A King's Ransom (102 page)

“Joanna—”

“No, hear me out, for I need to say this. I know I am no longer young, for I turned thirty-one earlier this month. But if I’d feared I could not bear children, I’d have discussed it with you ere we were wed. Whilst my womb never quickened after my son died, I did not have as many chances to get pregnant as you might think. William had a
harim
of Saracen slave girls, and he—”

This time he stopped her by putting his finger over her mouth. “That was not what I meant, Joanna. I have no such fears. It is more likely it was William’s fault, not yours, for none of his
harim
concubines ever got with child, did they? When a man spills his seed into so many different women without any of it taking root, the seed is the culprit, not the women.”

Joanna had consulted with several of the female doctors at the famed medical school in Salerno after she’d failed to become pregnant again, and they’d told her the same thing, that sometimes the husband could be the one at fault. But she’d never heard a man acknowledge such a possibility until now. “No, William sired no other children,” she confirmed. “And I did wonder at times. . . . But what did you mean, then, about taking me on faith?”

“I could not be sure if you were truly willing or if you’d been pressured by Richard into agreeing. I knew you’d been struck by the same lightning bolt, but that did not necessarily mean you would want to wed me. Three years had passed, after all,” he said, with a sudden smile, “and the memory of my potent charm might have faded. Having had two unwilling wives, I was not keen to take a third.”

Joanna was very curious about his former wives. “Will you tell me about them?”

“My first marriage was not of my wife’s choosing, nor mine, either. But Ermessinde was the Countess of Melguel and my father was determined to have Melguel. She was newly widowed and I was much younger, not yet sixteen, so I could understand why she balked. We eventually became friends, though she lived only four years, and when she died, Melguel passed to me. My father usually got what he wanted,” Raimond said, the corner of his mouth twisting into a smile that held no humor.

“And Beatrice Trencavel?”

“We got along well enough in the beginning. I knew she was a Believer, but I thought that was between her and her God. I did not allow her to raise our daughter, Constance, as one, though, and she came to resent me for that. She also grew more devout as the years went by, and paid the marital debt with increasing reluctance, fearful that she was putting her immortal soul at risk. So . . . I looked elsewhere when Luc was in need of indulgence, and I never had to look far.”

Remembering how sharply she’d chastised him in the Bordeaux gardens, blaming him for the failure of his marriage, Joanna felt a pang of remorse. “You ought to have made it known that she was a Cathar, Raimond. Your enemies have used your unhappy marriage as one more weapon against you, claiming that you were heartless in putting her aside and depraved in siring bastards. If they knew the truth—”

“It would make no difference, Joanna. Dogs are always going to bark. I did not want to draw the Church’s ire down upon Beatrice; she is still Constance’s mother. And because she is a Trencavel, her family would become even more suspect in the eyes of men like Cardinal Melior, including my sister and nephew.”

His tone had been serious, even somber, as he’d related his melancholy marital history, but she would soon learn that he could never be serious for long. The mention of the papal legate’s name had awakened his sense of mischief and he gave her a wickedly gleeful smile. “Think how pleased the good cardinal will be to hear that you’ve wed one of the Devil’s disciples, love. I think we ought to name our first daughter Melusine and ask him to serve as godfather.”

When he saw that she was amused, not disconcerted, by his audacity, he reached over and drew her into his arms, marveling at how well matched they were, in and out of bed. His kiss was meant to be approving, affectionate, but she responded with such ardor that it soon became a passionate one. “Luc is stirring,” he joked. “Do you want to wake him up?”

Joanna had never been a woman to refuse a dare, especially one she could win with such ease. “If I do, will you take me to the mountaintop?”

His breath quickened as her hand slid caressingly down his chest, toward his groin. “I promise,” he said, and proved to be a man of his word.

A
FTER THEIR WEDDING,
Raimond took Joanna home to Toulouse, where she was given a joyful welcome into the city that reminded her of her torch-lit entry into Palermo nigh on twenty years ago. He then took her on a leisurely circuit of his domains to introduce her to his vassals. She’d not realized how extensive his holdings were, and decided it was not surprising that the dukes of Aquitaine had been so set upon reclaiming it for their duchy. By mid-December they were at Carcassonne, expecting to be back at Toulouse in time for their Christmas Court. Raimond was a noted patron of troubadours and jongleurs, and he was eager for them to celebrate the beauty and charm of his bride, assuring Joanna that the best would be in attendance—Peire Vidal, Raimon de Miraval, Gaucelm Faidit, and even Arnaut de Mareuil, whose plaintive songs of love for Raimond’s sister Azalais had gotten him banished for a time from his lady’s presence.

Joanna was looking forward to presiding over her own court again, a privilege that had been denied her since William’s death. She felt a little guilty, though, that her Christmas would be so perfect and Berengaria’s so miserable. As he’d threatened, the Archbishop of Rouen had laid all of Normandy under Interdict in November and then departed for Rome to present his grievances before the papal curia. If he’d hoped his drastic action would compel Richard to yield, he was to be disappointed, for Richard at once dispatched Longchamp, the Bishop of Lisieux, and Fulk, the Bishop-elect of Durham, to Rome, while he continued to spend most of his time at Andely, personally supervising the construction of Castle Gaillard. Eleanor had written that he was defiantly holding his Christmas Court in Normandy, at his hunting lodge at Bur-le-Roi near Bayeux, determined to show the archbishop that in his duchy, his writ overrode the prelate’s Interdict.

Eleanor was not attending, preferring not to make so long a journey again in the worst of winter, and she’d said that she did not know if Berengaria would be present or not. Joanna doubted it, for her sister-in-law would be incapable of defying the archbishop as Richard was doing. Her heart ached for her friend, torn between her husband and her God. But even Berengaria’s sad plight could not cast a shadow for long. Joanna was so happy that nothing could tarnish the joy she took in her new life as the Countess of Toulouse.

On the morrow they would depart for Toulouse, but that evening a special Votive Mass was being said for the recovery of the ailing Bishop of Carcassonne. Raimond was unenthusiastic about attending, telling Joanna privately that the ineffective, elderly prelate’s boring, rambling sermons were the best recruiting tool the Cathars had. But Joanna felt it would only give Raimond’s enemies in the Church a new cause for complaint if they stayed away, and because he could refuse his new wife nothing, they emerged from the castle as twilight fell. The cathedral of St Nazaire was easily within walking distance, but their every public appearance had been drawing crowds and so Raimond was astride a favorite black palfrey and Joanna was riding his bride’s gift, a fine-boned chestnut mare. Raimond’s young nephew had at first balked, influenced—Joanna feared—by his tutor, Bertrand, the Lord of Saissac, who’d proudly proclaimed himself a Cathar upon meeting her. But Raimond-Roger changed his mind at the last moment and Azalais decided she would attend if her son did. So Carcassonne was treated to a royal procession through the narrow, cobbled streets to the cathedral.

The Mass was said by Berenger, the archdeacon, who also happened to be Bishop Othon’s nephew, and it was soon obvious to Joanna that he was even less popular with the townspeople than his uncle. She was troubled by such open animosity toward the Church, for while she was prepared to tolerate the Cathars, she still considered herself a good Catholic, and she was relieved when Raimond reassured her that Toulouse was not like Carcassonne, where the appeal of the Cathar theology seemed deeply entrenched in its civic life.

When they departed the cathedral, they found that the street was still thronged with people, who cheered enthusiastically for their young viscount and for the Count of Toulouse and his bride. Joanna enjoyed the brief ride back to the castle, for she relished these demonstrations of her husband’s popularity. She and Raimond were still in the honeymoon phase of their marriage, and she wanted the rest of the world to find him as irresistible as she did.

Once they’d crossed through the barbican into the bailey, Raimond lifted Joanna from her sidesaddle, giving her a quick kiss as he set her upon the ground. As the others continued on into the castle, Joanna caught her husband’s arm, asking if they could take a walk in the garden. He agreed readily, welcoming any opportunity to have some time alone with her, not always easy for two who lived so much of their lives on the public stage.

The air was chill but clear, and the sky above their heads looked like a wine-dark sea adrift in sailing stars. They sat on a bench and gazed upward, taking pleasure in the austere beauty of the night. Joanna was warmly dressed in a fur-lined pelisse and soft wool mantle, but Raimond used the cold as an excuse to pull her onto his lap. “Thank you again, love, for not objecting to have my son at our court. Unlike my daughters, he is not yet old enough to be sent off to a great household for educating. But you’ll like him, for he is a good lad, if somewhat shy.”

“I love children, Raimond. He is more than welcome to live with us.”

He slid his hand under her mantle, fondling her thigh, and when she turned toward him, he was struck by how lovely she looked in the winter moonlight. “My God, but you’re beautiful,” he murmured, leaning in to claim her mouth with his own.

“I wanted you to kiss me like that,” she confided, “on the day we sat here in the garden and, for the first time, truly talked. Do you remember?”

“I remember. I was amazed that I was able to exercise so much restraint, wanting to pounce upon you like a dog on a bone,” he teased, and laughed when she chided him for being so romantic.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a time, not needing words. But she kept giving him glances from the corner of her eye, and at last, he said, “What is it, love? Is there something you would say to me?”

She nodded. “I was not going to tell you, not yet, not until I was sure. But I cannot wait any longer. Raimond . . . I am with child.”

“Already?” He sounded incredulous and then euphoric, kissing her exuberantly, laughing, and kissing her again. “It must have happened on our wedding night, and what better proof can we have of God’s favor than that?”

She laughed, too. “I am not sure if that was the night, although it must have been soon afterward,” she said, explaining that she’d had her last flux the week ere their wedding day. “I remember, for I was relieved that I need not worry about it coming at an inopportune time. When I missed November’s flux, I tried to rein in my hopes, knowing it was too early. Now I’ve missed December’s, too, for it should have come a fortnight ago. I resolved to wait until the third month to tell you. But tonight in the cathedral, I felt this sense of peace, this utter certainty, as if the Blessed Mother herself was smiling upon me, upon us. When we return to Toulouse, I’ll seek out a midwife. I have no doubts, though, none at all. I am bearing your child.”

“It has been sixteen years since my daughter was born,” he said softly, “sixteen years. I did not lie when I told you I did not believe our marriage would be barren. I just never imagined it would be so soon. . . .” Reaching under her mantle again, he laid his hand gently, almost reverently, upon her abdomen. “When?”

“I will have to see what the midwife says, but I think he will come in the summer.” Joanna put her own hand over his, as if they were cradling their baby, protecting him from the dangers waiting outside the safety of her womb. She was sure it would be a boy, as sure as if God had whispered it in her ear, and she resolutely refused to think of all that could go wrong, of that small tomb in Monreale Cathedral. Giving Raimond a smile he would remember for the rest of his life, she said, “Soon enough to have people counting on their fingers—July.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE