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
