THE SKY WAS SOON obscured by lowering clouds and, much to Richard’s vexation, a chill, steady rain began to fall. He reluctantly ended the day’s work and, as the men sought shelter, he and André mounted and rode down into Petit Andely, then across the bridge onto the ?le d’Andely. By now, André was expecting miracles to be an everyday occurrence and so he felt no surprise to find that the isle was already walled in, with comfortable living quarters for his cousin the king.
André was pleased to see Otto in attendance upon Richard, not as pleased to see John, but the latter was on his best behavior these days and greeted André with cousinly goodwill. Remembering that he’d not eaten since breaking his fast that morning, Richard ordered a meal, and it was only after they’d dined that it occurred to him to ask André why he’d made such a long winter’s journey from Berry into Normandy. Seeing the shadow that crossed André’s face at the question, he dismissed the other men, leaving them alone on the hall dais. “Cousin? What is amiss?”
André took a gulp of wine. “I wanted to let you know that I am going to Rome as soon as the alpine passes are open in the spring.”
Richard blinked in surprise. “Rome? Why?”
André took another swallow and grimaced, even though they were drinking a fine red wine from Cahors. “Do you remember when I told you I’d been having trouble with the Abbot of Déols? He’s quite the strutting peacock, is our abbot, bound and determined to be king of his own little dunghill.”
He was mixing metaphors with abandon, but Richard forbore to tease him about it, realizing that the older man was truly worried. “I remember,” he said. “He accused you of encroaching on the liberties of his abbey, no?”
“To hear him tell it, my sins are legion. The truth is that the pompous fool does not like it that Denise has a husband willing to defend her rights. He’s gone so far as to claim our marriage is invalid, insisting we are within the forbidden degree of kinship.”
Richard was astonished. “That is nonsense! We checked for any consanguinity problems ere the marriage took place.”
“I know,” André said morosely, “but that has not stopped the wretch from asking the Archbishop of Bourges to excommunicate me and declare our marriage null and void. Denise is understandably distraught about it, especially now that she is breeding again, so I promised her that I would appeal to the Pope.”
“The Archbishop of Bourges?” Richard sat up straight, staring at his cousin. “Holy Christ! If the archbishop is involved, this is Philippe’s doing, André, for they are spokes on the same wheel.”
André began to curse, long and loudly. He’d been infuriated that a minor dispute over privileges could have erupted into an ugly quarrel that threatened his very marriage, but he’d been dumbfounded when the archbishop had taken the abbot’s side, for it made no sense. Now it did. He was heartened that Richard shared his outrage, gratefully accepted the offer to write to the Pope on his behalf, and they spent the next quarter hour damning the French king and his partners in crime to the hottest regions of the netherworld.
Once their anger had cooled, Richard remembered to congratulate André on Denise’s latest pregnancy, adding that he had happy news of his own. “Joanna is with child, too. And I’ve made a good match for Philip; he’s to wed the Lady Amelie, heiress to the barony of Cognac.”
André was pleased for Joanna and delighted that Richard had provided so well for Philip’s future, for he’d become quite fond of the boy. “How old is he now—nigh on sixteen, no? Of an age to wed for certes,” he said, although his smile vanished as his gaze strayed across the hall, where John and several knights were playing a boisterous dice game. He thought it a great pity that Richard’s only son was bastard-born and John likely to be his heir since his queen was barren. Denise had taken issue with him about that, arguing that Berengaria might still get with child. But André did not think so, nor did he blame his cousin for neglecting his marital duties. Whilst he liked Berengaria well enough, bedding her must be like bedding a nun.