Devil's Brood

CHAPTER FIFTY

March 1187

Nantes, Brittany

The ducal castle at Nantes was crowded with highborn Breton lords, their ladies, and retainers. Constance’s mother Margaret had come from England for her daughter’s confinement. Two of Constance’s female friends, Clemencia de Fougeres and Mathilde de Mayenne, were present, too, and both young women had been escorted by their male kin, Clemencia by her grandfather, Raoul, and Mathilde by her husband, Andre de Vitre. Clemencia’s betrothed, Alain de Dinan-Vitre was also there, as was Maurice de Lire, the Seneschal of Nantes, and several churchmen.

Normally the men would not have accompanied the women at such a time. Not only were males barred from the birthing chamber, the process of childbirth was shrouded in female tradition and myth. But Raoul de Fougeres and the de Vitre brothers, Andre and Alain, were men of power and influence, men with a keen interest in the future of their duchy, and they’d seized this opportunity to be among the first to learn the results of their duchess’s confinement.

They were seated in chairs by the smoking central hearth in the great hall, passing the hours drinking and making idle conversation. The one subject they assiduously avoided was what was occurring in Constance’s birthing chamber. They were superstitious enough not to want to discuss it beforehand, but they all knew what was at stake, possibly the very survival of their duchy. If Constance gave birth to a third daughter, it was just a matter of time until she’d be compelled to make another marriage, and she and her lords would have little say in the matter. The husband would be chosen by the English or French king, depending upon which one prevailed in their competing claims to lordship over Brittany.

They’d been very lucky in Constance’s first husband, for Geoffrey had proven himself to be dedicated to the duchy’s welfare and shrewd enough to ingratiate himself with the Breton barons. They doubted that they’d be so fortunate again, for it was Geoffrey’s status as the king’s son that had enabled him to assert so much independence. Constance’s next husband was likely to be a mere puppet of the English or French king; they’d see to that.

If, however, Constance gave birth to a boy, that altered the dynamics, as the focus would shift to her son. Her role would change, and she’d be acting as regent for the infant duke. Henry and Philippe would still want her safely wed to a husband of their choosing. The new husband’s influence would be circumscribed, though, for he would not be the father of the heir. Geoffrey’s unexpected death had plunged his wife into grieving and the duchy into great peril, its future dependent upon the sex of the child being born on this Easter Sunday in late March.

The men thought it was a good omen that their duchess’s pangs had begun on so holy a day, but their edginess increased as the hours dragged by. As evening drew nigh, they sought to distract themselves with an intent discussion of the dangers facing the Holy Land. Andre de Vitre had passed two years in Outremer, and he’d returned to Brittany with compelling stories of the tragic Baldwin IV, the Leper King. Andre had great admiration for Baldwin’s courage and stoic acceptance of his affliction; he’d died at the age of twenty-three soon after Andre’s departure, naming his nine-year-old nephew as king. But the boy was sickly and he’d died not long afterward, leaving the fate of the Kingdom of Jerusalem in the hands of his mother, Sybilla, and her much mistrusted husband, Guy, one of the notorious de Lusignan clan.

Andre had stories to tell, too, of the man many considered to be Outremer’s most dangerous foe, Sultan Salah al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, known to much of Christendom as Saladin. He’d been defeated by King Baldwin at Montgisard eight years ago, but had suffered few reverses since then, now ruled Syria as well as Egypt. He was one of those men about whom legends formed, and Andre was easily persuaded to recount the most famous of these tales, although he warned he could not vouch for its veracity.

“Saladin launched an attack upon Kerak, the stronghold of his blood enemy, Raynald de Chatillon. As it happened, a wedding had just taken place-Raynald’s stepson and the young half sister of King Baldwin. The story goes that the groom’s mother sent out some of the wedding dishes for Saladin, and he asked where the wedding-night chamber was located. He then ordered his men not to turn their siege engines upon that part of the castle, not wanting to disturb the newlywed couple.”

The men laughed and Andre continued, relating that the king’s army had arrived in time to lift the siege, with Baldwin too weak by then to ride, but insisting upon accompanying his men in a horse litter. “It is often thought that leprosy is the judgment of God,” he said somberly, “but none who knew Baldwin could believe that his suffering was the result of sin. He was a man of honor and had he only been spared the scourge of leprosy, the Holy Land would not be in such peril-”

He stopped so abruptly that the others looked up in surprise. When he leaped to his feet, they followed his example, for they now saw what had drawn his attention: the woman just entering the hall. In recent hours, Clemencia and Matilde had made brief appearances to report on the progress of the birthing, assuring the men that all was going as it ought. But at the sight of Constance’s mother, a stir swept the hall, for surely her presence must mean the child had been born.

Margaret’s visage gave away nothing of her thoughts; she looked tired yet composed. But then she favored them with a smile resplendent enough to light the hall. “My daughter,” she said, “has given birth to a fine, healthy son.” And after that, there was such chaos that the rest of her words were drowned out.

Margaret could still hear the clamor as she left the hall. By the sound of it, they’d be celebrating until dawn, she thought, and why not? God had been good to Brittany this Easter night, good to her daughter.

But as soon as she reentered Constance’s chamber, she discovered there’d been a dramatic development. She’d left her daughter, exhausted and pale, smiling at her son. Now Constance was crumpled upon her bed, sobbing so despairingly that her entire body was trembling, while the other women clustered around her in dismay.

“Madame!” Juvette greeted her with obvious relief. “She just began weeping of a sudden and we’ve been unable to console her.”

Marveling that the girl sounded so surprised, Margaret took charge, soon had the chamber cleared of all but the midwife, who was bathing the baby. Skirting the overturned birthing stool, she sat on the bed and gathered her daughter into her arms. “You go ahead, dearest, and cry,” she said soothingly. “You’ve earned the right.”

After a time, Constance’s shudders eased, her breathing no longer as ragged and choked. Raising her wet face from her mother’s lap, she regarded Margaret with swollen, dark eyes. “I was so happy, Maman, but then…” She swallowed with difficulty, hiccupped, and struggled to sit up. Margaret slid a supportive arm around her shoulders, helping her onto the pillows, before she rose and brought a wine cup back to the bed, watching as Constance obediently took a few sips.

“I would have been astonished if you’d not given way to tears, Constance. As great as your joy is, how could it not be bittersweet? You have what you most wanted in this world-a son, a son that Geoffrey will never get to see or hold or protect. You cannot exalt in what you’ve gained without mourning what you’ve lost.”

That made sense to Constance. “Yes…” she said huskily, wiping away the last of her tears with the corner of the sheet, and Margaret looked over at the midwife, standing a few feet away with the newly swaddled infant. When she nodded, the midwife approached the bed and gently handed him to Constance. Geoffrey had often called Aenor his “perfect little pearl,” and Constance thought now that their son was perfect, too, a warm, breathing blessing in her arms, a miraculous reprieve for her duchy.

The midwife stepped back, beaming. “Have you chosen a name, Madame?”

Constance smiled drowsily. “I was favoring Margaret for a daughter, Geoffrey for a son. But then my father-in-law the English king sent us word that if the baby was a boy, he would like him to be named Henry in his honor.”

She glanced up briefly, finding it difficult to take her eyes away from her baby’s face. “After that, my lords and I knew there could be but one name for my son. We shall name him after a great Breton king. We shall call him Arthur.”

The French King demanded the wardship of Arthur, as he had done with the infant duke’s sisters, and he insisted, too, that Henry stop Richard from making war upon his vassal, the Count of Toulouse. Philippe then ordered the arrest of any of Henry’s subjects found in his domains, and Henry responded by arresting the French king’s subjects. Skirmishing erupted in the Vexin, and an April meeting between the two kings resolved nothing. Both sides prepared for war. Henry divided up his army, giving separate commands to Richard, John, Geoff, and William de Mandeville. Philippe mustered his army at Bourges, and in June he invaded Berry, an ongoing source of contention between the French kings and the dukes of Aquitaine.

John had long known he was uncomfortable in small or enclosed spaces, but he discovered in June that the worst sort of confinement was to be trapped in a castle under siege. Sent south by Henry to counter the threat in Berry, he and Richard had set up command in the castle at Chateauroux, and soon found themselves fending off an assault by the French army.

This was John’s first taste of a siege, and so far he didn’t care much for the experience. It bothered him more than he’d expected, to know he was a hostage of sorts; like a trout in a fish weir, he thought morosely. He was not truly worried that the castle might fall to Philippe, for they’d sent word to Henry of their plight. Richard would have been his last choice of company in a castle under siege, though. Moreover, he was soon utterly bored, for he did not share the pleasure Richard seemed to take in manning the castle’s defenses. He’d heard of sieges lasting for months. How had such beleaguered men not gone stark mad out of the sheer tedium of their days?

He knew he should try to sleep, for with daybreak the bombardment would begin again. He was too restless to stay in his bedchamber, though, and eventually wandered over to the great hall, hoping that he might find some men still awake. A dice game seemed as good a way as any to pass the hours.

The hall was crowded with knights and soldiers, sleeping on pallets and blankets, using their boots as pillows. Rush-lights still burned in wall sconces, casting a smoky pall over air already stale and sweltering because of the shuttered windows. But a handful of men were still up, shooting dice in a corner, albeit without much enthusiasm. John headed toward them, only to stop when he spotted his brother. Richard was by himself in a window-seat, softly plucking the strings of a small harp. “So you cannot sleep either,” he commented, so amiably that John found himself pausing, for most of the time his older brother treated him with offhand indifference or outright condescension.

“Why are you not abed?” he asked, for Richard had passed a very demanding day; when not up on the battlements, he was overseeing their mangonels, checking upon the wounded, handing out casual compliments to soldiers who acted-to John’s annoyance-as if his words were gold, prowling the castle like a sheepdog keeping a watchful eye out for predators, determined to keep the flock safe.

“My body’s tired enough,” Richard acknowledged, “but my brain will not slow down. I keep thinking of possible weaknesses in our defenses or wondering how long our supplies will last or worrying that some of the sentries are too sleepy to stay alert.”

“You think they might try a night assault?”

“I would in Philippe’s place. But I doubt that he has the ballocks for it.”

John sat down across from Richard in the window-seat, although he wasn’t sure why. “You think our father will get here soon?”

Richard continued to strum the harp, but he gave John a curious look. “You are joking, right?”

“No…why?”

“Because you are trapped with me, of course. Now, if it were just me, he might be sorely tempted to take his time. But for you, he’ll be killing horses in his haste to get here.”

He laughed, but John remembered that Geoffrey had occasionally told bald truths in the guise of humor and he wondered if that were true for Richard, too. He started to remind his brother that their father had often ridden to his rescue in the past, but the words that emerged from his mouth seemed to come of their own volition. “Do you hate me for that?”

Richard blinked. “For what?’

John had been as surprised as Richard by what he’d said. He was committed now, though, and had no choice but to continue. “For Papa favoring me over you.”

Richard didn’t seem to have given the matter much thought before. He was quiet for a moment, considering. “No,” he finally said. “I cannot say I was overly fond of Hal or Geoffrey, but I hold no grudge against you, lad.”

“Why not?” John demanded, feeling somehow insulted by his brother’s lack of rancor. “I did invade your duchy, after all!”

Richard was starting to look amused. “Far be it from me to deny you the credit for that bit of treachery.”

“You just assumed that it was all Geoffrey’s doing,” John said accusingly, “the way Papa did! As if I could not possibly have formed the intent upon my own, even after you mocked me like that!”

“When did I mock you?”

“That day at Le Mans. When Papa said Aquitaine was mine if I could take it, you looked me up and down and then laughed.”

“Did I? I’ll take your word for it, Johnny. If it makes you feel better, though, I never imagined Geoffrey had dragged you along at knifepoint. The reason I am willing to let bygones be bygones is because you were all of…what? Sixteen? It was only to be expected that you’d act like a damned fool. God knows, I did at sixteen.”

John did not share his amusement. “I was seventeen,” he said sullenly, in that moment realizing that he resented Richard’s indulgence more than his hostility. He also realized that he did not like to be called Johnny, not by Richard.

Richard had gone back to his song, frowning as he tried several chords. When he was finally satisfied, he glanced up, saying, “How does that sound to you?” But John was gone.

Henry proved Richard right by reaching Chateauroux in record time. Philippe raised the siege, but to the surprise of all, he did not retreat, and with two armies separated only by the waters of the River Indre, it began to look as if a battle was inevitable. This was uncommon, for battles were usually a commander’s action of last resort. Sensible men were not eager to submit themselves to the Judgment of the Almighty, and a decisive battle seemed to prove that the victor had God on his side. Most people preferred not to put the Lord’s Favor to such a stringent, conclusive test. Nor were the barons of either army keen to fight with one another, for many had kin and friends in the opposing camps. These men did their best to persuade Henry and Philippe to resolve their differences by more reasonable means.

So, too, did the numerous clerics and prelates accompanying both armies, for the Church did not want to see two such powerful Christian kings at war when the real enemy was to be found in the Holy Land. In this way, a fortnight dragged by, with highborn messengers shuttling back and forth between encampments with proposals and counterproposals. No real progress had been made, however, and the fate of many continued to depend upon the whims of two strong-willed, unpredictable kings.

Richard had just returned to his tent and his squire was helping him to remove his hauberk when he was informed that the Count of Flanders had ridden in under a flag of truce, asking to confer with him. Richard swore and then sighed, for by now he was thoroughly disgusted with the mummery masquerading as peace negotiations. He was tempted to tell Philip to go away, but he knew, of course, that he could not do that, and he directed that the count be brought to his tent.

He was somewhat surprised when Philip had his men wait outside, and as soon as they were seated, he could not resist a sardonic gibe at the Flemish ruler’s expense. “Since you want to speak in private, should I assume, Cousin, that you are thinking of switching sides? There is little love lost between you and Philippe, after all.”

Philip gave him a sharp look and then smiled, somewhat sourly. “True enough. My relationship with the French king is almost as stormy as yours with the English king.” Taking a taste of his wine, he nodded approvingly. “It would be a shame to see your Poitevin vineyards go up in flames when you can produce wines like this. Look, Richard, let’s speak plainly. Your interests are not being well served if this standoff results in a bloody battle. Despite your father’s games-playing, we both know England will eventually be yours. But so will Normandy and Anjou. Is it truly wise to make an enemy of the man who will be your liege lord?”

“What would you suggest, instead? That I betray my father to court favor with Philippe? You’re losing your touch, Cousin, if this is your idea of subtlety. Shall I also renounce my Christian faith whilst I am at it?”

Philip’s smile did not waver, even as he marveled to himself that the genial Hal and this man could have come from the same womb. “Sheathe your sarcasm, Cousin. I am asking only that you talk directly with the French king, see if you can persuade him he will gain little and risk much by taking to the battlefield. I in turn will do what I can to get your father to see reason.” Adding wryly, “And may God have mercy upon us both.”

Richard had been acquainted with Philippe Capet since the latter was four, but as he studied the French king, he realized that he did not really know the younger man. They had little in common. Philippe was stiff-necked and judgmental, disapproved of swearing, had shown little interest in those pleasures that other men enjoyed. He denounced tournaments, disapproved of gambling and minstrels and troubadours, and did not even hunt much because he disliked horses. To Richard, a superb rider and swordsman who loved music and swore like a sailor, Philippe seemed as alien as a Carthusian monk. But he knew Philip of Flanders was right; he would eventually have to deal with this man and so it made sense to find out more about him.

So far they’d been dodging and weaving, using polite language and courtesy to guard their real thoughts, and Richard was growing tired of evasions and ambiguity. As he looked into the French king’s pale blue eyes, he saw what his brother Geoffrey had also seen-a cool, calculating intelligence. Making up his mind then, he said, “Let’s talk about my real reason for being here. You and my lord father are far from fools, so I assume you will eventually agree to a truce. How much longer must we wait?”

“What makes you think I am bluffing?”

Although Philippe’s tone was composed, Richard noticed that his hands had briefly clenched upon the arms of his chair. So the French king was sensitive to slights upon his manhood. He marked that down as a useful fact to know and set his wine cup aside, leaning forward in his seat.

“You are bluffing for the same reason that my father is bluffing, because neither one of you wants to risk all upon one throw of the dice. I am paying you a compliment, for no capable commander commits his men to a pitched battle unless he is confident he will win or he has no other choice. Hellfire, Philippe, even I do not want to fight at Chateauroux and you know what they say of me-that I get drunk on bloodlust the way other men do on wine!”

Philippe looked taken aback, but when Richard grinned at him, he grinned back. “Let’s talk then,” he agreed, “about how your father and I save face and come away with enough to satisfy us both. And when this is done, I would like you to visit Paris…as my honored guest. I got to know both Hal and Geoffrey, would like to know you better, too.”

I daresay you do, Richard thought, for what better weapons can you have against my father than his own sons? “I will give it serious consideration,” he promised, and as soon as he said it, he realized that he meant it.

“ So if I agree to let Philippe hold on to the castles he took at Issoudun and Freteval, he will agree to a two-year truce?” When Richard confirmed it, Henry regarded him skeptically. “And what do I get out of it?”

“You get what you want,” Richard said impatiently, “a chance to defer your reckoning with Philippe. That is your favorite tactic, after all, Papa…delay and delay and delay again. It has served you well in the past; think how long you’ve managed to keep Philippe in suspense over Alys and the Vexin.”

“Are you telling me that you now want to wed the girl? Or that you’re willing to hand over the Vexin?”

“I was not being critical of your stratagem,” Richard insisted. “Of course I am not willing to yield the Vexin to Philippe. And since I have no great interest in wedding Alys, what else can we do but put Philippe off? What I am saying is what we both know, that you do not want to meet the French army on the field. So how much time are you willing to waste here whilst you and Philippe swap threats? Of course we can always go with one suggestion being bandied about-that you resolve your differences by choosing your best knights to joust on your behalf. The last I heard, men were proposing Philip of Flanders, Henri of Champagne, and the Count of Hainault as the French champions, and Will Marshal, your friend de Mandeville, and me as yours.”

By now Henry and Richard were both laughing, for in that, they were in full agreement: that war was not a game and ought not to be treated like one. “Very well,” Henry said, “let him keep those damned castles…at least for now. I’ve matters to deal with in Brittany, cannot spend the rest of the summer camping out here in Berry.”

Henry paused then, looking pensively at his son. “We can accomplish a great deal when we are united, Richard. If there is trust between us, what could we not do together?”

If that was meant as an olive branch, Richard made no move to grasp it. “Yes,” he said, “trust is essential,” but he knew better, for he knew the old man would never trust him. Once that awareness had hurt, but no more. He no longer cared if he had his father’s trust or respect. He wanted only what was his birthright, to be openly acknowledged as the heir to the English throne, and he meant to do whatever he must to secure his legacy…starting with a trip to Paris.

Leon was one of the most remote, inaccessible areas of Brittany, and its viscount had liked to boast that he “feared neither God nor man.” He’d long posed a threat to ducal control of Brittany, and more than once Henry had led campaigns to quell his rebellions. He’d eventually broken faith one time too many and Geoffrey had seized the barony, compelling the viscount to make a penitential pilgrimage to atone for a lifetime of spectacular sins and disinheriting his sons. Upon Geoffrey’s death in Paris, the sons promptly rebelled again, capturing two ducal strongholds. After concluding the truce with Philippe, Henry led an army into Brittany and retook the castles. He then visited Nantes in order to see his grandson.

Henry was cradling Arthur in his arms, looking for the moment more like a doting grandfather than the man who cast such a formidable shadow over Brittany. Constance was neither charmed nor placated by this glimpse of her father-in-law’s softer side and had to dig her nails into her palm to resist the urge to snatch her son out of his grasp. The Breton barons were just as unhappy and, like their duchess, more angry than grateful for his punitive expedition into Leon, as his campaign only underscored their subordination to the English Crown. Not that they needed a reminder, for after Geoffrey’s death, Henry had dismissed Raoul de Fougeres as Seneschal of Brittany and replaced him with the Angevin lord, Maurice de Craon.

Arthur, a curious, lively baby, seemed content in this stranger’s embrace, but Constance was reaching her breaking point and signaled to the nurse, hoping Henry would take the hint. He did and reluctantly handed his grandson over to the woman, saying to Constance, “I think he looks like Geoffrey, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Constance’s elder daughter was tugging at Henry’s tunic. He’d brought lavish gifts for the children: an expensive ivory rattle, carved wooden tops, whistles, felt puppets, balls, and poupees for the girls, one of linen and the other of wood, with yellow yarn hair and their own wardrobe. What had won Aenor over, though, was his willingness to kneel on the ground and show her how to spin the tops. Now she brandished her favorite new toy, a leather ball stuffed with wool and dyed a bright shade of red, entreating her grandfather to “play catch” with her.

Before Constance could intervene, Henry assured Aenor he’d like nothing better, and clasping her little hand in his, he suggested that he and Constance take a stroll in the gardens. This did not meet with the approval of her barons, who had been sticking closer to their duchess than her own shadow, but Henry had already started for the door, matching his pace to Aenor’s toddler’s steps, and Constance had no choice but to follow.

The day was overcast without even a hint of a breeze, for so far September had been as humid and sultry as August. With Constance’s spaniel leading the way, they crossed the castle bailey and entered the gardens, fragrant with the last flowering of summer blossoms. Constance settled upon a turf bench, watching with a stiff smile as her daughter and the English king tossed the ball back and forth. He showed surprising patience with the little girl, continuing to play until she lost interest and began to throw the ball for the spaniel. Only then did he return to Constance and drew her to her feet, saying that they could talk as they walked.

They circled the grassy mead in silence, for Constance was not able to feign pleasure in his company; she thought he should count himself lucky that she managed to be civil. Henry paused in the shade of a pear tree, for it afforded them a good view of Aenor, but was distant enough to allow them to speak privately.

“I have been dealing with the duchess,” he said, “but now I would talk with my daughter-in-law. You have never liked me, Constance, and in all honesty, you have not given me much reason to be fond of you either. But we share a common interest that matters more than our personal ill will.”

“Yes…the Duchy of Brittany.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “That, too. But I am speaking about your children, my grandchildren. Their future is inextricably entwined with that of the duchy, and I want to make sure that they do not suffer because of adult missteps or mistakes.”

“What mistakes do you have in mind?”

“For one, the decision Geoffrey and you made to ally yourselves with the French king.” Henry’s voice was even, his face impassive, as if he were speaking of mundane matters, not the rebellion of his son. “As a stratagem, it had much to recommend it, with one great flaw. It had hopes of success only if Geoffrey lived to carry it out. Without him, you were likely to find yourself at Philippe’s mercy, and that is indeed what happened.”

Constance said nothing, and after a moment he resumed. “Philippe has made his intentions very clear. He means to deprive you of both legal and physical custody of your children. He will send the girls off to live in the households of their future husbands, men he will handpick for them. I would expect him to keep Arthur in Paris, ruling on his behalf until he comes of age. For your duchy, that will be more than twenty years with Philippe’s hand firmly on the helm, twenty years in which to mold your son into a ruler who’d put the interests of France above those of Brittany. As for you, he’ll marry you off as quickly as possible to a man of his sole choosing, possibly even one of inferior rank since his primary concern will be the loyalty of your new husband, and you can expect to live out your days on a remote manor far from the Breton borders-”

Constance could stand no more, for he was giving voice to all the fears that had haunted her nights since Geoffrey’s death. “I know,” she said sharply. “I know full well what I would have to look forward to-the loss of my children and my duchy and a miserable marriage to one of Philippe’s lackeys. This is what always happens, is it not? What highborn widow gets the wardship of her own children? Even my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Brittany, sister to the Scots king. When her English husband died, the custody of their young son was not given to her. Why should I care whether my life is ruined by English or by French doing? What difference does it make to me?”

“Because it need not be that way. I do not want to take your children away from you-”

“And I am to believe that? Saint Henry, champion of widows and orphans! Say what you intend for me, for Brittany, but do not insult my intelligence, too. Why should I expect any more justice from you than I can from Philippe?”

“Because these are my grandchildren, of my blood. Can you truly doubt what family means to me? Surely I’ve proven it each time that I forgave my sons for betraying me yet again, as I would have forgiven Geoffrey for his conniving with the French king!”

He was no longer dispassionate, his voice rising, and Aenor stopped playing to look toward them in concern. “All is well, sweeting,” Constance said hastily, and they both mustered up reassuring smiles for her benefit. Turning back to Henry, she said quietly, “You say you do not want to take my children away. What does that mean exactly?”

“It means that they remain with you. I want what is best for them and…and I know it is what my son would have wanted. This is what I am proposing, Constance. You retain the custody of Arthur, Aenor, and Matilda.” The corner of his mouth curved in a hinted smile. “Arthur. Eleanor. How did you ever let Matilda slip in there? I’m surprised you did not call her Melisande since you seem to enjoy picking names sure to vex me.”

“Geoffrey wanted to name Matilda after his sister,” she said simply for she was not up to trading barbs with him, not now. “You say I can keep my children with me. And where would we all be? England?”

“Ruling Brittany from England would not make a great deal of sense.” He heard her swift intake of breath, and said, “I expect you to continue to govern Brittany on Arthur’s behalf. I also expect, of course, that you’ll be willing to be guided by my counsel when necessary.”

“And you would expect me to wed a man of your choosing.”

“Naturally. I do not think you will be disappointed with my choice, though, for he is very highborn, my cousin, in fact. He holds a rich earldom in England, but he also has vast estates in Brittany, so the match makes sense. Moreover, he is a fine lad, clever and courtly and ought to make a satisfactory husband, a kind stepfather.”

“You are talking about the Earl of Chester.” When he nodded, she blurted out, “But…he is just a boy, fifteen or sixteen!”

“He is seventeen. I intend to knight him at year’s end, so he will be eighteen or nigh on to it by the time of your marriage. I was thinking of a date sometime in February, ere the start of Lent, and I assume you would prefer that the ceremony be held in Brittany.” When she did not respond, he reached out and tilted her chin up so that their eyes met. “I understand that you might not be ready to wed again, lass. Unfortunately, it is too dangerous to let you remain unmarried for long. If you were to fall into Philippe’s hands, all our plans would be set at naught if he were able to marry you off to one of his ‘lackeys,’ as you so aptly put it.”

He released her then and stepped back. “I daresay you want to give it some thought. You’ll want to consult with your barons, too, of course.”

Not trusting her voice, she merely nodded, but he did not press her for more. She sank down upon the edge of the freestone fountain as he crossed to her daughter, bent over to whisper in the little girl’s ear. He then continued on along the pathway as Aenor came running toward her, with the dog yipping at her heels.

“Grandpapa said you wanted to give me a hug.”

Constance gathered the child into her arms, holding her so tightly that Aenor soon started to squirm, protesting, “I cannot breathe, Maman!”

“I am sorry, poppet.” Aenor stayed on her mother’s lap, turning so she could splash her fingers in the fountain, and Constance watched her play, smoothing back the child’s chestnut curls. When she whispered a name, though, Aenor looked up, her expression quizzical.

“Are you talking to Papa? I talk to him a lot, Maman.”

“I am glad you do, Aenor.” Constance smiled at her daughter, a smile that was edged in self-mockery. What was she going to do, ask for advice from a dead man? What did she expect Geoffrey to tell her? She already knew what she must do-what was best for her children and her duchy. The spaniel had begun to bark and she glanced up, saw Raoul de Fougeres and Andre de Vitre coming toward her. She took several deliberate breaths, then rose to her feet and went to meet them.

Henry had been shocked and alarmed when Richard departed Chateauroux in the company of the French king. But worse was to come. Reports soon came from Paris about the newfound friendship of the two men, reports of a growing intimacy that could only bode ill for the English Crown. Henry did his best to coax Richard away from the French court, and when his messengers went unanswered, he delayed his planned return to England. By now his spies were warning him that Philippe had persuaded Richard his inheritance was in peril, that his father planned to disinherit him in favor of John, claiming that a plan was afoot to marry Alys to John. Richard’s response was swift and characteristic. Leaving Paris, he rode for Chinon, where he seized the treasury and then withdrew into Poitou to fortify his castles. Henry eventually prevailed upon him to discuss their problems in person, and they held a tense meeting in Angers not long after Henry’s return from Brittany. He was able to convince his son that Philippe’s charges were untrue and Richard then did homage to him again. No one believed that a true and lasting reconciliation had been achieved, though, not even Henry.

But events were occurring in the Holy Land that were to have a profound effect upon the Angevin empire. In July, Guy de Lusignan had been lured into a disastrous battle against Saladin. The result was a catastrophic defeat for the Christian army. Guy was taken prisoner, over a thousand of his twelve hundred knights were either slain or captured, the knights of the military orders of the Templars and the Hospitallers were executed, and Saladin captured the most sacred of relics, the Holy Cross.

Word of the battle at the Horns of Hattin reached Europe by October. Pope Urban III died of a seizure upon hearing the news, and his successor at once urged another crusade to rescue the Holy Land and the city of Jerusalem. Richard learned of the defeat in early November. The next morning, he sought out the Archbishop of Tours and took the cross. Henry’s multitude of enemies commented that he seemed more distraught by his son’s action than he did by the news of Saladin’s victory.

William de Mandeville wrapped himself in a blanket and slid out of bed. Caen Castle was filled to overflowing with guests attending Henry’s Christmas Court, but Willem’s rank and friendship with the king guaranteed him one of the better accommodations, and the chamber was spacious, heated by a wall fireplace that was now burning low. Willem’s squires were stretched out on pallets close by the hearth, theirs the sound sleep of young men who’d downed more than their share of wine during the course of the evening. He hadn’t the heart to awaken them and foraged for himself until he found a flagon of wine and a loaf of manchet bread, hastening back to the bed with his windfall.

“Bless you,” his wife proclaimed, eagerly breaking off a chunk of the bread. “I ought not to be so hungry, for I ate a goodly amount of food at supper tonight, but I feel as if I’ve not had a decent meal in days.”

“I’m glad to be of service,” Willem said with a smile, for it amused him that Hawisa, who was as slender as a willow wand, had an appetite that would have put a burly quarryman to shame. “I am glad, too, that you are here for the Christmas Court.” That was not something he could take for granted, as Hawisa had a mind of her own and was not one to be summoned like other, more docile wives. He supposed it was to be expected that a great heiress was strong-willed, and because he was easygoing by nature, her assertiveness had rarely caused troubles in their marriage. All in all, he was very satisfied with the wife that Henry had given him, marveling that their eighth anniversary was not far off. “I am very glad that you’re here,” he repeated and handed her the wine cup.

She took a swallow and then gave him a wine-flavored kiss. “So…tell me all the gossip. Is the king still swiving that wench with the red hair? Is it true that young Chester is going to wed the Duchess of Brittany? What sort of devilment has John been up to in Caen? Have you heard how the French king’s baby is faring? They say he is as sickly and pitiful as a stray kitten, and I doubt that Philippe will get many more off that little queen of his; I heard that she almost bled to death expelling the afterbirth.”

She paused for another swallow of wine and another quick kiss. “And is it true that the king was in a tearing rage when he was told that Richard had taken the cross? I heard that he would not come out of his chamber for days, just like when Archbishop Thomas was slain!”

Willem chose to address her last query first, reaching over to steady her grip on the wine cup. “That is not so. The king was not happy about it-I’ll not deny that. And he did some brooding for a few days, but he was not so much angered as he was troubled. He was also vexed, of course, that Richard had done this without consulting him first.”

“If he thinks Richard will ever be as biddable as John, he is blinder than old Peter, my almoner. Some hawks are too wild to be tamed, can never be broken to the creance and jesses.” Hawisa devoted herself then to eating the bread but was soon ready to resume her interrogation of her husband. “I know you have a great fondness for the king, love, and I’ll not deny he has been right good to you. But I do not understand why he has so little interest in the Holy Land. Most men would be proud that their son had taken the cross as Richard did. As I recall, he was not happy when Hal took the cross, either, and he would not let John go back with the Patriarch of Jerusalem. Nor has he fulfilled his own vow to go on pilgrimage to atone for the archbishop’s death.”

This was their one serious bone of contention, that Hawisa did not see the king as Willem did. He did not want another argument on the subject, but he could not keep a defensive note from entering his voice. “Yes, Harry did vow to take the cross, but soon after, his sons and queen rebelled, and he could hardly leave, then, could he? And since then his kingdom has been in ferment thanks to those same sons. He has been extremely generous, though, with his financial support, has given the vast sum of thirty thousand silver marks for the defense of the Holy Land.”

“Yes, but you told me once that the money is being held by the Templars and Hospitallers, cannot be dispensed without the king’s consent. Is that not like giving a gift with the proviso that you can always change your mind and take it back?”

“Indeed it is not. The bulk of the money was to be spent when the king was able to travel himself to the Holy Land. In any event, Guy de Lusignan and his barons drew heavily upon the funds this year to increase their army in the face of Saladin’s growing threat.”

“And that was a great success,” Hawisa said caustically. “I daresay the king considers that money well spent.”

“I assume the rest of it is being used to defend Jerusalem, and Harry would never begrudge a penny of that,” Willem insisted. Seeing that his wife did not look convinced, he said, “You cannot blame the king for fearing for the safety of his sons in so dangerous a place as Outremer. And as it happens, I did ask him why he was not more concerned about the threat to the Holy Land.”

Hawisa’s eyes brightened with interest. “Did you now? And what did he say?”

“He gave me one of those looks of his, where he cannot believe anyone could ask so foolish a question. And then he said, ‘Of course I care about the fate of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. But I care more about the fate of the Kingdom of England.’”