“Your deal was with Henry, not Richard. Does it truly surprise you that Richard regards you with suspicion? How many times did you ally yourself with his enemies? How many times did Geoffrey lead a Breton army into Aquitaine?”
“I’ve sought only to protect Brittany, to safeguard my duchy. I would think that you of all women would understand that, for Aquitaine has been the lodestar of your life. You even sacrificed your marriage for it. So how can you judge me?”
“I am not judging you for your devotion to your duchy,” Eleanor said icily. “I am faulting you for your inability to learn from your mistakes. You have never made a secret of your antipathy—”
“Are you saying I had no reason for resentment? Have you forgotten that Henry forced my father to abdicate and sent him into exile? I was five years old when I was torn from the only home I’d ever known and betrothed to his son. Yes, I bore him a grudge. I was not a saint.”
“Or a good wife to my son!”
Constance gasped, for she’d not seen that coming. “I do not know what you mean, Madame.”
“I mean that you did all you could to estrange Geoffrey from his family. Again and again you urged him to make war upon Richard, and then you convinced him to disavow his father and ally himself with our greatest enemy, the French king.”
“That is not true! I never encouraged Geoffrey to do that. It was his decision to seek out Philippe in Paris.”
Eleanor did not bother to hide her disbelief. “I am not saying you bear all the blame. Geoffrey must bear some, too, as must my husband. But this I do know for certes. If Geoffrey had not gone over to the French king, he’d not have been taking part in that tournament, and he’d still be alive today.”
The manifest unfairness of that left Constance momentarily speechless. “How dare you blame me for his death? I loved Geoffrey!”
“Did you, indeed?” Eleanor said skeptically. “I will grant you this much, Constance. I do believe you love your children. But you are putting their future in peril by your stubborn hostility toward Richard. If you were half as clever as you think you are, you’d see that. Richard will be facing daily dangers in the Holy Land, and if he dies there, he leaves no heir of his body, only his brother and his nephew—your son, Arthur. Any other woman would be doing whatever she could to gain Richard’s goodwill, to convince him that he should name Arthur as his successor in case he dies without a son of his own. But just as your desire for vengeance was stronger than your so-called love for Geoffrey, it is stronger than your responsibilities as a mother and as a duchess, for you cannot be such a fool as to believe Brittany would fare better under French rule.”
When Constance would have protested, Eleanor raised her hand in an imperious gesture. “There is nothing more for you to say. I will not intercede with Richard on your behalf—not until you prove that you can be trusted.” Brushing past the Breton duchess, she walked swiftly toward the door. Her outward calm was deceiving, for the accusations she’d made against Constance had ripped open a wound that had never fully healed. She’d had to accept the fact that Hal had brought about his own doom. But Geoffrey . . . surely Geoffrey could have been saved. If only Harry had not been so stubborn, if only Geoffrey had not been so proud. If only his wife had not been so vengeful and filled with malice.
Constance had begun to shake, so great was her fury and her pain. She was almost as angry with herself as she was with Eleanor, for she realized how badly she’d botched things. She’d made an enemy of the only woman who could have helped her. She’d ruined her one chance of getting her daughter back. I loved Geoffrey! The irony of her outburst did not escape her—that she’d admitted to Geoffrey’s mother what she’d never said to him.
She sank down on the step leading into the choir, wrapping her arms around her drawn-up knees to stop her trembling. How dare Eleanor accuse her of being a bad mother? Geoffrey’s parents had failed their children in so many ways, above all in having favorites. For Henry, it had been Hal and then John, and for Eleanor, Richard. Geoffrey had been the forgotten son. He’d always sworn that he’d never make that mistake with his children, that he would be a better father than his own. But he’d had so little time with Aenor and had never even seen his son, for Arthur had been born seven months after his death.
Tears had begun to burn Constance’s eyes, but she blinked them back, for what good would crying do? She could fling herself onto the floor of this church and weep and wail until she had no more tears, until her cries would echo unto Heaven. But Geoffrey would still be dead. She’d still be yoked to a man she could not abide. Her son would still face a precarious future, her daughter would still be a hostage, and Brittany would remain trapped between England and France, a rabbit hunted by wolves.
Constance hadn’t heard the soft footsteps approaching and her head came up sharply at the sound of her name. Angrily swiping the back of her hand against her wet cheeks, she frowned at the sight of the woman coming toward her. Since her arrival at Nonancourt, Alys Capet had been seeking her out at every opportunity, eager to reminisce about their shared past. It was true that Constance and Alys and Joanna had passed several years at the queen’s court in Poitiers, but friendship needed more than proximity to flourish. The fact was that Joanna had been too young, and Constance and Alys, while the same age, had never liked each other. Constance remembered even if Alys apparently did not, and she’d been hard put to be civil, as Alys insisted upon making their time together sound like an idyllic childhood. Now before she could get to her feet, Alys sat beside her upon the altar step.
“Constance, you’ve been weeping! What is wrong? May I be of any help?”
Her concern seemed genuine and, much to Constance’s dismay, she heard herself blurt out that she’d just sought Eleanor’s aid in recovering her daughter, to no avail. It was almost as if the words had escaped of their own will, for she’d never have chosen Alys as a confidante. But there was no calling them back, and Alys responded with such sympathy and indignation that Constance told her how Richard’s men had swooped down upon Brittany and carried Aenor off to England within a fortnight of his coronation. “They have been keeping her at Winchester,” she concluded bleakly, “and I have no idea when I’ll be able to see her again. . . .”
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 comfor
tably 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?”