‘No cause? Needless?’

‘Let me finish, François. She might produce a boy, but who’s to say she will? She’s had two daughters already, and may produce another. No court in the land would uphold the claim of a girl against you, my son.’

‘I agree St Clair’s mistress could produce a girl, but what’s to prevent her having a boy later on? If that happened, we’d have to go through this all over again.’

She tutted. ‘Ever eager to ford streams before you’ve reached them. Learn to wait. The woman may contract a fever, St Clair could drop dead – anything might happen. Don’t get in a lather until events are come upon you. Well, will you wait?’

‘Very well. I’ll hang back till the bitch births. And if it’s a girl, I’ll follow your woman’s plan. But if it’s a boy, I’m for adopting my own strategy. I’ll not stand by and let some whelp of St Clair’s filch my birthright.’

Marie withdrew into her pillows, satisfied. ‘I’d like to rest now.’

‘Very well, Maman.’ He strode to the door. ‘You should come down to the hall. I’ll have someone knock up some crutches for you, we can’t let you fester up here forever.’

‘Crutches?’ Marie hauled herself up on one elbow, black eyes flashing contemptuously. ‘Crutches?’

‘Be reasonable, Maman. It would do you good to get out and about.’

‘I’ll have you know I’d rather be seen in my winding sheets than hopping about on crutches!’ The milk-white cheeks were mottled with anger.

‘As you wish.’ François bowed. ‘I was only trying to help.’

Muttering, Marie subsided. ‘Go away, François. Crutches? I don’t need any dammed crutches. What I need is some peace, so I can sleep and recover properly.’

‘Very well, Maman. I’m going. And I’ll stay my hand as far as Kermaria is concerned, at least until the babe is born. After that, we shall have to see.’

Chapter Thirteen

One morning not long after Easter, His Grace Geoffrey, Duke of Brittany, was twitching and fretting outside the King of France’s pavilion, in a cleared area in the woods outside Paris. Tents belonging to both entourages sprouted like brightly coloured mushrooms all over the stubbly field.

Duke Geoffrey frowned at the blue silk tent flap which was tied down despite the lateness of the hour, and spoke to the captain of his hand-picked bodyguard, one Alan le Bret. ‘It lacks but two hours to noon,’ he complained, foot tapping a tent peg. ‘Our young King sleeps late.’ The Duke was in his mid-twenties, a full half-decade older than the King of France. Under a red damask tunic encrusted with embroidered leaves, the Duke wore a chainse of best Reims linen. Bored, he folded the cuffs of his shirt over his tunic sleeves, admired the effect, and turned to address his captain; a dour but efficient fellow who had risen high enough in his favour to be clad not in the Duke’s heraldic colours – black and white – but in his own choice, in this instance the delicate green of good quality homespun that had been dyed with birch. The captain wore his gambeson over his tunic. He was, the Duke had been pleased to discover, a man with a sense of humour if one troubled to dig for it. ‘Methinks our royal host delights in delaying us,’ Duke Geoffrey went on. ‘Philip knows I have to visit my duchy.’

‘King Philip had visitors last eve,’ le Bret informed him, ‘and they did not leave till late, past the third hour.’

‘Did you manage to glean who it was?’

‘Messenger from Flanders.’

Duke Geoffrey’s interest waned. ‘Marriage troubles, I should think. And how did you discover that titbit, Captain?’

Alan folded his lips together and glanced briefly at the royal tent.

‘It couldn’t be,’ amusement lifted the Duke’s lips, ‘that you were visiting the daughter of King Philip’s cook?’

‘Your Grace?’ Keeping his face as blank as a stone slate, Alan stared past his liege lord at a silver fleur-de-lys, flying high on a standard on the top of the French King’s pavilion.

‘You don’t answer, le Bret.’ Duke Geoffrey’s voice took on a warning note, but his eyes were smiling. ‘I think you tell but half your tale. While we wait I’d have you entertain me with the whole, if you please.’

Alan raised grey eyes to his noble lord’s. ‘Your Grace, you may have bought the strength of my arms, but I can’t think you own all of me.’

‘I always knew you were half-hearted in your loyalties.’

‘My liege?’

‘You’re holding out on me. You reserve your strongest member for your private use.’

‘I did but go for a walk and happened to pass this way.’

‘Walk!’ The Duke hooted. ‘I’ve heard it called many things, but walking’s not one of them.’

There was a stir in the royal tent, the flap opened, and a girl emerged. She ran off giggling. Her features were shrouded in her veil, but the men outside the tent got a clear sight of a blushing, boyish face and laughing eyes.

‘So help me, Church and Mass, that was the cook’s daughter, was it not?’ The Duke eyed his captain with malicious delight.

Alan shrugged. ‘I believe the wench is daughter to King Philip’s cook, aye.’

Geoffrey of Brittany gave a bellow of delighted laughter. ‘Snatched from under your nose by no less than a king, eh, le Bret?’

‘Kings can pay more than captains.’

‘So she’s a whore?’

‘Aren’t they all?’

Duke Geoffrey’s face grew sombre, while he thought of his neglected wife, the Duchess Constance. ‘I wouldn’t know, le Bret. It always seems to be too much trouble to find that out.’

Alan le Bret smiled. ‘Just so, my liege.’

The tent flap yawned and Philip of France’s dark, tousled head emerged. The King rubbed his eyes. ‘Good morrow, Brittany. You’re up with the larks.’

The Duke bowed. ‘My apologies, sire. But I’m leaving for Brittany–’

‘Short of funds again?’ the King probed. He was always probing, always trying to stir up conflict between his friend the Duke of Brittany and the Duke’s father, Henry of England, in the firm belief that it might give him the advantage in the ceaseless jostling for power that went on in Henry’s continental dominions.

‘Funds? No, sire. I thought I would pay my respects at my brother’s tomb in Rouen, and continue on into Brittany.’

The Young King Henry of England, Duke Geoffrey’s older brother, had died of dysentery in 1183, a few months after Alan had sighted him at Locmariaquer. Although the Young King had been crowned in his father’s lifetime, he had predeceased his father and never come into his inheritance. The Young King had been a king without a kingdom, and Alan was coming to see that wealth was relative. The Young King’s need for money had been a key factor in the rebellions he had mounted against his father.

Duke Geoffrey, Alan’s liege lord, was Henry Plantaganet’s third son, and never likely to wear the crown. His father favoured the youngest of his four sons, John, while his mother Eleanor favoured Richard. Alan had chosen the Duke of Brittany for his master over Henry for purely sentimental reasons; the Duke’s Duchess, Constance, had family connections in Richmond, Alan’s home in England.

The Duke continued, ‘My wife has an estate on the Morbihan gulf I’ve not yet visited.’

The rivalry which existed between the King of France and the Duke of Brittany, though friendly, was such that Duke Geoffrey would not dream of admitting any weakness, however insignificant, to the French King.

‘Refusing to pay their dues, are they?’ King Philip continued to probe.

‘Certainly not. But it’s time I showed my face.’

‘I understand.’ A calculating look entered the King’s eyes. ‘Pity you’ll miss the tournament though, Geoffrey.’

Geoffrey of Brittany bowed. ‘I am desolate, sire. But there will be other tournaments.’

‘There will be others. You’ll attend my Christmas court?’

Duke Geoffrey refused to be committed. ‘My thanks. I’ll certainly bear it in mind.’