Devil's Brood (93 page)

The scene in the great hall was a raucous one, a cheerful mélange of knights, minstrels, servants, disreputable-looking women, and dogs, who were dicing, performing bawdy songs, responding to cries for wine, laughing shrilly, and barking. Brother Euddogwy flushed, as if this unseemly uproar somehow reflected badly on him, but the serjeant took it in stride. Weaving nimbly among the clots of merrymakers, he soon made his way to the dais, with the monk following in his wake.

John was lounging in a high-backed chair with a blonde in his lap; she was younger and prettier than most of the women in the hall, for a king’s son naturally had the pick of the litter. He looked bored, seemed to be half listening to the girl’s prattle and the fawning courtiers hovering at his side, but Brother Euddogwy had learned that his careless pose was deceptive; he missed little of what occurred around him. His gaze soon settled upon the bedraggled messenger, and he beckoned the man up onto the dais.

“I am Master Lucas, my lord. I come from your father the king, and alas, I am the bearer of sad tidings.” He knelt and waited patiently until John shouted for silence, then drew out a sealed letter. “King Henry bids you return to England straightaway, as he no longer wants you to make the journey to Ireland.”

That was not well received by John’s mesnie, and they made their disappointment known with profanity-laced protests. John did not look pleased, either. “I wish my lord father would make up his mind,” he said peevishly, reaching out to take the letter.

Since he seemed in no hurry to open it, the serjeant took it upon himself to speak up. “That is not the message, my lord, merely its consequences. I regret to tell you that the Duke of Brittany was fatally injured in a French tournament.”

There was a shocked silence and then, to Brother Euddogwy’s horror, the hall burst into tipsy cheering. He watched in disgust as John was mobbed by his knights and hangers-on, each one wanting to be the first to congratulate him that he was now second in line to the English throne. That had not even occurred to the monk, but John’s men were euphoric, for this was every younger son’s dream, to be elevated by the Almighty.

Whatever John might have said was drowned out in the riotous din. Brother Euddogwy could not read his face, but he did not seem in need of religious comfort, so the monk took the serjeant to find the steward, who’d arrange for a meal and a bed. He then went to see the bedridden chaplain, feeling that Father Bartholomew ought to be told of the duke’s death.

He was heading again for the castle gateway when he heard footsteps behind him, and one of John’s squires came running across the bailey. “Brother, wait! My lord wants to see you!”

That surprised the monk, and he was even more surprised when he was led, not back to the hall, but to John’s private chamber. John was alone, pacing back and forth, his face shuttered and remote. “Come in, Brother. I want to ask you something.”

“How may I serve you, my lord?”

“I would like to have a Requiem Mass for my brother. Can you make the arrangements?”

“Of course, my lord!” Brother Euddogwy beamed, delighted by a natural reaction to tragedy after what he’d seen in the hall. “The castle chapel is not large enough, but we can use the priory church. Or if you’d prefer, I am sure the priest at St Mary’s will gladly make his church available.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

This was the first time that Brother Euddogwy found himself warming to the king’s son, and since he’d not been dismissed, he ventured to express his regrets and offer solace if he could. “I am very sorry for your loss, my lord. You and the duke were close, then?”

“No,” John said, “actually we were not. Whilst I was growing up, I thought my brothers were the spawn of Satan. But in the last few years, we’d gotten to know each other better. And when I needed him, he was there for me, providing generous support for my Poitevin campaign.”

Brother Euddogwy did not know how to respond to that, for only the Angevins would see a rebellion as an opportunity for brotherly bonding. “I will ask my prior if we may say daily prayers for your brother’s soul, my lord.”

“Thank you.” John moved to the only source of heat in the chamber, a brazier heaped with coals. He held his hands over the flames, glancing over his shoulder at the monk. “Does it ever stop raining in Wales?” he said, and then, “I wish it had been Richard.”

P
HILIPPE WASTED NO TIME
in demanding the wardship of Geoffrey’s daughters. Since Geoffrey had done homage to him for Brittany, he was the duke’s rightful liege lord and ought to have custody of the little girls. Henry naturally did not agree, contending that the right of wardship was his. Neither king bothered to consult Constance.

T
HE DUCAL CASTLE
at Nantes was crowded with highborn Breton lords, their ladies, and retainers. Constance’s mother Margaret had come from England for her daughter’s confinement. Two of Constance’s female friends, Clemencia de Fougères and Mathilde de Mayenne, were present, too, and both young women had been escorted by their male kin, Clemencia by her grandfather, Raoul, and Mathilde by her husband, André de Vitré. Clemencia’s betrothed, Alain de Dinan-Vitré was also there, as was Maurice de Lire, the Seneschal of Nantes, and several churchmen.

Normally the men would not have accompanied the women at such a time. Not only were males barred from the birthing chamber, the process of childbirth was shrouded in female tradition and myth. But Raoul de Fougères and the de Vitré brothers, André and Alain, were men of power and influence, men with a keen interest in the future of their duchy, and they’d seized this opportunity to be among the first to learn the results of their duchess’s confinement.

They were seated in chairs by the smoking central hearth in the great hall, passing the hours drinking and making idle conversation. The one subject they assiduously avoided was what was occurring in Constance’s birthing chamber. They were superstitious enough not to want to discuss it beforehand, but they all knew what was at stake, possibly the very survival of their duchy. If Constance gave birth to a third daughter, it was just a matter of time until she’d be compelled to make another marriage, and she and her lords would have little say in the matter. The husband would be chosen by the English or French king, depending upon which one prevailed in their competing claims to lordship over Brittany.

They’d been very lucky in Constance’s first husband, for Geoffrey had proven himself to be dedicated to the duchy’s welfare and shrewd enough to ingratiate himself with the Breton barons. They doubted that they’d be so fortunate again, for it was Geoffrey’s status as the king’s son that had enabled him to assert so much independence. Constance’s next husband was likely to be a mere puppet of the English or French king; they’d see to that.

If, however, Constance gave birth to a boy, that altered the dynamics, as the focus would shift to her son. Her role would change, and she’d be acting as regent for the infant duke. Henry and Philippe would still want her safely wed to a husband of their choosing. The new husband’s influence would be circumscribed, though, for he would not be the father of the heir. Geoffrey’s unexpected death had plunged his wife into grieving and the duchy into great peril, its future dependent upon the sex of the child being born on this Easter Sunday in late March.

The men thought it was a good omen that their duchess’s pangs had begun on so holy a day, but their edginess increased as the hours dragged by. As evening drew nigh, they sought to distract themselves with an intent discussion of the dangers facing the Holy Land. André de Vitré had passed two years in Outremer, and he’d returned to Brittany with compelling stories of the tragic Baldwin IV, the Leper King. André had great admiration for Baldwin’s courage and stoic acceptance of his affliction; he’d died at the age of twenty-three soon after André’s departure, naming his nine-year-old nephew as king. But the boy was sickly and he’d died not long afterward, leaving the fate of the Kingdom of Jerusalem in the hands of his mother, Sybilla, and her much mistrusted husband, Guy, one of the notorious de Lusignan clan.

André had stories to tell, too, of the man many considered to be Outremer’s most dangerous foe, Sultan Salah al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, known to much of Christendom as Saladin. He’d been defeated by King Baldwin at Montgisard eight years ago, but had suffered few reverses since then, now ruled Syria as well as Egypt. He was one of those men about whom legends formed, and André was easily persuaded to recount the most famous of these tales, although he warned he could not vouch for its veracity.

“Saladin launched an attack upon Kerak, the stronghold of his blood enemy, Raynald de Châtillon. As it happened, a wedding had just taken place—Raynald’s stepson and the young half sister of King Baldwin. The story goes that the groom’s mother sent out some of the wedding dishes for Saladin, and he asked where the wedding-night chamber was located. He then ordered his men not to turn their siege engines upon that part of the castle, not wanting to disturb the newlywed couple.”

The men laughed and André continued, relating that the king’s army had arrived in time to lift the siege, with Baldwin too weak by then to ride, but insisting upon accompanying his men in a horse litter. “It is often thought that leprosy is the judgment of God,” he said somberly, “but none who knew Baldwin could believe that his suffering was the result of sin. He was a man of honor and had he only been spared the scourge of leprosy, the Holy Land would not be in such peril—”

He stopped so abruptly that the others looked up in surprise. When he leaped to his feet, they followed his example, for they now saw what had drawn his attention: the woman just entering the hall. In recent hours, Clemencia and Matilde had made brief appearances to report on the progress of the birthing, assuring the men that all was going as it ought. But at the sight of Constance’s mother, a stir swept the hall, for surely her presence must mean the child had been born.

Margaret’s visage gave away nothing of her thoughts; she looked tired yet composed. But then she favored them with a smile resplendent enough to light the hall. “My daughter,” she said, “has given birth to a fine, healthy son.” And after that, there was such chaos that the rest of her words were drowned out.

M
ARGARET COULD STILL HEAR
the clamor as she left the hall. By the sound of it, they’d be celebrating until dawn, she thought, and why not? God had been good to Brittany this Easter night, good to her daughter.

But as soon as she reentered Constance’s chamber, she discovered there’d been a dramatic development. She’d left her daughter, exhausted and pale, smiling at her son. Now Constance was crumpled upon her bed, sobbing so despairingly that her entire body was trembling, while the other women clustered around her in dismay.

“Madame!” Juvette greeted her with obvious relief. “She just began weeping of a sudden and we’ve been unable to console her.”

Marveling that the girl sounded so surprised, Margaret took charge, soon had the chamber cleared of all but the midwife, who was bathing the baby. Skirting the overturned birthing stool, she sat on the bed and gathered her daughter into her arms. “You go ahead, dearest, and cry,” she said soothingly. “You’ve earned the right.”

After a time, Constance’s shudders eased, her breathing no longer as ragged and choked. Raising her wet face from her mother’s lap, she regarded Margaret with swollen, dark eyes. “I was so happy, Maman, but then…” She swallowed with difficulty, hiccupped, and struggled to sit up. Margaret slid a supportive arm around her shoulders, helping her onto the pillows, before she rose and brought a wine cup back to the bed, watching as Constance obediently took a few sips.

“I would have been astonished if you’d not given way to tears, Constance. As great as your joy is, how could it not be bittersweet? You have what you most wanted in this world—a son, a son that Geoffrey will never get to see or hold or protect. You cannot exalt in what you’ve gained without mourning what you’ve lost.”

That made sense to Constance. “Yes…” she said huskily, wiping away the last of her tears with the corner of the sheet, and Margaret looked over at the midwife, standing a few feet away with the newly swaddled infant. When she nodded, the midwife approached the bed and gently handed him to Constance. Geoffrey had often called Aenor his “perfect little pearl,” and Constance thought now that their son was perfect, too, a warm, breathing blessing in her arms, a miraculous reprieve for her duchy.

The midwife stepped back, beaming. “Have you chosen a name, Madame?”

Constance smiled drowsily. “I was favoring Margaret for a daughter, Geoffrey for a son. But then my father-in-law the English king sent us word that if the baby was a boy, he would like him to be named Henry in his honor.”

She glanced up briefly, finding it difficult to take her eyes away from her baby’s face. “After that, my lords and I knew there could be but one name for my son. We shall name him after a great Breton king. We shall call him Arthur.”

T
HE FRENCH KING
demanded the wardship of Arthur, as he had done with the infant duke’s sisters, and he insisted, too, that Henry stop Richard from making war upon his vassal, the Count of Toulouse. Philippe then ordered the arrest of any of Henry’s subjects found in his domains, and Henry responded by arresting the French king’s subjects. Skirmishing erupted in the Vexin, and an April meeting between the two kings resolved nothing. Both sides prepared for war. Henry divided up his army, giving separate commands to Richard, John, Geoff, and William de Mandeville. Philippe mustered his army at Bourges, and in June he invaded Berry, an ongoing source of contention between the French kings and the dukes of Aquitaine.

J
OHN HAD LONG KNOWN
he was uncomfortable in small or enclosed spaces, but he discovered in June that the worst sort of confinement was to be trapped in a castle under siege. Sent south by Henry to counter the threat in Berry, he and Richard had set up command in the castle at Châteauroux, and soon found themselves fending off an assault by the French army.

This was John’s first taste of a siege, and so far he didn’t care much for the experience. It bothered him more than he’d expected, to know he was a hostage of sorts; like a trout in a fish weir, he thought morosely. He was not truly worried that the castle might fall to Philippe, for they’d sent word to Henry of their plight. Richard would have been his last choice of company in a castle under siege, though. Moreover, he was soon utterly bored, for he did not share the pleasure Richard seemed to take in manning the castle’s defenses. He’d heard of sieges lasting for months. How had such beleaguered men not gone stark mad out of the sheer tedium of their days?

He knew he should try to sleep, for with daybreak the bombardment would begin again. He was too restless to stay in his bedchamber, though, and eventually wandered over to the great hall, hoping that he might find some men still awake. A dice game seemed as good a way as any to pass the hours.

The hall was crowded with knights and soldiers, sleeping on pallets and blankets, using their boots as pillows. Rush-lights still burned in wall sconces, casting a smoky pall over air already stale and sweltering because of the shuttered windows. But a handful of men were still up, shooting dice in a corner, albeit without much enthusiasm. John headed toward them, only to stop when he spotted his brother. Richard was by himself in a window-seat, softly plucking the strings of a small harp. “So you cannot sleep either,” he commented, so amiably that John found himself pausing, for most of the time his older brother treated him with offhand indifference or outright condescension.

“Why are you not abed?” he asked, for Richard had passed a very demanding day; when not up on the battlements, he was overseeing their mangonels, checking upon the wounded, handing out casual compliments to soldiers who acted—to John’s annoyance—as if his words were gold, prowling the castle like a sheepdog keeping a watchful eye out for predators, determined to keep the flock safe.

“My body’s tired enough,” Richard acknowledged, “but my brain will not slow down. I keep thinking of possible weaknesses in our defenses or wondering how long our supplies will last or worrying that some of the sentries are too sleepy to stay alert.”

“You think they might try a night assault?”

“I would in Philippe’s place. But I doubt that he has the ballocks for it.”

John sat down across from Richard in the window-seat, although he wasn’t sure why. “You think our father will get here soon?”

Richard continued to strum the harp, but he gave John a curious look. “You are joking, right?”

“No…why?”

“Because you are trapped with me, of course. Now, if it were just me, he might be sorely tempted to take his time. But for you, he’ll be killing horses in his haste to get here.”

He laughed, but John remembered that Geoffrey had occasionally told bald truths in the guise of humor and he wondered if that were true for Richard, too. He started to remind his brother that their father had often ridden to his rescue in the past, but the words that emerged from his mouth seemed to come of their own volition. “Do you hate me for that?”

Richard blinked. “For what?’

John had been as surprised as Richard by what he’d said. He was committed now, though, and had no choice but to continue. “For Papa favoring me over you.”

Richard didn’t seem to have given the matter much thought before. He was quiet for a moment, considering. “No,” he finally said. “I cannot say I was overly fond of Hal or Geoffrey, but I hold no grudge against you, lad.”

“Why not?” John demanded, feeling somehow insulted by his brother’s lack of rancor. “I did invade your duchy, after all!”

Richard was starting to look amused. “Far be it from me to deny you the credit for that bit of treachery.”

“You just assumed that it was all Geoffrey’s doing,” John said accusingly, “the way Papa did! As if I could not possibly have formed the intent upon my own, even after you mocked me like that!”

“When did I mock you?”

“That day at Le Mans. When Papa said Aquitaine was mine if I could take it, you looked me up and down and then laughed.”

“Did I? I’ll take your word for it, Johnny. If it makes you feel better, though, I never imagined Geoffrey had dragged you along at knifepoint. The reason I am willing to let bygones be bygones is because you were all of…what? Sixteen? It was only to be expected that you’d act like a damned fool. God knows, I did at sixteen.”