RANDOLPH DE BLUNDEVILLE 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.