one of your own favorite pastimes. Is it a simple case of nerves, my lord, or is it due to the glaring tardiness of a certain other yellow-haired insolent?”
De Gournay’s teeth appeared in a brief snarl, but a pat of blood from Eduard’s hand dripped onto the floor and earned a scathing glance instead. “Get yourself cleaned up and fetch the Lady Servanne down from her tower rooms. Tell her I expect her to be ready and waiting to accompany me to the fields within the hour, regardless of her state of dress or undress!”
When Eduard departed, De Gournay turned to the seneschal, who had dearly hoped he had been forgotten.
“Find this wench Glyneth and question her yourself. If she gives you any reason to doubt his story, I want to know it without delay.”
“Aye, my lord.” Frowning, the seneschal left and Nicolaa arched a brow.
“Rather sanctimonious of you to be so suspicious, is it not? Or is there something you are not telling me?”
“There have just been too many coincidences lately, and I would sooner not be surprised by any more.”
Prince John smiled lazily. “I trust you will convey my heartfelt thanks to my dear mother for her … generous contribution to the expenses incurred during my niece’s visit.” He hefted the lid on the small chest of glittering gold coins and equally bright sparks of greed were mirrored in the depths of the squinted, dark eyes. “Ahh yes, very generous.”
Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer stood tall and silent before the prince, his body clad in various textures of black from linen to leather to the gleaming black silk of his hood. Behind him was a phalanx of armoured knights who stood facing the prince’s men, glower to glower, watchful eye to watchful eye.
“The Princess Eleanor?” La Seyne asked.
John stared thoughtfully at the gold for a moment, then flicked a hand vapidly at one of the guards. The knight nodded and turned curtly to a narrow door, opened it, and gestured someone to come through.
The Princess Eleanor of Brittany was eight years old and trying very hard to be brave. Wakened before dawn this morning, she had been helped into her clothes by the coarse-handed, foul-mouthed trull her uncle had assigned as waiting-woman. She had not been told where she was going or what to expect at the end of the anxious, hour-long wait in a small, airless anteroom.
Her thin frame had grown even thinner in the four months since she had been abducted from Mirebeau. She had stubbornly kept her lips firmly shut for all but the barest necessities of food and communication, using silence as her solace and her defense. To her secret pleasure, she had discovered her lack of response and animation riled her uncle John more than any other form of temperament. This, combined with the searingly blue Plantagenet eyes that were never remiss in frosting over with icy hatred when directed at her uncle, made John blatantly relieved to be ridding himself of her.
Eleanor was ushered through the door and stood a moment, blinking to adjust her eyes to the brighter light. She saw the guards—far too many of them for a normal meeting with her uncle—and it took a second fearful look around for her to realize fully half of them wore the colours of La Seyne Sur Mer! Startled, she searched the lines of grim, solemn faces until she saw the one she had hoped and prayed to see all these months of captivity. Sir Randwulf! He had come! He had come to rescue her just as she had known he would!
La Seyne saw the little princess and felt a wave of relief wash through him. She appeared to be unharmed—a trace thinner, perhaps, and unaccustomed to smiling—but unharmed.
Eleanor darted eagerly forward. One of John’s guards flashed out a hand to bar her path and immediately, from La Seyne’s guard, a score of calloused hands flew instinctively to the hilts of their swords.
“As you can see,” John drawled, “my niece is in perfect health. She will be given into your care directly, La Seyne, but first … you have no objections if a Jew counts the gold for me? In these trying times, with chicanery so rife, one can never be too careful, even when dealing with relatives. Especially relatives.”
La Seyne absorbed the slight with nary a ripple of muscle. Not so his men, who bristled visibly at this further insult—so much so that this time it was John’s guards who