A King's Ransom (119 page)

They reached Châlus at midmorning on April 6. As soon as she was assisted from her saddle, the Abbot of Le Pin and her son’s Welsh cousin came hurrying toward her. They greeted her warmly, saying the king would be so pleased to see her. Understanding that they were playing to an audience—the soldiers who did not know how seriously Richard had been wounded, even French spies—she smiled, saying she was on her way south to visit her daughter in Toulouse. Only when she was sure none were within earshot did she dare to ask softly, “Does he still live?” And when they nodded but said nothing, she knew it would not be for long.

She was not surprised to find André there; he was the brother Richard ought to have had. It was Mercadier who shocked her, for as he bent over her hand, she thought she saw tears in the routier’s icy eyes. As Morgan reached for the door latch, she realized how much she feared crossing that threshold.

The chamber was stifling and shadowed, for it had to be shuttered against prying eyes. André moved a chair to the bed for her and she lowered herself onto it, wondering if she’d ever be able to rise again.

Richard’s eyes opened when she took his hand in hers. He’d been sure she’d get there in time, for she had never let him down, never. “So sorry, Maman. . . .” So many regrets. That he’d not made peace with his father. That he’d not been able to free the Holy City from the Saracens. That Philip could not have been Berenguela’s. That the French king had not drowned in the Epte. That he’d not taken the time to put on his hauberk. That his mother must now watch him die.

She held his hand against her cheek. “You’ve been shriven, Richard?”

“Yes . . . So many sins . . . Took half a day . . .”

He was dying as he’d lived, and that made it so much harder for those who loved him. But then she remembered what she’d been told about his father’s wretched last hours. After learning that John had betrayed him, he’d turned his face to the wall and had not spoken again. Only as his fever burned higher had he cried out, “Shame upon a conquered king.” An anguished epitaph for a life that had once held such bright promise. No, better that Richard laugh at Death than die as Harry had. His body was wracked with pain, but at least he was not suffering Harry’s agony of spirit. She could not have borne that.

Richard’s breathing was so rapid that his chest was heaving. Talking was not easy, but there were things he must say. “I’ve made my will. . . . Three-quarters of my treasury to Johnny. The remainder . . . to feed the poor. . . . I want . . . want crown jewels to go to Otto. . . .”

She nodded her head, squeezing his hand to let him know she understood.

“Maman . . . I . . .” Richard made a great effort to say clearly and distinctly, “I want to be buried at Fontevrault, at my father’s feet. . . .”

“I am sure he has forgiven you, Richard.”

He did not think his father forgave as easily as that. “My Normans . . . always faithful . . . Bury my heart with them, at Rouen. . . . To the disloyal, treacherous curs of Poitou . . . I leave my entrails, all they deserve. . . .”

“It will be done, all as you wish—” Her voice broke, for there had been a change in his breathing, a gurgling sound often called the death rattle.

“Do . . . what you can for Johnny, Maman. . . .”

She nodded again. Not trusting her voice, she reached out and gently stroked his hair. The odor from his wound was sickening. She did not care. She did not think she could endure this, counting each rasping breath, listening as his heart beat more and more slowly and then stopped. But she would. She would not leave his side. She would be with him until his last moment, and then she would grieve for him until the hour of her own death. This was a wound that would never heal.

Time had no meaning any longer. She assumed hours were passing, but she refused all offers of food or drink. How long would God torment him like this? Leaning over, she kissed his forehead. “You can stop fighting now, my dearest. Your race is done.”

He’d not spoken for some time and she was not sure he could hear her, but then he said, “Did . . . I . . . win?”

“Yes, Richard, you did. You kept the faith.” She did not remember the rest of the scriptural verse. She would later wonder how she could have sounded so calm, so composed. But it was the last gift she could give him. “Go to God, my beloved son.”

After that, he was still. They could hear church bells chiming in the distance. Somewhere Vespers was being rung, people were at Mass, life was going on. André had not thought there was a need for words of farewell, not between them. But now he found himself approaching the bed, suddenly afraid that he’d waited too long. “Richard.” He held his breath then, until the other man opened his eyes. “Listen to me,” he said hoarsely. “You will not be forgotten. A hundred years from now, men will be sitting around campfires and telling the legends of the Lionheart.”

The corner of Richard’s mouth twitched. “Only . . . a hundred years?” he whispered, and André and Eleanor saw his last smile through a haze of hot tears.

R
ICHARD DIED AT SEVEN
o’clock on Tuesday, April 6, in Holy Week, with his mother at his side. He was forty-one and had reigned less than ten years. He was buried at Fontevrault Abbey at his father’s feet, as he’d requested.

R
ICHARD’S PARDON
of the crossbowman was not honored. Once he was dead, Mercadier ordered Peire Basile to be flayed alive.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

APRIL 1199

Beaufort-en-Vallée, Anjou

B
ishop Hugh of Lincoln was one of the few who’d known that Richard had been seriously wounded at the siege of Châlus, for he’d had a chance encounter with the abbess of Fontevrault Abbey, and she’d told him that the king was not expected to survive. He was at Angers when he got the grim news of Richard’s death and he set out at once for Fontevrault Abbey, where Richard was to be buried. But he took a detour off the high road to ride to the castle of Beaufort-en-Vallée, for he had not forgotten Richard’s widow.

B
ERENGARIA CAME HURRYING OUT
into the castle bailey to greet him. “My lord bishop, what a pleasure to see you!” Her smile was radiant and he felt a pang, knowing that he was about to unleash a storm that would render her world unrecognizable. But there was no point in delaying it, and he suggested that they go to the chapel straightaway. That aroused no suspicions in Berengaria, who thought it perfectly natural that he’d give priority to prayer. He sent his clerk and servant on into the hall, and followed Richard’s queen toward the chapel, accompanied by one of her women and her chaplain, for even with a godly man like Bishop Hugh, she paid heed to propriety.

“
M
Y LADY . . .
Y
OU MUST
be strong, for I bring you grievous news.”

She stared at him, eyes widening. “Richard . . . ?”

He nodded somberly. “He was wounded at the siege of Châlus. The wound festered and there was nothing the doctors could do.”

She took a backward step and then spun away from them, leaning against the altar as if she did not have the strength to stand alone. Yet when the chaplain and her lady hastened toward her, she flung up her hand, holding them off. Bishop Hugh silently signaled to them, shaking his head. He could see the tremors that shook her slender body. He waited, though, until she turned to face them. Her face was wet, but she’d gotten her voice under control. “Was . . . was there time for him to be shriven?”

“Ah yes, my lady. You need have no fears about that. He made confession to the Abbot of Le Pin, was absolved of his sins, and died in God’s grace. He even forgave the crossbowman who shot him.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, tears continuing to seep through her lashes. “Does the queen know?”

He thought it sad that even Berengaria spoke of “the queen” as if there were only one. Knowing he was about to inflict yet more pain, he said, “She knows. She was with him when he died.”

“I see,” she said softly. “So he sent for her.”

But not me.
Although she did not say it, the words seemed to echo in the air between them. Taking her arm, he drew her gently toward a cushioned bench along the wall, gesturing to keep the others from following. “I know why he did not send for you, my lady. They were trying to keep it quiet for as long as they could. His brother was in Brittany, and they wanted to get word to him ere the Bretons found out that the king was dying.”

She stared down at her clasped hands, at the dulled glimmer of her wedding ring. “And it would have attracted attention had I suddenly joined him at the siege.” Again leaving the rest unspoken—
Because Richard and I spent so little time together. Whilst a visit from his mother would have seemed quite natural.

“Yes, my lady, it would,” he said, for he believed the truth was always kinder than a lie. Better that she be shamed to realize her marital woes were known to half of Christendom than to believe that her dying husband had nary a thought for her. He hesitated, but remembering that she would have seen men die of such wounds during the siege of Acre, he said, “Then, too, he would not have wanted you to see him in such pain, Madame.”

Her mouth trembled and he reached out, took her hand between his as he spoke of the healing power of God’s mercy, assuring her that she and Richard would be together again, and reminding her of the solace of prayer. She raised her head at that. “Will my husband have to endure much time in Purgatory, my lord bishop?”