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filtering through the bed hangings from the chamber beyond. In winter, it was difficult to tell night from day with all the shutters barred against the weather.
    The sharp ache behind her eyes and her dry mouth reproached her for celebrating Twelfth Night too deeply. They had broached a cask of their best Gascon wine and the dancing had made her very thirsty.
    “The only thing more potent than that brew is me,” her husband had whispered against her ear as they swirled past each other in a wild carole. He was merry with wine himself, although nowhere near the point of incapacity.
    “Prove it,” she had said recklessly, her breath suddenly short and her loins liquid.
    And he had done. Hawise had not been so much in her cups that she could not remember the heat of his mouth on her breasts, the teasing lap of his tongue, or the hard masculinity of his body pushing hers into glorious dissolution.
    It had ever been thus between them, a fact for which Hawise always thanked God in her prayers. Marriages were made for alliances, for land and wealth and influence, never for love. She had known Fulke le Brun, called Brunin because of his dark coloring since he had been her father’s squire and they had grown up together. Fortunately, their parents had agreed that a match between them was suitable to all parties, but she knew just how rare love matches were.
    He was lying on her hair. Biting her lip, Hawise gently tugged its masses from beneath his shoulder. He grunted and rolled over, trapping her again. In sleep, he was as warm as a brazier and his heat contrasted pleasantly with the cold air on her exposed shoulder.
    “Aren’t they awake yet?” demanded an impatient child’s voice.
    “Shhh, no, Master Ivo. You know you cannot disturb your mama and papa when the bed curtains are closed.”
    That was the warning voice of Peronelle, Hawise’s senior maid.
    “But I have to. I’ve got something important to tell them.”
    “Later,” said the maid firmly
    Hawise compressed her lips on a smile. Closed bed curtains were a sacrosanct privacy across which no one in the household was permitted to trespass. It had been a rule instigated on the day after their wedding night when the bloody bed sheet had been displayed to the guests as proof of her virginity and Brunin’s ability to take it. Since then, Brunin had insisted that what went forth behind the bed curtains, be it sleeping, talking, or coupling, were matters between husband and wife and not for public consumption, even if that public was their own offspring.
    “But they’re awake; I just heard Papa’s voice.”
    “God,” muttered Brunin against her throat. He rolled onto his back.
    Hawise sat up, her head gently pounding. She fumbled about on the coverlet until she found her shift, heedlessly discarded the night before, and fought her way into it. Then she parted the curtains.
    Candlelight illuminated the chamber with a dull, golden flicker and the room was warm. From the ashy glow of the charcoal lumps in the two braziers, Hawise could tell they had been alight for at least an hour. So it must be full morning and she had missed mass.
    Ivo and Peronelle were squaring up to each other near the clothing pole, both with hands on their hips.
    “There!” cried Ivo, pointing in triumph. “They are awake. I told you!”
    Peronelle turned to the bed. “Only because you have disturbed them,” she said irritably and curtseyed. “Good morrow, my lady.”
    Hawise murmured to the maid and pushed her hair out of her eyes. Behind the bed curtains, she heard a muffled rustling as Brunin turned over.
    “What is so important that it cannot decently wait?” she demanded of her fourth-born son as she took the cup of watered wine Peronelle presented.
    Ivo hopped from foot to foot. It was no coincidence that his father had nicknamed him “flea.” “Fulke’s here,” he announced, a broad grin spreading over his freckled face.
    Hawise almost choked on her drink.