Constance knew that her Breton barons were not happy about her conference with the English king, for they were adamantly opposed to sending Arthur to the English court. She understood their fears, for she had always loathed Geoffrey’s family. She mistrusted Richard, and that prideful bitch, his mother, and did not want to see Arthur entangled in their web. And yet . . . and yet. Arthur was nine now, old enough to be educated in a noble household, and a lifelong grudge against the Angevins was being challenged by her maternal instincts. If she agreed to send Arthur to Richard’s court, that would greatly improve his chances of being named as Richard’s heir if his queen failed to give him a son. She was determined that Arthur would govern Brittany once he came of age. But it would be a great destiny to become England’s king, to rule the empire that was denied his father.
Turning in the saddle, she glanced at the men riding at her side: André de Vitré, his brother Alain de Dinan-Vitré, Geoffroi de Chateaubriant, Guillaume de Loheac, the Bishop of Vannes. They understood that they had to obey Richard’s summons, for they owed fealty to him as Duke of Normandy. If she chose to give Richard the wardship of her son, they might grudgingly agree, but they’d not like it any. Neither would she. She shrank from the very thought—except for those days when she found herself tempted by that dangerous dream, a crown for her son. Geoffrey would have wanted it for Arthur. She did not doubt that; her husband’s ambitions had burned with a white-hot flame. But Richard already had custody of her daughter. Could she bear to give him her son, too? What would be best for Arthur? For Brittany?
They were less than a mile from Pontorson Castle when they saw the dust clouds warning of approaching riders. The marches were often lawless and they straightened in their saddles, making sure their swords were loose in their scabbards. As the horsemen came into view, Constance felt a moment of instinctive unease at the sight of such a large band of armed men. But then she recognized the man on a bay stallion. “It is my husband,” she said, sounding as if she thought the Earl of Chester was only slightly more welcome than a Norman or Breton bandit. Her barons watched grimly as the earl and Constance exchanged the frostiest of greetings, bristling when it became apparent that Chester intended to accompany them. Constance was less than thrilled, too, but she thought they’d not be burdened with Randolph’s company for too long. His castle at St James de Beuvron was just ten miles away, and she hoped it was his likely destination.
Randolph guided his stallion alongside Constance’s mare and his men dropped back, falling in behind her barons and their knights. Neither husband nor wife made any attempt at conversation, riding in silence, keeping their eyes on the road ahead. Constance was never more aware of her first husband’s sardonic spirit than when she was in the company of her second. She could almost hear Geoffrey’s voice, offering silken sympathy that she’d been yoked to a man who was so decent, so dutiful, so infernally dull—words that would never have been applied to Geoffrey himself. He would be ten years dead come August, and she still missed him, especially at night. He continued to come to her in dreams, some erotic, others unbearably painful, for even now she found it hard to accept that she’d lost him in a meaningless tournament mêlée. There was no justice in that, not even any sense.
Constance was relieved when Chester signaled to his men as they approached the turnoff to his castle at St James de Beuvron. But then she saw that he expected her to go with them. “Whilst I thank you for your offer of hospitality,” she demurred, as politely as she could manage, “there are hours of daylight remaining. So we prefer to ride on.”
“I must insist,” he said, and as he spoke, his men executed what looked like a military maneuver, moving to surround the Bretons. They reacted with outrage, some even starting to draw their swords despite being greatly outnumbered. When Constance commanded them to halt, they did, but with such obvious reluctance that she knew it would take little for violence to break out. She did not want bloodshed, did not want her men to die for naught. Humoring her husband was the lesser of evils, and she grudgingly agreed to talk with him at the castle.
She was still seething at his heavy-handed assertion of his marital authority. Did the wretched man not realize that he’d just given her barons yet another gold-plated grievance? As they approached the earl’s stronghold, she assured André that they’d soon be on the road again. Overhearing their exchange, Chester said coldly, “I think not.” Constance turned to stare at him, and then she saw the men up on the castle battlements, saw the crossbows protruding from every embrasure, aiming at the Bretons.
For the first time, Constance felt alarm as well as anger. She hid it well, exchanging a brief look with André before raising her head proudly and riding beside the earl through the castle gatehouse. Her ladies were allowed to accompany her, but when her barons attempted to follow, they were turned back. It was only then that she realized her husband meant to be her gaoler, too.
Constance’s fury was burning so hotly that she saw her surroundings through a red haze. Glaring at the earl, she said as loudly as she could, “As little as I liked it, I always did my duty as your wife. But never again. If you hope to claim your marital rights, I will have to be bound hand and foot and gagged first!”