Unexpectedly, this stirred a rare flicker of curiosity in Ursula. “Truly?” When the men grinned, she scowled and sought to cover her faux pas by saying scornfully, “That sounds like the sort of nonsense you’d believe, Durand.”
“It is not as far-fetched as that, my lady,” he drawled. “Some people claim the English have long tails, but I’ve never had the opportunity to find out if there is any truth to it. Ah, wait, you were born in England, no? I daresay you’ve seen more naked Englishmen than I have. Any of them with tails?”
“I can tell you one English tail you’ll never get to see, Durand—mine.”
John turned from the window, clearly amused by their barbed byplay. “Now, now, children,” he said, in the pitch-perfect tone of a parent reprimanding squabbling siblings. But when a knock sounded at the door, they were forgotten and he strode swiftly over to open it. It was one of his household knights, Geoffrey Luttrell, bearing a sealed letter. John reached for it eagerly, dismissed the knight with a careless gesture, and moved toward the oil lamp to read the letter. Geoffrey lingered long enough to shoot a hostile arrow of a look in Durand’s direction. He knew the other knights resented his growing intimacy with John, had heard them grumbling about “those who got above themselves,” for Durand’s background, like his past, remained a mystery. A few days ago, he’d entered the hall just as one of them disdainfully called him “the count’s tame wolf.” They’d fallen silent when they realized he’d heard, for though they’d never admit it, there was something about Durand that other men found unsettling. But he’d laughed aloud, for he was not tamed, nor was he John’s wolf. He was Eleanor’s.
“It is from Hugh de Nonant,” John said, casting the letter onto the table. “He’s heard nothing about Richard. So why bother to send a messenger halfway across Wales just to tell me that?”
John seemed to be speaking the truth, but Durand would later see if he could manage to read the letter for himself, just to be sure. The Bishop of Coventry was as slippery as any eel, and while he’d so far proclaimed himself to be John’s man, Durand thought he’d jump ship if Richard suddenly turned up, alive and well and ready to avenge himself upon those who’d been so quick to believe John’s claim that he was dead.
“Do you want to continue the game, my lord?” he asked, gesturing toward the chessboard. John glanced at the ivory chess pieces, doubtlessly assessing his chances of victory. In many ways he was unlike his brothers, the dark one in a golden family, with a history of failures and misjudgments. At seventeen, he’d launched a rash assault upon Richard’s Aquitaine, after an angry Henry had intemperately declared that Aquitaine was his if he could take it from his brother. He couldn’t. At eighteen, his first command in Ireland had been an unmitigated disaster; he’d actually managed the impossible, uniting the Irish and the Norman settlers in their outrage against his misrule. He had timed his desertion of Henry correctly, though, making a private peace with Richard and Philippe while his father still lived. And he’d shown his first flashes of political skill by bringing down Richard’s chancellor, Guillaume de Longchamp. Durand thought the chancellor had done himself in by his own arrogance and greed, but he had to admit that John had not made a misstep in his campaign to send Longchamp into exile. So far he had not displayed the same sure touch in his attempt to usurp his brother’s throne, but Durand’s months with Eleanor’s youngest had taught him not to underestimate John’s intelligence.
He was not surprised now when John said the game could wait, for he’d been maneuvered into an untenable position and in one way John was very much like the rest of his family; he hated to lose. “Have you further need of me, my lord?” Durand asked, hoping to be able to make his escape. But it was then that another knock sounded at the door.
Geoffrey was back, this time trailed by a travel-stained, weary messenger. “My lord, this man says he comes from the king of the French with an urgent message you must hear straightaway.” He looked disappointed when John dismissed him before he could learn what it was, while Durand was allowed to remain. The courier was kneeling at John’s feet, holding out a parchment threaded through with cord and sealed with wax that bore the imprint of Philippe’s signet. But John paid more heed to the ring on the man’s hand, an amethyst stone cut into octagonal facets, a secret sign that the message did indeed come from the French king.