Geoffrey’s death. “I know,” she said sharply. “I know full well what I would have to look forward to-the loss of my children and my duchy and a miserable marriage to one of Philippe’s lackeys. This is what always happens, is it not? What highborn widow gets the wardship of her own children? Even my mother, the Dowager Duchess of Brittany, sister to the Scots king. When her English husband died, the custody of their young son was not given to her. Why should I care whether my life is ruined by English or by French doing? What difference does it make to me?”
“Because it need not be that way. I do not want to take your children away from you-”
“And I am to believe that? Saint Henry, champion of widows and orphans! Say what you intend for me, for Brittany, but do not insult my intelligence, too. Why should I expect any more justice from you than I can from Philippe?”
“Because these are my grandchildren, of my blood. Can you truly doubt what family means to me? Surely I’ve proven it each time that I forgave my sons for betraying me yet again, as I would have forgiven Geoffrey for his conniving with the French king!”
He was no longer dispassionate, his voice rising, and Aenor stopped playing to look toward them in concern. “All is well, sweeting,” Constance said hastily, and they both mustered up reassuring smiles for her benefit. Turning back to Henry, she said quietly, “You say you do not want to take my children away. What does that mean exactly?”
“It means that they remain with you. I want what is best for them and…and I know it is what my son would have wanted. This is what I am proposing, Constance. You retain the custody of Arthur, Aenor, and Matilda.” The corner of his mouth curved in a hinted smile. “Arthur. Eleanor. How did you ever let Matilda slip in there? I’m surprised you did not call her Melisande since you seem to enjoy picking names sure to vex me.”
“Geoffrey wanted to name Matilda after his sister,” she said simply for she was not up to trading barbs with him, not now. “You say I can keep my children with me. And where would we all be? England?”
“Ruling Brittany from England would not make a great deal of sense.” He heard her swift intake of breath, and said, “I expect you to continue to govern Brittany on Arthur’s behalf. I also expect, of course, that you’ll be willing to be guided by my counsel when necessary.”
“And you would expect me to wed a man of your choosing.”
“Naturally. I do not think you will be disappointed with my choice, though, for he is very highborn, my cousin, in fact. He holds a rich earldom in England, but he also has vast estates in Brittany, so the match makes sense. Moreover, he is a fine lad, clever and courtly and ought to make a satisfactory husband, a kind stepfather.”
“You are talking about the Earl of Chester.” When he nodded, she blurted out, “But…he is just a boy, fifteen or sixteen!”
“He is seventeen. I intend to knight him at year’s end, so he will be eighteen or nigh on to it by the time of your marriage. I was thinking of a date sometime in February, ere the start of Lent, and I assume you would prefer that the ceremony be held in Brittany.” When she did not respond, he reached out and tilted her chin up so that their eyes met. “I understand that you might not be ready to wed again, lass. Unfortunately, it is too dangerous to let you remain unmarried for long. If you were to fall into Philippe’s hands, all our plans would be set at naught if he were able to marry you off to one of his ‘lackeys,’ as you so aptly put it.”
He released her then and stepped back. “I daresay you want to give it some thought. You’ll want to consult with your barons, too, of course.”
Not trusting her voice, she merely nodded, but he did not press her for more. She sank down upon the edge of the freestone fountain as he crossed to her daughter, bent over to whisper in the little girl’s ear. He then continued on along the pathway as Aenor came running toward her, with the dog yipping at her heels.
“Grandpapa said you wanted to give me a hug.”
Constance gathered the child into her arms, holding her so tightly that Aenor soon started to squirm, protesting, “I cannot breathe, Maman!”
“I am sorry, poppet.” Aenor stayed on her mother’s lap, turning so she could splash her fingers in the fountain, and Constance watched her play, smoothing back the child’s chestnut curls. When she whispered a name, though, Aenor looked up, her expression quizzical.
“Are you talking to Papa? I talk to him a lot, Maman.”
“I am glad you do, Aenor.” Constance smiled at her daughter, a smile that was edged in self-mockery. What was she going to do, ask for advice from a dead man? What did she expect Geoffrey to tell her? She already knew what she must do-what was best for her children and her duchy. The spaniel had begun to bark and she glanced up, saw Raoul de Fougeres and Andre de Vitre coming toward her. She took several deliberate breaths, then rose to her feet and went to meet them.
Henry had been shocked and alarmed when Richard departed Chateauroux in the company of the French king. But worse was to come. Reports soon came from Paris about the newfound friendship of the two men, reports of a growing intimacy that could only bode ill for the English Crown. Henry did his best to coax Richard away from the French court, and when his messengers went unanswered, he delayed his planned return to England. By now his spies were warning him that Philippe had persuaded Richard his inheritance was in peril, that his father planned to disinherit him in favor of John, claiming that a plan was afoot to marry Alys to John. Richard’s response was swift and characteristic. Leaving Paris, he rode for Chinon, where he seized the treasury and then withdrew into Poitou to fortify his castles. Henry eventually prevailed upon him to discuss their problems in person, and they held a tense meeting in Angers not long after Henry’s return from Brittany. He was able to convince his son that Philippe’s charges were untrue and Richard then did homage to him again. No one believed that a true and lasting reconciliation had been achieved, though, not even Henry.
But events were occurring in the Holy Land that were to have a profound effect upon the Angevin empire. In July, Guy de Lusignan had been lured into a disastrous battle against Saladin. The result was a catastrophic defeat for the Christian army. Guy was taken prisoner, over a thousand of his twelve hundred knights were either slain or captured, the knights of the military orders of the Templars and the Hospitallers were executed, and Saladin captured the most sacred of relics, the Holy Cross.
Word of the battle at the Horns of Hattin reached Europe by October. Pope Urban III died of a seizure upon hearing the news, and his successor at once urged another crusade to rescue the Holy Land and the city of Jerusalem. Richard learned of the defeat in early November. The next morning, he sought out the Archbishop of Tours and took the cross. Henry’s multitude of enemies commented that he seemed more distraught by his son’s action than he did by the news of Saladin’s victory.
William de Mandeville wrapped himself in a blanket and slid out of bed. Caen Castle was filled to overflowing with guests attending Henry’s Christmas Court, but Willem’s rank and friendship with the king guaranteed him one of the better accommodations, and the chamber was spacious, heated by a wall fireplace that was now burning low. Willem’s squires were stretched out on pallets close by the hearth, theirs the sound sleep of young men who’d downed more than their share of wine during the course of the evening. He hadn’t the heart to awaken them and foraged for himself until he found a flagon of wine and a loaf of manchet bread, hastening back to the bed with his windfall.
“Bless you,” his wife proclaimed, eagerly breaking off a chunk of the bread. “I ought not to be so hungry, for I ate a goodly amount of food at supper tonight, but I feel as if I’ve not had a decent meal in days.”
“I’m glad to be of service,” Willem said with a smile, for it amused him that Hawisa, who was as slender as a willow wand, had an appetite that would have put a burly quarryman to shame. “I am glad, too, that you are here for the Christmas Court.” That was not something he could take for granted, as Hawisa had a mind of her own and was not one to be summoned like other, more docile wives. He supposed it was to be expected that a great heiress was strong-willed, and because he was easygoing by nature, her assertiveness had rarely caused troubles in their marriage. All in all, he was very satisfied with the wife that Henry had given him, marveling that their eighth anniversary was not far off. “I am very glad that you’re here,” he repeated and handed her the wine cup.
She took a swallow and then gave him a wine-flavored kiss. “So…tell me all the gossip. Is the king still swiving that wench with the red hair? Is it true that young Chester is going to wed the Duchess of Brittany? What sort of devilment has John been up to in Caen? Have you heard how the French king’s baby is faring? They say he is as sickly and pitiful as a stray kitten, and I doubt that Philippe will get many more off that little queen of his; I heard that she almost bled to death expelling the afterbirth.”
She paused for another swallow of wine and another quick kiss. “And is it true that the king was in a tearing
