THE PEACE BETWEEN UNCLE and nephew was to be short-lived, not even lasting a day and night. John deeply offended the thin-skinned Viscount of Thouars by suddenly taking Chinon Castle and the seneschalship of Anjou away from him. While the Bretons did not yet know John intended to bestow it upon his new vassal, Guillaume des Roches, their mistrust of John was so strong that they saw sinister significance in this move. When Arthur was then warned that John intended to ensure his good faith by holding him prisoner, they found it easy to believe, and the young duke, his mother, her new husband-to-be, his disgruntled brother, and most of the Breton lords left Le Mans abruptly for the greater safety of Angers. Philippe was quite happy to fish in these troubled waters again and Arthur was soon back in Paris. John had succeeded in luring Guillaume des Roches away from the Bretons, yet he’d missed his last chance to remove Arthur from the French king’s influence. Despite her flight to Angers, Constance honored her promise and wed Guy de Thouars, although John considered that small consolation for his failure to deny Philippe such a dangerous weapon.
DENISE ENTERED THEIR BEDCHAMBER at Chateauroux with a lighter step, for she hoped she was bringing a guest to pierce the dark cloud that had been hovering over their lives since Richard’s death. In time, she was confident God would heal the wound, but for now André’s pain was so raw that she could not look upon it without flinching.
André was sharpening his sword on a whetstone, and did not glance up at the sound of the opening door; it was as if even his natural curiosity had withered, leaving nothing but apathy and indifference.
“You have a visitor,” she said. “Sir Morgan ap Ranulf has just ridden in. Shall I send him up?” And she took heart when he nodded. He continued to concentrate upon honing the blade, not putting the weapon aside until Denise ushered Morgan into the chamber. “I’ll send a servant up with wine,” she said, and got only a distracted nod in return.
Morgan sat down beside André in the window-seat. “I came to bid you farewell,” he said, “for I see no place for me in John’s realm.”
“What . . . you’re not looking forward to serving your new king?”
Morgan smiled sadly, for André’s sarcasm was as betraying as another man’s tears. “John is not my king, will never be my king.”
“Where will you go, Morgan? Back to Wales, I suppose.”
“No . . . there is no place for me there, either, not anymore. My father left his Welsh lands to my brother and his English manors to me. I am selling them, as well as the Norman estates that Richard gave me. And once that is done, Mariam and I are moving to Sicily.”
André’s brown eyes showed their first spark of interest. “Good for you, Cousin,” he said, although they were not actually kinsmen, for his blood ties to Richard had come through Eleanor and Morgan’s through Henry. “I wish you well and Godspeed. I daresay you’ll hear about it eventually, but at least you’ll not have to watch as John loses the empire that was his father’s lifework, the empire that Richard died defending. I can only hope that it does not happen whilst his mother still lives.”
Morgan did not dispute André’s dark vision, for he shared it. His heart bled for the other man, for André and Denise’s lands were in Berry, which meant that he must choose between drinking hemlock or wolfsbane, doing homage either to John or to Philippe. In October he’d accepted the French king as his liege lord, and Morgan knew he’d sooner have pledged his fealty to Lucifer himself. He did not offer sympathy, for André neither expected nor wanted it. Instead, he said, “I am taking Arne with us. He needs a new beginning, too.”
André summoned up his first real smile. “It gladdens me to hear that.” He made an effort then to shake off his lethargy, for he owed Morgan that much. “Stay the night,” he said, “and we’ll find some battles to refight over dinner. But on the morrow, take your woman and Arne and do not look back, Morgan. The world as we knew it died at Chalus.”
ELEANOR RETURNED TO Fontevrault Abbey on a day of glimmering grey mist and wintry drizzle. While her entourage continued on to her own quarters on the abbey grounds, she was warmly received by the Abbess Mathilde, Prioress Aliza, and her granddaughter Alix, now a novice nun. They offered their sympathies for the death of her daughter, telling her that Lady Joanna’s desire to take holy vows on her deathbed had brought great honor to their order.