'The counsellors back Harold,' Aldred said shortly. 'They don't want a Norman backside on our throne.'

Lyulph, ever Aldred's shadow, growled assent. At only twenty years old he was the youngest member of Earl Harold's bodyguard, but his fighting abilities were as precocious as his luxuriant tawny beard.

Goldwin shook his head. 'Surely invading England will be too great an undertaking for the Norman Duke?'

Aldred jutted his fierce jaw. He was big-boned, with a fighting man's loose-knit grace. Like Ailith's, his eyes were a clear, deep blue, but more closely set with downward corner creases. 'Perhaps it will be so, but if not, I'll be waiting on the shoreline to kiss him welcome with my axe!' Aldred had been sitting on Goldwin's bench, but now he rose, and fishing in the pouch at his belt, brought out a fistful of silver pennies.

'I want you to fashion me a new axe,' he said intensely, 'and I want you to inscribe Duke William's name on the blade.' He banged the silver down on the bench in punctuation. Several coins rolled to the edge and spilled over, landing hard and gleaming on the beaten earth floor.

Goldwin stared at the coins, his queasiness becoming the cold squeeze of fear. 'God save us, Aldred, you truly want me to do this?'

'I do. Is there enough silver here to pay for your work, or do you want more?'

'Nay, I don't want any at all!' Goldwin fanned his hands back and forth in denial.

'I want to pay.' Aldred narrowed his eyes. 'I must pay. It will make the charm more binding.'

Lyulph jerked open his own pouch and spilled yet more silver onto Goldwin's bench. 'Make me one too, the same!'

Goldwin could not refuse his own wife's kin, but he had a real feeling of dread as he scooped up the coins, still warm from their touch, and put them in his pouch. He had made Aldred and Lyulph weapons before. Their mail shirts were of his fabrication, and the superb swords they wore at their hips. He was no stranger to fashioning the terrible Danish war axe, both two- and one-handed varieties. And frequently he had set inscriptions into the steel, or along the polished wood of the haft. Names, talismans, they were all familiar to him. But in some way he did not yet understand, this was different and made him afraid. Never before had he felt the winter cold in his own forge.

When they returned to the hall, by unspoken agreement none of them said anything to Ailith about what had happened in the workshop, but there was a constraint to their feasting now, an undercurrent of tension that she could not fail to miss. She did not ask any outright questions, because conversations that took place in the forge were always men's business, but nevertheless she was concerned and curious.

It was beyond dusk, but still early when Aldred and Lyulph took their leave, declining Ailith's plea that they stay the night.

'We're on duty at dawn,' Aldred said, hugging her close.

She felt the taut power of muscle beneath his Yuletide finery. There was a hardness in his face that she had never noticed before. Perhaps all warriors became that way, tough and unyielding like the rawhide bands rimming their shields. It was a disquieting thought to take into the New Year and as she embraced her brothers, she felt as if she were bidding farewell to more than just the old season.

She watched them ride away in the direction of the royal palace, watched until the last gleam of harness and horsehide had disappeared into the night, and the sound of hoof and voice could no longer be heard. Over her head a distant pinpoint of light blazed an arc across the sky. 'Look, Goldwin!' she cried, pointing.

He stared sombrely upwards, his eyes quenched of light. 'I have a premonition,' he said softly, 'that tonight I have grasped the tail of a falling star.'

Ailith was frightened by his tone and the strange look on his face. 'Goldwin?' She touched his sleeve for reassurance.

A shiver rippled through him, as if he was trying to shake off the fey mood that seemed to have gripped the night. Laying his hand upon hers, he turned to look at her, a half-smile curving his moustache. 'Too much mead,' he said ruefully. 'You know it always makes me weep. Did you make a wish?'

Ailith nodded and followed him back into the house. 'For both of us,' she said as he barred the door, his motion a little too forceful as he shut out the world. And Ailith, her hand upon her flat belly, wondered if she had wished for the right thing.

CHAPTER 3

In the sleeping loft of the rented London house, Felice de Remy spoke to her maid. 'The amber beads and brooch,' she instructed the woman. 'They go best with this gown.'

'Yes, Madame.'

Felice smoothed her palms down her overtunic of blue-green wool, seeking reassurance from the rich, heavy cloth. It fell in pleated folds to shin-level and was hemmed by a border of gold braid. Her undergown was of tawny linen, its edges skimming the toggle fastenings of her soft leather shoes.

The maid returned with a string of polished amber beads and a round brooch also set with lumps of amber. The jewellery had been a wedding gift from Aubert and he liked her to wear them whenever they had guests.

Her maid arranged the beads and secured Felice's yellow silk wimple with the brooch. It was a colour that few women could wear well, but Felice, with her warm complexion and glowing brown eyes, was one of the fortunate.

'You look lovely, Madame, fit to dine with King Edward himself!'

'Why thank you, Bertile!' Felice laughed, while wondering dubiously if she ought to have dressed less elaborately. Fit to dine with the King was perhaps not fit to receive their Saxon neighbours, especially after that first, impromptu meeting across a midden heap. Would the wife think that she was being mocked?

Felice had glimpsed the husband on several occasions. He was square and stocky with brown hair and a darker beard, his garments filthy from the forge. Aubert said that he was a master armourer and had crafted weapons for the great Earl of Wessex himself. Many times during the past three days Felice had stood at her doorway hoping to catch a glimpse of the armourer's wife and perhaps speak to her, but the young woman seemed to have gone to ground.

Descending from the sleeping loft, Felice gazed around the hall with a critical eye. The new rushes on the floor had been scattered with dried herbs — lavender, rosemary and marjoram — that yielded up their scent as they were trodden upon. She had dressed the bare walls with embroideries in bright colours on pale linen backgrounds, and the room was illuminated by expensive beeswax candles. Her best napery was laid upon the dining trestle, and instead of the usual eating bowls of polished wood, she had brought out her precious set of glazed earthenware dishes. An appetising smell wafted from the cooking pot suspended over the firepit, which was being assiduously tended by an elderly serving woman.

Outside, she heard the thud of hooves in the yard and her husband's voice chivvying one of the serving lads. Moments later, Aubert flung into the house, his stride choppy and energetic, his mobile, ugly features pulled into a deep frown.

Felice took his heavy winter cloak and woven Phrygian cap. Aubert kissed her briefly on the cheek, then pushing his stubby fingers through his frizzy grey curls, strode to the flagon which had been filled in anticipation of their guests. Pouring himself a full measure of wine, he took a long drink.

Felice hung his cloak and hat on a wall peg, her movements fluid and calm, although her stomach was churning with anxiety. 'Does your business not go well?'

Aubert de Remy raised and lowered his bushy, prolific brows. 'Well enough,' he said gruffly. 'I've an order of wine from Leofwin Godwinson, Earl Harold's brother. It is just that the negotiating went hard.'

Felice nodded and smiled. She knew that he was lying, that the source of his frown was something else, but she had no intention of pressing him. That his concerns extended into clandestine regions beyond the mere selling of wine she had long since realised, but for her own well-being, she had never sought to know too much.

'Something smells good.' Aubert hung his nose over the cauldron.

'It's coney ragout.'

His eyes narrowed with gluttonous joy. 'I shall soon be as fat as Martinmas hog!' He laid a rueful hand upon his belt where the merest suggestion of a paunch was confined by the gilded leather.

Laughing, Felice tortured him further by telling him the other courses she had organised.

'Stop it, stop it!' Aubert groaned. 'You will be the death of me!'

She started to ask him if she should take his remark as an insult or a compliment, but was forestalled by the arrival of their guests – the armourer Goldwin, and Ailith his wife.

The young woman stood proudly on the threshold beside her husband, her head carried high, her manner almost defiant. She was easily as tall as Aubert, and of generous proportions. From beneath a veil of blue silk, two fat, corn-blonde plaits snaked the length of her short, rose wool overtunic. The undertunic was the same blue as the veil and enhanced the colour of her eyes. She wore a beautiful necklace of polished glass beads and a silver cross upon a cord. A set of housewife's keys jangled importantly from the tooled belt at her waist. Suddenly Felice was very glad that she had gone to the trouble of dressing elaborately herself.

'Enter and be welcome,' Aubert said formally, and extended his hand in an ushering gesture.

The armourer stepped forward, ill at ease, but dogged. 'Peace be on this house,' he responded with equal formality. His wife followed, her eyes modestly downcast.

With a pleasant smile and welcoming words, Felice set about being a good hostess.

Mistress Ailith remained aloof throughout the courses of the meal which Felice had so carefully planned. While the husband began to relax and genially respond to Aubert's conversation, devouring with relish the chicken broth with saffron dumplings, the coney ragout, tiny pickerel in ginger sauce, and apple comfits, his wife pushed her food around on her trencher as though it had come from one of the dubious cookshops attached to the city shambles. And yet, judging by her ample proportions, she must have a good appetite on other occasions.

'I hope your hens are none the worse for their escape the other day?' Felice was driven to enquire by her exasperation.

Her guest turned a deep shade of pink. 'My hens, no,' she said and looked down at her trencher. 'I'm sorry I cannot do your food justice. I know you have gone to a great deal of trouble.'

Felice murmured a disclaimer. 'It does not matter; the men have enjoyed more than their fair share, and what is left can be used tomorrow.'

'You must think me very rude and ungrateful.'

Seeing the defensive colour in Ailith's cheeks and the rigid set of the full lips which should have held a natural, soft curve, Felice was moved to compassion. Having found an opening, she took full advantage. 'I think nothing of the sort,' she said untruthfully.

Ailith sighed. 'If Goldwin had not dragged me to your door, I would not have come tonight. I still feel so embarrassed.'

'Oh, but you mustn't!' Felice touched Ailith's arm. 'It could have happened to anyone. I think you managed the situation very bravely. I was going to come and tell you so earlier, but I was unsure of my welcome.'

Ailith reddened again. 'Probably I would have run and hidden, I'm not brave at all,' she admitted and pushed her mauled trencher to one side. A spark of reluctant humour kindled in her eyes. 'Still, I found it easier than usual to neck three chickens for the pot.'

Felice laughed. 'Then you are more accomplished than I. Last time I killed a chicken, it ran one way with its head on one side, and I ran the other, screaming, in front of my maids. You are not the only one to bear a cross of embarrassment!'

Ailith smiled and Felice realised how attractive she actually was. Perhaps they could be friends after all. Admiring Ailith's garments, she asked her about the particular sewing techniques she had used.

Ailith's response was hesitant at first, but she rapidly warmed to her theme, and soon the women were deeply involved in needle sizes and fabric weaves, stem stitch and couch work.

Goldwin heard the warmth and confidence begin to flow back into his wife's voice, saw her hand raised in animated description of an embroidery style, and relaxed a notch. He found Aubert's company stimulating, and the food excellent beyond compare. It would have been a great pity to leave early because Ailith and Felice were not compatible. Part of the problem he knew was the incident with those dratted hens. Ailith's chagrin was still raw and she was very much on her dignity. At least now she appeared to be thawing into the true Ailith he knew and loved. He heard her laugh and saw the gleam of her teeth between the fresh, warm pink of her lips. His loins twisted pleasantly and he had to ask Aubert to repeat what he had just said.