The smile she gave him in return was so genuine, so satisfied, that Philippe’s own smile fled and his brows drew together. How wary he was, how suspicious—as well he ought to be. Now that he’d recognized her as the rightful heiress to her duchy, Arthur’s claim to Poitou as Richard’s heir was meaningless. And by doing homage to the French king, she deprived him of a legal basis for intervening in the affairs of Aquitaine and Poitou. As her liege lord, he was obligated to defend her rights—even against Arthur.
He would have understood that, of course. But she’d known that he could not resist this public submission by Richard’s proud mother, seeing it not only as a gratifying acknowledgment of his sovereignty but as a humiliation to John, proof that she had no confidence in his ability to protect her duchy. What Philippe did not know was that she planned to issue a charter in which she recognized John as her “rightful heir” and transferred to him the homage, fealty, and services owed her by her vassals. John would then do homage to her, proclaiming her “lady of us and all our lands and possessions.” And because she’d done personal homage to the French king, Philippe could not demand services directly of John. She—not John—would be answerable at the French court for any grievances Philippe might have.
John had been delighted with her idea, calling it a masterstroke. She knew, though, that it was not a long-term solution to the danger posed by the French king. When she died, her duchy would be vulnerable again. But she’d managed to checkmate Arthur and Constance whilst gaining John time to secure his hold on power, and that would have to be enough.
Philippe was watching her intently. He did not possess what Harry and Richard had—the easy mastery of other men. Nor would he ever win glory with a sword. Yet she saw a ruthless, icy intelligence in those pale blue eyes and, unlike the men in her family, he knew how to be patient; he knew how to wait for what he wanted. He’d never have been a match for Richard on the battlefield and Richard had outmaneuvered him on the diplomatic front, too. But would John be able to defend himself against such a determined, unscrupulous adversary? Well, John was clever, cunning, and unscrupulous, too. He’d be no lamb to the slaughter; it would be a war of wolves.
MARIAM WAS SITTING IN a garden arbor, the only place she could escape the eyes of others. In all of her thirty-three years, she had never been so frightened, never felt so helpless. If only she could talk to Joanna’s husband and mother. But Raimond was over three hundred miles away and the queen was in Normandy, devoting herself to the needs of her youngest son.
She swiped at her wet cheek with the back of her hand. Weeping would not help. When had tears ever changed a blessed thing? Hearing footsteps on the garden path, she drew farther back into the arbor, hoping she’d go unnoticed. But then she heard her name called, and the voice was one that still haunted her dreams. Jumping to her feet, she emerged onto the walkway. “Morgan?” she said incredulously. “I thought you’d gone back to Wales after Richard died!”
He’d reached her by now and took her hands in his. “I did return to Wales,” he said, for he’d wanted to see his brother and sister and to visit his parents’ graves. But he’d stayed only a few weeks, for Wales was no longer where his roots were. His curiosity had been a golden key, admitting him to a world of endless horizons, soaring vistas, and exotic, alien locales. There was a price to be paid for such freedom, though: the loss of his homeland.
“I came back to check upon my Norman manors,” he said, omitting the real reason: that he did not know where else to go. Since Richard’s death, he’d been a ship without a rudder, sure only that he did not want to seek refuge in John’s harbor. He’d even thought of pledging his loyalty to Arthur, for he was Geoffrey’s son. But Arthur was the French king’s pawn, and serving him would be serving Philippe Capet, which was even more distasteful than the idea of serving John. “When I landed at Barfleur, I heard that Joanna was ailing, so I rode for Fontevrault straightaway. I have not yet seen her, for Dame Beatrix said she is sleeping. How bad is it, Mariam?”
“She has been in Hell, Morgan. I do not know how else to describe it. Joanna has always had more severe morning sickness than most women, but nothing like this. She was unable to eat, sometimes even to drink water. The nausea never went away. She became sensitive to odors that no one else could smell, odors that had never bothered her before. We could not wear perfume or use soap to bathe her and the candles had to be wax, not tallow. There were days when she vomited as often as thirty times. She has lost so much weight that we had to make her gowns smaller instead of enlarging them to accommodate her pregnancy. The nausea began in the sixth week and nothing eased it, not ginger nor herbal remedies, not prayers to St Margaret, who protects women in childbirth, not even a holy relic that the abbess let us borrow. All we could do was to hope that the midwife was right, that the worst of it would abate in the fifth month. Joanna called August the Promised Land, for it would either bring salvation or doom. Whilst we did not talk of it, we all knew she could not keep on like that.”