Devil's Brood

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

August 1186

Rennes, Brittany

"My Lady?”

Always a light sleeper, Constance opened her eyes to see one of her attendants leaning over the bed. “What is it, Juvette?”

“The chamberlain is here, Madame. He says he must speak with you.”

Sitting up, Constance reached for the bed robe that Blanche was holding out. She slid her feet into her slippers and was standing by the time Juvette admitted the chamberlain. He’d obviously been roused from sleep, too, for his clothing appeared to have been donned in haste. “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Madame, but Sir Gerard de Fournival has just ridden in and he insists that he must speak with you straightaway, that it is urgent and cannot wait till morning. Will you see him?”

“I will.” While the chamberlain went to fetch Gerard, Constance tightened the sash on her robe and smoothed back her hair. She wore it loose when she was sharing a bed with Geoffrey, for he liked to play with it during their lovemaking. Tonight Juvette had braided it neatly in a long plait so it would not tangle while Constance slept. Only a woman’s husband and family usually saw her uncovered hair, but Constance was not about to bother with a wimple or veil for Gerard. She was striving to appear composed, but her pulse had begun to race. Geoffrey would not have used a man of Gerard’s rank to deliver a routine letter. What had gone wrong in Paris? Did Philippe have a change of heart, deciding that Richard might make a more useful ally? Had Geoffrey’s father learned of their plans? Or was the threat coming from Richard? Whatever Geoffrey’s message, she did not doubt it would be a warning of some kind, and she was braced for bad news as Gerard was ushered into the bedchamber.

Gerard looked like a man who’d spent days in the saddle. His boots and mantle were travel-stained and muddy, his hair windblown. Constance saw only his eyes, though, bloodshot and red-rimmed, filled with pain. “My lady…I…”

“Tell me, Gerard,” she said hoarsely, and he knelt at her feet, giving her a look of such naked misery that her breath stopped.

“Your lord husband…” He no longer met her eyes, saying in a rush, “He is dead, my lady. God help us all, he is dead…”

Constance heard Juvette’s muffled scream, the chamberlain’s gasp, the whining of her favorite spaniel. She saw Gerard’s bowed head, the chalk-white faces of her ladies, even the toes of her felt slippers, peeping out from the hem of her robe. She was acutely aware of her surroundings, but none of it seemed familiar. She felt as if she were floating, no longer tethered to reality as she knew it. She found that she was sitting on a coffer and Gerard was kneeling beside her, clutching her hand in his. Now that he’d begun talking, he could not seem to stop, and she was being pelted with words. Gerard was gripping her fingers so tightly that her rings were being driven into her flesh, but she welcomed the pain, for it gave her something to focus upon, something to think about beside harrowing images of dust, blood, and plunging hooves.

They were all hovering around her now, fanning her as if she’d been made faint by the summer heat, trying to get her to take a few sips of wine, asking if they should send for a doctor, and Juvette, who knew her secret, made hesitant mention of a midwife. At that, Constance’s head came up sharply. “No!”

Her face looked drained of all color, and she’d bitten her lower lip deeply enough to show flecks of blood. But her voice was infused with steel. “No…I want no one.” She stared at them defiantly. “Leave me,” she said, and they reluctantly obeyed.

After she was alone, she sat motionless while her spaniel whimpered and licked her hand. Moving like a sleepwalker, she finally rose and started toward the bed. But she could not bring herself to lie down upon it, to sleep alone in her marriage bed. Placing her hand protectively over her abdomen, she realized that Geoffrey had died not knowing for certes that she was pregnant. Her child would be born without a father, would never know Geoffrey. And her daughters were so young. How long would they remember him? How long would her own memories last? Would the day come when she could no longer see his face, hear his laughter, remember the feel of his arms around her? What a sad, dreary, dangerous place her world would be without Geoffrey.

She sank to her knees by the bed, but she could not pray. “It makes no sense,” she whispered. “Why?” Even she was not sure if her cry was meant for the Almighty or for her husband. She knew only that there’d be no answer, and burying her face in her hands, she did something she’d once have thought impossible. She wept bitterly for a son of Henry Fitz Empress.

After the Pope had refused to grant a dispensation for the marriage of Henry’s granddaughter to the Scots king, Henry took it upon himself to find William another wife, the daughter of the Viscount of Beaumont, whose mother was a natural daughter of the first King Henry and therefore the English king’s cousin. Not content with providing a highborn bride, Henry offered to host the wedding feast, and on this late August day, he was holding court at Woodstock, which would be the site of the Scots king’s marriage in early September. Illustrious guests had already begun to arrive, and the great hall was crowded with bishops and barons and their ladies.

Henry was standing on the dais, dictating to a scribe at the same time that he was discussing Richard’s campaign in Quercy with his son Geoff, the Earl of Essex, and his justiciar, Ralf de Glanville. Fortunately his clerk was a veteran of royal service and was able to distinguish between Henry’s asides to his advisors and the thoughts to be set down in the letter.

“The last I heard, Richard and the King of Aragon were on the verge of capturing Cahors,” Henry revealed with obvious satisfaction, and if the men found it odd that Richard was once again exercising authority in Aquitaine, they were too worldly to let such sentiments show on their faces. Interrupting himself to speak with a servant, Henry turned back to the others with a smile. “Morgan Fitz Ranulf has just ridden in,” he told them, explaining for Ralf de Glanville’s benefit that Morgan was his uncle’s son. “He has been in my son Geoffrey’s service for several years, is likely on his way to visit his parents in Wales.”

“I am gladdened to see you, Morgan,” he said, brushing aside the younger man’s formal obeisance and waving him up onto the dais. “I assume you’re heading for Wales, will give you a letter for your father. Ranulf is not ailing, is he? Or your mother?” He smiled again when Morgan shook his head and invited his cousin to dine with him that evening, thinking that would provide an opportunity to interrogate Morgan about Geoffrey, for he’d not heard from his son in months.

“My liege…” Morgan had never shouldered such a daunting responsibility, did not know how to go about it. Was it better just to blurt it out? Or ought he to lead up to it? “May I speak with you in a more private setting? I do not bring good news.”

Morgan had no way of knowing it, but those were the same words that the prior of Grandmont had used to inform Henry of Hal’s death. His memories of that dreadful day were never far from his mind, and as he looked now at his young cousin, his breath hissed through his teeth, for he read the truth of Morgan’s mission in his forlorn, unhappy face.

Morgan shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable with the silence. But when he glanced toward Geoff, the other man shook his head and he deferred to his cousin, keeping his eyes on Henry, though. He’d listened without speaking as Morgan had stumbled through an account of Geoffrey’s last days and then moved across the solar to the window. Morgan yearned to slip away, for there were still awkward questions to be asked about Geoffrey’s death and he did not want to be the one to answer them. He looked over again at Geoff and Willem. Neither one spoke; they seemed content to take their cues from Henry, and Morgan could not tell if they shared his fervent desire to disappear.

This was by far the most difficult task of his life, and yet he’d volunteered for it, for he’d soon realized that neither the French king nor the Countess of Champagne nor Geoffrey’s knights cared about breaking the news gently to Henry. He was convinced that Henry had treated Geoffrey shabbily. But his own father had often insisted that Henry’s love for his children was heartfelt, and Morgan thought the king deserved to hear of his son’s death from a sympathetic source. Trapped now in Woodstock’s solar and feeling more and more like Daniel in the lion’s den, he found himself thinking that the bearers of such tragic tidings ought to have bells or clappers so they could warn others of their approach, much as lepers did.

When Henry finally spoke, Morgan flinched, for this was the question he’d been dreading. “Why was Geoffrey in Paris?”

“I…I do not…” he stammered, for he could neither lie to the king nor tell him the truth.

“He was there to take part in the tournament,” Geoff said quickly, and both Morgan and Willem winced at the transparency of the falsehood, for that did not explain why Geoffrey had been given a lavish state funeral by the French king. Geoff soon saw the weaknesses inherent in his “explanation” and, realizing the futility of trying to protect his father from the truth, he said no more.

Henry had spoken with his back still to them. When he turned at last, Morgan was shocked by how ravaged he looked, and he knew that Henry was not taken in by talk of tournaments, that he understood what Geoffrey’s presence in Paris meant. Once again a son had died in rebellion against him, and this time he’d been denied even a chance to make things right between them. For Geoffrey there’d been no sapphire rings, no promises of forgiveness, no avowals of affection. And as he realized what a burden this would be for Henry to bear, Morgan felt his own anger with the king ebbing away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of sorrow for his cousin and the father left to mourn him.

September began with a promise of perfection, and the women had been lured out into the gardens. They set up a trestle table under a shady chestnut tree and enjoyed wine, bread, cheese, and honeyed wafers. Afterward, Eleanor’s granddaughter Richenza played the French game jeu de paume with her attendants and several of Maud’s and Eleanor’s ladies; even Amaria gamely joined in as they dashed about the gardens batting the ball back and forth. Eleanor and Maud prudently assumed the role of spectators, watching with amusement as the younger women laughed and shrieked and attracted several knights who were quite happy to join in the fun.

“This was an excellent idea, Maud. I have not seen Richenza so merry in a fortnight.”

“I am glad to be of assistance.” Eleanor had explained that Richenza was downcast as the nuptials of the Scots king drew near. Only fourteen, she’d set her heart upon becoming Queen of Scotland and she was not yet reconciled to the Pope’s verdict. Pleased that she’d been able to cheer the girl up, Maud resolved to arrange for her granddaughters to spend some time at Winchester with Richenza. “Is Harry looking at another match for her?”

“Actually, he had an offer, one which would have made her a queen. Bela, the King of Hungary, expressed interest in wedding the English king’s granddaughter. But Harry seemed to feel that Hungary was the back of beyond and he never gave Bela a definite response. Bela eventually grew tired of waiting and approached the French king for Marguerite. Philippe was happy to accept the offer, and she will be departing for Hungary at summer’s end.”

Eleanor sounded sad, and Maud easily understood why. The remarriage of Hal’s widow was bound to stir up hurtful memories. “I’ve talked with my daughter-in-law about marrying again,” she confided, “for it has been five years since Hugh died. She says she has no interest in taking another husband and reminded me that I’ve been a widow for more than thirty years!”

Eleanor had never been surprised that Maud had not remarried, for widowhood was the only time in a woman’s life when she was not under a male’s authority. Maud had obviously relished her independence, raising her children, traveling, and proving to be a generous patron of the Church; she’d even founded a priory at Repton in Derbyshire. Eleanor suspected that she’d also discreetly taken lovers. No, it was very easy to understand why Maud had found life more enjoyable as a widow than as a wife.

“I always appreciated the irony, Maud, that canon law includes widows in the class of miserabiles personae, the miserable wretches deserving of special protection. I suppose the Church fathers thought any woman without a husband had to be an object of pity. Speaking for myself, I expect to have the chance to discover the joys of widowhood, for I plan to outlive Harry if only from spite.”

Eleanor grinned and Maud grinned back, but she was not completely sure that the queen was joking and she felt a pang of regret that their precarious rapprochement had been a casualty of Henry’s double-dealing. She’d seen them take tentative steps toward a marital peace as the years passed, and then watched sadly as it all ended when Henry used Eleanor to win his clash of wills with their son. “Are we caught up now on family gossip?” she asked lightly. “So far I’ve learned that Richard is wreaking havoc on the Count of Toulouse’s lands and your daughter in Castile has given birth to another girl and you have not heard lately from Geoffrey but you recently received a loving letter from Joanna in Sicily. Any other interesting rumors to relate?”

“I do have some news about my youngest son. Believe it or not, Harry has sent him back to Ireland.” Eleanor grinned again at the expression on Maud’s face. “For a man who rarely makes the same mistake twice, Harry acts like a dog chasing its tail where our sons are concerned. You may have heard that Hugh de Lacy, his justiciar for Ireland, was slain this summer. John had blamed de Lacy for much of his Irish follies, claiming the justiciar had acted to hinder his rule, and Harry of course accepted John’s story as gospel. So when he learned of de Lacy’s death, he decided it would be a good idea for John to return to Ireland and lay claim to de Lacy’s estates in Meath.” Her smile fading, she said, with real regret, “In all of Christendom, only Harry and John think that his second try will be any more successful than his first…and I am not even sure about John.”

“Grandmother!” Richenza was back, followed by Denise, Eleanor’s newest lady-in-waiting. “Grandfather is here! He just rode into the bailey!” Her duty done, the girl spun around and ran to greet Henry, with Denise right behind her. So only Maud was there to hear Eleanor mouth a colorful profanity.

“That does not sound like the most loving of spousal greetings,” she said dryly, and Eleanor summoned up a taut smile.

“The last time Harry was at Winchester, we had a particularly heated quarrel-about Richard, of course. We did not patch things up when he left, so I’d rather our first meeting not be a public one.”

“In other words, you’ve not yet forgiven him. Well, this is why friends have their uses. I’ll go out and welcome him whilst you slip out the side gate and return to your own chambers. I happen to be very good at creating a distraction,” Maud said with a wink and walked briskly along the path to the garden’s main gateway.

There she saw Richenza, the ladies, knights, and other men clustered around a small group of riders dismounting in the bailey. Making her way through the growing crowd, she greeted her cousin with a graceful curtsy and a playful smile. “My liege, you came all this way to visit with me? I am very flattered.”

She started to offer an explanation for Eleanor’s absence, but Henry gave her no chance. Stepping forward, he drew her into a wordless embrace, holding her so tightly that she knew something was wrong even before he murmured against her ear, “Thank God you are here, Maud. Eleanor will have need of you.”

Ignoring the other spectators, he moved toward the gardens. Maud trailed after him, but he gave her no chance to question him, opened the gate, and entered. When he closed the gate behind him, Maud took that to mean he did not want her to accompany him and she halted uncertainly, watching as he strode along the path. She was not surprised to see Eleanor emerge from the arbor, for the queen had finely honed instincts; on reflection, she’d probably concluded that his unexpected visits always boded ill.

“Cousin Maud?” Turning, she was delighted to recognize Morgan, and she kissed him fondly on both cheeks before asking him what she’d not had time to ask Henry. “We bring the worst news a mother could get,” he said somberly. “Geoffrey was injured in a French tournament and died a few days later.”

“Oh, no!” She clapped her hand to her mouth, staring at him in horror, and then swung back toward the gardens. Henry had reached Eleanor by now. Thankful they were out of earshot, Maud watched, tears stinging her eyes. She knew when Henry had revealed his heartbreaking message, for Eleanor spun away from him, then sank down on the nearest bench. When Henry followed, she flung up her hand, as if to hold him off, and Maud’s tears flowed faster, for what could be sadder than parents unable to console each other over the death of a child?

Morgan did not know how to comfort her, but he did his best, putting his arm around her shoulders and sharing her sorrow. It was not long before Henry was heading back toward them, head down, steps heavy and plodding. As he came through the gate, Maud embraced him, pressing her wet cheek into his shoulder as she whispered the only words she could, a choked litany of “I am so sorry.”

She’d lost both her sons, and Henry almost asked her how she’d survived such a loss, but Eleanor’s need was greater and he said only, “Go to her, Maud.”

As she slipped through the gate and hastened into the gardens, Henry glanced over at his young cousin. “Now is not the time, lad. But she’ll want to hear about Geoffrey’s last hours. Be sure to tell her that her daughter Marie was with him till the end. That might help…a little.”

Morgan nodded, and they walked in silence back to the now subdued crowd of onlookers. Henry held out his arms and Richenza ran to him, wept against his chest as she told him how much she’d liked her uncle Geoffrey and how distraught her mother would be by his death. Henry had not been sure if he should be the one to tell Eleanor, at last concluding that he owed her that much. Despite her rebuff, he was glad now that he’d made the trip to Winchester; at least he could console their granddaughter. Holding the girl, he looked over her head, his eyes seeking Morgan’s.

“You said you were returning to Wales. But what then, lad? What will you do?” When Morgan admitted that he did not know, Henry paused before saying quietly, “I would like you to come into my service, Morgan. I know you are not yet ready to consider your future. But when you do, remember that there will be a place for you here.”

Caught off balance, Morgan murmured his thanks, then stood watching as the crowd parted to let Henry and his granddaughter pass. After a few moments, he sensed someone had come up beside him, and he turned, looked into the sympathetic eyes of Will Marshal.

“Did he ask you to be one of his household knights?” the older man said, and smiled when Morgan stared at him in surprise. “I thought he would, just as he did with me.”

“His offer to you makes more sense, though, Will, for you are a renowned soldier. Whereas I am just…”

“One of his last links to his son,” Will finished for him and Morgan finally began to understand.

The Surrender of Cahors was a sweet victory for Richard and Alfonso of Aragon. For their armies, it was not as rewarding; they’d been forbidden to sack the city since it had not been taken by storm. Some of Alfonso’s soldiers were tempted to see how much they could get away with, but Richard’s men soon disabused them of that fancy, warning that even Mercadier’s fierce routiers knew better than to defy their duke’s orders. So the streets were reasonably calm as the Aragonese king rode into the city to meet Richard at the cathedral of St Etienne.

Alfonso was very pleased with their campaign so far. They had the Count of Toulouse on the run, reduced to sending urgent pleas to his liege lord for help. But so far, Philippe had not responded and they’d retaken most of the lands seized by Count Raimon during Hal’s rebellion. For Alfonso, it had been a satisfying summer. He enjoyed fighting alongside his friend and was relishing their mutual foe’s humiliation. If they could be sure Philippe would stay out of it, they might even take the war to the russet rock walls of Toulouse.

Once he and his men reached the cathedral garth, Alfonso headed for the chapter house, where he expected to find Richard and the Bishop of Cahors. He suspected Bishop Gerald must be cursing his ill luck, as this was the second time his city had been taken by an Angevin army; Henry had captured Cahors when he’d sought to assert Eleanor’s claim to Toulouse. Alfonso fervently hoped that Count Raimon was losing sleep now that Richard was in a position to finish what his father had begun.

They’d almost reached the cloisters when they encountered some of Richard’s household knights. They seemed in high spirits and veered in Alfonso’s direction as soon as they saw him. Andre de Chauvigny and Rico Fitz Rainald were arguing good-naturedly about which one got to “tell the king the good news,” and Alfonso regarded them with a mixture of amusement and impatience. “Well, someone tell me!”

Andre’s cousin Nicholas stepped into the breach. “The most remarkable occurrence, sire. Our lord’s brother has died after being trampled during a tournament outside Paris.”

Alfonso whistled in surprise. “The Duke of Brittany?” he said, just to be sure there were no misunderstandings, although he could not see why John’s death would matter to anyone but Henry. And when they gleefully confirmed Geoffrey’s identity, he continued on to the cloisters, marveling at Richard’s great good luck.

The chapter house was crowded with men, but the bishop’s woes had been forgotten in the excitement over the news from Paris. The prelate was standing off to the side with some of his canons, looking disgruntled. His sense of disapproval only intensified when Alfonso strolled in and greeted Richard with a breezy, “Well, the Lord God has been uncommonly busy on your behalf, separating the wheat from the chaff.” And he was further scandalized when Richard laughed.

“Come on,” Richard said, leading Alfonso back out into the cloisters, where his men dropped back to afford them a modicum of privacy. Richard gave Alfonso a concise summary of the report he’d gotten of Geoffrey’s death, and then said, half seriously and half in jest, “I do think God is on my side, Alfonso, for Geoffrey was not in Paris by happenchance. It seems that he and Philippe discovered they shared many of the same vices: a taste for conspiracy and a hunger for lands not theirs.”

“Lucky for you then that Geoffrey’s aim was off.”

“Not so lucky for my father, though,” Richard said and smiled grimly, “for I am all the old man has left now.” He paused and then added carelessly, “Except for the whelp, of course.”

Brother Euddogwy had dutifully sought to obey his Benedictine vows of obedience, poverty, and chastity. The last one had given him the most trouble and some sleepless nights, but those temptations were safely behind him, for lust was a sin more likely to afflict the young and Brother Euddogwy had gone grey in the service of his God and his Church. He’d never expected to be tripped up by obedience, but he’d been in a state of rebellious resentment ever since his prior had sent him to minister to the spiritual needs of the English king’s son.

At first Brother Euddogwy had welcomed the novelty of it. His prior had explained that Count John’s chaplain had fallen from his horse and broken his leg. Since he was confined to bed as his injuries healed, there was a need for a priest at the castle to say Mass and hear confessions. Since Brother Euddogwy was the only one of the brethren of Monkton Priory to have been ordained, he was the only possible choice. But the prior assured him that as their priory was within sight of Pembroke Castle, he need not sleep there, could return at nights to the monks’ dorter. Moreover, his services would not be required for long. Count John and his men were sailing for Ireland as soon as they got favorable winds.

And so Brother Euddogwy had no misgivings, no forebodings as he’d begun his new duty. It took him only a few days, though, to become convinced that he’d been given an unwelcome glimpse of Hell. He knew he was not a worldly man, had passed all his years in this quiet corner of South Wales. The priory of St Nicholas had been his home since boyhood, for after his father died, his mother had pledged him to the Benedictine brothers as an oblate. Once he was old enough, he’d become a novice and in due time, he’d taken his holy vows, so impressing his superiors that he was encouraged to take the next step-priesthood. He’d always been content with his lot in life, kindly both by nature and experience, and when he heard the confessions of the townspeople and his brethren, he imposed light penances, never resorted to harangues and threats of eternal damnation as some of the other Pembroke priests did. He truly believed that most people wanted to do the right thing, just needed guidance to steer them away from sin.

His benign view of mankind was severely challenged, though, by the retainers and mesnie and soldiers of Count John. Like John, most of them were younger sons eager for a taste of independence, and many seemed to have confused freedom with disrespect, insolence, and provocation. They swaggered into town in search of trouble and usually found it. They certainly found women willing to barter their bodies for coins, wine, or a chance to socialize with these cocky young knights. It was Brother Euddogwy’s shocked opinion that the behavior he’d seen in the castle’s great hall was the sort of debauchery he imagined took place in bordels, those infamous houses for women of ill repute.

He was as distressed by their blatant bad manners as he was by their lechery. They bullied the castle servants and the burghers of Pembroke, shouted rudely at reputable wives and mothers, drank and gambled and squabbled among themselves. And they seemed to go out of their way to be offensive. His name attested to his dual heritage, Euddogwy from his Welsh mother and Huybeerecht from his father, who’d been a respected member of Pembroke’s Flemish community. Count John’s knights thought that was hilarious and insisted upon calling him Euddogwy Fitz Huybeerecht instead of Brother Euddogwy, competing with one another to mangle the names beyond recognition. They made no secret of their contempt for the Welsh, and Brother Euddogwy pitied the Irish, who would soon have these overweening hordes descending upon them.

The only light in this darkness was provided by an unexpected source-Father Bartholomew, the count’s impaired chaplain. He was amiable, courteous, and had an inexhaustible store of spellbinding stories, for he’d spent a few years in the young king’s household before being chosen to serve Count John. When the scandalous goings-on in the great hall would get to be too much for him, Brother Euddogwy would retreat to the chaplain’s bedchamber, where Father Bartholomew mesmerized him with accounts of the royal court, convincing the monk that the Angevins truly were the Devil’s brood.

There seemed no end to his trials, either, for the bad weather had yet to break. On this rainy September evening, it had been more than a fortnight since the prior had dispatched him to this dung heap of sin, and he was guilt-stricken to find himself struggling with rebellious impulses that no dutiful Benedictine ought ever to entertain. After getting John’s permission to retire for the night, he took one last disapproving look at the antics in the great hall and escaped out into the rain. He was trudging along the town’s sludgy Main Street toward the Westgate when he was hailed by a mud-splattered rider on a lathered horse.

“A moment, Brother, if you will. Can you tell me if the Count of Mortain has sailed yet for Ireland?”

“No, he has been delayed by the foul weather.” Brother Euddogwy suspected this was a royal messenger; he was young and fit and did not look as if he’d be daunted by bad roads, storms, or outlaws. “Are you one of the king’s serjeants?” He was, indeed, the rider confirmed, and when he learned of Brother Euddogwy’s connection to the castle, he leaned from the saddle and shared his news. He did not need directions, for the wooden paling of the stronghold’s palisade loomed out of the damp mist. But when he continued on toward the gateway, Brother Euddogwy walked alongside him, for Count John might have need of spiritual comfort in light of the message he was about to receive.

The scene in the great hall was a raucous one, a cheerful melange of knights, minstrels, servants, disreputable-looking women, and dogs, who were dicing, performing bawdy songs, responding to cries for wine, laughing shrilly, and barking. Brother Euddogwy flushed, as if this unseemly uproar somehow reflected badly on him, but the serjeant took it in stride. Weaving nimbly among the clots of merrymakers, he soon made his way to the dais, with the monk following in his wake.

John was lounging in a high-backed chair with a blonde in his lap; she was younger and prettier than most of the women in the hall, for a king’s son naturally had the pick of the litter. He looked bored, seemed to be half listening to the girl’s prattle and the fawning courtiers hovering at his side, but Brother Euddogwy had learned that his careless pose was deceptive; he missed little of what occurred around him. His gaze soon settled upon the bedraggled messenger, and he beckoned the man up onto the dais.

“I am Master Lucas, my lord. I come from your father the king, and alas, I am the bearer of sad tidings.” He knelt and waited patiently until John shouted for silence, then drew out a sealed letter. “King Henry bids you return to England straightaway, as he no longer wants you to make the journey to Ireland.”

That was not well received by John’s mesnie, and they made their disappointment known with profanity-laced protests. John did not look pleased, either. “I wish my lord father would make up his mind,” he said peevishly, reaching out to take the letter.

Since he seemed in no hurry to open it, the serjeant took it upon himself to speak up. “That is not the message, my lord, merely its consequences. I regret to tell you that the Duke of Brittany was fatally injured in a French tournament.”

There was a shocked silence and then, to Brother Euddogwy’s horror, the hall burst into tipsy cheering. He watched in disgust as John was mobbed by his knights and hangers-on, each one wanting to be the first to congratulate him that he was now second in line to the English throne. That had not even occurred to the monk, but John’s men were euphoric, for this was every younger son’s dream, to be elevated by the Almighty.

Whatever John might have said was drowned out in the riotous din. Brother Euddogwy could not read his face, but he did not seem in need of religious comfort, so the monk took the serjeant to find the steward, who’d arrange for a meal and a bed. He then went to see the bedridden chaplain, feeling that Father Bartholomew ought to be told of the duke’s death.

He was heading again for the castle gateway when he heard footsteps behind him, and one of John’s squires came running across the bailey. “Brother, wait! My lord wants to see you!”

That surprised the monk, and he was even more surprised when he was led, not back to the hall, but to John’s private chamber. John was alone, pacing back and forth, his face shuttered and remote. “Come in, Brother. I want to ask you something.”

“How may I serve you, my lord?”

“I would like to have a Requiem Mass for my brother. Can you make the arrangements?”

“Of course, my lord!” Brother Euddogwy beamed, delighted by a natural reaction to tragedy after what he’d seen in the hall. “The castle chapel is not large enough, but we can use the priory church. Or if you’d prefer, I am sure the priest at St Mary’s will gladly make his church available.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

This was the first time that Brother Euddogwy found himself warming to the king’s son, and since he’d not been dismissed, he ventured to express his regrets and offer solace if he could. “I am very sorry for your loss, my lord. You and the duke were close, then?”

“No,” John said, “actually we were not. Whilst I was growing up, I thought my brothers were the spawn of Satan. But in the last few years, we’d gotten to know each other better. And when I needed him, he was there for me, providing generous support for my Poitevin campaign.”

Brother Euddogwy did not know how to respond to that, for only the Angevins would see a rebellion as an opportunity for brotherly bonding. “I will ask my prior if we may say daily prayers for your brother’s soul, my lord.”

“Thank you.” John moved to the only source of heat in the chamber, a brazier heaped with coals. He held his hands over the flames, glancing over his shoulder at the monk. “Does it ever stop raining in Wales?” he said, and then, “I wish it had been Richard.”

Philippe wasted no time in demanding the wardship of Geoffrey’s daughters. Since Geoffrey had done homage to him for Brittany, he was the duke’s rightful liege lord and ought to have custody of the little girls. Henry naturally did not agree, contending that the right of wardship was his. Neither king bothered to consult Constance.