Berthe, the wet nurse, was suckling his infant daughter before the fire in the great hall. As Rolf came to warm himself, the woman lifted the baby off her breast, shrugged up one shoulder of her gown, and yanked down the other side. Rolf stared, mesmerised by the enormous blue-veined globe, the wide areola and fat brown nipple. His daughter bobbed her head frantically from side to side, found what she sought, and attached herself with a single, voracious gulp.

Berthe looked up at Rolf with sly, knowing eyes. He remembered her heaving, hot body beneath his in the straw, her enormous breasts slippery with leaked milk and sweat, the tight sucking of her lower mouth. His loins coagulated and his stomach jerked. It was too early in the morning to be contemplating such images.

Avoiding her avid gaze, he prowled to his chair at the high table and directed a servant to bring him bread and wine to break his fast. His steward approached with a query, and then the priest, Father Hoel, wanted to ask a favour. Rolf dealt summarily with both, impatience crawling through his bones. The servant returned with a dish of hot, new bread, a crock of honey, and a jug of watered red wine.

'How's the mare?'

Rolf sucked honey off his thumb and glanced at his wife as she took her place beside him. She was as pale as a moth, as elegant and insipid. Two long, thin braids of silver-brown hair fell over her flat bosom to her narrow hips. Her face was smooth, her features pretty, falling just short of beauty. Her eyes were a striking clear grey with a darker, smoky rim between iris and white.

'Well enough. The foal's forelegs were stuck, but once they were free, she delivered without a problem — a fine colt; should fetch a good price if I decide to sell him.'

She broke a morsel from the loaf in front of Rolf and nibbled at it. 'You might keep him, you mean?'

'One day I will need to replace Orage. I have to look at every colt born and assess whether this is the one.' He watched her toy with the food. Their suckling daughter was almost five months old now, but it had taken Arlette all that time to recover from the birth. She never carried well. Before Gisele, there had been three miscarriages and one stillbirth. In Rolf's opinion, she did not take enough care of herself, scarcely eating enough to sustain a sparrow. Small wonder that she had been unable to feed the infant and they had had to employ a wet nurse. He often entertained the disloyal thought that if she were a brood mare, he would have disposed of her long since despite her illustrious bloodline. But she was a superb chatelaine, possessed of formidable domestic skills. Tidiness and industry were the codes by which Arlette ruled her world. The hall was well ordered, food was never burned or undercooked; his clothes were kept clean and in a good state of repair. If she had been more fruitful and of a less prim nature, he would have had no complaints. As it was, he tolerated his lot, but without any gut-sparking surges of love or joy.

Arlette continued to nibble at her crust, moistening her mouth with dainty little sips of wine. It was like sitting next to a mouse, Rolf thought with irritation. Deliberately wolfing his own food, he pushed himself to his feet.

Arlette gazed up at him, her grey eyes wide and startled. 'Where are you going?'

'To look over the yearlings. William FitzOsbern asked me to search out some likely ones for training up.'

'In this weather?'

'It is better than being cooped up in here.' Brushing perfunctorily at the crumbs on his tunic, which was already stained from the stable, he left the hall.

Berthe had tucked her breast back inside her gown and was winding the baby. Her eyes followed Rolf hungrily. So did Arlette's.

Free of the smoky atmosphere and the constraints of the hall, Rolf breathed a sigh of relief and went to check upon the mare and foal again. The colt had folded up in the straw to sleep, his small belly as tight as a drum. The mare dozed on one hip, standing protectively over him. Smiling, Rolf left them and ordered a groom to saddle up the old black gelding he used when working among his herds.

While he was waiting, he heard a commotion down at the bailey gates, and emerging from the stables to look, saw the riders entering the yard two by two, liquid mud spraying from the shod hooves. The leading man carried a brilliant yellow and black gonfalon, the ragged edges snapping out in the vicious, sleety wind. Behind him, astride a prancing chestnut stallion, came William FitzOsbern, one of his regular customers. He was a close relative and trusted advisor of Duke William's, and very powerful. With this borne in mind, Rolf put a smile on his face and went to greet him.

FitzOsbern grimaced as his horse was led away to a warm stall. He stamped his feet briskly on the ground to restore feeling and beat his hands upon his thick woollen cloak. He was between forty and fifty years old with fine spider lines creasing the gaze of shrewd hazel eyes and deepening into seams between nostrils and thin-lipped mouth.

'Hirondelle looks fit,' Rolf said, as with resignation he retraced his steps towards the confines of the hall. He doubted that William FitzOsbern would appreciate viewing any stock until he had been warmed by fire and wine.

'Full of himself,' said FitzOsbern expressionlessly. 'Tried to buck me off twice this morning. If I had known how frisky he was going to be, I'd have thought twice about buying him off you.'

Rolf glanced sidelong and saw the glint of amusement in FitzOsbern's eyes. When Rolf had first started dealing with him two years ago, he had found FitzOsbern's expressionless delivery extremely disconcerting. Was the man speaking in earnest or in jest? Rolf had since learned to read the signs, but they were hardly obvious – a slight turn of the lips, a deepening of the eye creases, if you were fortunate.

'You'll thank me for the fire in his feet when you take him on a battlefield,' Rolf retorted.

'Interesting you should say that.' FitzOsbern preceded Rolf into the hall and looked around with the keen eye of a connoisseur. His gaze lit on Arlette, who was supervising the clearing away of the breakfast repast, her hands busy with a drop spindle and fluff of carded fleece.

Noticing the men, she hurried over, her pale complexion suffusing with pink.

'My lord, what a pleasure,' she said to FitzOsbern.

Rolf could tell that she meant entirely the opposite. He could see her mind flurrying to the kitchens to check if they had enough food, could see her wondering where they were going to accommodate FitzOsbern and his entourage if he decided to stay the night. She would manage, she always did, but not without a deal of anguish and hand-wringing in private.

'The pleasure is mine,' FitzOsbern returned as a matter of Form, inclining his head.

'Bring us hot wine to the solar,' Rolf said, then added to FitzOsbern, 'Will you stay to eat with us?'

'Thank you, but no. I have to press on to Rouen, and if this sleet becomes snow, the roads will be difficult.'

Rolf could almost hear Arlette's sigh of relief as she hurried away to mull a pitcher of wine. He took their guest to the long room on the floor above the hall. It had been divided up into living and sleeping quarters by the artful use of woollen curtains and embroideries. Near the window a woman was busy weaving at a tall loom. Rolf dismissed her and directed FitzOsbern to a cushioned box chair positioned close to a glowing brazier. He fetched himself the stool on which the maid had been sitting.

FitzOsbern sighed and extended his feet towards the warmth. Rolf watched his face, hunting for nuances of expression. 'You said that it was interesting that I should mention taking Hirondelle onto a battlefield?'

FitzOsbern returned Rolf's stare and the suggestion of a smile curved his narrow lips. 'I am here with the offer of a commission from the Duke himself. He needs warhorses, and you are the man to supply them.'

Rolf gently caressed the palm of his right hand with the fingertips of his left while he absorbed this information. 'How many and for what purpose?' he asked after a moment.

The thin lips twitched further into a smile and then straightened. 'The number has yet to be judged; several hundred, I would imagine.'

Rolf was stunned. 'There are not several hundred horses in the entire stud, let alone for sale.'

'I know, and those you do have, I want to purchase now for my own use.'

Rolf was totally baffled and FitzOsbern's smile developed substance. Rolf opened his mouth to demand a coherent answer, but subsided as the door swung open and Arlette came in bearing a pitcher of gently steaming dark wine and two of their best cups. The fragrance of cinnamon perfumed the air as she poured for the men and set a bowl of warm, fresh honey cakes at the guest's right hand. FitzOsbern exchanged pleasantries with her, enquiring after her health and that of the infant to whom he had sent a birth gift of an exquisitely carved ivory cross. Arlette murmured the proper responses, her grey eyes modestly downcast. Rolf fiddled impatiently with his cup, fully aware that FitzOsbern was drawing out the tedious chit-chat just to tease him.

He tap-tapped his finger ring against the side of the cup. Arlette looked at him, made her excuses and left.

'Well trained,' commented FitzOsbern, his eyes on the door. 'Robert Strongarm's daughter, isn't she? Some useful connections.'

Rolf said nothing. He had little contact with Arlette's family. Since Strongarm's death, they were mainly a network of nuns and widowed aunts, albeit with bloodlines allied to the Ducal house. He had as little to do with them as possible.

'Very well, I'll stop teasing you,' said his visitor. 'The Duke desires to take King Edward's crown from the usurper Godwinson. As you are doubtless aware, the throne was promised to William more than fifteen years ago, and Godwinson swore an oath that when the time came he would help him sit there.'

Rolf raised an eyebrow. 'No-one ever expected Godwinson to keep that oath.'

'No, but it still makes people look on him as a perjurer. There is to be a council held at Lillebonne to discuss the possibility of taking an army across the narrow sea. Will you come?'

Rolf spread his hands. 'I am only a small landholder compared to great men such as you – what difference will my word make?'

FitzOsbern began to smile again. 'What difference does anyone's word make when our Duke is set on his purpose? No, we need men of practicality there for when the decision is agreed — shipwrights and armourers, chandlers, sailmakers and the like. Numbers and quantities will have to be estimated and the work set in motion. Your task, as I see it, will be to find the extra horses that the Duke will require for remounts and such. You have contacts and you know a sound beast when you see one.'

'Do you need my answer now?'

'It would be useful.'

Feeling dazed, Rolf looked into the brazier cupped in its wrought iron stand. While he did not want to neglect the stud, the thought of buying horses at the Duke's expense, with little risk to himself, was very appealing. He could almost smell the freedom on his skin like a warm, salt wind.

He raised gleaming eyes to FitzOsbern. 'Yes,' he said. 'I will come.'

That night, lying beside Arlette in the great bed, he stared up at the ceiling, his mind ploughing one thought after another like the bows of a galley surging through a brisk sea. How much fodder would an army's horse rank need? How long did Duke William intend keeping them in one place before he embarked? The quantities of urine and dung would be phenomenal. Transporting horses on ships was never easy even in calm weather. If a storm blew up, the only resort was prayer, and Rolf was all too aware that while God was good, he was also very fickle.

Beside him Arlette raised herself on one elbow and peered down at him. 'Can you not sleep, my lord?'

In the dim light of the single night candle her body was all gold and shadows. The way she was leaning had squashed together and lifted her small breasts, giving them the hint of a cleavage they did not possess.

'I was thinking.'

'I know, I could almost hear you.' Her hand stole out to stroke his arm. 'Is it because of FitzOsbern's visit today?'

The touch of her smooth fingertips upon his bicep provoked a lazy interest lower down. Nothing drastically vigorous, for the moment FitzOsbern had departed, he had quenched his nervous excitement within Berthe's copious, greedy body. In the stables, fully clothed; five minutes of blinding oblivion.