A King's Ransom (98 page)

It took no more than that, for John enjoyed revealing information that was not yet widely known. “So it seemed. They agreed to offer hostages and Richard agreed to secure Constance’s release from her husband’s clutches, provided that she would agree to be governed by his wishes in the future. The date set for her release was the feast of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, but it came and passed without her being freed or the hostages returned, so the Bretons met at Saint-Malo de Breignon, swore fealty to Arthur, and repudiated their oaths to Richard. They then sought aid from Philippe, which is like jumping from the frying pan into the fire. But common sense has always been lacking amongst the Bretons.”

What Durand found most interesting about John’s blithe account of the Bretons’ rebellion was that it proved John had a spy, either in Richard’s camp or the Bretons’. That would be information his queen would want to know.

John was enumerating the other setbacks Richard had suffered that summer—his defeat at Aumale, its fall to Philippe, the loss of Nonancourt Castle, which had been retaken by the French while Richard was confined to his bed. “And we know my brother is surely the world’s worst patient, so how he must have rejoiced when Joanna, our mother, and Berengaria all descended upon him like a flock of hens fluttering about a lone chick!” John laughed again and Durand joined in, thinking that he’d not mind having Joanna nurse him back to health.

“Do you think your good news will salt Richard’s wound?” he joked, and John glanced his way with a grin.

“One can only hope.”

J
OHN’S FIRST IMPRESSION OF
his brother was that Richard did not look good. He was pale after over a month away from the sun, shadows lurked under his eyes, and he seemed to have put on some weight. Their father’s famous indifference to food or drink had been due in part to the ease with which he gained weight; he’d waged a lifelong battle to avoid becoming heavy. John had inherited Henry’s stocky build, and he’d envied Richard, whose height allowed him to eat without concern about putting on pounds. He was pleased to see now that even Richard was not immune to the effects of prolonged inactivity. Or to the impact of a well-aimed crossbow bolt.

“I’m surprised to see you out of bed,” he admitted, earning himself a mirthless smile from his older brother.

“If you start preaching to me about that, too, Johnny, I swear I’ll hit you with my crutch.”

“I’ll stay out of range, then. But where are your preachers? I assumed they’d be sticking closer to you than glue.” His light tone notwithstanding, John was vexed that neither his mother nor sister had come into the hall to greet him, and so it was welcome news when Richard said the women were no longer at Vaudreuil.

“Maman knew better than to hover, but Joanna and Berenguela . . .” Richard shook his head ruefully. “They carried on so about a mere flesh wound that they even had me half believing I was at Death’s door. I endured it as long as I could, and then got Maman to persuade them that it would be best if I was left to heal at my own pace.”

Reaching for his crutch, Richard insisted upon limping across the hall toward the dais, beckoning John to follow. “I suppose you heard that the Bretons are in rebellion again?” he said, after he’d settled himself in his chair and propped his injured leg upon a stool.

John nodded. “They are as contrary and querulous as the Welsh. Do not tell Cousin Morgan I said that, though.”

“I sent Mercadier and my seneschal of Anjou, Robert de Turnham, to quell it—and to stop the fools from smuggling Arthur to the French court.” Richard regarded John with a gleam of mischievous malice. “I suppose that would please you greatly, though.”

“Paris is a beautiful city,” John said airily. “It would be a shame to deny young Arthur a chance to see it.” As usual, John’s impudence amused his brother. John’s own smile vanished, however, as soon as he saw the youth crossing the hall toward them. He managed to greet Otto affably, but he quickly brought Richard’s attention back to himself by saying, “I have good news. I captured Gamaches Castle for you.”

“Did you? Very well done, Johnny!”

John had been expecting Richard to make light of his success. He was pleased now by his brother’s obvious delight. His seizure of this French Vexin castle was his first military triumph, apart from his tainted capture of Évreux, and he was proud of it, even prouder now that Richard acknowledged it as a deed worth celebrating. It was sweet, too, to receive congratulations from Otto and several of Richard’s knights, although he did his best to accept the praise with nonchalance, never wanting Richard to suspect how much his good opinion mattered.

John was on his way to the bedchamber that had been provided for him when he encountered a black-clad monk just entering the hall. He knew the man slightly—Guillebert, the abbot of the Benedictine abbey of St Benoit at Castres—and he paused to exchange greetings. It was only later that he wondered why one of the Count of Toulouse’s men was paying a call upon Richard.

T
HE
S
EPTEMBER SKY HAD
become overcast, rain clouds sweeping in from the west, and Guy de Thouars decided to pass the night at the closest castle, St James de Beuvron; a viscount’s brother could rely upon the hospitality of castellans rather than having to search for inns like those of lesser status. As he expected, he and his men were admitted at once. He was about to head to the great hall when he happened to glance toward the gardens, where several women were picking the last blooms of summer. He recognized the slender woman in a finely woven blue mantle, and he was pleased that the Duchess of Brittany was not being confined to her chamber, for he thought holding a woman hostage violated the tenets of the chivalric code. She was looking his way, doubtless wondering if a message had arrived for her; he knew she was allowed to correspond with her Breton barons. On impulse, he strode over, opened the gate, and entered the gardens.

Constance watched him approach, her expression guarded, although her women were giving Guy an approving once-over. Bowing, he kissed the duchess’s hand. “I doubt that you’d remember me, my lady, but we met at Angers last year. I am Guy de Thouars, brother of Viscount Aimery.”

“I remember you,” she said, in a cool tone that did not encourage further conversation.

“I am honored.” He managed to infuse that trite gallantry with sincerity, and his smile was so appealing that Constance found herself thawing a little, enough to agree when he gestured toward the tablecloth they’d spread out on the grass and the basket of fruit and cheese, offering to bring them inside ere the rain began. With Juvetta and Emma casting him flirtatious glances from under fluttering eyelashes, he followed Constance as she led the way toward the castle keep. There she halted, thanked him, and gestured for Emma to reclaim the basket. Guy bowed again and bade them a good evening.

He’d only taken a few steps, though, before he halted. Turning back, he asked if he might have a word in private. Constance hesitated, but curiosity won out. Sending her women on into the keep, she waited expectantly, and a little warily, to see what this Poitevin knight wanted from her.

Guy’s action was unpremeditated. He did not regret it, though, for he felt she had a right to know. She was more than a duchess; she was a mother, too. “You may already have heard,” he said, “about your son.”

Constance stiffened. “What about him?”

“Word has it that the Bishop of Vannes succeeded in eluding Mercadier and the king’s seneschal and got Arthur safely to the French court.”

Constance had not realized she’d been holding her breath. “Thank God!”

“Well, I doubt that Mercadier or the king would echo those sentiments,” he said wryly. He suspected the Bretons would come to regret it, too, but the duchess was not likely to be interested in his views of the French king. He kissed her hand again, and when he looked up, he saw that she was smiling.

“Thank you, Sir Guy,” she said. “I will remember your kindness.”

“My lady.” Raindrops had begun to splatter about them, and as she disappeared into the keep, he quickened his pace, thinking that what he would remember was her smile.

CHAPTER THIRTY

SEPTEMBER 1196

Rouen, Normandy

E
leanor was pleased to receive her son’s message, asking her to join him at Rouen, for that indicated he was showing common sense in recovering from his wound; she would gladly make that long, tiring journey if it would keep him out of the saddle long enough for his knee to heal. She’d not expected to find Berengaria and Joanna at Rouen, though, for it was painfully obvious by now that Richard rarely sought out his wife for the pleasure of her company. Their surprise presence confirmed her suspicions—that something was in the wind—even if she did not see the role they’d play in whatever grand design Richard had in mind.

She was not kept in suspense for long. After an enjoyable family dinner, Richard said he needed to speak with her in private and, leaving Joanna and Berengaria to preside over the great hall, they withdrew to the solar. Richard still favored his injured leg, but he was no longer using a crutch and, her concerns over his health assuaged, she wasted no time going to the heart of the matter. “What are you up to, Richard?”

He looked amused. “How well you know me, Maman. As it happens, I do have something of consequence to share with you. Do you remember when I said I was contemplating a way to end Philippe’s alliance with the Count of Toulouse?”

She nodded. “You said you were not yet sure if that hawk would fly.”

“I need not have worried, for it soared high enough to see the gates of Heaven. Raimond de St Gilles and I are about to launch a diplomatic revolution. After nigh on forty years of war with Toulouse, we are making peace.”

Eleanor was highly skeptical of that, remembering how her husband had forced Raimond’s father to do homage for Toulouse and how quickly he’d repudiated it. “I suspect that any peace with Toulouse will last about as long as ice in the hot sun. What are the terms?”

“Well, you know that Quercy has been a bone of contention since I regained possession of it some years back. So I have agreed to return it to the count. And I have also agreed to renounce the duchy of Aquitaine’s hereditary claim to Toulouse.”

Her gasp of horror was so audible that he had to fight back a smile. “Richard, have you lost your mind? You would give up so much for so little? What do we get in return?”

“Not much, Maman—merely Toulouse for your grandson . . . or granddaughter, if that be God’s Will.”

He’d rarely seen his mother at a loss for words and leaned back in his seat to savor the moment, watching with a grin as she processed what she’d just been told.

“A marital alliance, Richard?” She, too, was now smiling, a smile that shed years and cares, giving him a glimpse of the young woman she’d once been, back in the days when she’d been acclaimed as one of Christendom’s great beauties and her marriage to his father had been a happy one. “Raimond and Joanna . . . That is brilliant!”

“I thought so, too,” he said complacently. “Alliances are easily broken, but not if they are sanctioned by the Church. The old count was a viper, about as trustworthy as Heinrich. Raimond is neither as treacherous nor as ambitious as his father. And by offering him such generous terms—as well as a beautiful bride—I give him some very convincing reasons to stay loyal.”