“The last Lateran Council reiterated the ban just five years ago.”
“I’d forgotten that,” he said, surprising her again, for Philippe had a memory to rival the English king’s. “It is of no matter. None will protest, and if they do, they’ll regret it.”
“Thank you, my lord brother.” Marie rose with another perfunctory curtsy. “Shall I take you to the abbot now?”
Philippe did not appear to have heard her. He was staring into space, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his boot, his head lowered so she could no longer see his face. “What a waste,” he said thickly. “What a bloody waste…”
Geoffrey died on August 21, just a month from his twenty-eighth birthday. He was buried with great honors before the high altar in the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, with all the French court in attendance. Philippe grieved openly, and he and Marie each founded two chantries to pray for Geoffrey’s soul.
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.
