“For certes, any man who ever fought beside him,” Stephen de Turnham interjected.
Joanna smiled at them both, but her smile was as fleeting as that moment of hope. “Richard also has enemies beyond counting,” she said, thinking of the French king and her own brother.
“Yes, he does,” the bishop agreed, paying her the compliment of giving her the same brutal truth he’d have given to a man. “And now that they think he may have been dealt a mortal blow, the vultures will be circling.”
Joanna’s head came up, green eyes narrowing. “Let them. No vulture can bring down a lion.” But the men knew better than that, and so did she.
THE WELSH STRONGHOLD OF CARDIFF was over a hundred years old, built on the site of an ancient Roman fort. It had once been the prison of a king’s brother; for thirty years, the Duke of Normandy had languished there at the command of the first King Henry. That was not a comforting thought to the current king’s brother John, Count of Mortain, and he reminded himself that Cardiff was his now, come to him by his marriage to the wealthy Gloucester heiress.
Pushing away from the table and an interrupted chess game with one of his knights, Sir Durand de Curzon, John moved restlessly about the chamber before going to the window and unlatching the shutters. The storm continued unabated, rain slanting sideways, turning the inner bailey into a muddy quagmire, while the wind tested the castle defenses like an enemy army probing for weaknesses. John watched for a while longer before saying sulkily, “Does the sun never shine in this accursed country?”
His audience had no interest in discussing the weather. His mistress yawned and stretched like a sleek, pampered cat. Although it was midmorning, she was still abed. Sitting up, she let the sheet dip, giving Durand de Curzon a partial glimpse of her breasts. He was sure it was deliberate. He’d seen more beautiful women than Ursula, but never one who radiated such raw, smoldering sexuality. He doubted that even the most celibate of priests could look upon that wanton red mouth, those smoky grey eyes, that mane of lustrous flaxen hair, and that lush, ripe body without feeling the throb of forbidden desire. Hellfire and damnation, the woman was a walking, breathing mortal sin.
Feeling his eyes upon her, Ursula regarded him with indifference that he wanted to believe was feigned. But he would not have lain with her even had she been willing. As long as John was bedding her, she was off-limits, for there was too much at stake to risk it upon a tumble with a wench, no matter how enticing her carnal charms. Still, though, she bothered him, like an itch he could not scratch. He could not decide if she was the ultimate cynic, disillusioned and jaded, or simply dull-witted. Even with John, she seemed remarkably nonchalant. A royal concubine usually stroked her lover’s pride as lovingly as his cock, hanging upon his every word as if they were as precious as pearls, laughing at all his jests, doing her best to make him believe she saw him as irresistible and clever and vigorous as he invariably saw himself. Not Ursula, though. Durand had never heard her compliment John, nor did she seem enthralled by his conversation, and his sardonic jests were as likely to earn an eye roll from her as an appreciative, sultry giggle. That John tolerated this dubious behavior only enhanced Durand’s certainty that the woman must be scorching hot in bed.
John was still grumbling about the foul Welsh weather and Durand could no longer ignore him. He had many duties as a knight in John’s household, some perfectly proper, others too dark to confess to any priest, but he was also expected to amuse his lord when called upon, to help John banish boredom, even if it meant playing endless games of chess or hazard or listening to John’s musings about life, women, and how unfairly he’d been treated by his father. John was very defensive about his relationship with Henry, occasionally boring Durand almost to tears as he explained why he’d had no choice but to abandon his dying father and why anyone in his place would have done the same thing. Durand knew that few others saw this side of John, for John was not a man who easily gave his trust. But he’d begun to share some of his secrets with Durand, confident that they would be kept. What he did not know was that Durand had secrets of his own.
John had not yet moved from the window, careless of the cold, damp air he was allowing to invade his bedchamber. “If this keeps up much longer, we’ll soon be building arks.”
Durand decided it was time to contribute to the conversation lest John think he was not listening. “I’ve heard that many of the Welsh have webbed feet.”