When he opened the door, he tripped over a shadow that yelped when he stepped on it. He gave a startled cry of his own before recognizing Ahmer, one of Joanna’s Sicilian hounds. He knew Joanna was being mourned in Toulouse, for she’d been popular with the men and women of his city. But somehow it was the dog’s lonely vigil that caught at his heart. With Ahmer at his heels, he slowly climbed the stairs to the small chamber above his own. A wet nurse was sleeping on a pallet beside his daughter’s cradle; she was swaddled like a butterfly waiting to hatch from its cocoon. Nearby, Raimondet was sprawled on his back, snoring gently, and fresh tears came as Raimond recalled how proud the little boy was when he’d been allowed to sleep in a bed of his own.
Reaching down, he lifted his son into his arms. Raimondet whimpered, his lashes flickering, but then he sank back into sleep, snuggling against Raimond’s shoulder. He’d have to be told, but he was too young, at two, to understand. He would keep asking for “Mama” as he’d been doing all summer. Until her memory faded, until he could no longer remember the woman who’d sung him to sleep at night and made him squeal with laughter when she’d tickled him and pretended not to see him when he’d hidden behind the billowing bed curtains.
For Raimond, this was the pain that tore him apart, even harder to bear than the realization that he’d never hear her laugh again or make love to her or see her sleepy smile upon awakening in the morning. “I will not let him forget you, Joanna,” he whispered. “I promise you that, my love, upon the surety of my soul.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
SEPTEMBER 1199
Le Mans, Anjou
John’s smile reminded Constance of a cat who’d just gotten into the cream. As little as she’d liked Richard, she’d never had trouble envisioning him as a king. But John? If he were fit to rule, then unicorns roamed the Breton hills and mermaids sunned themselves on Breton beaches. Having to make peace with him was not easy, but they’d concluded they had no choice. Despite Arthur’s early successes, it had become obvious that the scales were weighted in John’s favor. Moreover, the Bretons were growing uncomfortable with Philippe’s heavy hand on the reins; his support of Arthur was coming at a higher price than Constance was willing to pay. She’d already made a dutiful curtsy to the new king, and she watched now as her son knelt before the dais. As always, she felt great pride. Even at twelve, he was poised and self-confident, so handsome that his smile never failed to catch at her heart. She’d explained why they had to accept John’s kingship—to buy time until Arthur was old enough to challenge John himself. He said he’d understood, but he had not liked it any, and she was relieved now when the fealty ceremony went off without a hitch.
John was in good spirits. He’d greatly enjoyed watching his young rival humble himself and he had a surprise in store for the lad’s prideful mother, too. Leaning back in his seat, he regarded Constance with a smile that put her instantly on guard.
“I have news for you, my lady, that I am sure will please you as much as it pleases me. Now that your marriage to the Earl of Chester has been annulled and you have done your grieving over his loss—for I know how much you valued him—I think it is time to find you another husband. I am not often given to quoting from Scriptures, but I believe St Paul counseled that it is better to marry than to burn.”
Constance heard a low murmur from her barons, a growl of pure displeasure. Arthur was frowning, too, even though he was not likely to have understood John’s silken malice, the implication that Constance found her bed a cold one. She alone was not surprised, for she’d been expecting an ambush like this; she’d lived amongst the Angevins since she was a small child.
“Are you offering to begin a husband hunt for me, my lord king? How very kind.”
“Not at all. Naturally I want the best for my former sister-by-marriage. But there is no need to ‘begin a husband hunt.’ I’ve already found him.” John let the suspense drag out, his eyes gleaming. “I am sure you will be very happy with . . . Sir Guy de Thouars.”
The growl behind Constance became a snarl. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Guy and his brother the viscount. Aimery’s expression was almost comical it was so conflicted—pride that his House would be able to boast such a highborn sister-in-law warring with astonished jealousy that his younger brother was to become a duke. Guy, quite simply, looked as if he’d been poleaxed.
“Your generosity leaves me speechless, my lord king,” Constance said coldly. “I am sure you will understand that I must consult with my son and my barons and bishops about something so important as my marriage.”
“Of course,” John said, and she thought of cats again, for he was practically purring. “By all means, discuss it. But I have every confidence that you will reach the right conclusion—now that you and your son have been restored to royal favor.”
He smiled genially, but Constance heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being slid halfway up its scabbard. And as she looked at her lords, she saw that they’d heard it, too.