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companionable.
    Sybilla finished what she was doing and brought the cups of wine to the window. She stood looking out for a moment, enjoying the sight of the evening light against the castle towers. She had lived here for most of her adult life and every stick and stone of Ludlow was as familiar as her own hand. Joscelin took a swallow of the wine and leaned his head against the wall. 'Good,' he said.
    'It's from a new barrel.' She looked at him mischievously. 'Knowing your taste, I thought you'd appreciate it.'
    He gave her a sleepy smile that kindled heat in the bowl of her pelvis. 'You know my tastes well.'
    'I should do by now.' She sat down beside him and he pulled her close so that she was leaning against his chest rather than on cold stone. His palm rested at her waist, the gesture light but possessive.
    Joscelin had been eight and thirty when they had wed, and she a recent widow whose husband had died in sudden violence during a war with the Welsh. Her first marriage had been a political arrangement as most matches were, but they had made a success of it and she had been grief-stricken when Payne had been killed. Almost immediately, without respect for mourning, King Stephen had forced her remarriage to Joscelin, one of his most experienced mercenaries. Those first months had been difficult, but although he was a soldier first and had long been a bachelor, Joscelin had a courtier's polish and an innate liking of women. She knew her good fortune and its limitations—as he knew his.
    'So,' she said, 'what is this surprise of yours?'
    'Surprise?'
    'You told Hawise that you had one for her.'
    'Ah, yes.' He grinned.
    'And Hawise told the other girls. Marion seems to think that we are to have another child.'
    She felt his snort of amusement, although the comfortable atmosphere developed a strained quality. Sybilla bit back the apology that sprang instinctively to the fore. She was nine and forty and her flux had not come in a seven-month. Nor had she proved a prolific breeder of offspring in her fertile years. As Payne's wife, she had borne Cecily and Agnes. Since her remarriage she had only quickened twice, each time with a daughter.
    'Marion is still fascinated by the matter?' he asked.
    Sybilla sighed. 'I think a little less than of yore, but still too much for comfort. Whenever the girls play, she is always the lady of the keep and about to give birth. It is as if by acting out the part, she tries to heal herself, or make the outcome different.'
    'You have great patience.'
    'I need it,' Sybilla said ruefully and took a long swallow of her wine. 'I could kill the fool of a maid who let her wander into the birthing chamber when her mother was bleeding her life away in childbirth.' She folded her arms with indignation, remembering the day when Joscelin had brought Marion to Ludlow from her home—a wan little thing of five years old, peering fearfully over the edge of his fur-lined cloak. Her father, who was one of Joscelin's knights, had died in a fall from his horse and the shock had sent her heavily pregnant mother into labour. There had been complications, and the woman and baby had died, leaving Marion an orphan. Sybilla had taken her under her wing and was raising her with Sibbi and Hawise, but it was no easy task.
    She took her mind from the thought and concentrated on her husband. He might have enquired out of politeness, but she was not sure that he would understand or be particularly concerned. 'Your surprise,' she prompted.
    'Well, in a way it does concern a child,' he said, 'although not as small as Marion might be anticipating. And it will involve you to an extent.'
    'You have another orphan for me?' She kept her voice light, but behind her smile, she braced herself.
    'Not as such.' He told her about his meeting with

FitzWarin at St Peter's Fair and the request that had been made. 'I said that I would consult with you first.'
    'Providing that he is house-trained, I have no objection.' Her eye corners crinkled