Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 4

MARCH 1190

Nonancourt Castle, Normandy





After William Marshal’s young wife had been presented to the Queen of England, Will guided Isabel toward the relative privacy of a window-seat, for he knew she’d be eager to discuss it with him. And, indeed, as soon as they were seated, she turned toward him, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“She is not as beautiful as I’d heard, Will. I suppose that is because she is so old now. You said she was nigh on sixty-and-six.” Isabel paused to marvel at that vast age, for both of her parents had died in their forties. “Are you sure the king is not here yet?” She sat up straight, her eyes sweeping the crowded hall. “What does he look like?”

“Richard is taller than most men, two fingers above six feet, with curly hair betwixt red and gold. Trust me, lass, he is not one to pass unnoticed. If he were here, you’d need none to point him out to you.”

“Well, I hope he comes soon, for I must be the only one at court who has not even laid eyes upon the king.” Isabel looked around, then, for Richard’s brother, but could find no one who matched the king’s description. “Count John is not here, either?”

“John is over there, the one talking to the Lady Alys, in the green gown.” Will started to identify Alys as the French king’s sister, Richard’s neglected, long-suffering betrothed, then remembered that Isabel knew Alys better than he did, for prior to their marriage she’d resided at the Tower of London with Alys and another rich heiress, Denise de Deols.

“John does not look at all like Richard, does he? He is as dark as a Spaniard, and nowhere near as tall as you, Will.” Isabel gave her husband a fond glance from the corner of her eye. “He is handsome, though, I must admit. In fact, I’ve never seen so many comely men gathered in one place. Look at that youth with the fair hair and sky-blue eyes, just like a Norse raider! And there is another beautiful lad—can you use the word ‘beautiful’ for men? The one laughing, with chestnutcolored hair.”

Will took her teasing in stride, for he was amused by her lively, playful personality and was too sure of his manhood to deny his young bride the fun of flirting. He’d never hoped to be given such a prize—a great heiress like Isabel—for he was just a younger son of a minor baron, a man whose worth had been measured by the strength and accuracy of his sword arm. He still remembered his astonishment when the old king had promised Isabel de Clare to him, a deathbed reward for years of steadfast loyalty. He’d been sure that his bright future was lost when King Henry’s life ebbed away at Chinon Castle. But the new king, Richard, had confirmed Henry’s dying promise and, at that moment, Will had begun to believe in miracles.

“You truly are a king’s granddaughter,” he said, “for you’ve singled out men with royal blood flowing in their veins. Your ‘Norse raider’ is Henri of the House of Blois, the Count of Champagne, nephew to two kings—Richard and Philippe of France. And your ‘beautiful lad’ is Richard’s Welsh kinsman, Morgan ap Ranulf. His father was the old king’s favorite uncle, and Morgan served Richard’s brother Geoffrey until his death, then joined Henry’s household.”

“Life at court is going to be rather dull with so many gallant young lords off to fight the Saracens,” Isabel said with a mock sigh, still bent upon mischief. It was a safe game, for Will wasn’t tiresomely jealous like so many husbands. Her friend and Tower companion, Denise de Deols, had recently been wed to King Richard’s cousin, André de Chauvigny, and he was so possessive she had to conduct herself as circumspectly as a nun.

“They have not all taken the cross. John is not going to the Holy Land.”

Isabel’s pert, vivacious demeanor sometimes led others to underestimate her; she had a quick brain and was a surprisingly good judge of character for a girl of eighteen. She caught the unspoken undertones in her husband’s voice, and eyed him curiously. “You do not like Count John, do you, Will?”

“No,” he said tersely, “I do not.”

Seeing that he did not want to discuss the king’s brother, she obligingly steered the conversation in a more agreeable direction, asking the identity of the woman talking with Morgan ap Ranulf. When Will told her that was Constance, the Duchess of Brittany, Isabel studied the older woman with heightened interest. She knew Constance had been betrothed to Richard’s brother Geoffrey in childhood, wed to him at twenty, widowed five years later. Will had told her King Henry had then compelled Constance to marry his cousin, the Earl of Chester, wanting to be sure her husband would be loyal to the English Crown. She’d reluctantly agreed to the marriage in order to retain wardship of her two young children, but one of Richard’s first acts after his coronation had been to demand that she turn her daughter over to his custody.

Gazing at the Breton duchess, Isabel felt a pang of sympathy, and moved her hand protectively to her abdomen. She knew, of course, that children of the highborn were usually sent off to other noble households for their education. Constance’s daughter had been just five, though, taken against her mother’s will. Isabel had been taught that a wife’s first duty was to her husband, not her children, but she’d often wondered if a woman’s maternal instincts could be stifled so easily. She was only in the early months of her first pregnancy and already she felt that she’d defend the tiny entity in her womb with her last breath.

“Will you introduce me to the duchess, Will?” Receiving an affirmation, she continued her scrutiny of the hall. “Is that the Archbishop of York? And my heavens, who is that man?”

“Yes, that is the Archbishop of York, Richard’s half-brother,” William said, then followed her gaze to see who had provoked her outburst. “Ah . . . that is Guillaume Longchamp, the Bishop of Ely, the king’s chancellor and most trusted adviser. At first sight, he seems a pitiful figure, small and ugly and crippled in the bargain. But do not be misled by his paltry size or his lameness, for his intelligence is exceeded only by his arrogance.”

“No, not him. That man over there, the one who looks like he escaped from Hell!”

Once Will identified the object of her interest, he smiled grimly. “That is Mercadier. I assume he must have a given name, but I’ve never heard it. His past is a mystery, too. I know only that he entered Richard’s service about seven years ago as a routier—that is the term used for men like Mercadier, men who sell their swords to the highest bidder. He has been loyal to Richard, I’ll grant him that much, and he is as fearless in battle as Richard himself. But he knows no more of mercy than a starving wolf, and when he walks by, other men step back, instinctively making the sign of the cross.”

Isabel was staring openly at the routier captain, mesmerized by his sinister appearance—lanky black hair, cold pale eyes, and the worst facial scar she’d ever seen, slashing across his cheek to his chin like a diabolical brand, twisting the corner of his mouth into a mockery of a smile. “If ever there was a man who had a rendezvous with the hangman, that is the one,” she declared, suppressing a shiver. Suddenly the great hall lost some of its appeal. “I am tired, Will. May we retire to our chamber?”

“Of course, Isabel.” Will’s natural courtliness had been greatly enhanced by Isabel’s pregnancy, so much so that she had to remind herself not to take advantage of his solicitude. “We’ll have to bid the queen good night first,” he said, helping her to rise. As they headed toward the dais, he identified the woman who’d just joined Eleanor.

“That is the Lady Hawisa, the Countess of Aumale. She’d been wed to one of King Henry’s friends, the Earl of Essex, but he died in December and Richard ordered her to marry a Poitevin lord, William de Forz. The Lady Hawisa balked, though, actually dared to defy the king. You great heiresses tend to be a stubborn lot,” he murmured, showing that when it came to teasing, he could give as good as he got. “But Richard is a stubborn one, too, and he seized her estates until she yielded. She accompanied Queen Eleanor from England, and most likely will be wed once Lent is done.”

Isabel came to a sudden stop. Her eyes shifted from the Lady Hawisa, soon to marry a man not of her choosing, to the queen, held prisoner by her own husband for sixteen years, and then over to the Duchess of Brittany, another unwilling wife, in conversation now with a woman who asked only to be wed, the unfortunate French princess Alys, a bride-to-be who’d become a hostage instead. Isabel was too well bred to make a public display of affection, but she reached out, grasped her husband’s hand so tightly that he looked at her in surprise. “Oh, Will,” she whispered, “how lucky I am, how very lucky. . . .”



AS THEY EMERGED into the castle bailey, darkness was falling and clouds hid the moon. Clinging to Will’s arm, Isabel raised her skirts so they’d not trail in the mud, wrinkling her nose at the rank odor of horse manure. Riders were coming in and she and Will paused to watch, for the new arrivals were creating a stir. Men were running along the battlements, dogs were barking, and torches flaring. Isabel found herself staring at the lead rider. He was mounted astride a splendid grey stallion, and although his travel cloak was splattered with mud, she could see the material was a fine wool, dyed a deep shade of blue; his saddle was ornamented with ivory plates, the pommel and cantle decorated with gemstones, and his spurs shone like silver even in the encroaching shadows. As she watched, he pulled back his hood, revealing a handsome head of bright coppery hair, piercing grey eyes, and the whitest, cockiest smile Isabel had ever seen. As he swung from the saddle into a circle of light cast by the flaming torches, Isabel squeezed her husband’s arm. “You were right, Will. Only a blind man would not know he was looking at a king.”



ELEANOR’S CHAMBER was a cheerful scene. A harpist was playing for their pleasure as the women chatted and stitched, for even the highborn were not exempt from the needlework that was a woman’s lot. Denise de Deols was trading gossip with Isabel Marshal as they embroidered, and Eleanor’s attendants were occupied with an altar cloth intended as a gift for the castle chaplain. But not all of the women were engaged in such decorous activities. The Countess of Aumale was playing a tavern dice game with Eleanor’s granddaughter, Richenza, and Eleanor herself was flipping idly through a book on her lap, for sewing had always bored her. She was finding it difficult to concentrate, and finally set the book aside, getting to her feet. She was at once the focus of all eyes, and when she reached for her mantle, the other women started to rise, too.

She waved them back into their seats. She was in no mood for company, but she knew they’d consider it highly unseemly for a queen to venture out on her own. Eleanor had never given a fig for what other people thought. She’d learned many lessons, though, in those long years of confinement, one of which was that a wise woman picked her battles, and she relented at the last moment, allowing her granddaughter to accompany her.

She’d become quite fond of Richenza, who’d remained behind with her youngest brother when her father’s exile had ended and her parents returned to Germany. She was now eighteen, newly a bride, already displaying an independent streak that endeared her to Eleanor, who’d learned long ago that a woman without inner resources would not thrive in their world. Richenza’s name had been deemed too exotic for English or French ears and she’d been rechristened Matilda, but once her parents departed, she sought to reclaim her German name, clinging to it as a tangible remembrance of her former life. To most people, she was the Lady Matilda, future Countess of Perche, but to her indulgent family, she was once again Richenza. Even her husband proved willing to overlook the alien sound of her name, for while Richenza had not inherited her mother’s fair coloring—she had her father’s dark hair and eyes—she had been blessed in full measure with Tilda’s beauty.

Eleanor glanced at the girl from time to time as they crossed the bailey, drawing comfort from Richenza’s presence, for although she did not physically resemble her mother, she was still Tilda’s flesh-and-blood, evoking memories with the familiar tilt of her head, the sudden flash of dimples. She had Tilda’s tact, too, for she waited until they’d reached the castle gardens and were out of earshot of curious onlookers before voicing her concern.

“Grandame, forgive me if I am being intrusive. But you’ve seemed restless and out of sorts in these recent weeks. Would it help to talk about your worries?”

“No, child, but I bless you for your keen eye and your loving heart.”

Richenza revealed then how keen her eye really was. “Are you anxious about Uncle Richard’s safety in the Holy Land? I know I am.”

Eleanor regarded the girl in surprise. She hadn’t realized her granddaughter was so perceptive. “I have been melancholy of late,” she admitted, “but it will pass, Richenza. It always does.”

“God willing,” Richenza said softly. She wished that her grandmother was less guarded, for in sharing Eleanor’s sorrows, they could have shared hers, too. She still mourned her mother fiercely, and she suspected that Eleanor’s “melancholy” was a belated mourning for her own dead, all taken during last year’s fateful summer. A daughter dying in a foreign land. The woman who’d been her closest friend. And the husband who’d been partner, lover, enemy, and gaoler. Richenza had seen Henry and Eleanor together often enough to realize that theirs had been a complicated, volatile, and contradictory bond, one few others could understand. But to Richenza, it seemed quite natural that Eleanor could have rejoiced in the death that set her free while grieving for the man himself.

Eleanor reached out, stroking her granddaughter’s cheek. “You are very dear to me,” she said, adding briskly, “now I am going to speak with the castle chaplain about that altar cloth we’ve promised him. And you, my dearest, are going to bid your husband welcome.”

Following Eleanor’s gaze, Richenza saw that Jaufre had indeed ridden into the castle bailey, and a smile flitted across her lips, for she’d found marriage to her liking and when she offered up prayers for her uncle Richard, she prayed even more fervently that the Almighty would safeguard Jaufre, too, in that blood-soaked land where the Lord Christ had once walked. She waved to Jaufre before turning back to her grandmother. But Eleanor had gone.



ELEANOR HAD MENTIONED the altar cloth as a pretext, not wanting to continue the conversation. She had never found it easy to open her heart, especially to those of her own sex. She’d only had two female confidantes—her sister Petronilla and Henry’s cousin Maud, Countess of Chester. Petronilla had been dead for a number of years, but Maud’s loss was still raw, as she’d died barely six months ago. Glancing over her shoulder, Eleanor saw that Richenza was hastening to greet her husband. Turning away, she headed toward the chapel.

It was deserted at that hour and she found the stillness soothing. Pausing to dip her fingers in a holy water font reserved for clerics and the highborn—for even in church class differences were recognized—she moved up the nave. Kneeling before the altar, she offered prayers for lost loved ones. William, the first of her children to die, the image of that heartbreakingly tiny coffin still burned into her brain. Hal, the golden son, a wasted life. Geoffrey, called to God too soon. Tilda, a gentle soul surely spared the rigors of Purgatory. Maud, missed as much as Eleanor’s blood sister. And Harry, whose name had so often been both a caress and a curse. “Requiescat in pace,” she murmured and rose stiffly to her feet.

It had taken her by surprise, this quiet despondency. It was not dramatic or despairing, more like a low fever, but it had lingered in the weeks following the Christmas festivities. And because Eleanor the prisoner had mastered one skill that had often eluded Eleanor the queen and duchess—the art of introspection—she’d been giving some thought to this change in mood. Could Richenza be correct? Was it a mother’s anxiety that was fueling her unease?

There was justification for such fears, God knows. How many of the men who took the cross ever saw their homes again? Outremer had become a burial ground for thousands of foreign-born crusaders. And since she’d regained her freedom, she’d made a startling discovery about her eldest surviving son. Richard had won battlefield laurels at an early age, earning himself a well-deserved reputation for what their world most admired—military prowess. But his health was not as robust as his appearance would indicate; she’d learned that he was subject to recurrent attacks of quartan fever, contracted during one of his campaigns in the Limousin. And more men were killed by the noxious diseases and hellish heat of the Holy Land than by Saracen swords.

Or was it memories of last summer? So much had happened, so fast. On the day her husband had drawn his last, tortured breath, she’d been a royal captive. By nightfall, she was the most powerful woman in Christendom, the one person who had the complete trust of England’s new king. The news of Maud’s death had reached her soon after Richard’s coronation; it had taken longer for word of Tilda’s death to come from Germany. But there’d been little time to mourn, for in those early weeks of Richard’s kingship, they’d been riding the whirlwind.

The more she thought about her flagging spirits, the more it made sense to her. She was grieving for the dead and fearing for the living, for the son who’d always been closest to her heart. And because she was a political being to the very marrow of her bones, she feared, too, for her duchy and their kingdom should evil befall Richard in the Holy Land. She’d have given a great deal if only she could have convinced him to abandon his quest, or at least delay it until he was firmly established upon his throne. But she knew that was a hope as easily extinguished as a candle’s flame. Richard would gladly sacrifice his life, if in so doing he could free Jerusalem from the infidels.

Eleanor leaned against the altar. “Ah, Harry,” she said softly, “if only Richard shared your sense of practicality. You were satisfied to be a king, not the savior of Christendom.”

“Madame.”

Eleanor spun around, her cheeks burning. She wasn’t easily flustered, but being caught talking to her dead husband was embarrassing. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized the intruder. Constance of Brittany was once her daughter by marriage, but Eleanor regarded her now without warmth. “Lady Constance,” she said coolly as the younger woman dropped a rather perfunctory curtsy.

“My lady queen, may I speak with you?” Taking Eleanor’s consent for granted, Constance approached the altar. “I have come to ask a favor,” she said, although there was nothing of the supplicant in either her voice or her posture; Constance had learned at an early age to use pride as a shield. “It is my hope that you will speak with the king on my behalf. He claimed the custody of my daughter last autumn and sent her off to England despite the agreement I’d struck with his lord father. King Henry promised that he’d permit me to keep Aenor with me if I agreed to wed the Earl of Chester. I held to my side of the bargain, but now my daughter is gone and I’ve not seen her in nigh on six months. Where is the fairness in that?”

“Your deal was with Henry, not Richard. Does it truly surprise you that Richard regards you with suspicion? How many times did you ally yourself with his enemies? How many times did Geoffrey lead a Breton army into Aquitaine?”

“I’ve sought only to protect Brittany, to safeguard my duchy. I would think that you of all women would understand that, for Aquitaine has been the lodestar of your life. You even sacrificed your marriage for it. So how can you judge me?”

“I am not judging you for your devotion to your duchy,” Eleanor said icily. “I am faulting you for your inability to learn from your mistakes. You have never made a secret of your antipathy—”

“Are you saying I had no reason for resentment? Have you forgotten that Henry forced my father to abdicate and sent him into exile? I was five years old when I was torn from the only home I’d ever known and betrothed to his son. Yes, I bore him a grudge. I was not a saint.”

“Or a good wife to my son!”

Constance gasped, for she’d not seen that coming. “I do not know what you mean, Madame.”

“I mean that you did all you could to estrange Geoffrey from his family. Again and again you urged him to make war upon Richard, and then you convinced him to disavow his father and ally himself with our greatest enemy, the French king.”

“That is not true! I never encouraged Geoffrey to do that. It was his decision to seek out Philippe in Paris.”

Eleanor did not bother to hide her disbelief. “I am not saying you bear all the blame. Geoffrey must bear some, too, as must my husband. But this I do know for certes. If Geoffrey had not gone over to the French king, he’d not have been taking part in that tournament, and he’d still be alive today.”

The manifest unfairness of that left Constance momentarily speechless. “How dare you blame me for his death? I loved Geoffrey!”

“Did you, indeed?” Eleanor said skeptically. “I will grant you this much, Constance. I do believe you love your children. But you are putting their future in peril by your stubborn hostility toward Richard. If you were half as clever as you think you are, you’d see that. Richard will be facing daily dangers in the Holy Land, and if he dies there, he leaves no heir of his body, only his brother and his nephew—your son, Arthur. Any other woman would be doing whatever she could to gain Richard’s goodwill, to convince him that he should name Arthur as his successor in case he dies without a son of his own. But just as your desire for vengeance was stronger than your so-called love for Geoffrey, it is stronger than your responsibilities as a mother and as a duchess, for you cannot be such a fool as to believe Brittany would fare better under French rule.”

When Constance would have protested, Eleanor raised her hand in an imperious gesture. “There is nothing more for you to say. I will not intercede with Richard on your behalf—not until you prove that you can be trusted.” Brushing past the Breton duchess, she walked swiftly toward the door. Her outward calm was deceiving, for the accusations she’d made against Constance had ripped open a wound that had never fully healed. She’d had to accept the fact that Hal had brought about his own doom. But Geoffrey . . . surely Geoffrey could have been saved. If only Harry had not been so stubborn, if only Geoffrey had not been so proud. If only his wife had not been so vengeful and filled with malice.

Constance had begun to shake, so great was her fury and her pain. She was almost as angry with herself as she was with Eleanor, for she realized how badly she’d botched things. She’d made an enemy of the only woman who could have helped her. She’d ruined her one chance of getting her daughter back. I loved Geoffrey! The irony of her outburst did not escape her—that she’d admitted to Geoffrey’s mother what she’d never said to him.

She sank down on the step leading into the choir, wrapping her arms around her drawn-up knees to stop her trembling. How dare Eleanor accuse her of being a bad mother? Geoffrey’s parents had failed their children in so many ways, above all in having favorites. For Henry, it had been Hal and then John, and for Eleanor, Richard. Geoffrey had been the forgotten son. He’d always sworn that he’d never make that mistake with his children, that he would be a better father than his own. But he’d had so little time with Aenor and had never even seen his son, for Arthur had been born seven months after his death.

Tears had begun to burn Constance’s eyes, but she blinked them back, for what good would crying do? She could fling herself onto the floor of this church and weep and wail until she had no more tears, until her cries would echo unto Heaven. But Geoffrey would still be dead. She’d still be yoked to a man she could not abide. Her son would still face a precarious future, her daughter would still be a hostage, and Brittany would remain trapped between England and France, a rabbit hunted by wolves.

Constance hadn’t heard the soft footsteps approaching and her head came up sharply at the sound of her name. Angrily swiping the back of her hand against her wet cheeks, she frowned at the sight of the woman coming toward her. Since her arrival at Nonancourt, Alys Capet had been seeking her out at every opportunity, eager to reminisce about their shared past. It was true that Constance and Alys and Joanna had passed several years at the queen’s court in Poitiers, but friendship needed more than proximity to flourish. The fact was that Joanna had been too young, and Constance and Alys, while the same age, had never liked each other. Constance remembered even if Alys apparently did not, and she’d been hard put to be civil, as Alys insisted upon making their time together sound like an idyllic childhood. Now before she could get to her feet, Alys sat beside her upon the altar step.

“Constance, you’ve been weeping! What is wrong? May I be of any help?”

Her concern seemed genuine and, much to Constance’s dismay, she heard herself blurt out that she’d just sought Eleanor’s aid in recovering her daughter, to no avail. It was almost as if the words had escaped of their own will, for she’d never have chosen Alys as a confidante. But there was no calling them back, and Alys responded with such sympathy and indignation that Constance told her how Richard’s men had swooped down upon Brittany and carried Aenor off to England within a fortnight of his coronation. “They have been keeping her at Winchester,” she concluded bleakly, “and I have no idea when I’ll be able to see her again. . . .”

Alys had insisted upon putting a consoling arm around Constance’s shoulders, much to the latter’s discomfort. But at the mention of Winchester, Alys forgot about offering solace and looked at Constance in surprise. “Aenor is not at Winchester. She is in Normandy now. She traveled upon the queen’s own ship. Once we landed at Barfleur, the rest of us headed south toward Nonancourt to meet Richard whilst Aenor was sent to Rouen. You did not know?”

“Obviously not,” Constance snapped, her brain racing as she sought to process this new and startling bit of information. She was furious that no one had thought to inform her, but the mere fact that Aenor was no longer in England was surely a reason for rejoicing. At the least, visits would be much easier. Would Richard permit it, though? If she approached him in public, midst a hall filled with eyewitnesses, and asked for permission to see her daughter, how could he dare say no? He’d be shamed into agreeing. But she could not make the same mistake with him that she’d done with Eleanor. God help her, she must assume the role of a humble petitioner, swallow her pride even if she choked on it.

Alys had continued to talk, but Constance was so caught up in her own thoughts that she was no longer listening. It was only when she heard her mother’s name that she turned back to the other woman. “My mother?”

Alys nodded. “Yes, the Lady Margaret was permitted to visit Aenor at Winchester.” Doing her best to ease Constance’s worries, she said earnestly, “Aenor is being well treated, Constance, truly she is. At Winchester, she often played with the Lady Richenza’s little brother, and the queen made sure that well-bred palfreys were provided for her escort. She was sent off to Rouen in fine style, as befitting a child of her high birth.”

Constance had never doubted that Aenor would be comfortably housed or given solicitous servants, so she was not appeased to hear it confirmed. It was some comfort, though, that her mother had spent time with Aenor. Margaret had wed an English baron after the death of Constance’s father, and Constance had hoped she’d be able to keep an eye upon Aenor. Alys had a pleasant voice, but it was grating now on Constance’s nerves, for she needed time alone to marshal her thoughts and plan how best to approach Richard. She paid the other woman no heed until Alys said something so startling that she whipped her head around to stare at the French princess. “What did you say?”

By now they were both on their feet, brushing off their skirts. “I said that I can be of little assistance to you now, Constance. But once I am queen, I promise that I will do all in my power to have Aenor returned to you.”

Constance was dumbfounded. Did Alys truly believe that Richard was going to marry her? If so, she was more naïve than a novice nun and more forgiving than the Blessed Mother Mary. If she’d been treated as shabbily as Alys, Constance would have prayed every day for the demise of her tormentor. Where was Alys’s indignation, her spine?

But as she gazed into the other woman’s face, Constance was struck by Alys’s wide-eyed, girlish mien. Alys was the elder of the two by six months, would be thirty come October. At that age, she ought to have been in charge of her own household, presiding over her highborn husband’s domains in his absence, a mother and wife, mayhap even a queen. Instead, she’d spent these formative years in pampered, secluded confinement, with no duties or responsibilities, denied the chance to mature, denied her womanhood. And Constance suddenly understood why Alys had been so eager to claim a friendship that had existed only in her own imagination, why—despite all evidence to the contrary—she still clung to the romantic belief that she would marry the man to whom she’d been betrothed since the age of nine. Looked upon in that light, it was not even surprising. Who would expect a tame bird to fend for itself if it were set free after a lifetime of gilded captivity?

With this realization, Constance found herself faced with an uncomfortable dilemma. Should she be the one to shatter Alys’s illusions? Constance had little patience with fools, yet there was no cruelty in her nature. To tell Alys the truth was akin to pulling the wings off a butterfly. But someone had to tell her. Surely it would be less painful coming here and now. The alternative would be to hear it from Richard himself, and Constance did not trust him to be tactful as he trampled Alys’s dreams underfoot.

“Alys . . . there is something you must know, and better you hear it from me than from Richard. He has no intention of marrying you.”

Color flamed into Alys’s face and then ebbed, leaving her white and shaken. “That is not true! It was his father who kept delaying our marriage, not Richard.”

“Alys, you need to face the truth. Richard has been king for over six months. If he’d wanted to marry you, it would have happened by now. He has never had any interest in making you his wife, at first because your marriage portion was so meager and then because he no longer trusts your brother, the French king. None of this is your doing but you must—”

“No!” Alys shook her head vehemently, began to back away. “You have not changed at all, Constance, you are still as sharp-tongued and jealous as you always were!”

Constance blinked. “Jealous?”

“Yes, jealous! Joanna and I were raised to be queens, but you had to settle for less and you still resent me for it.”

Constance experienced the righteous resentment of a Good Samaritan not only rebuffed but accused of unworthy motives. She started to defend herself, but Alys had whirled and was halfway up the nave, making her escape in a swirl of silken skirts. Constance made no attempt to call her back. She’d done what she could. It was now up to Alys. She could accept the truth or continue to dwell in her fantasy world. Suddenly Constance felt very tired. Watching Alys retreat, she faced a bitter truth of her own—that she’d rather have been Geoffrey’s duchess than the queen of any kingdom under God’s sky.