“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.
THE SEPTEMBER 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!”