Paul looked up as well, at the young heroic face. ‘Who?’
‘Philippe Auguste. One of the early kings of France. He was the first real French king to own this château, actually,’ I went on, recalling Harry’s countless lectures.
Simon frowned. ‘Who owned it before?’
‘The counts of Blois and Anjou, I believe. And then the Plantagenets.’
‘What, like the Black Prince, you mean?’
I smiled. ‘A little earlier than that. Richard the Lionheart and that bunch. Richard’s brother John was the last to own Chinon.’
‘As in Robin Hood?’ Simon checked, his eyebrows lifting. ‘Bad Prince John? That guy?’
‘The very same.’
‘Neat.’
Paul looked at me with quiet interest. ‘You know a lot about the history of this place, then?’
My smile grew wider. ‘Rather. I’m lectured on it constantly. My cousin,’ I explained, to both of them, ‘is something of an expert on Plantagenets. It’s his fault, really, that I’m here at all – he talked me into coming on holiday with him.’
The brothers exchanged glances. ‘But he isn’t here,’ said Simon, pointing out the obvious.
‘Not yet, no. But then, that’s not unusual for Harry. He does race off on tangents when he’s working on a theory. Which reminds me,’ I said, turning, ‘how does one get to the Moulin Tower?’
Someone was coming. Isabelle raised her head, all thought of sleep forgotten, as the heavy stamp of boots on stone drew nearer. Oh, please, she prayed, dear Mother of God, please let it be John.
Beside her, the old woman Alice roused herself, alarmed. ‘My lady—’
‘Hush.’ The whispered word held urgency. The boots were at the door now. She held her breath.
A rough knock, and a rougher voice … a voice she knew. ‘Your Majesty, are you awake?’
He hadn’t come. She swallowed back the bitter taste of tears and felt in darkness for her gown. He’d promised he would always come, whenever she sent word … with solemn eyes he’d sworn it, always. But the man who stood outside her chamber now was not her husband. She stood, shivering in the velvet gown, and crossed to unbolt the door, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sudden glare of torchlight. The tall man in the passage looked more fierce than she remembered. He frightened her, he’d always frightened her, and yet she’d rather die than have him see it. By force of will she kept her voice composed. ‘My lord de Préaux.’
‘Majesty.’ He knelt, and took her hand. The torchlight traced an old scar on his cheekbone as he raised his head. She saw no mercy in his eyes, no warmth – they were the hard eyes of a ruthless man who made his living by the sword. ‘You are to rise, and come with me,’ he told her. ‘I am to bring you safely to Le Mans.’
‘John sent you?’
‘Yes.’
She only had his word, she thought, and the word of such a man was hardly comfort in these troubled times. If he’d turned traitor, like the others …
Still, she was alone, with John not here – she had no choice but trust. Besides, she thought, de Préaux was a soldier – soldiers had no cause to lie. To take her hostage, he had but to seize her where she stood. And if he desired her dead he’d simply kill her and be done with it. The fact that he’d done neither proved de Préaux spoke the truth.
She raised her chin. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘the rebels do surround us.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘May I ask, how did you … how …’
‘With difficulty.’ He stood, impatient. De Préaux never stayed long on his knees. ‘Do you come or no? I’ve twelve men freezing round the fire in your courtyard. They’ve ridden long and hoped for sleep, but I’d think it less than wise to wait till morning.’
She shivered in a draught of air that swept along the passage. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘Dress you warmly, and make haste.’
‘My women …’
‘Only you.’ He shook his head. ‘We have but one horse spare. Your maids must wait.’
She glanced at Alice. ‘But my lord—’
‘Queen Isabelle.’ He was not moved; his ugly face was resolute. ‘Upon your life my own life hangs. I am not sent to save the household – only you. It is yourself the rebels seek,’ he reminded her, ‘and once they learn their prize is flown, the castle will be safe. The siege will end.’
‘There is the Treasury, still.’
‘These men have no desire for treasure.’
No, she thought. They had one cause, and one cause only – to force John to release his nephew Arthur. And so he would, in time. Frowning, she drew back, gathering the folds of her robe about her. ‘What news of Arthur of Brittany?’ she asked, slowly. ‘Is he well?’
The eyes that touched hers held a fleeting trace of pity. And then he looked beyond her to where Alice stood in silence by the bed, and for a moment understanding passed between the dark knight and the old woman. ‘See that your mistress dresses warm,’ he said. He bowed and turned away.
Watching the last faint flickering of torchlight vanish down the twisting stairs, it seemed to Isabelle that every stone around her breathed a sigh of cold despair, as if by sorcery her own bedchamber had become a prison … or a tomb.
CHAPTER SIX