can convince anyone she was ever anywhere else.” He paused and belched loudly. “The game has grown tiresome, Breauté. I have won my satisfaction; the old milkless teat will know now that I am not a man to be toyed with. Lock the snipe away if it eases your bowels any to remove her face from common sight, but do not spoil my mood! We are come to celebrate the wedding of my valiant friend. Eat! Drink! Let no man show a scowl before me this day, lest he crave to see it flayed from his face!”
A roar of approval went up from the floor of the great hall as Prince John led Servanne to her place at the long table. Her legs felt wooden and stiff, her movements so clumsy she caused the hem of her train to become snagged on the corner of a bench. While her page was bending over to unpinch it, Servanne’s gaze met Friar’s over the head of the prince.
John Lackland had but one niece, and there was but one Princess of Brittany—Eleanor—named for her grandmother, the Dowager Queen of England.
But the Princess Eleanor and her brother Arthur were both in Brittany. Neither had set foot on English soil in the years since their father’s death. The queen had been safeguarding them at Mirebeau, wary of John’s penchant for treachery.
What if I were to tell you Arthur and his sister were kidnapped from the queen’s castle four months ago?
Servanne felt her mouth go dry as the Wolf’s question echoed in her mind. Worse still, she heard her own dismissal of the notion as being absurd and ridiculous, along with the intimation that he had come to England on an honourable mission for the queen.
There are reasons for secrecy and silence; reasons which forbid both Etienne and myself from settling our conflict openly and speedily, and those I dare not tell you, for it would place you in certain danger.
Certain danger?
Servanne’s page touched her arm gingerly, indicating her train was freed. She murmured something—she knew not what—and when she looked back at Friar, he was already seated, his face studiously averted.
La Seyne’s business here is with Prince John … He will be pleased to hear the Dragon has accepted his challenge, but it will be Lucien who rides onto the field to face his brother … La Seyne’s business here is with Prince John … Suffice it to say the tournament and challenge will serve to keep the Dragon’s attention diverted elsewhere …
Elsewhere?
Certain danger?
Diversions?
Servanne turned her head and stared at the prince.
By tomorrow the little bitch will be on her way back to Brittany faster than any gossips can convince anyone she was ever anywhere else.
My God, Servanne thought, it was true! John had kidnapped the children from Mirebeau. He had planned to hold Arthur hostage in exchange for political demands. The fact that his plan had been foiled and the young prince had been rescued must have enraged him beyond belief—enough for him to risk the condemnation of every knight and common man who respected and lived by the codes of chivalry. Holding the princess captive was an unconscionable breach of honour. Exposing her to the decadent behaviour of his puppet court, possibly even forcing her to endure abuse as a victim of his vile and lecherous appetites would rouse the protective ire of every baron and lord not already bristling under John’s unpopular regency.
La Seyne’s business, therefore, was undoubtedly to ransom the princess back into the care of her grandmother. And the Wolf’s mission, as the self-confessed Captain of the Queen’s Guard—was it to ensure the exchange went smoothly and peaceably?
Various pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, stripping away Servanne’s burden of doubts as they fell. It explained everything—or nearly everything—and so clearly, it was all she could do to keep to her seat and maintain a semblance of normality as the hollow flourish of trumpets called forth a parade of servants.
Heavily strained arms brought steaming crocks of broth and stews, followed by platters of roast fowl, quail, and suckling pig. Noise rose to a crescendo as greedy hands dipped into pots and platters; meat was torn and carved, the half-chewed bones tossed to howling, scrabbling dogs. Chins dripped grease and throats groaned in appreciation of rich and varied presentations of fish, legumes, and meat. Heavily sugared blankmangers—a paste of pounded chicken blended with boiled rice and almond milk—were devoured to the last morsel and bowls wiped clean with thrusting fingers