.
“Lady?” Alric said, his voice dropping. “I have something I wish to discuss with you. A matter of some importance.”
Isabella’s look was sharp. “What matter?”
Alric moved closer, grimacing as he jarred his leg. “A matter I must discuss with you in private, lady.”
It went against her better judgement to be alone with this man but there was an urgency in his manner she could not deny. She cast a cool glance over him. “Your leg needs attention. Come with me and I will see to it.”
The small room beyond the great hall, tucked away behind an arras, was private and often used for bathing when she had guests. She sent for Alric’s squire to help him undress.
“What is wrong with your leg?”
“There is nothing . . .” he began, but Isabella was weary of male pride.