A King's Ransom (61 page)

“Madame?” As André de Vitré drew alongside her mare, Constance summoned up a smile, for this Breton lord had become her mainstay after Geoffrey’s death. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly.

“I know no other way to get the answers we need,” she said, and since he did not know, either, he nodded somberly, and they rode on, not speaking until the castle walls of St James de Beuvron came into view.

R
ANDOLPH DE
B
LUNDEVILLE WAS
astonished when he was told that his wife was seeking admittance; he could not remember her ever paying a visit to one of his castles before. He was not happy about it; he’d given up on his marriage by the end of the first year. His new wife had not denied him his marital rights and even in private, she was always coolly civil. He’d not realized until then what a devastating weapon indifference was. She did not even care enough to quarrel with him, and he could not forgive her for that. Caught between her apathy and the overt hostility of her Breton lords, he was miserable and resentful and his visits to the duchy became more and more infrequent. Shackled in this wretched marriage to a woman who was unlikely ever to give him an heir to his earldom of Chester, he was ashamed now to remember how excited he’d been to make this match. What a fool he’d been! But he would not let the bitch or her arrogant barons scorn him for bad manners, too, and after giving the order to open the gates, he hastily sent to the pantry and the kitchen for wine and wafers.

When his guests were ushered into the great hall, he was waiting for them. He greeted Constance with a courteous bow and then a casual kiss on the cheek. He knew the men with her—André de Vitré and his brothers Robert and Alain, Guethenoc, the Bishop of Vannes—and acknowledged them coolly but correctly. He did allow himself a touch of irony, saying dryly, “This is indeed a surprise.”

Conversation was awkward, for Constance was no better at small talk than Randolph. Once she felt etiquette had been satisfied, she wasted no more time. “May I speak with you in private, my lord husband?”

Randolph nodded. “We can walk in the gardens,” he said, wanting to make it clear that he was not burning to be alone with her. She was not a great beauty, with unfashionable dark hair and eyes, small boned, and so slender she looked deceptively fragile. But there was an intensity about her that drew male attention, especially men who saw her aloofness as a challenge. Randolph was not one of them, and it vexed him greatly that he still found her desirable.

“The gardens, then,” she said, and he offered her his arm. He was shorter than most men, but he was still taller than she was. As they crossed the hall, he wondered if the stories he’d heard were true, that she and Geoffrey had kindled enough heat to set their marital bed afire. How could she have been such a wanton with one husband and so cold with the other?

Once they reached the gardens, he gestured toward a bench, but she shook her head. She’d always had a directness that he considered unfeminine, and now she said bluntly, “I have heard a troubling rumor, Randolph—that one of the terms for Richard’s release is the marriage of my daughter to the Duke of Austria’s son. I have written to Eleanor, but she is not likely to be in any great rush to respond.” Constance detested Geoffrey’s family and she was no favorite of theirs, either, so Randolph thought she was probably right. She had begun to pace and he realized how difficult she was finding it to ask him for a favor. “You are Richard’s cousin. That ought to make it easier for you to get answers.”

Randolph hesitated and then decided to borrow some of her own bluntness. “There is no need for that. It is true.”

Constance gasped and looked so stricken that he felt a prick of unwelcome pity; it was the first time that he’d ever seen her truly vulnerable. “Are you sure of this, Randolph?” When he nodded, she sat abruptly on the closest bench. But then she raised her chin, scowling. “Why did you not tell me?”

He scowled, too. “I’ve not seen you in months, Constance. Do not play the wronged wife. You are not very convincing at it.”

“This has nothing to do with us, Randolph. This is my daughter!”

“I assumed you’d been told.” He took a step toward her, though, for she was whiter than chalk. “It is not as bad as that. In fact, it is a good match for Aenor. She’ll be marrying into one of the most powerful families in the Holy Roman Empire. You ought to be happy—”

“Happy? My daughter is being sent away to a foreign land to wed a stranger and I have been given no say in it!”

“Richard was given no say in it, either,” he said impatiently. “You know that full well, too. If you must blame someone, blame the German emperor and the Austrian duke. But I still say it is an advantageous marriage. For God’s sake, woman, she’ll be the Duchess of Austria one day! Do you truly think you could have done better for her?”

“She is only nine years old!”

“But that is the way of our world, Constance. Highborn girls are often raised at the courts of their future husbands—as you were. All of Richard’s sisters were very young when marriages were contracted for them—”

“I do not care about them! I care about my daughter!”

There was so much anguish in that cry that he was at a loss. “You’ll come to accept it in time,” he said after a strained silence. “You have no choice, Constance.”

She bit her lip, looking down so he’d not catch the glimmer of tears. She was so tired of waging this war without Geoffrey, tired of struggling against the inevitable. But slowly the embers began to smolder, igniting a familiar fire that would be her salvation. Anger had always been her shield, her source of strength, often her only refuge. She could not stop them from taking her daughter. But hatred would help her to survive Aenor’s loss, would enable her to keep on fighting for her son and for her duchy.

Rising to her feet, she said scornfully, “I ought to have known better than to come to you for help.” Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving him to fume and to curse Henry for entrapping him in this hellish marriage.

E
LEANOR ENJOYED
the Countess of Aumale’s company, for they had much in common. Like Eleanor, Hawisa was a great heiress, Countess of Aumale in her own right, possessing valuable estates in Normandy, Yorkshire, and Lincolnshire. And like Eleanor, she was strong-willed, not one who deferred easily to male authority. She’d had the backbone to balk when Richard wanted her to marry one of his vassals, William de Forz, and the common sense to yield after Richard distrained her lands. Hawisa had wed Richard’s handpicked husband, but that did not tame her independent spirit. She’d accompanied Eleanor on her journey to Sicily, for she shared the queen’s keen curiosity about exotic, foreign lands, and she had not let pregnancy curtail her travels any more than Eleanor ever had. Eleanor had only been close to two women in her long life: her sister Petronilla and Henry’s cousin Maud, the Countess of Chester. But as she’d gotten to know Hawisa better, she’d lowered the drawbridge, allowing the younger woman into the castle bailey, if not yet into the keep.

On this rain-swept afternoon in November, they were sipping wine in Eleanor’s great hall in the White Tower. Eleanor had met for much of the morning with Henry Fitz-Ailwin, the city’s mayor, and Richard Fitz Neal, the Bishop of London and Lord Treasurer of the Exchequer, and she was glad now to be able to put her troubles aside for a few hours of easy conversation with Hawisa, who could always make her laugh.

Hawisa had already finished her wine and signaled to a servant for another cup. “I heard that the French king called a council at Compiègne to rid himself of that poor little bride of his. Is that true?”

Eleanor nodded. “He claimed that Ingeborg and his first wife were related in the fourth and fifth degrees, which would be grounds for annulling the marriage—if it had been true.”

“And it was not?”

“No. The chart Philippe produced was a forgery and a clumsy one at that. But he knew his audience—eight of the fifteen council members were his kinsmen and several of the others were part of the royal household. To no one’s surprise—except possibly Ingeborg’s—the Archbishop of Reims, who happens to be Philippe’s uncle, dutifully declared that the marriage was null and void. When they told Ingeborg, since she had no French, she resorted to Latin, crying out,
‘Mala Francia! Roma!’
Yet if she expects the Pope to champion her cause, she is in for a grievous disappointment. Celestine will express great indignation on her behalf. But words are cheap, especially his.”

Hawisa did not have a high opinion of the Pope, either. “If I were Ingeborg, I’d have thanked God fasting to be spared a lifetime sharing Philippe’s bed. Why is she fighting so hard to hold on to a man who shamed her like that?”

“Pride, I expect,” Eleanor said pensively. “It might be difficult for her brother to find another husband for her after such a scandal. And since she swears he consummated the marriage, I suppose she sees herself as his wife in God’s eyes.”

“If I thought a scandal would rid me of my husband, I’d gladly walk the streets naked from dawn to dusk.”

Eleanor’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Marriage is a man’s game for certes. They make the rules and we have to play by them.”

“Sometimes the game can be fun,” Hawisa conceded. “I liked being married to my first husband—most of the time.”

“I could say the same about my second husband—until he became my gaoler, of course.” Eleanor took a swallow of wine, regarding Hawisa over the cup’s rim. “I had a letter from Constance not long ago. She is outraged that her daughter is to be part of the price paid for Richard’s freedom. The foolish woman acts as if we had a choice in the matter. But it is no easy thing to let a daughter go, Hawisa. We can only hope that they find a measure of contentment in the lives we choose for them. I do not know about Alix, but I think Marie, Leonora, Tilda, and Joanna did. I suppose mothers always want to believe that, though. . . .”

“I’m glad I birthed a son, not a daughter. At least our sons are not bartered away like prize mares.”

“But sons find other ways to steal our peace and break our hearts.”

That was true enough to bring a lump to Hawisa’s throat. Swallowing it, she joked that it was well babies did not know what awaited them, or they’d never be willing to leave the womb, and then she opened the door wide in case the queen wanted to come through, saying, “Madame . . . have you heard from your son?”

“Which one?” Eleanor drank again, staring down into the depths of her wine cup as if it held answers, not dregs. “Did you hear that John concocted a new scheme, this time to steal the ransom by forging my seal? Say what you will of him, he does not lack for imagination.”

Hawisa did not want to talk of John, for whatever she said was bound to be wrong. “I’ve heard that many have been balking at paying their share of the ransom, especially the clerics, who are loath to give up their churches’ gold and silver plate. It is such a vast amount of money. . . .”

“And I hope Heinrich burns in Hell for each and every one of those hundred and fifty thousand marks.” Eleanor’s voice was low, but it throbbed with barely suppressed fury. “I have never hated anyone as much as I hate that man. But we’ll have his blood money—or enough of it—by the time we leave for Germany next month.”

“You are going to Germany, Madame?” Hawisa at once regretted the question. After all, this was the woman who’d crossed the Alps in the dead of winter. But she was three years older now—approaching her biblical threescore years and ten—and the North Sea in December would have daunted men half her age.

Eleanor’s brows shot upward in surprise. “Of course I am going, Hawisa! We had a letter from Richard last month, saying Heinrich had set a date for his release, the Monday after the expiration of three weeks from the day of Our Lord’s Nativity—January 17.” She smiled at Hawisa, a mother’s smile as memorable in its own way as the seductive smiles of her youth. “God willing,” she said, “I will be celebrating the new year with my son. And then . . . then we’ll come home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY