Lionheart (11 page)

Alys had insisted upon putting a consoling arm around Constance’s shoulders, much to the latter’s discomfort. But at the mention of Winchester, Alys forgot about offering solace and looked at Constance in surprise. “Aenor is not at Winchester. She is in Normandy now. She traveled upon the queen’s own ship. Once we landed at Barfleur, the rest of us headed south toward Nonancourt to meet Richard whilst Aenor was sent to Rouen. You did not know?”

“Obviously not,” Constance snapped, her brain racing as she sought to process this new and startling bit of information. She was furious that no one had thought to inform her, but the mere fact that Aenor was no longer in England was surely a reason for rejoicing. At the least, visits would be much easier. Would Richard permit it, though? If she approached him in public, midst a hall filled with eyewitnesses, and asked for permission to see her daughter, how could he dare say no? He’d be shamed into agreeing. But she could not make the same mistake with him that she’d done with Eleanor. God help her, she must assume the role of a humble petitioner, swallow her pride even if she choked on it.

Alys had continued to talk, but Constance was so caught up in her own thoughts that she was no longer listening. It was only when she heard her mother’s name that she turned back to the other woman. “My mother?”

Alys nodded. “Yes, the Lady Margaret was permitted to visit Aenor at Winchester.” Doing her best to ease Constance’s worries, she said earnestly, “Aenor is being well treated, Constance, truly she is. At Winchester, she often played with the Lady Richenza’s little brother, and the queen made sure that well-bred palfreys were provided for her escort. She was sent off to Rouen in fine style, as befitting a child of her high birth.”

Constance had never doubted that Aenor would be comfortably housed or given solicitous servants, so she was not appeased to hear it confirmed. It was some comfort, though, that her mother had spent time with Aenor. Margaret had wed an English baron after the death of Constance’s father, and Constance had hoped she’d be able to keep an eye upon Aenor. Alys had a pleasant voice, but it was grating now on Constance’s nerves, for she needed time alone to marshal her thoughts and plan how best to approach Richard. She paid the other woman no heed until Alys said something so startling that she whipped her head around to stare at the French princess. “What did you say?”

By now they were both on their feet, brushing off their skirts. “I said that I can be of little assistance to you now, Constance. But once I am queen, I promise that I will do all in my power to have Aenor returned to you.”

Constance was dumbfounded. Did Alys truly believe that Richard was going to marry her? If so, she was more naïve than a novice nun and more forgiving than the Blessed Mother Mary. If she’d been treated as shabbily as Alys, Constance would have prayed every day for the demise of her tormentor. Where was Alys’s indignation, her spine?

But as she gazed into the other woman’s face, Constance was struck by Alys’s wide-eyed, girlish mien. Alys was the elder of the two by six months, would be thirty come October. At that age, she ought to have been in charge of her own household, presiding over her highborn husband’s domains in his absence, a mother and wife, mayhap even a queen. Instead, she’d spent these formative years in pampered, secluded confinement, with no duties or responsibilities, denied the chance to mature, denied her womanhood. And Constance suddenly understood why Alys had been so eager to claim a friendship that had existed only in her own imagination, why—despite all evidence to the contrary—she still clung to the romantic belief that she would marry the man to whom she’d been betrothed since the age of nine. Looked upon in that light, it was not even surprising. Who would expect a tame bird to fend for itself if it were set free after a lifetime of gilded captivity?

With this realization, Constance found herself faced with an uncomfortable dilemma. Should she be the one to shatter Alys’s illusions? Constance had little patience with fools, yet there was no cruelty in her nature. To tell Alys the truth was akin to pulling the wings off a butterfly. But someone had to tell her. Surely it would be less painful coming here and now. The alternative would be to hear it from Richard himself, and Constance did not trust him to be tactful as he trampled Alys’s dreams underfoot.

“Alys . . . there is something you must know, and better you hear it from me than from Richard. He has no intention of marrying you.”

Color flamed into Alys’s face and then ebbed, leaving her white and shaken. “That is not true! It was his father who kept delaying our marriage, not Richard.”

“Alys, you need to face the truth. Richard has been king for over six months. If he’d wanted to marry you, it would have happened by now. He has never had any interest in making you his wife, at first because your marriage portion was so meager and then because he no longer trusts your brother, the French king. None of this is your doing but you must—”

“No!” Alys shook her head vehemently, began to back away. “You have not changed at all, Constance, you are still as sharp-tongued and jealous as you always were!”

Constance blinked. “Jealous?”

“Yes, jealous! Joanna and I were raised to be queens, but you had to settle for less and you still resent me for it.”

Constance experienced the righteous resentment of a Good Samaritan not only rebuffed but accused of unworthy motives. She started to defend herself, but Alys had whirled and was halfway up the nave, making her escape in a swirl of silken skirts. Constance made no attempt to call her back. She’d done what she could. It was now up to Alys. She could accept the truth or continue to dwell in her fantasy world. Suddenly Constance felt very tired. Watching Alys retreat, she faced a bitter truth of her own—that she’d rather have been Geoffrey’s duchess than the queen of any kingdom under God’s sky.

CHAPTER 5

MARCH 1190

Nonancourt Castle, Normandy

In order to have a private conversation without fear of eavesdroppers, Eleanor had retreated to her bedchamber with her son. After dismissing her attendants, Richard joked that they ought to plug the keyhole with candle wax to thwart any French spies. Taking the wine cup he was holding out, Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Is your news as incendiary as that?”

Richard had seated himself by the fire, stretching long legs toward its welcome warmth—for spring came later to Normandy than it did to their beloved Aquitaine—and regarded her enigmatically over the rim of his wine cup. “Let’s just say it is news that Philippe would pay dearly to have, news I do not intend to share with him when we meet at Dreux on Friday.”

“May I hope that you do intend to share it with me . . . eventually?” But Eleanor’s impatience was feigned, for she was accustomed to this sort of teasing. Henry had been a master of suspense, too. It struck her how alike her husband and son were, doubtless one of the main reasons why they’d so often been at odds.

“You know I was in Aquitaine last month. I spent several days in Gascony at La Réole, and during that time I had a very private meeting with trusted agents of the King of Navarre.”

“Did you now?” Eleanor sat back in her chair, a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. They’d talked about this before, the possibility of a marital alliance with the Navarrese king, and were in agreement as to its potential. “I know you’ve raised the matter with Sancho in the past. I take it he is still interested.”

“Why would he not be? We still do have some issues to agree upon. So when I’m back in the south later this spring, I will meet again with his envoys, mayhap his son. What do they say about marriage contracts, Maman—that the Devil is in the details? But I am confident that we have an understanding, for it will be a good deal for both sides. I gain a valuable alliance, and God knows I’ll need a reliable ally to safeguard my southern borders from that whoreson in Toulouse. It is not by chance that Count Raimon is the only lord of note who has not taken the cross. He thinks this will be a rare opportunity to wreak havoc whilst I am occupied in the Holy Land. I’d wager he is already laying plans to invade Quercy even as we speak. But between Sancho and Alfonso,” he said, referring to the King of Aragon, a friend since boyhood, “I think they can keep him in check until I return.”

“Yes, it would be an advantageous match,” Eleanor agreed. Neither bothered to mention what Navarre was gaining from it, for that was obvious. Sancho’s daughter would become Queen of England, a lofty elevation for a young woman from a small Spanish kingdom. Sipping her wine contentedly, she studied her son, thinking he was taking pleasure, too, in outwitting the French king, for their friendship had been one of expediency, and once Henry had been defeated, the erstwhile allies were soon regarding each other with suspicion and hostility.

“Does . . .” She paused, prodding her memory to recall the girl’s name. “Does Berengaria speak French? The native tongue of Navarre is Romance, is it not?”

“When I visited her father’s court six years ago, her grasp of French was somewhat tenuous, but Sancho assured me that she has studied it diligently since then.” Richard’s smile was complacent. “The chance of a crown proved to be a powerful inducement. And she knows our
lenga romana
quite well, for it is spoken in many parts of Navarre.” He was pleased by that, for like Eleanor, he was fluent in both French and the language of Aquitaine. “I write most of my poetry in
lenga romana
and I’d prefer not to have to translate it for her.”

Eleanor was pleased, too, that Berengaria spoke the
lenga romana,
for that indicated she was well educated and familiar with the troubadour culture of the south. While compatibility was not a consideration in royal marriages, it did make marital harmony more likely, and Eleanor, like any mother, wanted her son to be content with the bride he chose. “When we’ve discussed this in the past, Richard, we spoke of political concerns, not personal ones. But after the marriage contract has been signed and the vows said, you’ll be sharing your life with a flesh-and-blood woman. What are you seeking in a wife?”

“Fertility,” he quipped, but then, seeing that she really wanted to know, he paused to give it some thought. “I’d want her to be sensible, not flighty or needy. Not overly pious, for no man wants to bed a nun. What else? A queen must be educated and worldly, of course . . .”

He almost added “loyal” but caught himself in time, for his mother’s loyalty to his father had been neither unconditional nor enduring. In his eyes, she could do no wrong. But he preferred a more conventional wife for himself, just as he did not want the tempest that had been his parents’ marriage. Civility seemed a much safer foundation for a royal union than wanton lust or love that burned so fiercely it became indistinguishable from hatred.

Almost as if she’d read his mind, Eleanor startled him by saying dryly, “The best marriages are based upon benign indifference or detached goodwill. That was the advice Harry’s father gave him ere we wed. Looking back, I suspect he may have been right.” She knew she would not have given up the passion, though, for she had not been born for safe harbors. “It sounds as if you have a realistic grasp of matrimony, Richard, which bodes well for you and your bride, and you seem satisfied with the girl herself. But I can only marvel at your powers of persuasion, even with a crown in the offing. Not many fathers would agree to wed a daughter to a man already betrothed to another woman for more than twenty years. How did you get Sancho to overlook your plight-troth to Philippe’s sister?”

“Sancho knows that marriage will never take place.”

“But does Philippe?”

“Well, not yet,” he conceded. “I cannot very well renounce the betrothal now, for Philippe would seize upon that as an excuse to forswear his holy vow. He never wanted to take the cross, was shamed into doing so by the Archbishop of Tyre’s fiery public sermon. And if Philippe does not go to Outremer, I dare not go myself.” Richard’s mouth twisted, as if the French king’s very name tasted foul. “As soon as I was gone, he’d overrun Normandy, making war upon my subjects instead of the Saracens, damn his craven soul to Hell.”

“I am not arguing with you, Richard. I can see the logic in waiting until Philippe has committed himself too fully to back out. But whether you reject Alys now or when you reach the Holy Land, Philippe is going to take it very badly. Not that he cares a whit for Alys herself. He cares a great deal, though, about his pride, and he will try to hold you to the betrothal, claiming that you have no legal grounds for breaking it.”

“Ah, but that is the beauty of it, Maman,” Richard said, his eyes gleaming.

“Philippe has given me the grounds. Two years ago, when he was desperate to turn me against my father, he sent the Count of Flanders to me with a story likely to do that. You remember the meeting we had at Bonsmoulins?”

“All too well.” It was then that Richard had given Henry one last chance to acknowledge him publicly as his heir. When Henry balked, he’d unwittingly confirmed Richard’s darkest suspicions—that he meant to crown John—and Richard had reacted with a dramatic renunciation, kneeling and doing homage to Philippe for Aquitaine and Normandy and his “other fiefs on this side of the sea.” Henry had been stunned, and when she heard, Eleanor had wept, knowing there would be no going back. The bitter struggle between father and son could end only in defeat or death for one of them.

“Well, ere we met him at Bonsmoulins, I had a secret conclave with Philippe at Mantes. Philippe had been claiming for some time that I was in danger of being disinherited. But to make sure I had grievances enough to hold firm, he sent the Count of Flanders to me with a rather remarkable tale—that my father was swiving my betrothed.”

“Jesu!” But once the shock ebbed, she shook her head emphatically. “I do not believe that. Harry had his flaws. God alone knows how many women he bedded over the years. He was accused of any number of sins, some true, some not. But no one ever called him a fool, and seducing his son’s betrothed, the sister of the King of France, no less, would have been more than foolhardy. It would have been utter madness.”

Richard grinned, for his mother had unknowingly used almost exactly the same words to refute the accusation as his chancellor, Guillaume Longchamp, had once done. “I know,” he said. “I never gave it any credence, either. Philippe’s weakness is that he tends to hold his foes too cheaply. I suppose he thought I’d be so outraged that I’d not see the great gaps in the story.”

“Well, many men would have reacted like that. But not anyone who knew Harry. He would never have jeopardized so much for so little.”

Richard was amused that they were defending Henry on grounds of pragmatism, not morality. He doubted that a priest would approve of such a cynical argument, but it rang more true to him than any claims of virtue. “So you see,” he said, “Philippe has given me the key to unlock the chains binding me to Alys. I will be appalled that he’d expect me to wed a woman who’d lain with my father, truly appalled.”

Eleanor began to laugh, for what could be more satisfying than turning an enemy’s own weapon against him? Neither she nor Richard gave much thought to Alys, the innocent pawn, for when kingdoms were at stake, it was easy to justify almost any action in the name of a greater good.

Rising, Richard held out his hand. “I just wish you could be there to see Philippe’s face when I tell him, Maman. Now I want you to accompany me to the castle solar. I have made some changes in my plans to safeguard the governance of my realm whilst I am away, will reveal them at the great council meeting tomorrow. Since not all will be pleased, I thought it only fair to warn several of them beforehand, giving them time to come to terms with these changes. They are awaiting me now in the solar.”

Eleanor rose and took his arm, gratified that he always included her in matters of state, that he truly valued her opinions and her political instincts. She wondered occasionally if things might have been different had her husband only showed her the same trust and respect that her son did. But she also knew that the intimate bond she had with Richard was what Henry had desperately wanted, too, not understanding why the sons he’d so loved had become his enemies—and that was a regret she’d take to her grave, her awareness of the part she’d played in their family’s tragic disintegration. As they moved toward the door, she asked whom they’d be meeting and stopped in her tracks when Richard told her.

“Is that a jest? You’ve put your brothers and the Bishop of Durham and Longchamp together in one chamber and left them alone? Good Lord, Richard, you’d be hard pressed to find four men who loathe one another more than that lot does! Geoff will never forgive John for abandoning Harry as he lay dying, and John cannot abide him, either. Durham was adamantly opposed to Geoff’s elevation to the archbishopric of York, and they all despise your chancellor. We’re likely to find the solar knee-deep in blood.”

“I know. It will be even better than a bearbaiting.”

She eyed him dubiously, thinking that she’d never fully understand the male sense of humor. “But who is the bear and who are the hounds?”

“We’ll soon find out,” he said and opened the door.

GEOFFREY FITZ ROY considered himself blessed to have been the son of Henry Fitz Empress. He’d not been so lucky in the circumstances of his birth, for his mother had been one of Henry’s passing fancies, and even a royal bastard began life at a distinct disadvantage. Henry had been determined that Geoff would not suffer from the stigma of illegitimacy, though, and had sought a career in the Church for his eldest son, ignoring the obvious—that Geoff was utterly unsuited for the priesthood. He’d named Geoff to the bishopric of Lincoln when he was only twenty-one, much to Geoff’s dismay. Because he was under the canonical age for such an elevated post, Geoff had persuaded Henry to delay his ordination and years later, when the Pope demanded that he either accept consecration or resign, Geoff had chosen the latter, for he was much more at home on the battlefield than at the altar. He’d become his father’s chancellor then, fiercely loyal to Henry and bitterly resentful of the half-brothers who’d caused his sire so much grief.

But Henry had expressed a deathbed hope that Geoff be given the archbishopric of York, and Richard declared that he would carry out his father’s wishes. Knowing the ill will between Richard and Geoff, many people had been surprised, speculating that Richard must be feeling guilty for having gone to war against his father. Geoff was highly skeptical of that theory, convinced that none of his half-brothers were capable of remorse or regret. He was sure that Richard had forced him to take a priest’s vows because that would bar him from laying any claims to the English crown. While he did not doubt that he’d have made a good king, a better one than any of his faithless brothers, he’d known it would never come to pass. It was true that William the Bastard had claimed his father’s duchy of Normandy and then used it to launch a successful invasion of England. But that was well over a hundred years ago, and the Holy Church would no longer sanction the coronation of one born out of wedlock. Some churchmen did not think a bastard ought to be a bishop, either, and Geoff was one of them, for all the good it did him.