“Well . . . I think it might be a good idea if your brother-in-law made a generous donation to my ransom fund, then.”
This time Longchamp caught the glint of amusement and he smiled broadly. “My thoughts exactly!”
“You need not fear for your position with me, Guillaume—even if you cannot rein in your more impulsive relatives. I will never forget what you did for me at Trifels. I have my vices,” Richard said with a quick smile, “but ingratitude is not one of them.” The smile vanishing as swiftly as it had come, he said, with the utmost seriousness, “I spoke the truth to that knave, Nonant. I always pay my debts.”
Especially blood debts, Longchamp agreed silently. He thought it all too likely that Heinrich would escape earthly punishment for the grievous wrong he’d done the English king. But the French king and Richard’s treacherous brother would not be so lucky.
THE DUCHESS OF BRITTANY had ridden for hours in silence, for she was dreading the coming confrontation with her husband. Husband. Even after five years of marriage, it seemed strange to call Randolph that. Constance had not wanted to wed him, had been still grieving for Geoffrey. But she’d been given no choice, for her father-in-law had insisted; Henry was determined to marry her off to a man whom he could trust. Ironically, that had not been true for his own son, for Geoffrey had been conspiring with the French king at the time of his death. Henry had expected that Geoffrey would be a puppet prince, governing Brittany according to his will. But Geoffrey had a mind of his own and he’d put Brittany’s interests before his father’s Angevin empire, winning over the hostile Breton barons and winning over Constance, too.
It had been seven years since Geoffrey had died in that accursed tournament, and there were times, especially at night, when the wound still bled. If only he’d not taken part in that mêlée. How different her life and the lives of their children would have been. But “what if” and “if only” were games for fools. In her heart, she was still Geoffrey’s widow. In the real world, she was the wife of Randolph de Blundeville.
It had not been a disparaging marriage, for Randolph was the Earl of Chester, holder of vast estates on both sides of the Channel, cousin to the king, not an unworthy match for the Duchess of Brittany. Nor was he a brute or a lout. But their marriage had probably been doomed from the first, she thought, remembering that nervous eighteen-year-old youth, wed to a woman nine years his senior, a woman of greater rank, a woman who did not want him. He’d been humiliated by spilling his seed too soon, and any chance they may have had of reaching an accommodation had ended with that clumsy wedding-night coupling. They’d shared a bed less and less often as time went on, for she was luckier than most reluctant wives. She ruled a duchy and had vassals eager to make her alien husband feel very unwelcome. Nor did she need him to get her with child, for she had Geoffrey’s son and daughter to ensure the Breton succession: six-year-old Arthur and nine-year-old Aenor.
Yet Geoffrey had taught her too well, showing her what pleasures could be found in a man’s arms, and her bed was lonely and cold. She’d occasionally considered taking a lover; she’d never done so, though. She told herself it was because even the most discreet liaison still posed serious risks, and while that was true enough, it was also true that the only man she wanted was buried in a marble tomb at the cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris.
“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.