all if they were accused of treason, Matthew barely stopped himself from replying, though the others looked reassured.
‘It’s incredible to think that John and the Lionheart were brothers.’ Jerrard heaved a sigh. ‘King Richard was a born leader of men, but John’s ineptitude only emboldens our enemies. If we’re not careful, he’ll bring a French invasion down on our heads. We’ve had forty years of peace in England, but these are dangerous times.’
‘Then what is it you want of me?’ Roul gulped his wine with the look of a man fortifying himself for the answer.
‘Nothing for now,’ Matthew answered as Jerrard hesitated. ‘But the barons have had enough. Some are already in open revolt, others are biding their time, but all agree that John’s behaviour needs to be curbed. There’s talk of a charter limiting his powers so that he can’t act as he pleases any more. We’re gathering support, approaching those we think might stand with us if it comes to a confrontation.’
‘What kind of a confrontation?’ Roul looked anxious. ‘You know when I arranged your marriage to my niece I thought I was providing a secure future for her. I never imagined I was marrying her to a rebel.’
‘I’m not a rebel.’ Matthew held the other man’s gaze squarely. ‘I’m a loyal subject of England and the Crown, which is why I don’t want to see John destroy it either. With any luck, he can be made to see reason.’
‘And if he can’t?’
‘If he can’t, then the barons together will decide what to do. All I know is that abuses of power need to be challenged and bad kings held to account if necessary.’
‘I agree, but there are some who might not. Your own father, for example.’
‘My father has no more interest in politics.’
‘But he used to be a close confidant of the King, did he not?’
‘Once.’ Matthew clenched his jaw, holding his temper in check as Jerrard threw him a warning look. He supposed he could hardly blame others for suspecting that he might have divided loyalties, however much the suggestion offended him. In their position, he would probably suspect the same, but then none of them knew the full extent of, nor the reasons behind, his estrangement from his father. ‘Which is why I haven’t told him anything about this and have no intention of doing so. My father and I disagree on a great number of subjects. John is the least of them.’
Roul nodded solemnly. ‘You’re certainly very different in character, no matter how much you look alike, though I confess we haven’t had much communication since his marriage last year.’
‘He’s married again?’ Laurent sounded incredulous. ‘How many stepmothers have you had now, Matthew?’
‘This is the fourth.’ He scowled at the thought. Another poor woman, doubtless little older than his own bride...
‘So what’s that? Five marriages and four wives dead? You’d think they’d be too scared to marry him in case they’re next!’ Laurent started to laugh and then clamped his mouth shut abruptly. ‘Sorry Matthew, I didn’t think. The wine...’
‘Your mother is still greatly missed,’ Roul interceded tactfully, ‘and I’d say that you take after her in character.’
‘I hope so.’ Because he didn’t want to consider the alternative...
‘Because of that, I’ll trust you. If you make a stand against the King, then I’ll support you, too. You have my word and my silence.’ Roul clapped a hand on Matthew’s shoulder, smiling as if the subject were over and dealt with. ‘And now that’s settled, we have pleasanter matters to discuss. My wife is planning a banquet tomorrow to celebrate your reunion with my niece. I think you’ll be pleased. Constance has grown into a fine and accomplished young lady.’
‘I look forward to it,’ Matthew lied, finally accepting a cup and raising it to hide his underwhelmed expression. She could be the finest, most accomplished young lady in the whole of England for all it mattered to him, but marriage vows were marriage vows and it was his duty to keep them.
‘To Lady Constance.’ He raised his cup in what he hoped was an enthusiastic-sounding toast. ‘My wife.’
Constance sat on the edge of her bed, barefoot in a cotton shift as Isabella ransacked her coffers.
‘You have to make a little effort to dress up for him.’ Her cousin was adamant as ever. ‘What about your red gown? The one with the white beads?’
‘No.’
‘But it suits you.’
‘Absolutely not!’
She shook her head, nibbling on the jagged remnants of her fingernails and averting her eyes from the rich crimson fabric. It was true that red was her best colour, complementing her colouring and making her olive complexion seem to glow, but it made her painfully self-conscious, too. That particular gown had been a birthday gift from her uncle and aunt, but she preferred to blend into the background rather than stand out quite so dramatically and the prospect of seeing her husband was nerve-racking enough. Aside from the fact that she had no desire to dress up for him, as Isabella put it, she didn’t want to see him again at all! The banquet her aunt had arranged was only a few hours away and she had to fight the temptation to dive back under her bedcovers and refuse to come out.
‘Why not the red?’ Isabella was pouting now.
‘Because it’s too bright. My green bliaut and surcoat will suffice.’
‘But they’re so drab! That surcoat looks like a sack on you.’
‘It’s just loose, that’s all.’ The way that she liked it. Tight-fitting gowns only drew attention to her curves...
‘No.’ Isabella put her hands on her own narrow hips emphatically. ‘As your cousin I refuse to allow it. He’s your husband. You want to make a good first impression, don’t you?’
‘Second impression.’
‘Well, the first one was too long ago to count. You admitted you barely spoke to him on your wedding day.’ She smirked. ‘Although now I see why.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that the rest of us met him in the hall this morning when you were still asleep and he was so stern. Emma tried to flirt with him and he gave her such a scathing look! Served her right, but she’s still sulking about it.’
‘Oh.’ Constance blinked, uncertain about what to make of either his or her younger cousin’s behaviour. ‘But why didn’t you wake me this morning?’
‘Because you were tossing and turning for most of the night and Mother said we ought to let you rest. Wait, I know!’ Isabella snapped her fingers. ‘Mother’s blue gown. The one you wore to the Michaelmas feast last year. I’ll ask if you can borrow it again.’
‘No!’ Constance
