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
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
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