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.
CHAPTER 5
MARCH 1190
Nonancourt Castle, Normandy
In order to have a private conversation without fear of eavesdroppers, Eleanor had retreated to her bedchamber with her son. After dismissing her attendants, Richard joked that they ought to plug the keyhole with candle wax to thwart any French spies. Taking the wine cup he was holding out, Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Is your news as incendiary as that?”
Richard had seated himself by the fire, stretching long legs toward its welcome warmth—for spring came later to Normandy than it did to their beloved Aquitaine—and regarded her enigmatically over the rim of his wine cup. “Let’s just say it is news that Philippe would pay dearly to have, news I do not intend to share with him when we meet at Dreux on Friday.”
“May I hope that you do intend to share it with me . . . eventually?” But Eleanor’s impatience was feigned, for she was accustomed to this sort of teasing. Henry had been a master of suspense, too. It struck her how alike her husband and son were, doubtless one of the main reasons why they’d so often been at odds.
“You know I was in Aquitaine last month. I spent several days in Gascony at La Réole, and during that time I had a very private meeting with trusted agents of the King of Navarre.”
“Did you now?” Eleanor sat back in her chair, a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. They’d talked about this before, the possibility of a marital alliance with the Navarrese king, and were in agreement as to its potential. “I know you’ve raised the matter with Sancho in the past. I take it he is still interested.”
“Why would he not be? We still do have some issues to agree upon. So when I’m back in the south later this spring, I will meet again with his envoys, mayhap his son. What do they say about marriage contracts, Maman—that the Devil is in the details? But I am confident that we have an understanding, for it will be a good deal for both sides. I gain a valuable alliance, and God knows I’ll need a reliable ally to safeguard my southern borders from that whoreson in Toulouse. It is not by chance that Count Raimon is the only lord of note who has not taken the cross. He thinks this will be a rare opportunity to wreak havoc whilst I am occupied in the Holy Land. I’d wager he is already laying plans to invade Quercy even as we speak. But between Sancho and Alfonso,” he said, referring to the King of Aragon, a friend since boyhood, “I think they can keep him in check until I return.”
“Yes, it would be an advantageous match,” Eleanor agreed. Neither bothered to mention what Navarre was gaining from it, for that was obvious. Sancho’s daughter would become Queen of England, a lofty elevation for a young woman from a small Spanish kingdom. Sipping her wine contentedly, she studied her son, thinking he was taking pleasure, too, in outwitting the French king, for their friendship had been one of expediency, and once
“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.
CHAPTER 5
MARCH 1190
Nonancourt Castle, Normandy
In order to have a private conversation without fear of eavesdroppers, Eleanor had retreated to her bedchamber with her son. After dismissing her attendants, Richard joked that they ought to plug the keyhole with candle wax to thwart any French spies. Taking the wine cup he was holding out, Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Is your news as incendiary as that?”
Richard had seated himself by the fire, stretching long legs toward its welcome warmth—for spring came later to Normandy than it did to their beloved Aquitaine—and regarded her enigmatically over the rim of his wine cup. “Let’s just say it is news that Philippe would pay dearly to have, news I do not intend to share with him when we meet at Dreux on Friday.”
“May I hope that you do intend to share it with me . . . eventually?” But Eleanor’s impatience was feigned, for she was accustomed to this sort of teasing. Henry had been a master of suspense, too. It struck her how alike her husband and son were, doubtless one of the main reasons why they’d so often been at odds.
“You know I was in Aquitaine last month. I spent several days in Gascony at La Réole, and during that time I had a very private meeting with trusted agents of the King of Navarre.”
“Did you now?” Eleanor sat back in her chair, a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. They’d talked about this before, the possibility of a marital alliance with the Navarrese king, and were in agreement as to its potential. “I know you’ve raised the matter with Sancho in the past. I take it he is still interested.”
“Why would he not be? We still do have some issues to agree upon. So when I’m back in the south later this spring, I will meet again with his envoys, mayhap his son. What do they say about marriage contracts, Maman—that the Devil is in the details? But I am confident that we have an understanding, for it will be a good deal for both sides. I gain a valuable alliance, and God knows I’ll need a reliable ally to safeguard my southern borders from that whoreson in Toulouse. It is not by chance that Count Raimon is the only lord of note who has not taken the cross. He thinks this will be a rare opportunity to wreak havoc whilst I am occupied in the Holy Land. I’d wager he is already laying plans to invade Quercy even as we speak. But between Sancho and Alfonso,” he said, referring to the King of Aragon, a friend since boyhood, “I think they can keep him in check until I return.”
“Yes, it would be an advantageous match,” Eleanor agreed. Neither bothered to mention what Navarre was gaining from it, for that was obvious. Sancho’s daughter would become Queen of England, a lofty elevation for a young woman from a small Spanish kingdom. Sipping her wine contentedly, she studied her son, thinking he was taking pleasure, too, in outwitting the French king, for their friendship had been one of expediency, and once
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