JOHN AWOKE with the greatest reluctance. Squinting up at his squire, he flinched from the bright, blinding light and then groaned, for his head was spinning and his stomach was roiling as if he’d spent the night aboard ship in a monster gale. Beside him, his bedmate was stirring, too, saying, “Good morrow, my lord,” so cheerfully that he realized she was one of those odious souls who actually liked to rise with the sun. “The building had better be on fire, Giles,” he muttered. But the boy persevered, for all in John’s household were accustomed to his early-morning bad temper, reminding him that Lady Ingeborg’s coronation was scheduled for noon. John decided he could quite happily go to his grave without seeing Philippe’s bride crowned and he burrowed back under the coverlets with another groan. He remembered little about the woman in his bed, but he thought it was safe to assume she was a whore and not a nun, so he mumbled, “Pay her, Giles,” before pulling the pillow over his head.
When he awoke again hours later, he called at once for the herbal drink that he’d often used to combat these morning-after woes: a mixture of pennyroyal, betony, and peppermint in white wine. He felt marginally better once he’d forced it down and let Giles help him dress. He was debating whether he ought to go back to bed, when the door banged open with enough force to make him wince. “Hellfire and damnation, Durand, must you make enough noise to awaken the dead?”
The knight grinned. “I’m glad to see you’re finally up, for I have news you’ll want to hear straightaway.”
“Unless you’ve come to tell me that Heinrich has agreed to turn Richard over to Philippe, I am not interested.”
Durand was unfazed by the grumbling, for he knew how much John enjoyed gossip. “Not as good as that, I grant you. But you’ll still find it of interest. The coronation went as planned, although Philippe was squirming like a man with a stick up his arse during the entire ceremony, looking dour even for him. Some of us had begun to joke that his little Danish tart must not have been to his taste. Yet no one expected what came next. He announced that the marriage was over and he planned to seek an annulment as soon as possible.”
“He did what?” John stared at the other man, incredulous. “Is this a joke, Durand? Why would he do that?”
“The entire court is asking that, too, my lord. When one of the Danish envoys explained what had just happened to the bewildered little bride, she looked as if she’d been hit on the head by a hammer. Needless to say, the Danes are outraged and Philippe’s clerics are dismayed, seeing a God-awful fight looming with the papacy, since no one thinks he has grounds for annuling the marriage.”
John started to shake his head, then decided that was not a good idea. “And I missed all that? Just my luck.” He sat down on the bed, fighting back laughter. “Philippe must have gone stark, raving mad. You’ve seen the girl, Durand. Would you kick her out of your bed?”
“Not bloody likely. I’d have been glad to swive her for him if he was not up to it,” Durand said, with another grin.
John grinned, too, marveling that Philippe, of all men, should have blundered so badly. For one so cautious and calculating, this defied belief. “That must truly have been the wedding night from Hell!”
RICHARD ENJOYED GREATER LIBERTY once he’d agreed to Heinrich’s exorbitant terms in late June. While he was still kept under surveillance, it was no longer so blatantly intrusive. Heinrich had even agreed to let him go hawking occasionally and Henry Falconarius, one of the royal falconers, hastened to Worms with several goshawks and a favorite peregrine falcon. And he had a steady stream of welcome visitors. He took great pleasure in the company of his friends and was grateful that so many churchmen and highborn vassals would make that long journey from England or Normandy. He knew it impressed the Germans and reinforced his status, showing Heinrich that even as a captive king, he retained the loyalty of his subjects. For he never forgot for a moment how precarious his position still was, at the mercy of a man who could decide on the morrow to accept the French king’s offer.