Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,30

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 talk, but Constance was so caught up in her own thoughts that she was no longer listening. It was only when she heard her mother’s name that she turned back to the other woman. “My mother?”

Alys nodded. “Yes, the Lady Margaret was permitted to visit Aenor at Winchester.” Doing her best to ease Constance’s worries, she said earnestly, “Aenor is being well treated, Constance, truly she is. At Winchester, she often played with the Lady Richenza’s little brother, and the queen made sure that well-bred palfreys were provided for her escort. She was sent off to Rouen in fine style, as befitting a child of her high birth.”

Constance had never doubted that Aenor would be comfortably housed or given solicitous servants, so she was not appeased to hear it confirmed. It was some comfort, though, that her mother had spent time with Aenor. Margaret had wed an English baron after the death of Constance’s father, and Constance had hoped she’d be able to keep an eye upon Aenor. Alys had a pleasant voice, but it was grating now on Constance’s nerves, for she needed time alone to marshal her thoughts and plan how best to approach Richard. She paid the other woman no heed until Alys said something so startling that she whipped her head around to stare at the French princess. “What did you say?”

By now they were both on their feet, brushing off their skirts. “I said that I can be of little assistance to you now, Constance. But once I am queen, I promise that I will do all in my power to have Aenor returned to you.”

Constance was dumbfounded. Did Alys truly believe that Richard was going to marry her? If so, she was more naïve than a novice nun and more forgiving than the Blessed Mother Mary. If she’d been treated as shabbily as Alys, Constance would have prayed every day for the demise of her tormentor. Where was Alys’s indignation, her spine?

But as she gazed into the other woman’s face, Constance was struck by Alys’s wide-eyed, girlish mien. Alys was the elder of the two by six months, would be thirty come October. At that age, she ought to have been in charge of her own household, presiding over her highborn husband’s domains in his absence, a mother and wife, mayhap even a queen. Instead, she’d spent these formative years in