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.
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
