A King's Ransom (107 page)

He showed that he understood her fully as well as she understood him then, by saying wryly, “If you mean to keep me off that too-tempting road to Hell, love, it is likely to be a full-time occupation.”

Joanna merely laughed, never doubting that she could do it. For on this July morning, the first day of her son’s life, she was serenely sure that nothing was impossible, that their future would be as blessed as their present.

A
S USUAL,
Berengaria got little advance notice of her husband’s plans, a brief message that he was on his way back to Rouen from a campaign in Berry, suggesting she meet him at Le Mans. It was a fifty-mile, two-day journey from Beaufort-en-Vallée, and Berengaria reached that lovely riverside city a week after the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. She discovered she need not have hurried so, for Richard was not yet there. Three more days passed before the sudden, loud cheering in the town’s streets told her that he had finally arrived. She had no time to change into a fancier gown, to spare more than a hasty moment’s glance into her mirror, determined that when he and his men rode into the palace precincts, she’d be waiting in the courtyard to bid him a proper welcome.

He was accompanied by his mesnie of household knights, by William Marshal and his own knights, and by Mercadier and a contingent of his routiers, so arrangements had to be made to billet most of them in the town. The next few hours were hectic ones for Berengaria as she dealt with the demands of hospitality and saw to it that a dinner was made ready for the more highborn of Richard’s companions. It troubled her that Mercadier was included, even if he was now Lord of Beynac; she was convinced that he was a man whose soul was already pledged to the Devil, but she knew better than to object.

The meal was a lively one, for her household knights were eager to hear of Richard’s warfare in Berry and he was always willing to boast of his military feats. His brief foray south had been a highly successful one, for he’d taken the formidable stronghold of Vierzon and nine other castles from the French king, that story dominating the dinner conversation. It was only as servants began to collect the uneaten food to give to the poor and the guests broke up into smaller groups that Berengaria finally had a private moment with Richard.

After they’d exchanged the courtesies that she thought so incongruous for a husband and wife, he asked politely about the renovations to their house at Thoree. It was coming along very well, she assured him, although she’d lost all enthusiasm for the project, knowing by now that they’d never live there together.

“Good. You’ll have to show it to me again one of these days,” he said vaguely. “I imagine you know about Joanna’s son?” When she smiled and nodded, he gave her a curious glance. “I was surprised that you did not accompany my mother to Beaucaire for Joanna’s lying-in.”

His comment was not accusatory; he sounded faintly puzzled, his tone one that men often used when they were discussing the mysterious ways of women. But Berengaria’s face flamed, and she no longer met his eyes. “I . . . I was ailing,” she lied. It was a source of great shame to her that she’d not been there for the birth of Joanna’s child. It was not that she’d begrudged Joanna her good fortune and joy. She loved Joanna, wanted her to be happy. Yet she’d shrunk from traveling to Toulouse in the company of the woman who’d usurped her rightful place, then having to watch Joanna give her new husband a son or daughter, doing what she could not. Now, though, she could not forgive herself for that moment of very human weakness. She did penance the only way she could, instigating what she expected to be a very awkward conversation, saying that she needed to speak with Richard alone.

She could tell that he was instantly on guard. When he offered his arm to escort her from the hall, she could feel the tension in the corded muscles. But she was still not prepared for what happened when they reached the gardens. The August sun was hot upon their faces, reminding her of Outremer, which often seemed as if it were part of another woman’s life. It was safe from eavesdroppers, though, and she pointed toward a trellis-shaded arbor, suggesting they sit there.

Instead of following her, Richard came to a halt on the pathway. His eyes had narrowed, a storm-sky grey, and his very stance—legs apart, arms folded across his chest—was defiant. “If you mean to reproach me about maltreating a ‘man of God,’ Berengaria, you will be wasting your breath. I have no intention of setting Beauvais free.”

For a moment, she could only stare at him mutely. He’d been angry with her before. But he’d never called her by her given name, had never looked at her as he did now, as if she were a stranger, one he did not like very much.

“I would never do that, Richard,” she said, as steadily as she could. “Why would I plead for him?”

“Because he is a bishop,” he said curtly, turning the words into weapons.

She shook her head so vehemently that the veil covering her wimple swirled in the breeze. “I would not do that,” she repeated. “He is a false priest, a wicked, ungodly man who did his best to bring about your destruction.”

Without knowing it, she’d echoed his own argument to Hubert Walter and some of his suspicion eased. “It is good that you understand that,” he said at last. “I was not sure you would, for too often you see only one side—the Church’s.”

She thought that was unfair, but she was not about to challenge him on it now. Tilting her head so she could look into his eyes, she said, “When I heard that Beauvais was your prisoner, I was delighted, Richard.” She thought he still seemed skeptical, and she insisted, “In Outremer, I saw how he sought to subvert you at every turn, even if it meant losing the Holy Land to the infidels. Then he slandered your good name, accused you of baseless crimes, and tried to have you cast into a French dungeon. I am sure the Almighty will punish him as he deserves when it is his turn to stand before the celestial throne. But I am glad he will pay a price here on earth, too, for his evil deeds.”

He no longer doubted her sincerity; she had no gift for subterfuge, was honest to a fault. He was surprised by how pleased he was to see this glimpse of the loyal, devoted wife he’d left behind in Outremer. Thinking it had been a long time since they were in such accord, he reached for her hand, drawing her toward the arbor bench. “Well, if you did not want to scold me for my impiety, little dove, what
did
you want to talk about?”

She felt a quiver of resentment, feeling that he owed her an apology for such an unjust accusation. But then she realized that his change in tone and his use of “little dove” was his way of making amends, the most she could expect from him. She was sorely tempted to let it be; why risk this rare moment of peace between them? But she knew it had to be said.

“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Richard.”

“Sorry? For what, Berenguela?”

“For what my brother has done, seizing my dower castles.” Looking up then, she caught his flicker of surprise. “I was probably the last one to know. I wish you’d told me.”

“I did not see what good it would do, aside from causing you distress.”

As she searched his face, she realized she believed him. He truly had been trying to protect her. Did that mean he was not as indifferent as he so often seemed? That he did not intend to use the loss of her dower castles and the Navarrese alliance as an excuse for ending their marriage? Not that he needed an excuse. She’d failed him. She’d not given him an heir in six years of marriage. That they’d been apart for much of that time, that their separations in the past three years were his doing more often than not, mattered little in the eyes of their world.

She lowered her head, but continued to study him from the corner of her eye. How little she knew this man. How little she understood him. Could it be that he truly did not blame her for her barrenness? But that was a question she dared not ask. She was not naturally given to irony, but even she could see the irony inherent in her current predicament. Her brother’s bad behavior had undermined her position as Richard’s queen, yet Sancho had acted out of love, angry that her husband neglected her so blatantly. Whilst Richard, the cause of much of her misery, had not reproached her as so many husbands would have done. Did that mean he had no intention of putting her aside? As unsatisfactory as her life was as his sometimes wife, she did not want to end the marriage. How shamed she would be if she were sent back to Navarre in disgrace, having failed in a queen’s first duty. No, better to endure the hurt here than the humiliation there. And . . . mayhap the Almighty would take pity upon His wretched daughter, answer a prayer as heartfelt as it was humble.

She became aware then that Richard was watching her. “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about, Berenguela?” he asked, and she thought she could detect a hint of relief in his voice. “Do not let yourself be troubled by the dower castles. Sancho and I will sort it out.”

She gave him a grateful smile, but then they both turned at the sound of footsteps on the gravel path. One of his knights was hurrying toward them, followed by a man instantly recognizable as a courier. “Sire, an urgent message has arrived for you!”

Berengaria saw Richard stiffen and she felt a touch of sympathy, thinking it must be wearisome and stressful, always having to be braced for bad news. Rising, Richard reached for the letter as the messenger knelt. “It is from the Count of Flanders,” he said, looking down at the unbroken seal. She was close enough to hear him mutter, “Now what?” His unease was contagious, and she watched anxiously as he scanned the contents, hoping his new alliance with the Flemish count was not unraveling already. But then he let out a triumphant shout.

“God bless Baldwin!”

It took a while for Berengaria to learn what had given him such delight, for he pulled her to her feet and hugged her so exuberantly that he lifted her off the ground. Laughing as she’d not heard him laugh in a long time, he slapped his knight on the back and told the courier to rise, saying he deserved a dukedom for such news.

Eventually his jubilant celebration eased enough for him to share his news. Philippe had sought to take advantage of his absence in Berry to punish Baldwin for what the French king saw as his disloyalty. When he approached Arras, then under siege by Baldwin, with a large army, the count retreated. Philippe pursued him until he suddenly realized that the hunter had become the hunted. The Flemish count had skillfully outmaneuvered him, burning the bridges behind the French army and cutting off their supply lines. Forced to live off the land, the French foraging parties were ambushed by the Flemings, who knew the terrain far better than the invaders. When Baldwin then burned the bridges ahead of him, too, Philippe finally had to admit he was trapped, unable to advance or retreat.

Richard was laughing so hard that he had to stop from time to time. “Philippe then tried to weasel out of the trap, offering to give Baldwin whatever he demanded if he’d ally himself again with France. Baldwin refused, saying he meant to keep faith with me, agreeing only to arrange another peace counsel in September.

“Philippe had no choice but to agree, and slunk back to Paris to sulk and lick his wounds,” Richard said with a grin. “It does not get much better than that, little dove!”

He sounded blissfully happy, looked to have shed years in the time it had taken to read the Flemish count’s letter, and Berengaria, who thought she’d uprooted all sprouts of hope from her garden, now found herself wondering if things might be different if only Richard could eliminate the threat posed by the French king.

I
N
S
EPTEMBER,
Richard and Count Baldwin met with Philippe, but nothing was resolved apart from another truce, this one to last for a year from St Hilary’s Day in January. Neither king expected it to endure, for they were locked in a bitter struggle for supremacy that could only end in victory for one and defeat for the other. And when Richard held his Christmas Court at Rouen that year, most believed that his prospects seemed far brighter than the French king’s.