“They were like a swarm of God-cursed locusts!” she fumed. “They stripped the hall and bedchambers bare, stole our grey fur coverlet that had been a wedding gift from the Bishop of Rennes, even looted several pounds of wax. I’m surprised they did not steal the grease used for cartwheel axles.”
Her butler murmured his agreement, and the clerk scribbled hastily to keep up with her torrent of words. Her ladies, Juvette and Blanche, exchanged knowing looks, for they understood that her foul mood was not explained entirely by the sorry state of the castle. Duke Geoffrey had returned to the war after recovering Rennes and staging punitive raids into Roland de Dinan’s lands at Becherel, and Constance had hoped that he’d left her with child. This morning she’d found out it was not so, much to her disappointment.
The butler now led the way toward the buttery, where Constance knew their greatest losses lay. Any of the tuns of wine not drained dry by de Dinan’s men would have been carried off when he’d retreated, leaving a garrison behind to guard his prize. She’d heard that they had not put up much resistance when Geoffrey had besieged the castle, loath to fight against their duke. Constance could take some solace from that, yet more proof of Geoffrey’s acceptance by her Breton lords. He’d managed to overcome a huge liability—that he was the English king’s son—with uncanny ease. Of course she knew his campaign to win them over had begun well before their marriage; he’d laid the groundwork during those years when he was acting as his father’s deputy in Brittany, forging bonds with men like Raoul de Fougères and Reginald de Boterel that would stand him in good stead once he no longer relied upon Henry for his standing in Brittany.
Constance still marveled at the vast difference between the reality of her marriage and her bleak expectations. She would have scoffed at the romantic idea of soul mates. Nevertheless, they had reached a remarkable understanding with surprising speed, discovering that they shared the same aspirations and ambitions, the same innate skepticism and gambler’s instincts, with, as an added bonus, the pleasure they found in their marriage bed. They’d be wed two years in August, with only one serious quarrel in all that time. Geoffrey had been furious to learn that she had countermanded him and returned to Brittany instead of seeking safety at the French court. Constance had been forced to apologize, which did not come easily to her, but Geoffrey had right on his side—she had indeed been put at risk by the seizure of the ducal castle, and she’d had to concede that her capture would have been disastrous.
The buttery was a total loss; they’d even taken the keg of verjuice. “I hope my lord husband burned de Dinan’s manor to the ground,” she said angrily. “If it were up to me, I’d have sown salt into his fields, the Judas.”
Her butler thought that was not entirely fair to Roland de Dinan, who’d been given the stark choice of offending his patron, the English king, or his duke and duchess. He was not crazed enough to offer a defense of the disgraced baron, though, and sought to console Constance by revealing that some of the wine had no longer been drinkable; wine rarely remained potable for more than a year, for if it was exposed to the air, it developed an acid, unpleasant taste.
That did cheer Constance somewhat; she hoped that the marauders had ended up as sick as dogs. She was turning to check the details on her scribe’s tablet when Juvette rushed into the buttery. “Madame! The lord duke has just ridden into the bailey!”
Constance froze. Geoffrey’s unexpected return could only mean something had gone very wrong. Had he gotten word of a coming attack upon Brittany? “He is not injured?”
“Oh, no, Madame. I could see no signs that he’s been wounded. But…he and his men look very grim. I fear he brings bad news.”
So did Constance. Normally she would have hastened out to greet him, but she decided now that a private reunion might be better and she said abruptly, “Leave me, all of you. Tell the duke that I await him in the buttery.”
It seemed like forever to her before Geoffrey came through the doorway. Even in such subdued lighting, she could see that he was bone-white, the skin tightly drawn around his eyes, his mouth set in a thin, taut line. He closed the door, then leaned back against it. “Hal is dead.”
“Dear God!” Constance’s shock held her motionless for a moment and then she moved swiftly toward him. “How? Surely not even Richard would dare to kill a king!”
“It was not Richard’s doing. He…he died at Martel of the bloody flux.” Geoffrey sounded numb and she could easily understand why, for when they’d attempted to envision all the possible drawbacks to this war, it had never occurred to either of them that Hal might die. He was twenty-eight, in excellent health, and shielded from the ordinary dangers of the battlefield by his highborn status. Who could have imagined he’d be struck down by an infection of the bowels?
“Was he shriven ere he died?”
“Yes, thank God for that mercy. He made a very good end, for certes a dramatic one.” Geoffrey meant to sound sardonic, sounded sad, instead. They’d never been very close, and his boyhood admiration for the dashing elder brother had faded once he’d begun to assess Hal with adult eyes. But he’d discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that he mourned Hal both as a brother and as an ally. “If I had not agreed to join him, he might still be alive. His war was made possible by Breton money—”
“No, Geoffrey! You did not coax Hal into rebellion. I’ll not let you blame yourself. In his entire life, Hal never did anything that he did not want to do. Even if we had stayed out of it, it would have changed nothing. Aimar and the other barons were set upon rebellion and Hal…well, he could resist anything but temptation. He would still have—” She got no further, for Geoffrey kissed her.
“Thank you for that, darling.”
“For what?” she asked, puzzled but pleased.
“For your use of pronouns.” Seeing her lack of comprehension, he kissed her again. “For saying ‘we.’ I thought you might blame me for this, for entangling Brittany in a war we can no longer win.”
“We made the decision together, Geoffrey. If we lose, we’ll do that together, too.”
Geoffrey was touched by this display of loyalty. He and Constance were still learning about each other, and he had not been sure how she’d react. He had no qualms about lying if it furthered his own interests. He did not want to lie to Constance, though, and he needed to be sure she understood what they were facing. “Fortune’s Wheel has spun with a vengeance, Constance. It is not just that the rebellion is lost and we have no choice but to submit to my father and hope he is in a forgiving mood. It is—”
She reached up, stopped his words by putting her fingers to his lips. “I am not a child, Geoffrey. I understand what Hal’s death means for England and for Brittany. But whatever comes, we will deal with it. What other choice do we have?”
He slid his arm around her waist, drew her in against him. “Have I ever told you,” he murmured, “that I consider myself a lucky man?”
She was dismayed to find herself blinking back tears, and she turned her face into his shoulder so he’d not see, saying briskly, “Of course you are lucky. You are the Duke of Brittany, after all.”
After a few moments, he said, “I want to found a chaplaincy in Hal’s memory,” and she agreed that would be a good thing to do. By mutual consent, they did not speak of the future and what it held for them—when they’d be accountable, not to an indulgent father, but to a soldier king who bore them a deadly grudge.
A
GACE LOOKED UP
as the door opened and Judith entered. Crossing the chamber, she murmured a few words in the older woman’s ear. Agace got stiffly to her feet and approached the bed. “My lamb?” There was no response. Bending over, she gently stroked the tumbled fair hair spilling over the pillow. “Your lord brother is here again, asking to see you. Do you feel up to it?”
Marguerite shook her head.
“Are you sure, dearest?”
Marguerite kept her eyes tightly shut, but her lips moved and Agace leaned closer to catch the whispered words. “I do not want to see him…”
Agace and Judith exchanged troubled glances. Their young queen could not hide forever from the world. Eventually she would have to pick up the shattered pieces of her life and accept her loss. But if she needed more time, Agace was going to see that she got it. “Rest now, my lamb. I will send him away,” she promised, and left Judith to watch over their mistress while she was gone. Judith sat down in the chair Agace had vacated, grateful that she would not be the one to deal with the French king. Philippe had always treated her with courtesy. He made her uneasy, though, for reasons she could not have articulated, and she understood why Marguerite did not turn to him for comfort. Her lady had a loving heart and a generous nature, whereas there was something bloodless and sly about her brother.
A
GACE DID NOT LIKE
Philippe any more than Judith did, and as she looked into his pale blue eyes, so oddly ageless in such a young face, she felt a throb of despair, knowing that Marguerite’s fate was now in his hands. Hers had been a long and eventful life, though, and she knew better than to antagonize a king, especially this one. Greeting him with exaggerated deference, she told him regretfully that the queen had finally fallen asleep after yet another wakeful, wretched night. As she’d hoped, Philippe quickly told her not to disturb Marguerite, just to tell her of his visit.
Philippe was grateful for the reprieve. A sense of duty compelled him to check on his sister, but he did not know how to comfort her and their few encounters since learning of Hal’s death had been awkward and uncomfortable. What was he supposed to say to a woman who’d done little but weep all week long?
After returning to the great hall, he was too restless to stay and strode out into the royal gardens at the west end of the island. If the Île was the heart of Paris, home to both his palace and the great cathedral of Notre Dame, the Seine was its main artery, and even at dusk, the quays were still busy, ships from Rouen unloading below the Grand Pont and those coming downriver docking at the Grève, formerly the site of the weekly Paris market but now where local vintners sold their wares.
This change was Philippe’s doing, for he had established a new market at a more convenient location and erected two large sheds so merchants could do their haggling indoors. While he’d denied Parisians the right to form a commune, he did have a keen interest in civic improvements, and ambitious plans that went far beyond the indoor market at Les Halles; he hoped in time to build a defensive wall around the city and to pave the main streets. He did not have the funds for such projects yet, but Philippe believed in long-range planning and he was willing to wait for what he wanted.
Resting his elbows upon the stone garden wall, Philippe looked out upon his city as it was gradually cloaked in the soft shades of a summer eve. He was trying to be patient with Marguerite, but he feared that, if left to her own devices, she’d do nothing but weep and wallow in her grief. He wished there was some sensible female he could consult. But his mother had never shown any sympathy for the daughters of Louis’s earlier marriages, his own queen was a child of thirteen, and Marguerite’s mother was long dead, her sister Alys in England. He sighed, thinking that sisters were more trouble than they were worth.
His half sisters Alix and Marie were strangers, and Marie had openly allied herself with the Count of Flanders against him. There was his full sister, Agnes, a child bride caught up in a bloody coup in Constantinople, her fate uncertain.
And then there was the vexing problem that was his half sister Alys. She had been betrothed to Richard for fourteen years, and Philippe was offended that the wedding had not yet taken place. Henry kept offering excuses, but nothing changed—except that Alys got older. She was already twenty-two, for pity’s sake! Philippe knew Richard had never been keen to marry Alys, and he couldn’t really blame him since she had no marriage portion. He suspected that Henry and Richard were in collusion, looking elsewhere for a more profitable marital alliance while keeping Alys off the marriage market, thus preventing him from making any advantageous alliances by wedding Alys to someone else. It had been irksome, and was unfair to Alys, but Philippe had not seen it as a priority problem, for he’d assumed that Hal would become king sooner than later. From Philippe’s vantage point, Henry’s fifty years was a vast age, indeed; how much longer could he live? And once Hal was king, he’d have ordered Richard to marry Alys, whether he liked it or not.
Philippe’s thoughts had come full circle, for he was back to Marguerite and the inopportune death of his brother-in-law. Hal’s loss was a great blow to Philippe, for he’d predicated his plans upon having an amiable, pleasure-loving prince on the English throne. Instead, he’d have to deal with Richard, who was as unlike Hal as any two men could be. How could he be so unlucky?
Well, one step at a time. The immediate concern was recovering Marguerite’s marriage portion from the English king. Sure that Henry would sooner cut off his arm than return the Vexin, Philippe frowned thoughtfully. If Henry held on to the Vexin, that would make Philippe the laughingstock of Christendom, the boy-king who was no match for the wily veteran on the English throne. An idea was glimmering in the back of his brain and he waited for it to come into focus. What if he could make it worth Richard’s while to marry Alys? Suppose he offered the Vexin as Alys’s dowry? That would save face, and would also give him leverage, for he could make the agreement contingent upon the marriage. And who knows, it might even stir up discord between Henry and Richard.
The wind had picked up and thunder echoed in the distance. Philippe considered it prudent to seek shelter, and he signaled to his waiting bodyguards. He must give this idea more thought, but it seemed promising. And as he exited the garden, he smiled, thinking that if he could marry Alys off to Richard, he could then concentrate upon finding a new husband for Marguerite. She was still of child-bearing age, with a pretty face and a docile nature, a queen with the blood of French kings in her veins. There’d be no shortage of princes interested in such a bargain bride.