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isn’t she?’ he said. ‘She’s returning to Anjou.’
    Damette regarded him with smiling annoyance. ‘Oh, you’re too quick! Yes. She’s received a letter from her husband requesting her in humble language to return to him. He wants to heal the rift.’
    John lifted a cynical brow. ‘Rather say he doesn’t want to lose her dower and the prospect of one day being lord of Normandy and England. I suspect he’s had some stiff words of advice from his counsellors. I cannot see Geoffrey of Anjou being humble of his own accord.’
    ‘I don’t know about that, but you’ll hear the rest on the morrow in the hall - and you’ll have to add an Angevin party to those already staying here. He’s sending an escort to bring her back with all ceremony.’
    Inwardly John groaned at the notion of finding yet more sleeping spaces in an environment where men were already packed together like herrings in a barrel.
    She gave him a sympathetic smile and stroked the side of his face. ‘It’s a great pity you’re not a man for permanent arrangements, my lord,’ she said with a regretful sigh. ‘I am afraid that whatever else I bring to you from now on will be a favour from me to you, not an obligation.’
    John curbed the retort that without his help, she would be plying her trade on the streets of Rouen and should William Martel tire of her, she would need his help again. Life was always fluid at court and the rules that applied one day might change the next. ‘Then I hope you are as generous to me as I have been to you,’ he said. Taking her hand, he turned it over and kissed the inside of her wrist.
    ‘I will bear it in mind.’ She withdrew from his grasp. Her gown swished over the floor rushes and, moving between pools of light and shadow, she was gone. John exhaled and lay down on his rope-framed bed. He didn’t want to sleep. Her visit had set him on edge. His body needed a woman and his mind was turning like a dog on a spit wheel. Where in the name of God’s lance was he going to put the representatives of the Count of Anjou? And what were the implications of renewing the oath of allegiance to the Empress?
    Uttering an impatient growl, he left his pallet and went in search of his ushers and deputies. If he was wakeful, they could be wakeful too. There would be time for swiving and slumber later when the Empress had gone on her way.
    Crossing the ward, he saw William Martel emerging from Robert of Leicester’s chambers. Martel noticed him too and stopped, his expression freezing. John nodded his head in courtesy and strolled over to him. ‘God’s greeting, messire.’
    ‘Do you never sleep, Marshal?’ Martel’s belligerent tone revealed his discomfort. His stance was aggressive with shoulders back and legs planted apart.
    The creases showed in John’s cheeks, although he didn’t smile. ‘I find it instructive to prowl the night hours,’ he said. ‘It helps me to think and, besides, it’s my duty to be on guard. And you, messire, do you not sleep either?’
    Martel shrugged. ‘I’m for my bed now.’
    ‘Ah.’ John glanced at the doorway from which Martel had emerged and hoped Damette was quick on her feet. ‘Sometimes it is useful to burn late candles with men of a like mind.’
    A muscle flexed in Martel’s jaw. ‘What of your own mind, FitzGilbert? With whom would you burn wax to the stub?’
    ‘Most likely myself on the King’s business, but if not, then with one of the whores. We’re not so different, are we?’
    Martel fixed John with a narrow gaze, which John returned implacably until the other man yielded and, disengaging, walked swiftly away. In a contemplative mood, John continued towards the gatehouse.
     
    Matilda wore her empress’s crown to take the oaths of allegiance from the gathered barons. Strings of pearls dripped from the gem-set circlet at her brow. Her face was as smooth and cold as marble and her dark eyes were guarded. John watched men give their promises and wondered how