He grinned again. “Indeed he did, faster than a rabbit with a fox on its tail. Whilst he got little pleasure from his Breton hellcat of a wife, I think he rather fancied being Duke of Brittany. Even if it was an empty title, it had a nice ring to it, and there was always the chance that his stepson could be named as Richard’s heir. But once I became king, he was no longer so keen on being the stepfather of a traitorous whelp, and he shed Constance as fast as he could find a compliant bishop.”
Eleanor thought his assessment of the earl’s action was cynical but probably accurate. She wondered how long it would take John to rid himself of his own unwanted wife. Kings found it even easier than earls to find compliant bishops, and unlike Philippe and the unfortunate Ingeborg, John had legitimate grounds for invalidating his marriage: they were cousins. She was about to ask him if he’d given any thought to a foreign marital alliance when a servant entered the solar and murmured a few words in her ear. John had turned back to study the charters that were going to infuriate Philippe. He looked up, though, when he heard her cry out.
“A messenger has just ridden in from Joanna! She is on her way here, is only a few miles outside the town.” Eleanor was astonished and pleased, but she was aware, too, of a vague sense of foreboding that she could neither explain nor dismiss out of hand.
John did not share it. “That is good news,” he said with a smile. “She must surely be feeling much better if she’d undertake such a long journey.”
After a moment to reflect, Eleanor smiled, too, realizing he was right. Even though she’d not seen a case of morning sickness as severe as Joanna’s, it never lasted through the entire pregnancy. It was the constant vomiting that had made Joanna so weak; she’d soon have recovered once it stopped.
“Come,” she said. “Let’s find out more from Joanna’s knight and order a bedchamber made ready for her.”
AS THEY ENTERED THE GREAT HALL, John stopped in his tracks at the sight of Joanna’s messenger. While most of his brother’s vassals had accepted the inevitable and pledged their loyalty to him, there were a few who’d kept their distance. André de Chauvigny was one, and the man coming toward them was another.
“Well, if it is not Cousin Morgan. I’d assumed you must have gotten lost in the wilds of Wales.”
“My lord king,” Morgan said, dropping to one knee. But the obeisance seemed perfunctory to John. The Welshman’s gaze was already moving past him, seeking his mother.
Eleanor had halted, too, as soon as she saw Morgan’s face. “My daughter . . . ?”
Morgan courageously kept his eyes upon hers, resisting an overwhelming urge to look away as she realized the truth. “Madame . . . she is very ill,” he said softly, and those close enough to hear quieted, sensing that the queen was to be visited by yet more sorrow.
“MAMAN?”
“I am right here, dearest. Let your ladies settle you in bed and then we’ll talk.”
Once Morgan gently deposited Joanna upon the bed, he and her chaplain were ushered from the chamber. As soon as Beatrix and the other women began to undress her daughter, Eleanor took Mariam by the arm and propelled her toward a far corner. “Why did you bring her on such a journey when she is so obviously ill?”
Mariam did not resent the sharp tone, understanding that she was speaking to the mother, not the queen, a mother greatly shaken by her daughter’s frail appearance. “We tried to dissuade her, Madame. But she was insistent and . . . and we came to realize it was for the best that she seek you out. We’d expected her to regain her strength once the nausea no longer tormented her day and night. She did not. Instead, she grew weaker, until she feared that she’d not survive childbirth. Her need for you was great enough to justify the journey.”
Mariam had been speaking without emotion, almost as if relating the story of strangers. Now she faltered, tears welling in her eyes. “But once we were on the road, she got worse, not better. She knows her health is failing and she no longer believes you can vanquish the dangers of the birthing chamber, my lady. She . . . she is convinced that she will not live long enough to deliver her child. And I . . . When I look at her, I fear she is right.”
“No,” Eleanor said, and although she remembered to keep her voice low, it resonated with resolve, with a determination that recognized no higher authority than the Angevin royal will. “She is not going to die.”