Sir Robert de Montalt was no longer young, had advanced well into his fifties, time enough to have acquired a philosophical approach to the vicissitudes of fortune. If he felt any resentment now at being ushered, a prisoner, into his own solar, he was too politic to let it show in his face.
“My lord Llewelyn,” he said, stiffly correct. “I assume, of course, that you mean to raze the castle.”
“Of course,” Llewelyn agreed politely, secretly amused, as always, at the Norman insistence upon preserving the amenities. As if war were a game of sorts, to be played according to recognized rules.
Robert de Montalt gestured toward the table. “I will, with your permission, write to my brother, tell him that our men shall be set free once your forces withdraw. May I ask what price you mean to put upon my freedom?”
Llewelyn calculated rapidly. “I think seven hundred marks to be a fair sum.”
It was steep, but not exorbitant, and de Montalt nodded. “You will take partial payment in cattle and horses, I trust?”
“Naturally,” Llewelyn said, no less gravely, not daring to meet Ednyved’s eyes lest he laugh, reveal what a charade he thought this to be.
The other men were now being escorted into the solar. The first was a flaxen-haired youth, expensively armed. He did not look particularly pleased by his predicament, but neither did he look all that worried. Here, Llewelyn saw, was another games-player, confident that men of rank would always make common cause against those of inferior birth, acknowledge their membership in an international aristocracy of class. They would never understand, Llewelyn knew, that he felt a greater kinship to the least-born Welshman than to the highest-born Norman lord.
His eyes narrowed, though, at sight of the second man. “Well, Tom,” he said coolly, “you’re a long way from home.”
Thomas was not cowed. “So are you,” he shot back. “This is Powys, not Gwynedd.”
Aubrey decided Thomas Corbet was indeed mad. All knew the Welsh were as unpredictable a people as could be found in Christendom, and common sense dictated that a man did not bait a bear in its own den. “You are, of course, Prince Llewelyn,” he said hastily. “I am Sir Aubrey de Mara of Falaise, cousin to Lord Ralph and Sir Robert de Montalt.” He turned then to de Montalt, smiled ruefully. “I regret I must impose upon our kinship, Cousin, must request that your brother pay my ransom. My lord father will, naturally, reimburse you.”
With such a victory, Llewelyn could afford to be generous. “Add another hundred marks for your cousin, Sir Robert, and I shall be content.”
Aubrey grinned. “I do not know whether I should be thankful to escape so cheaply,” he confessed, “or insulted that you do not value my worth more highly!”
Llewelyn laughed, and upgraded Aubrey in his estimation; generally, when a man was bested in combat, his sense of humor was the first casualty.
“Well, you two can barter what you will for your freedom, but I’ll be damned ere I pay so much as a penny for mine,” Thomas said truculently, and Aubrey and de Montalt jerked their heads about, stared at him in astonishment. There was on Aubrey’s face grudging admiration for so bold a stance, yet resentment, too, for his own easy acceptance of his plight suddenly seemed less than honorable when contrasted with Thomas’s defiance.
Llewelyn was regarding Thomas with unconcealed contempt, but it was to Aubrey that he said, “Mwyaf trwst llestri gweigion. In your language that translates as, ‘Empty vessels make the most noise.’ Your heroic friend knows full well that his release is already secured, bought with his Corbet blood. I do owe Hugh Corbet too much to claim the life of his nephew, and, as ever, he does trade upon that.”
Thomas had flushed angrily. “I accept no favors from Welshmen!”
Llewelyn, too, was angry now. “You’re an even bigger fool than I once thought…Cousin. That does not, however, alter the debt I owe your uncle. But come the day when he’s gone to God, I shall be sorely tempted to burn Caus Castle around your head. I’d think on that, if I were you.”
Thomas opened his mouth, and Aubrey jabbed him with an elbow. “For Christ’s sake,” he hissed, “do not stretch your luck!”
“My Prince!” It was Dylan again, pushing before him a fearful youngster of eighteen or so. “This one ran right into our scouts, claims he has an urgent message for de Montalt.”
The boy fumbled within his tunic and withdrew two rolled parchments. With an apologetic glance toward Robert de Montalt, he knelt and handed the messages to Llewelyn.
De Montalt had stiffened. He watched tensely as Llewelyn broke his brother’s seal. He saw surprise upon the latter’s face; Llewelyn said something in Welsh, and the others looked no less startled.
“Cousin?” Aubrey had sidled closer. “See the second dispatch? Does it not bear His Grace of Chester’s seal? The news, then, is from Normandy.”
The Welsh were still talking among themselves, with considerable animation. Several were smiling, but Llewelyn looked suddenly pensive. He walked toward them, said to de Montalt, “Your brother has just received a letter from the Earl of Chester. Your King Richard was sore wounded whilst besieging Châlus Castle; he died on the sixth of April.”
Thomas did not appear overly affected by the news of his King’s demise, but de Montalt was stunned and Aubrey stricken. He sagged back against the wall, whispered, “Jesú have mercy upon his soul.”
Thomas dutifully crossed himself at that, then blurted out, with the single-mindedness of the true pragmatist, “Whom did he name as his heir, John or Arthur?”
“His brother John.” Llewelyn’s eyes flicked from the letter to the ashen-faced de Montalt. “If you wish,” he said, “your chaplain may offer up prayers for Richard’s soul.”
De Montalt swallowed, nodded. “He…he was a great soldier.”
Llewelyn nodded, too; that he could acknowledge in all honesty.
As soon as the Welsh were alone in the solar, Llewelyn’s companions crowded around him. “What of Arthur, Llewelyn? Did he not put in his claim, too?”
Llewelyn glanced again at the letter. “Indeed he did, Ednyved. Chester says rebel barons of Brittany and Touraine laid siege to Angers and Le Mans, proclaimed Arthur as Richard’s rightful heir. He says John almost fell into their hands at Le Mans, but he was able to reach safety at Rouen, and there the Norman lords did rally to him, answering his call to arms. He led an army back into Anjou, razed the castle at Le Mans, and burned the city. Arthur escaped, fled to the French court, and John seems like to prevail. Chester writes that he was invested as Duke of Normandy on the twenty-fifth, that he sails for England within the fortnight.”
“Llewelyn?” Rhys was frowning. “What means this to us? Are we the better or the worse for his death?”
“I would that I knew, Rhys. For certes, I’d rather have seen Arthur crowned over John; a twelve-year-old lad would cast no great shadow in Wales. As for John…I hope I am wrong, but he may well prove to be more troublesome than ever his brother was. For all his vaunted skill with a sword, Richard never bothered much with Wales. Or with England, either, if truth be told. He was King for ten years, and how often was he even on English soil? Twice, I do believe! But John has no interest in crusades or foreign campaigns, is like to make England the central jewel in his crown. And he knows our ways better than most; he was, as Earl of Gloucester, himself a Marcher border lord. No, I suspect we’ve no reason for rejoicing that John is to be King.
“King John,” Llewelyn repeated softly. “Morgan is a better prophet than even he knows. Once, years ago, he told me our lives should entwine, John’s and mine. And, so it now seems, they shall.”
10
Fontevrault Abbey, Province of Anjou
June 1200
The royal abbey of St Mary of Fontevrault was young in years when measured against the timeless span of stone and mortar, but few religious orders were as influential or as wealthy. Matilda de Boheme, the proud, pious woman who ruled as Abbess, was related both by blood and marriage to the great Houses of Champagne
and Blois, and the thriving community within Fontevrault’s walls included a convent for wellborn nuns, a monastery for monks and lay brothers, a hospital for lepers, a home for those nuns and monks grown too old to serve God in other than prayer, even a shelter for penitent prostitutes. At Fontevrault were buried the Plantagenet dead of Henry’s House, and Eleanor was often an honored guest of the Abbess. Taken ill that spring, she had chosen to convalesce in the white-walled stillness of the abbey, and lingered there weeks later, having found an unexpected contentment in the cloistered and placid peace, so utterly lacking in the turbulence and high drama that had marked her life for almost eight decades.
The Abbess Matilda welcomed her with heartfelt gladness; theirs was a friendship of genuine affection, if not genuine intimacy. She wondered, though, how long it would be before Eleanor’s restless spirit would begin to yearn for the pleasures of the world that was truly hers, the glittering court at Poitiers, where for almost sixty-five years she had reigned in her own right as Duchess of Aquitaine. Eleanor was not, she knew, a woman ever to renounce power, no matter the accompanying pain…and pain there had been in plenitude.
Looking pensively at Eleanor’s sculptured profile, at the face so familiar and yet so unrevealing, Matilda found herself thinking of all the griefs Eleanor had endured in recent months. Death had claimed four of her children in a heartbreakingly brief span. Both the daughters born of her marriage to the French King were now dead; Richard had died in her arms, and not five months later, she’d stood a ghastly vigil over yet another child, as Joanna died giving birth to a stillborn son. She had, Matilda thought, been no luckier as a mother than she had been as a wife. Of the ten children she’d borne, she’d buried eight, had only a daughter in distant Castile and the son she was even now awaiting, the last of her eaglets—and the least loved.
And yet Matilda knew she had labored tirelessly for that same son to gain for him the Angevin crown, had then exhausted herself seeking to win recognition of his right. She’d traversed the length and breadth of her domains on his behalf, formally designated him as heir to her duchy of Aquitaine, and, lastly, undertaken for him a grueling journey that would have daunted a woman half her age. This past January, Philip and John had come to terms, sought to secure peace with the marriage of Philip’s son and John’s niece. Eleanor took it upon herself to fetch the young Spanish bride, child of the daughter sent so long ago to wed the King of Castile. Daring a dangerous winter crossing of the Pyrenees, she’d brought her granddaughter to Normandy for the wedding that would one day make her Queen of France. But however indomitable her spirit still was, her body was in its seventy-ninth year, and she’d fallen gravely ill upon her return, had been forced to miss the royal wedding she’d done so much to bring about.
Eleanor rose, moved restlessly to the window and back again. John had sent word that he’d be arriving at noon; he was already two hours late.
“This will be the first time that you’ve seen your son since the wedding, will it not, Madame?” Matilda would have liked to discuss the controversial peace that the wedding was meant to warrant. The treaty was not proving popular in England, where men long accustomed to Richard’s readiness to wage war for honor and profit looked askance at any resolution not bought with blood. Among those most eager for plunder and among those who’d have cheered the campaign on from the battle lines of London alehouses, John had earned himself a derisive sobriquet, one utterly at odds with the admiring “Richard Lion-Heart” that had been bestowed upon his brother: “John Softsword.” But Matilda knew better than to broach the subject; Eleanor did not share confidences, least of all about her youngest son.
“Madame…” A young novice nun stood in the doorway. “Madame, the King’s Grace has just ridden into the garth.”
“…And we celebrated the wedding the day after Philip and I concluded the treaty. We had to hold it across the border in Normandy, of course, what with France being under Interdict, and Philip had to get a secondhand account of the ceremony, since he’s barred from all the Sacraments.”
At that, John and Eleanor exchanged identical amused smiles, for the French King’s marital troubles had only grown more tangled with time, had now embroiled him in a confrontation with the Holy See. It was seven years since he’d rejected Ingeborg, four since he’d defiantly wed the Duke of Meran’s daughter, and the Pope had at last lost patience. Six months ago he had turned upon Philip one of the more effective weapons in the papal arsenal, laying France under Interdict until the King agreed to set aside his present wife and recognize the long-suffering Ingeborg as his Queen.
“A pity you had to miss all the festivities, Madame…especially that memorable moment when Philip compelled Arthur to do homage to me for the duchy of Brittany, to acknowledge me as his King and liege lord. If I’d gained nothing else from the treaty, the look on Arthur’s face would be recompense enough!”
This last was said with a trace of defiance. John knew what was being said in alehouse and army encampment—that his brother Richard would never have made such a peace—and he’d come prepared to defend himself with irrefutable logic and common sense. But his relationship with his mother was too tenuous, too fraught with ambivalence and inconsistencies to be governed by the detached dictates of reason.
Instead of citing the very material advantages of peace with Philip, he found himself saying sarcastically, “But I’m discovering that a truce not won at swordpoint is somehow suspect. People crave glory, I give them peace, and they fancy themselves the poorer for it. What of you, Madame? Do you, too, fault me for renouncing glory in favor of crops in the fields and money in my coffers?”
Eleanor gave a startled laugh. “Good God, no! Do you know me as little as that? War is the least productive of men’s pastimes, and the most indulgent. Why should I want you to fight for what you can gain at the bargaining table?”
John was pleased, but still wary. “I yielded to Philip only that which I could not hope to hold on the field,” he said cautiously. “The truth of it, Mother, is that I cannot afford a war. The money is just not there.”
They both knew why: because Richard had depleted the royal treasury with his wars, his crusade, his ransom. Eleanor said nothing, and John, disarmed by her unexpected approval, forbore for once to criticize the son she still mourned.
“Not that I expect the peace to last,” he admitted. “But it will give me the time I need to replenish my coffers, to checkmate Arthur, and to deal with trouble from a source I had not expected—you have heard? Despite years of rivalry and bad blood, the Count of Angoulême means to wed his daughter to that whoreson de Lusignan. It is a marriage guaranteed to give me naught but grief.”
Eleanor’s mouth twisted; in their dislike of Hugh de Lusignan, she and John were in rare and full accord. That past January, as Eleanor was setting out for Castile, she’d been intercepted by Hugh de Lusignan, compelled to accept the hospitality of his stronghold at Lusignan Castle. Just as de Lusignan’s invitation could fairly be termed an abduction, the favor he sought from Eleanor was more in the nature of extortion than appeal: that she yield to him the county of La Marche. Eleanor was proud, but hers was a pride tempered by pragmatism; making a grimly realistic assessment of her predicament, she acted to cut her losses, gave de Lusignan what he demanded, and, within hours, was free to resume her journey westward. John, on the verge of making peace with Philip, could do little but acquiesce in the fait accompli, accept de Lusignan’s homage as the new Count of La Marche. But he knew that de Lusignan would never have dared to commit such an audacity while Richard lived, and that was a raw, ulcerous sore, a grievance beyond forgiving.
“Yes,” Eleanor said flatly, “I heard. That is why I summoned you to Fontevrault. We know what Hugh de Lusignan is; the man has the scruples of a snake. But the Count of Angoulême is another malcontent who serves only his own interests, and both of them are hand-in-glove with Philip. Should they put an end to their feuding, ally their Houses in this marriage, that would one day give Hugh
both Angoulême and La Marche. We cannot allow the marriage to take place…although I confess I’m at a loss as to how to prevent it. You dare not forbid it outright; as jealous as my barons be of their rights, every lord in Aquitaine would rally to their support.”
“If I forbid it, yes.” John leaned back in his chair. “Yesterday I summoned the Count of Angoulême to do homage to me on July fifth…at Lusignan Castle.”
“You what?” Eleanor’s eyes widened. “The three of you under one roof? That is a volatile mix if ever I heard one! What mean you to do, John?”
“I mean to stop the marriage.”
“But how? I do not see…”
“I’d rather not say just yet. I will tell you this much, that if I succeed, Aymer of Angoulême and Hugh de Lusignan will be blood enemies till the day of mortal reckoning and beyond, and I’ll have made of Aymer a steadfast ally—which is more, Madame, than Richard could ever do. And if it also happens that Hugh de Lusignan should find himself a laughingstock, the butt of every jest from Poitiers to Paris—well, that’s not like to break my heart. Nor yours, either, I’d wager.”
Eleanor did not respond as he had expected. After some moments of silence, she said thoughtfully, “If you are asking whether I’d like to see Hugh de Lusignan humiliated, of course I would. If you are asking whether I think it would be wise, I’d have to say no. With all the enemies you have, John, vengeance is an indulgence you can ill afford right now.”
John was irked, disappointed, too. “Life at Fontevrault is making you very pious, Mother. Next you’ll be quoting Scriptures.”
“I’m talking of foresight, not of forgiveness,” Eleanor snapped, but John was already on his feet. She tensed, but did not protest. With Richard, she could have insisted that he stay, hear her out. She had no such leverage with John, and well she knew it.
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