Devil's Brood

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

July 1181

Winchester, England

Eleanor had just finished dictating a letter to a scribe. “Thank you, Edwin,” she said, and as he departed, she exchanged a look of amused understanding with Amaria, both of them sharing the same thought: that her circumstances had definitely taken a turn for the better. She was permitted to write and even to receive letters now, although she was sure that they were read before being dispatched or delivered. Henry had named Ralf de Glanville as his new justiciar, and she was technically in his custody, although Ralph Fitz Stephen continued in his role as her warden. She’d confided in Amaria that she suspected de Glanville was interpreting the rules of confinement as generously as possible, for he’d struck her as a highly capable man with an eye for the main chance, one too shrewd to make an enemy of their future king’s mother.

“I was writing to my daughter in Castile,” she told Amaria. “Not yet twenty and already the mother of two. My grandchildren are certainly getting singular names: Berengaria and Sancho, Richenza, Lothair, and Otto.” She wondered if there’d ever be an Eleanor. Hal would name a daughter after her if Harry was dead, but would he dare do so whilst his father lived? Richard would, and Geoffrey…mayhap; her third son remained the one she found hardest to read.

“We may as well go down to the great hall,” she said, “for the dinner hour is fast approaching.” Amaria was helping her adjust her wimple when they heard footsteps in the stairwell, and a moment later, the Countess of Chester was announced.

Eleanor’s delighted smile faded at the sight of her friend’s face. “Maud? What is wrong?”

Maud’s eyes filled with tears. “My son…Eleanor, my son is dead.”

“ Drink this, dearest,” Eleanor urged. “Amaria fetched it from the buttery just for you.” She’d held the other woman as Maud wept, knowing there were no words to ease so great a grief. When Maud felt like talking, she listened; when she did not, Eleanor kept silent, and gradually the story emerged. Hugh had taken ill soon after Easter and his condition steadily worsened. He died a fortnight ago at his manor in Staffordshire, only in his thirty-fourth year, leaving a young widow, an eleven-year-old son, and four daughters. Death came for them all in God’s Time, but Eleanor thought it was harder to accept when it came in a man’s prime. Parents should not outlive their children.

“I’ve done my share of mourning.” Maud’s sobs had subsided, but tears still streaked her cheeks. “I lost my parents and my husband, though widowhood was a blessing of sorts. Then Roger was taken, as were all of my brothers except Will, the worst of the lot. Until now I thought my greatest heartbreak was my son Richard, that he never lived to manhood. But now Hugh is gone, too, and all I have left is my daughter.”

“Not so. You have Hugh’s children. And Bertrada, for you’ve often said she is more like a daughter than a daughter-in-law. She is going to need you, Maud, with five children to raise on her own.”

“Hugh had a fine crop of bastards, too,” Maud said, smiling sadly, “four that he acknowledged as his. He’d want me to make sure they were taken care of…Ah, Eleanor, how have you done it? How have you survived nigh on eight years of confinement without going mad with grief or rage or sheer boredom? Teach me how, dear friend, teach me to accept God’s Will as you have done.”

“It is an ongoing struggle, Maud. Too often I have days in which my captivity seems to be Harry’s will, not the Almighty’s. But I persevere, for as a wise Welshwoman once pointed out, what other choice have I?”

“What choice do any of us have?” Maud acknowledged, and they talked for a while of her son, finding comfort in memories of happier times. They spoke, too, of Eleanor’s first husband. Eleanor admitted that she prayed for Louis’s soul, which convinced Maud that she had indeed learned to let go of many of her earthly grudges. Eleanor also shared sad news of her own, that her daughter Marie had been widowed that February. The Count of Champagne had been captured in the Holy Land and although the Emperor of Byzantium ransomed him, his health had suffered in captivity and he’d died on his way home to France.

“Enough,” Maud cried at last. “No more talk of death or regrets or unhealed wounds. Tell me something cheerful, something hopeful, even if you have to make it up!”

“As it happens,” Eleanor said, with a sudden smile as luminous as her eyes, “I do have good news-a letter from my daughter Joanna. She is with child.” And Maud discovered that she could take solace from that, from this reassuring proof that the circle of life was eternal and her son Hugh would live on in his children until the day that they’d be reunited at God’s Throne.

As Morgan and his elder brother walked along the quays of the Rouen waterfront, they were attracting glances from passersby, and Bleddyn finally noticed. “These Norman maidens are bold ones,” he joked, “for they are definitely looking you over, lad.”

Morgan grinned. “I’ll not deny that women find me irresistible, but you’re the one drawing all the attention. They are not accustomed to seeing men with mustaches but no beards, are doubtless wondering what odd and alien land you come from.”

“Passing strange that you should say that, Morgan, for I find the sight of your beard to be just as odd. Who knew you were old enough to shave?”

“Clearly your memory is failing in your old age,” Morgan shot back, “if you’ve forgotten that I turned seventeen in February.” As much as he was enjoying this brotherly banter, he was somewhat surprised by it, too. Bleddyn was almost thirteen years his elder and they’d never before bandied jests and gibes as equals, so he was particularly pleased that his brother was no longer treating him like a fledgling newly fallen from the nest.

When Bleddyn had first sought him out at the castle, he’d gone cold with fear, terrified that he was bringing word of a family tragedy. To his vast relief, Bleddyn assured him that their parents were quite well; he was here with the Lady Emma, who had stopped in Rouen on her way to visit her young son at Laval. Morgan had been astonished to learn that Bleddyn was now serving Emma’s husband, given the long-standing hostility between Davydd ab Owain and their father.

Bleddyn had laughed at his surprise, assuring him that Davydd was actively pursuing friendly relations with the English Crown and Ranulf’s status as the king’s favorite uncle mattered more than his past friendship with Davydd’s slain brother Hywel. Nor did he see any difference between his serving the Prince of North Wales and Morgan’s serving the English king’s son, he’d pointed out dryly. And Morgan had conceded defeat, stopped bedeviling Bleddyn about the loathsome Davydd, and took him out to see the city of Rouen.

So far he’d shown Bleddyn the marketplace, the partially completed cathedral, the archbishop’s palace, and the belfry tower from which two alert monks had spotted the French king’s sneak attack and rang the great bell “Rouvel” in time to alert the citizens and stave off attack until Henry could come to their rescue. Bleddyn did not have any particular interest in Norman towns, but he was willing to indulge his young brother and listened patiently as Morgan bragged about the leper hospital Henry had built five years ago and the stone bridge paid for by his mother, the Empress Maude, and the fact that Rouen had once been a Roman outpost known as Rotomagus. But when Morgan suggested that they visit the tomb of William the Bastard in the Abbey of St Ouen, Bleddyn balked, and expressed his desire to find a tavern, the sooner the better.

“Thank God!” Morgan exclaimed. “I could not take you to the most interesting neighborhoods, for I doubt your wife would appreciate that, so I had to make do with the marketplace and the churches.” Coming to a halt, he glanced around, and then took Bleddyn’s arm. “There is an excellent tavern up ahead, but it is too close to the River Renelle and the tanners’ quarter; as good as their wine is, it cannot compete with the stench. I know another place, though, a bit on the shabby side, but it’ll do us well enough.” And he led his brother into a maze of alleys, showing such an intimate knowledge of the less reputable areas of the city that Bleddyn realized his little brother was indeed growing up.

Once they were seated at a corner table with two henaps of red wine, Morgan brought Bleddyn up to date on the latest political news. The king had expected to cross the Channel after Easter, but then Philip of Flanders had besieged a French castle. He’d met the Flemish count and the young French king at Gisors again, managed to persuade Philip to withdraw his forces, and was now on his way to Cherbourg with the Scots king, where he planned to sail for England, just missing the Lady Emma by a few days.

Bleddyn doubted that the Lady Emma was heartbroken by that, for time had not reconciled her to living in Wales. “So what is this I hear about a great row between the king and your lord? Since Geoffrey has been given permission to wed the Breton heiress, what other grievances does he have?”

“They made peace ere the king departed Rouen, but Geoffrey has good reasons for his discontent.” Morgan took a swallow of wine, then lowered his voice even though they were speaking in Welsh. “I am guessing you are not that familiar with Breton affairs,” he said, and laughed when Bleddyn insisted that Brittany claimed his last thought upon retiring at night and his first upon awakening in the morning.

“Well, Breton history is complicated, so bear with me. The king initially supported Constance’s father, Conan, in his fight for the duchy with his stepfather. But Conan could not keep the peace and, as his liege lord, Cousin Harry finally grew tired of putting out Breton fires. So fifteen years ago, he forced Conan to abdicate and betrothed Constance to Geoffrey, although he did allow Conan to keep his vast English estates. You’re probably wondering why he had English lands. It is because his father was the Earl of Richmond; his claim to Brittany came through his mother. When Conan died five years later, the Honour of Richmond then became part of Constance’s inheritance.”

Bleddyn’s eyes were glazing over, but he nodded attentively, and Morgan continued. “Then there is the county of Nantes. It was once ruled by the Breton dukes but twenty-some years ago, the people rebelled and offered it to Cousin Harry’s brother Geoffrey. But he died suddenly two years later, and both Conan and Harry claimed Nantes, Conan because it had once been ruled by his uncle and Harry because he was his brother’s legal heir. Not surprisingly, the king won that dispute.”

Bleddyn was beginning to see which way the wind was blowing, for it was his experience that Welsh and English rulers shared the same vices-a hunger for more than they already had. “So the bone of contention between Henry and Geoffrey is either Nantes or Richmond, depending upon which one the king is holding back.”

“I think Geoffrey expected that much, knowing his father as he does. But he was not expecting Cousin Harry to hold on to both of them, for that is two-thirds of Constance’s inheritance. Geoffrey does not often lose his temper, but when he learned that he’d get neither Nantes nor Richmond, he flew into a rage. It availed him naught, though, for the king remained adamant, and eventually they patched up their quarrel. But…” He let his words trail off, busied himself in finishing his wine.

Bleddyn thought that Morgan was bound to be torn in his loyalties, and said encouragingly, “Think of me as your confessor. Your secrets will be safe with me, for who am I going to tell-Welsh sheep?”

Morgan did need to discuss this, and he smiled gratefully at his brother. “The king has been very good to me, Bleddyn. I did not see him all that often, of course, but he always took an interest in my education, always made me feel welcome. It is different, though, with Geoffrey. As his squire, I see him every day, and he treats me as his cousin, not just as a retainer. It troubled me greatly to see him so distraught over this. I’d never seen him so angry before. He even said…”

“What did he say, Morgan?”

“He said that much of the blame lay with his grandmother, the Empress Maude. He claimed that she taught Cousin Harry to treat men the way a wild hawk was tamed, by offering it meat and then snatching it away ere the hawk could eat.”

“Well, that method is said to work with hawks, making them more obedient and biddable. Whether it works as well with sons remains to be seen.” Bleddyn set his henap down, barely touched. “Listen, lad, I was not entirely candid with you earlier. I offered to be part of Lady Emma’s escort, and I did so because I wanted the chance to talk with you about your future.”

Morgan was flattered, but puzzled, too. “I daresay you have a wealth of advice to share with me; big brothers always do. But you could not entrust it to a letter?”

“No, it needed to be done in person. Morgan, I have misgivings about the path you’re following. I know what it is like to be the proverbial fish out of water, neither fully Welsh nor truly English. When I was nineteen, I chose the Welsh way, cast aside Gilbert Fitz Ranulf and became Bleddyn ap Ranulf. You were too young to remember, but it caused serious dissension between our father and me. As he saw it, I was rejecting his heritage, rejecting him. We eventually made our peace, but I hurt him, and I was sorry for it. It was the only path for me, though, and I’ve never regretted it.”

Morgan was genuinely bewildered. “I am glad of that. But what does this have to do with me?”

“It is not easy for us, lad, to be stranded between two worlds. The sad truth is that we can never feel completely comfortable in either world. You are three-quarters Welsh and one-quarter Norman-French. I want you to be sure you are making the right choice, taking the road that is right for you, and I fear that you are letting yourself be borne along by the wind, your decisions made by chance or convenience. You need to think seriously about what you want from this life, not what Papa wants for you, what you want, Morgan.”

Morgan was astonished. “Papa is not forcing me to this, Bleddyn. I like being at the English court, and I have never felt as if I were stranded between two worlds. That is your truth, not mine. I consider myself blessed to have both Norman and Welsh blood flowing through my veins, have never seen it as a burden.”

Bleddyn was equally astonished, for it had not occurred to him that his brother might not share his confusion, his conflicted sense of identity. “Are you sure, lad?” And when Morgan swore he was, the older man could only shake his head in rueful bafflement. “Well, now I feel like a fool. Here I was, rushing off to save my little brother from pirates, only to find that he fancies being a pirate himself!”

Morgan burst out laughing. “Our cousin Harry has been called many things in his life, but I think it is safe to say that you are the first to brand him as a pirate.” He set himself, then, to dispelling his brother’s discomfort, joking and teasing until Bleddyn was laughing, too. He was warmed by this dramatic display of family love and loyalty, and he found himself feeling sorry for his royal cousins, who knew nothing of brotherly solidarity. But afterward, when he marveled how he and Bleddyn could drink from the same cup and yet find the taste so very different, he finally began to understand why the king and his sons seemed unable to reach common ground, no matter how they tried.

Constance’s wedding was just as unpleasant as she’d always expected it to be. In fact, it was even worse, for she’d never anticipated that her mother would not be in attendance. Widowed by the death of Constance’s father ten years ago, her mother Margaret had wed an English baron three years later. Constance had been glad of the remarriage, for it was so much easier to see her mother once they both dwelled on the English side of the Channel. But now Margaret’s English residency worked to her daughter’s disadvantage, for when Constance was summoned to Rouen on such short notice and told that she was to marry Geoffrey as soon as possible, there was no time for Margaret to make the trip, too.

Constance had only one small consolation, that her wedding was not taking place in Normandy. When she learned that the English king was not going to ease his grasp on either Nantes or the Honour of Richmond, her long-smoldering resentment had flared into outright fury. She did not trust herself to sit beside Henry at her wedding feast, exchanging pleasantries with the man who’d ruined her father and now sought to rob her of her rightful inheritance, and the thought of him being present at the bedding-down revelries was even more distasteful to her. In desperation, she had asked Geoffrey if they could be married in Brittany, and to her amazement, he readily agreed. Even more surprising to her, so did his father. It was only later that she realized why they were willing to be so accommodating-because the wedding itself was meaningless to them. They cared only for the legal rights that Geoffrey would acquire once he made her his wife.

She’d suggested that the wedding be held in the castle of one of her most loyal barons, Andre de Vitre, only to learn that Andre had recently left on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Before she could despair, though, Geoffrey brought her remarkable news: Raoul de Fougeres was willing to act as host. Knowing that Raoul shared her loathing for the English Crown, she was morbidly curious as to how they’d compelled his cooperation.

And so it was that Geoffrey and Constance exchanged vows on the porch of St Leonard’s Church in Fougeres, for weddings were commonly held in public to guarantee as many witnesses as possible to the union. After they entered the church for the Mass conducted by the Bishop of Rennes, they were then escorted through the steep streets of the town and back to the great hall of the castle, which had only recently risen from the ashes of a crushing defeat; fifteen years earlier, Henry had captured the supposedly invincible stronghold and razed it to the ground.

The day had been one of humid August heat, and even as twilight slowly trickled into the river valley, the sun’s warmth still lingered, turning the hall into a sweltering cauldron. Constance was pleased to find that it was essentially an all-Breton affair, for she’d been given no voice in the hasty preparations.

Andre de Vitre was absent, of course, but his wife, Matilda de Mayenne, was present, as were the most prominent of the Breton barons. No less than three bishops were in attendance, as were the abbot of Holy Trinity and Robert de Torigny, the venerable abbot of Mont St Michel. Geoffrey’s mentor, Roland de Dinan, had been invited, as were a number of men who’d been familiar presences at Constance’s father’s court, and Constance was relieved that no needless slights had been offered, for her Breton lords were as touchy and high-tempered as their more notorious neighbors in Poitou. When she learned that the wedding guest list was Geoffrey’s doing, she grudgingly gave him credit where due, even though she was not inclined to look kindly upon her new husband. The most favorable thing she could say about him was that at least he was not Richard or Hal.

However he’d been coerced into it, Raoul de Fougeres had spared neither expense nor effort, and the great hall was richly decorated, with fresh rushes upon the floor, white linen tablecloths draped over the trestle tables, and cinnamon and cloves burned to combat the ripe smells of summer and sweat and spilled wine, for the wedding guests were happily doing their best to drain Raoul’s wine kegs dry. So was her groom; when he’d given her the kiss of peace at the conclusion of the Mass, Geoffrey had already tasted of wine, which was one more grievance to hold against him, for Constance did not dare to follow his example. Too much wine might loosen her tongue, and that was not a risk she was willing to take. She was yoked to this man for the rest of her earthly days, and it would be the height of folly to antagonize him from the very outset of their marriage.

She did her best to play the role that had been forced upon her, smiling and accepting congratulations and demurely turning her cheek for the bridal kisses pressed upon her by the increasingly inebriated male guests. Afterward, there was dancing and entertainment by a rising young troubadour star, Bertran de Born, who interspersed his own songs with the bawdy poetry of Geoffrey’s great-grandfather, Count William of Aquitaine. The verses were explicit enough to cause the bishops some discomfort, but Constance kept a smile upon her face even as she felt her cheeks growing hot. She was not prudish, not easily shocked, but she still had the bedding-down revelries to get through, and was in no mood to appreciate ribald lyrics or the drunken cheering of the men who’d soon be crowding around her marriage bed.

Eventually the interminable evening came to an end, and she and Geoffrey were escorted across the bailey to their bridal chamber in the northwest tower. They knelt by the bed for the bishop’s blessing, were sprinkled with holy water as he prayed that their marriage would be fruitful and find favor in the eyes of the Lord. Clerics often reminded newlyweds that they ought not to consummate their marriage that first night, spending it instead in prayer and meditation. But the Bishop of Rennes was a realist and omitted an admonishment that he knew was so rarely heeded. The men then trooped out noisily so that Constance could be made ready for her husband.

The women guests clustered around the bride, helping her to undress, brushing out her long, dark hair, and dousing her in so much perfume that she had a coughing fit. At last they departed, leaving her alone with her two handmaidens, Juvette and Blanche, and Enora, her childhood nurse. This was not unusual; she knew that both Marguerite and Alys were still served by women who’d tended to them in their cradles. But she assumed that the French king’s sisters were fond of their longtime companions, and she found Enora to be a vexing, foolish creature, prone to fluttering about and clucking like a mother hen. She’d promised herself that once she was the Duchess of Brittany, she’d send the old woman to live in her mother’s household, but for now she had to grit her teeth as Enora prattled on about how beautiful she looked and how lucky she was, for Lord Geoffrey was quite good-looking, even if not as spectacularly handsome as his brother, the young king. Constance thought that she was attractive enough, but she well knew she was not a great beauty. Nor did she much care if Geoffrey had a fair face. All that truly mattered was that he was the spawn of her enemy, the English king.

Her women exited when the men returned, their arrival heralded by raucous singing and shouting and the lewd jests that were such an inevitable part of wedding festivities. Shielded behind the bed hangings, Constance lay very still. She refused to admit she was nervous, for she was no child. She was twenty, after all, and she knew what to expect in the marriage bed. But her breathing quickened as the humor grew cruder, jokes about castles under siege and broken blades and the best way to mount a skittish mare and ride her bareback. Rolling over, she clasped the pillow over her head, so tightly that she could no longer hear their laughter.

She was startled, therefore, by a sudden burst of cursing, followed by thumping noises. Good God, were the fools brawling in her bedchamber? It certainly sounded like it, for voices were raised and there was a scuffling sound, more swearing. Sitting up, she scowled and reached for the bed curtains, her first instinct to give the culprits a right sharp scolding, but she thought better of it just in time. Geoffrey seemed to have the trouble well in hand, for it sounded as if he were ejecting the mischief-makers from the chamber, with some help from the more sober members of the wedding party. He got rid of them so fast, in fact, that she was taken by surprise when the bed hangings were suddenly yanked open.

Her husband was standing there, clad only in his linen shirt and braies, holding out a brimming wine cup. When she realized he was offering it to her, she shook her head, saying primly, “No thank you. I am not thirsty.”

He ignored her refusal and pressed the cup into her hand. “I’ve never seen a woman more in need of a drink, darling. This is a special wine I had brought in from my mother’s lands in Poitou. I think you’ll like it once you try it.”

Constance was beginning to bristle, not caring for his flippant tone in the least. “Why would you think I need a drink? I assure you that it is not so. I am not at all nervous, am quite prepared to do my duty as your wife.”

“I daresay you are. And nothing stirs a man’s lust more than the prospect of deflowering a woman resigned to ‘doing her duty.’ Who could resist a temptation like that?”

Constance’s brows slanted down. She’d submit to his caresses, but if he thought she’d submit to his mockery, too, he was about to learn otherwise. “If your lust is lacking, there’s always greed. Just close your eyes and think of Brittany’s riches whilst you bed me.” She was sitting upright in the bed, her hands clutching the sheet as if it were a shield against his anger. But to her astonishment, he gave a shout of laughter, and her own anger was diluted now by bewilderment. She’d been betrothed to Geoffrey since she was five and he was eight. Nevertheless, she was realizing that this half-dressed man was a stranger; she did not know him at all.

“Hellfire, I forgot to lock the door!” Careless of his near nudity, he strode across the room and slid the bolt into place. “Better safe than sorry. Sometimes drunken guests think it is a great joke to burst in upon the wedding couple at the most inopportune moment.”

Constance took a sip of the wine, discovered that he was right; she did like it. “What was all that squabbling about earlier?”

“Oh, that. Men playing the fool, which doubtless does not surprise you any, since you seem to hold such a high opinion of my sex. Juhel and Herve got into a shoving match, but Gerard and I separated them ere any blood was shed.”

She knew that Juhel was Raoul de Fougeres’s son, and Herve was one of the Breton knights in Geoffrey’s retinue. She’d been surprised to note that almost all of his household knights were Bretons like Herve; the Frenchman Gerard de Fournival was one of the few exceptions. “I was pleased to see so many influential lords amongst our guests-Reginald Boterel, Roland de Dinan and his adopted son, Alan de Rohan, even the de Moulton twins. You forgot nary a one.”

He’d moved to the table, was reaching for a small coffer. But at that, he gave her a lazy smile over his shoulder. “Must you sound so surprised? I’ve spent most of the last six years in Brittany. I’d have to be feeble-minded if I could not learn who mattered in all that time. Ah, here it is.”

Coming back to the bed, he held out a small package. “Your bride’s gift, darling.”

Constance undid the linen wrapping, and shook out an oval-shaped object of silver gilt. She recognized it at once, and thought that Geoffrey had not wasted any time in having his ducal seal made up. But as she held it up to the light, she saw that it bore the image of a female figure, mantled in a long cloak, holding a lily in one hand and a bird in the other. She stopped breathing for a moment, but she still did not believe it, not until she read the engraved legend: Constancia Dvccissa Britannie, Comitissa Richenvndie. “This is for me?”

“Well, I’d hate to think the image looks like me. For mine, I used the same design as your father did, just changing the name. Would you believe I never had my own seal until now? My lord father did not think I had need of one.”

Constance dampened down her rising excitement; did he think to win her over with an empty gesture? “So now I will have a seal to confirm your acts. How convenient.”

The bed shifted as he sat down upon it. “And to validate your own acts. Governing Brittany is likely to be as great a challenge as taming those lunatics in Poitou, and it will take us both to keep your Breton barons from running roughshod over the chancery.”

She was silent for several moments as she considered the implications of what he’d just said, absently sipping wine as she ran her fingers over the name carved into the seal mold. “What chancery?” she said cautiously. “It was abolished when my father abdicated.”

“And I plan to restore it straightaway. In fact, I intend to revive the ducal government as it was under your father. Some of my father’s innovations are worth retaining, such as creating the office of seneschal for each of the Breton counties. But I know I can improve upon-”

“Stop,” Constance begged, for the unreality of this conversation was affecting her as much as the wine. Did he mean any of this? But what did he have to gain by lying to her?

He cocked his head, regarding her quizzically, and then he grinned. “I know, strange talk for our wedding night. It is just that I’ve been waiting so long, and now we can start putting all these ideas into practice-at long last!”

Constance took another bracing swallow of wine, surprised to discover that her cup was almost empty. Geoffrey reached over, took the cup from her lax fingers, and padded barefoot over to the table to refill it. Watching as he came back to the bed, she said suspiciously, “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Settling down beside her again, he passed her the cup. “If I were?”

“It would be a waste of wine. You do not have to seduce me, Geoffrey. I’m your wife now.”

“Yes, you are,” he said amiably. “But what if I want more than that?”

She drank some more wine to cover her confusion. “What?”

“An ally.” He saw that she did not understand, and sighed. He rarely second-guessed himself, but he started to do so now, wondering if it would have been wiser to have waited until he’d won her trust. Her cup was tipping precariously and he grabbed it before she could spill wine over them both. “I think you’ve had enough, darling.”

She thought so, too, for she was feeling light-headed. It was a strange sensation; she’d never even been tipsy before, never willing to relinquish control. “What did you mean about us being allies?”

“I just think it would be a shame if we did not join forces, for we want the same things.”

“Somehow I doubt that, Geoffrey.”

“Shall I tell you what your priorities are, Constance? You want to keep Brittany strong and prosperous, and to protect it from your predatory neighbors-the French cub, my brother Richard, and my esteemed sire. Oh, yes, and to provide an heir, preferably two. Did I leave anything out?” When she slowly shook her head, he said, “Well, those are my priorities, too, which is why it makes sense for us to unite.”

“I do not know that I can believe you,” she confessed, vaguely aware that the wine was subverting her sense of caution. “You seem to be saying that you’d put Brittany’s interests above those of your father, and why would you do that?”

“Because our interests are not identical, even if he seems to think so. I am his third son, and Brittany is all I-we-have.”

She wondered if it was the flickering candle flames, for his eyes seemed to change color, sometimes decidedly blue and at others very grey. “Prove it to me, then,” she challenged. “Tell me how you got Raoul de Fougeres to agree to hold the wedding here.”

“I am sorry, darling, but I have no sordid secrets to reveal. Raoul was quite willing to do it, needed no persuasion or extortion from me.”

She felt a sharp throb of disappointment. She’d almost let herself be taken in by his honeyed tongue and easy smile. “I am not a fool, Geoffrey! Raoul hates the English king.”

“I daresay he does,” he said calmly. “But I am the Duke of Brittany.” While she was thinking that over, he pulled his shirt over his head, and she found herself paying sudden rapt attention to his bare torso; the candlelight caught the golden glints in his chest hairs, played upon the ripple of muscles as he slid next to her. “I am going to tell you something that no one else knows yet,” he murmured, so close now that his breath was warm against her cheek. “I am going to dismiss Roland de Dinan, for he is my father’s man, not mine. Then I intend to create a new office-Seneschal of Brittany-and once I do, I am offering it to Raoul.”

“Why?” she whispered. They were lying together in the bed now, and she was faintly surprised to find that her arms had slipped up around his neck, that she was holding on to him as if he alone could anchor her to the earth.

“As I told you, darling, because I seek allies wherever I can find them.”

Constance had never felt so relaxed, so comfortable in her own body. If this was what wine did, she’d been missing out on a lot. “I would suggest, then, that you begin looking in your bed.”

“An excellent suggestion,” he said, and raised up on his elbow to shed his braies.

She moved over to make it easier for him. “Why did you not take all your clothes off ere this?”

“We were interrupted by that brawl,” he reminded her. “And then I thought it best to wait after that, not wanting to overwhelm you with my male magnificence right away.” When she laughed, he said, “Thank God, you do have a sense of humor!”

“Of course I do!” she said, but her indignation was soon forgotten, for he’d begun to kiss her throat. Her inhibitions and her wariness had been dramatically diminished by the excellent wine of Aquitaine and Geoffrey’s intriguing candor, and she delighted him by proving to be an apt pupil, quite unlike the bride he’d feared to be burdened with, the indifferent, inert virgin passively resigned to her fate. This woman was warm and willing and eager to follow his guidance, and he experienced far more pleasure than he’d expected to find in her bed. Afterward, he assured her drowsily that it would get better, but she said she had no complaints and then gave him a promising sign that their marriage would be a successful one, for she showed no inclination to talk as so many of his other bedmates did. Instead, she curled up against his back and went to sleep.

She awoke the next morning just before dawn, with a dull headache, a dry mouth, and total recall of the extraordinary events of her wedding night. Propping herself up on her elbow, she studied the man beside her. He looked younger in his sleep, less guarded, and she realized that the flighty Enora was right, after all; her new husband was easy on the eye. Best of all, he was quick-witted and clever and ambitious. We will make effective partners. We will be good for Brittany and good for each other, and who would ever have imagined it?

The sheet had slipped, only partially covering him, and she smiled at the sight of his early-morning erection, then slid over until their bodies were touching. Still half-asleep, he responded at once to the soft female curves nestled against him, and they were soon entwined together in a carnal embrace. She suspected that he’d begun making love to her without fully realizing who she was, but she was not bothered by that. She may have gone to her marriage bed a maiden, but she was no wide-eyed, convent-bred innocent. She fully expected Geoffrey to stray, for that was the way of their world. She felt confident, though, that he would never shame her by flaunting a concubine the way his father had flaunted Rosamund Clifford. He was too shrewd to make a mistake like that. And as she gave herself up to the moment, to the sheer physical sensations that he was stirring with hot kisses and intimate caresses, she discovered that he’d been right; it did get better.

Henry had sailed for England in the belief that he’d patched up a peace between Philip of Flanders and the young French king. It was to be short-lived. Adele and her brother the Archbishop of Rheims had been reconciled with Philippe because of Henry’s efforts, but her other brothers, Thibault of Blois and Etienne, Count of Sancerre, were still disaffected. In an act of utter cynicism, they allied themselves with their former enemy, Philip, against their nephew. They were soon joined by the Count of Burgundy, the Counts of Hainault and Namur, and Philippe’s half sister Marie, regent for her fifteen-year-old son, the new Count of Champagne. Etienne was the first to strike, occupying Saint-Brisson-sur-Loire and then doing homage for it to the Flemish count. The hostile coalition was soon threatening Philippe’s precarious hold on power, and he appealed urgently to the English king for help. Once again Henry proved to be Philippe’s salvation, providing military aid under the command of his own sons.

Eleanor was jubilant when she learned that Henry would be holding his Christmas Court that year at Winchester, for her last two Christmases had been lonely ones, with the royal court at Nottingham and then Angers. But Henry was back in England after more than fifteen months on the other side of the Channel, and her spirits soared at the prospect of seeing one or more of her sons. She was to be disappointed, though. Richard had remained in Poitou, Hal and Marguerite were visiting her brother the French king, and Geoffrey and Constance were holding their first Christmas Court in Rennes.

Henry’s son Geoff had accompanied him, as had John, but Geoff could barely bring himself to be civil to Eleanor, and John was her phantom son, vanishing with breathtaking speed every time she got within ten feet of him. Somewhat to her surprise, though, Henry was on his best behavior, so attentive that she did not have time to dwell upon her discontent. They enjoyed a pleasant supper as Henry told her what he knew of Constance and Geoffrey’s wedding, revealed that Geoff had resigned as Bishop-elect of Lincoln, confessing that he did not think himself fit for such a high office, and was now Henry’s chancellor, and disclosed that Richard’s betrothed, Alys, would soon be residing at Winchester, as she’d complained life was too lonely and dull at Devizes Castle.

Henry also reported that Richard had a tumultuous summer. He’d angered the citizens of Limoges by insisting that the city walls be torn down, and then found himself embroiled in strife with the brothers of the Count of Angouleme. Count Vulgrin had died unexpectedly in June, leaving only a small daughter, and Richard claimed her wardship and then announced that she would inherit Angouleme, which did not sit well with the count’s kinsmen.

“I would think not!” Eleanor was taken aback, for primogeniture was not the custom in Aquitaine and Vulgrin’s brothers would have expected to share his inheritance. It sounded as if Richard had poked a stick into a hive, not the best way to obtain honey.

“Richard chased them out of Angouleme, and they took refuge with their half brother Aimar in Limoges. They’ve been joined by the Count of Perigord and several of his neighbors and will be plotting mischief in the coming year. This is why Richard did not join us in Winchester, for I know he wanted to see you.”

Eleanor looked at him with surprise and some misgivings. Why was he being so kind to her tonight? When he proceeded to do his best to reassure her about the fledgling rebellion Richard was facing, lavishly praising their son’s military skills, she began to feel more and more uneasy. It had been a long time since he’d shown such solicitude for her peace of mind. What was he up to now? “Is it true that you sent our sons to Philippe’s aid last month?”

He smiled slightly. “So you heard about that, did you? Philip’s Flemings sacked Noyon, captured Clermont and Senlis, and actually got within fifteen miles of Paris. By then I was back in England, so I dispatched Hal and Richard and Geoffrey, and they were quite successful, soon had Philip and his allies on the run.”

Eleanor gazed at him in bemusement. Three times he’d acted to salvage Philippe’s budding kingship, twice intervening personally to stave off disaster, and now this latest rescue. Name of God, Harry, why can you not be as generous to your own sons as you are to Louis’s son? The question never left her lips, though. She knew it would only destroy their newfound camaraderie, for hers would be the last voice that he’d ever heed when it came to their children.

Henry stayed by her side after the meal was done, chatting so easily that she saw they were being watched-and gossiped about-by virtually every guest in the hall, gossip that doubtless reached spectacular levels when Henry accompanied her once she was ready to leave the festivities.

Ice crunched underfoot as they walked across the bailey. Eleanor glanced over her shoulder at their footprints in the snow, not sure how he’d come to be escorting her back to her chamber. She let Henry keep up the conversation, for her mind was racing as she tried to anticipate him, to guess what his latest scheme was. When Henry actually offered an offhand apology for Geoff’s rudeness, she was convinced that something was in the wind, and decided to put her suspicions to the test.

“I am not troubled by Geoff’s ill will, Harry. I would be grateful, though, if you had a word with John on my behalf. I tried all evening to speak with him, to no avail. Can you assure him that the sky will not collapse if he exchanges a few civil words with me?”

“I suppose I could. But you have our other lads dancing to your tune quite happily. Surely you can spare me one son, Eleanor?”

She stopped abruptly and studied him. There was just enough moonlight to catch the glimmer of a smile. “I think we need to talk. Let’s go into the garden where we can be alone.” He didn’t object and they crossed the bailey in silence, opened the wicker gate, and entered the gardens.

As she’d expected, none were about at that hour. Stopping by a bench, Henry cleared snow from it with the corner of his mantle, for he only wore gloves when hunting. He stayed on his feet, though, after seating Eleanor. “You are right,” he said in a low voice. “We do need to talk.”

She’d thought that he had political intrigue in mind and needed her cooperation. Now, though, she felt a chill go up her spine, utterly unrelated to the winter weather. “Is this about one of our children? It is not good, is it?”

“No, it is not. You know that there has long been tension and suspicion between the Holy Roman Emperor and our Tilda’s husband. It has now gotten much worse. Heinrich has been banished in disgrace, compelled to leave Germany. As soon as I learned about this, I sent Willem to the emperor to argue on Heinrich’s behalf. The most he could gain, though, was the reduction of Heinrich’s exile from seven years to three. So he will be taking refuge at my court in the coming year, and Tilda and their children will accompany him.”

“That is indeed sad,” Eleanor agreed, but in truth, she was somewhat relieved, for she’d feared more grievous news than that. At least Tilda and Heinrich were well, in no physical danger. “It is good that they have a shelter from this storm, a place where they will be safe and welcome until the emperor can be placated and coaxed into ending the banishment. And I confess that it will be wonderful to have Tilda back, and to see our grandchildren at last.” When he did not reply, she said sharply, “I will be able to see them, Harry?”

“Of course.”

For the first time, Eleanor realized how cold it was in the garden. Rising, she shook snow from her mantle, smiling as a memory suddenly surfaced. “Do you remember the time we were pelting each other with snowballs, and your mother caught us at it? She was horrified that we were acting in such an unseemly way. Where was that…Rouen or Caen?”

“Rouen, I think.” He sounded distracted, as if he had other matters on his mind, and she decided it was time to bring this surprising evening to an end while they were still on such amicable terms. But when she suggested that they go indoors, he made no move to leave. “Eleanor…there is more. I ought to have told you at once, but I was too craven, wanted to put it off as long as I could…”

“You are the least craven man in Christendom,” she said, but her voice was no longer steady, for her fear had come flooding back. “What…what is it?”

“I had grievous news this week from Sicily. Joanna gave birth to a son, but he came too early. He only lived long enough to be baptized.”

“Oh, no, no…” This was not the first time that Death had claimed a grandchild. Marguerite and Hal were still mourning for their infant son, and just that autumn, Eleanor had learned that the baby born earlier in the year to her daughter Leonora had been found dead in his cradle. But Joanna’s heartbreak was harder for her to bear. Joanna was just sixteen. Why had God done this to her?

Turning away blindly, she would have stumbled and fallen if Henry had not reached out swiftly to catch her. Putting his arm around her shaking shoulders, he drew her to him, and she wept against his chest, wept for Joanna and her baby son, wept for herself, too, for her husband and their sons, for their accursed ill luck and their deplorable blunders, for all the evil that had overtaken their family.