Her hand moved, unthinkingly, to the gold and pearl pendant at her throat, and she frowned. ‘Alice,’ she said quietly, over her shoulder, ‘I would have my jewel casket.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ The woman by the fire rose obediently.

‘And Alice …’

‘Yes, my lady?’

‘Which of the servants knows the tunnels best?’

They did not need to ask which tunnels she was speaking of. Chinon Castle was riddled with them. John often said it was a mystery that the walls did not collapse.

‘Old Thomas, my lady,’ came the answer, finally. ‘He works in the kitchens.’

‘Then I would have him brought to me,’ said Isabelle, ‘without delay. I have need of him.’

The women stared at her, and murmured, but they knew better than to question her wishes. For all her youth, this waif-like figure by the window was yet Isabelle of Angoulême; she was their queen, and she would be obeyed. Old Thomas would be fetched with haste.

Content, Isabelle turned back to the small window and the fires burning brightly on the blackened plain below. She did not hear the door behind her close, nor hear the footsteps of the women ringing down the cold stone passage. She only heard the wind. She was still standing motionless, her eyes upon the northern hills, when Alice came to set the small jewel casket down beside the bed.

Alice was the oldest of her women, and her gaze fell very gentle on the sad-eyed little queen. ‘He will come, my lady,’ she said softly, and they both knew it was not Old Thomas that she meant.

Isabelle nodded, without words, and blamed the stinging winter wind for the sudden trail of dampness on her face …

CHAPTER ONE

… and thus a noble scheme

Grew up from seed …

‘And did he come?’ I curled my feet beneath me on the sofa, and poured another cup of tea.

My cousin was idly contemplating my sitting-room window, where the raindrops chased one another down the panes in ragged paths. He pulled his gaze back to mine, with an effort. ‘What?’

‘John,’ I prompted, patiently. ‘Did he finally come to rescue Isabelle?’

‘Oh.’ He smiled. ‘Naturally. He sent his best knight, Jean de Préaux, with a group of mercenaries, to bring poor Isabelle back safely to Le Mans.’

I pulled a face. ‘How very noble of him.’

‘You would have seen the romance in that, once,’ Harry said, passing me his own teacup to be refilled. It was a gentle reprimand. He was quite right, I knew, but I pushed the thought aside.

‘So tell me,’ I said, ‘about this new theory of yours.’

‘My dear girl, it isn’t theory – it’s been published in three quite prestigious journals.’

‘Sorry.’

He forgave me, leaning back. ‘Well, you remember when they turned up that new chronicle last year, at Angoulême?’

‘By William de What’s-his-name? Yes, I remember.’

‘Right. It tells us Isabelle hid something when she was besieged at Chinon, something so valuable that she didn’t want the rebel barons to find it. At least we can infer that much. She asked for her jewel case, and then she asked for someone who knew the tunnels, and then she disappeared for nearly an hour with this Old Thomas, to where, nobody knew.’

I frowned. ‘But surely when the threat was over, she’d have got back what it was she hid.’

‘Not necessarily. Chinon was hardly secure, remember, and John lost it completely not long afterwards, so Isabelle might never have had the chance. The chronicle,’ he told me, ‘clearly states that in her later years our Isabelle spoke often of the “treasure without price” she’d left in France. Put two and two together—’

‘—and you’ve got your lectures packed with students for the term,’ I teased him, smiling.

He grinned. ‘Not this term. I’m on half-time now, remember? One term off, one on. And this one’s off.’

‘Nice work if you can get it.’

‘Well, I need the time for writing. I’ve been working on this book …’

‘Let me guess. Plantagenets.’ That was no great effort to deduce. My cousin Harry had been potty for Plantagenets since we were both in the nursery. I’d paid the price for his obsession many times in childhood games, condemned to die a Saracen at Richard the Lionheart’s crusading hand, or playing Thomas à Becket, a role I thought was rather fun until I learned the fate of the Archbishop. The only truly juicy part I’d been allowed to play was that of Eleanor of Aquitaine, which I’d played often, until Harry one day locked me up in ‘Salisbury Tower’ – an old bomb shelter at the back of his neighbour’s garden – and left me there till dinner time. To this day, it was all I could do to force myself to take the tube in London, or to spend more than ten minutes in my own basement.

My cousin smiled. ‘Not all of the Plantagenets – just John. A sort of revisionist approach to his biography. The misunderstood king. Which reminds me, did I show you what your father sent me?’ Without waiting for my answer, he dug into his pocket and produced a circle of hard plastic, within which nestled a small and perfect silver coin. ‘That’s John himself, in profile. Must be worth a bloody fortune, but your father just put it in the post.’

I took the encased coin from him, turning it round. ‘Wherever did Daddy pick this up?’

‘God knows.’ My cousin shrugged. ‘Uncle Andrew has so many friends in odd places, doesn’t he? I sometimes think it’s better not to ask too many questions.’