A King's Ransom (129 page)

T
HERE WERE EIGHT MEN
in the chamber and all but one were in a state of high dudgeon. Constance sat in a window-seat and listened wearily. They were cursing John in the most intemperate language she had ever heard, and she was accustomed to the Angevins’ creative use of profanity; even the bishops of Rennes and Vannes were joining in. While they were enraged that John should meddle in Breton matters so blatantly, it was the choice of husband for Constance that had their tempers at full blaze. They considered it a mortal insult that John should have selected Guy de Thouars, a landless younger brother of a Poitevin lord, and none of them were shy about saying so.

At last the others fell silent, yielding to Guillaume des Roches and the de Vitré brothers, André and Robert. Des Roches was an Angevin lord, but Richard had given him the heiress of the barony of Sable, which lay close to Brittany, and he’d supported Arthur over John after Richard’s death. He’d been outraged, though, when Philippe had razed Ballon, a castle that ought to have been Arthur’s, and then disdainfully dismissed his protest as if it were of no matter. His had been the most vocal and persuasive voice of those urging Arthur to make peace with John. Now he was the only one urging them not to act rashly, saying the marriage was not as demeaning as the others claimed. He was at once shouted down.

“John is mocking us, my lady,” André de Vitré spat, “by offering you such an unworthy husband! The Duchess of Brittany to wed a man with no title, no lands of his own, no prospects?”

André’s denunciation was not quite accurate, for the viscounts of Thouars did not pass their lands from father to son, but from brother to brother, so although Aimery had three sons of his own, if Guy outlived him, he’d eventually become the next viscount. Constance knew that, but she did not bother to correct him, for the gist of his complaint was true. The possibility that Guy might one day inherit his brother’s title was not enough to transform him into a suitable match for the Duchess of Brittany. She did respond, however, when Robert de Vitré charged John with deliberately forcing her into a disparaging marriage to shame her, to shame them all.

“I am not defending John,” she said. “I’d sooner walk barefoot to Mont St Michel clad only in my chemise. But I do not think he chose Guy de Thouars because he wanted to degrade me. I suspect his primary concern is to see me wed to someone ‘safe,’ someone he can trust to do his bidding.”

They saw that as an even more damning accusation. Constance let them rant and fume, for she knew how little it meant. She’d known that John would exact a price for his peace and that she’d likely be the one to pay it. Her eyes came to rest upon her son, slouched down in the other window-seat; he was sulking because none of the men were paying him any mind and not happy at the thought of his mother remarrying.

“We have to face the truth,” she finally said, “however little we like it. John’s father forced me to wed a man of his choosing whilst he knew I was still grieving for Geoffrey, for his own son. Why should John be any more merciful? If I balk at wedding this man, he’ll compel me to wed another, one even less acceptable than Guy de Thouars, as punishment for my defiance.”

Their silence was a reluctant acknowledgment that they knew she was right. Only Arthur did not understand. “Maman? What will you do then?”

What I’ve always done—what I must.
“I think,” she said, “that I shall have to talk to Sir Guy.”

T
HEY WERE WALKING
in the palace gardens, trailed at a discreet distance by several of her ladies and barons, for Constance wanted to talk with Guy herself before subjecting him to an interrogation by her Breton lords. She did not know him well, but she’d not forgotten his kindness at St James de Beuvron, and she thought he was a decent man. Of course, so was Randolph of Chester, as loath as she was to admit that. She would never forgive him for holding her prisoner, yet she knew he was not evil. Slanting a sidelong glance toward Guy, she murmured, “So this took you by surprise, too?”

“Good God, yes!” he said and laughed. “I’d sooner have expected to be told the cardinals in Rome had elected our parish priest in Thouars as the next Pope.”

She found his candor refreshing, accustomed as she was to a world in which all had ulterior motives and royal courts were breeding grounds for intrigue and double-dealing. “My barons think John chose you because you lack a title, Sir Guy. I think he was more interested in your fidelity to the Angevin House.” Coming to a halt on the walkway, she looked up intently into his face. “I’ve been told that you were very loyal to Richard.”

He nodded, no longer smiling. “I would have followed the king into Hell itself if need be.”

That was not what she’d wanted to hear, but at least he’d been honest. “Well, you followed him to Germany,” she said dryly, “so that was close enough to Hell, I expect. And John?”

“He is my liege lord,” he said, and she gave him another searching look, for he sounded dutiful, not enthusiastic. Who would be enthusiastic about serving John, though, with his history of broken promises and betrayals? They walked in silence for several moments before he said, “There is this you must know, my lady. If we were to wed, my first loyalty would then be to you, as my wife.”

He sounded sincere. She knew how easily sincerity was feigned, yet she sensed no guile in him. “So you’d not resolve any of our marital disputes by locking me up in the castle keep?”

“Jesu, no!” he exclaimed before realizing that she was being flippant. He smiled again, ruefully this time. “My brother thinks I am a chivalrous fool,” he admitted, “and he may be right. But I am comfortable in my own skin, my lady, and have no desire to be other than as I am.”

Constance thought there were worse fates than being married to a chivalrous fool. “I believe you to be an honorable man,” she said, “and I think you have a good heart.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” he said lightly. “I was planning to plead my case with you. Yet I do not know how persuasive an argument it is to say, ‘You could do worse, much worse than me.’”

Constance was realizing that Guy was also quite likable—and that he had a very engaging smile. He was not at all like Geoffrey. But mayhap that was for the best. “Did you mean it when you said that if we were wed, your first loyalty would be to me?”

“Yes—to you and to our children.”

For some reason, that caught her by surprise. “You want children?”

“Of course. Do you not want them, too?”

During her marriage to the Earl of Chester, the last thing she’d wanted was to become pregnant. Whilst she was no longer young, women of thirty-eight could still get with child. Would she want that? “Yes . . . I think I do.”

Still, she hesitated. Was it such a risk, though? If he were to prove too troublesome, her barons could always run him out of Brittany as they had Chester. Why not take this attractive, good-humored man? For indeed, she could do much worse. “Very well,” she said. “I will marry you, Sir Guy.”

“You truly will?” He laughed, looking so boyishly elated that she could not help laughing, too. At least he had the mother wit to understand how lucky he was.

She was not expecting what he did next, for so far they’d discussed the marriage as the political arrangement it was. But he stepped forward then, tilted her face up to his, and kissed her.

“I shall do my best to make sure you have no regrets,” he vowed, and kissed her again. The first kiss had been tentative. This one was not, and Constance found herself responding to it. It had been so long since a man had shown her tenderness. She felt as if her body were awakening after years of sleep. His mouth was warm, and when he pulled her to him, she did not care that she was embracing a stranger in a public garden, probably under the shocked eyes of her ladies and barons.

When they ended the embrace, she gazed up at him in wonderment, for this was the first time that she’d felt herself free of Geoffrey’s ghost. He’d always hovered close at hand during her unsatisfactory couplings with Randolph, reminding her of all she’d had and lost. Was it possible that Guy de Thouars could exorcise his sardonic spirit, banish him back to the realm of memory where ghosts belonged?

It was obvious to her that Guy had been singed by the same flame. He was still holding her close, his body offering her flattering proof that he desired the woman, not just the duchess. “When,” he asked throatily, “can we wed? I’d say the sooner, the better!”

One of John’s spies later reported on their garden encounter, and upon being told that he’d seen Constance and Guy laughing together as if they were lovers, not political pawns, John frowned, for that was not what he’d expected to hear.

T
HE 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.

D
ENISE ENTERED THEIR BEDCHAMBER
at Châteauroux 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.”