A King's Ransom (120 page)

“I cannot answer that, my lady.”

“But our earthly prayers can reduce a man’s stay in Purgatory?” And when he nodded, she expelled a ragged breath, closing her eyes again. She found a smile for him, though, when he offered to say Mass for her household. “Thank you, my lord bishop. I would like that very much.” Remembering her duties to a guest then, she offered him the hospitality of Beaufort.

“I will gladly accept a meal, my lady, but I cannot stay the night. After the Mass, I must be on my way. I am going to Fontevrault to preside over the king’s funeral on Sunday. It would be my honor to escort you.”

She was quiet for a time, and then she slowly shook her head. “No, my lord bishop. I will do my grieving here. The funeral is for the queen’s son, not my husband.”

He did not chide her for her bitterness as many priests would have done, and she had the comforting sense that he understood, that he always understood. He left a few hours later, and with his departure, she felt as if she’d lost her only friend. She stood in the bailey, watching as he rode through the gateway and out of sight. Only then did she return to the chapel, rebuffing her chaplain when he would have accompanied her. Tears had begun to flow again, but she let them fall. The small church was filling with shadows as the day’s light waned, the air faintly scented with burning candles and incense. Moving down the nave, she knelt by the altar and began to pray for her husband’s soul.

W
ILL
M
ARSHAL AND
H
UBERT
Walter were at Vaudreuil Castle, arbitrating a dispute between two Norman barons, when an urgent message arrived from Châlus. Will was stunned by Richard’s letter, for he made it clear that his chances of recovery were not good. He instructed Will to go to Rouen and take control of the castle, warning him to keep the news of his injury secret. Will confided only in the archbishop, who was just as shaken, and they set out at once for Rouen.

The following three days were difficult ones. The death of a king was always a troubling time, especially if the succession was not settled. But Richard was also a man they both knew well, a man they greatly respected, and their grieving was personal as well as political. Will had not given up all hope, though, for Richard had so often defied the odds that it was easy to believe he could do so again. Will clung to that hope until Palm Sunday Eve when another messenger rode in from the south as he was preparing for bed. Slumping onto the closest coffer, he stared down at the letter as if he expected those bleak, brutal words to change, as if the world as they knew it had not become an unfamiliar, frightening place. It took a while before he could bring himself to order his horse saddled, to tell his startled squire that, despite the late hour, he would be calling upon the Archbishop of Canterbury at the priory of Notre-Dame du Pré.

T
HEY SAT IN SILENCE,
watching the dying embers in the hearth flicker and fade away. Hubert Walter had sent for wine, but they had yet to touch it. Hubert had always prided himself upon his pragmatism. He was finding it impossible to put his emotions aside, though, to respond to this crisis as a prince of the Church rather than a friend of the man who’d died on Tuesday eve.

“This may sound foolish,” he said, “but after watching Richard dice with Death more times than I could count, I came to believe that it was a game he could not lose.”

Will blinked rapidly, for his eyes were stinging. “I think we all did. . . .”

“And what solace is there for us now? I greatly fear that the Angevin empire will not long survive him.”

Will thought it would be all too easy to give in to despair. However, that was a luxury he could not afford, not with a wife and six children and the vast de Clare estates to protect. “We must act quickly, my lord archbishop. Once the French learn of our king’s death, they will swoop down upon us like a hawk upon a crippled heron.”

Hubert’s mouth thinned as he thought of the joy that the news from Châlus would give Philippe Capet. “It would have been easier if Arthur were better known to us, if his mother had only allowed him to be raised at Richard’s court. But that is spilt milk. He is said to be a clever lad, and a spirited one, for all his youth. If men rally to him—”

“I think that would be a bad course to take,” Will cut in, for there was too much at stake not to speak bluntly. “Arthur has treacherous advisers around him, and he is already said to be prideful and stubborn. If we crown him, who will truly be ruling in his stead? The King of France, I fear.”

“And would you rather it be John? We do not know the manner of man Arthur may become, but we know all too well the man that John is.”

“I know,” Will conceded. “But a brother is closer in blood than a nephew. Moreover, at least John is a man grown. And our king named him as his heir.”

“What choice had he? Lacking a son of his own . . .” Hubert let the words trail off, for as deeply as he mourned Richard, he was angry, too, that he had been so irresponsible, that he had not taken greater care to ensure the succession. He ought to have put his queen aside once it became obvious she was barren or have come to terms with the Bretons. “I do not want to see John as king.”

“Few do. But John is all we have.”

The archbishop started to speak, stopped himself. He knew most men were likely to agree with the Marshal that John was the lesser of evils, and a civil war would be an even worse calamity than choosing John over Arthur. But he remained convinced that this was a great mistake. “So be it,” he said grimly. “But this much I can tell you, that you will never come to regret anything you’ve done as much as you will regret this.”

M
ARIAM DID NOT APPROVE
of Joanna’s decision to seek Richard out. It was easy enough to understand. Who better to ask for military aid than the Lionheart, after all? So Joanna’s logic could not be faulted. But Raimond had not wanted her to do it, and Mariam thought she ought to have deferred to him on this. Whilst Raimond seemed more good-natured than many husbands, she was sure he still had his share of male pride, and male pride was so fragile it could be bruised if breathed upon—or at least it seemed that way to Mariam.

Glancing over at Joanna, she sighed. It would have been better to coax Raimond’s consent. Joanna would have been able to win him over had she only been patient. Joanna’s patience could not have filled a thimble, though. For certes, she’d proved it by insisting upon leading that attack upon the rebel stronghold at Les Casses instead of waiting for Raimond to return home. He’d been furious when he’d found out, and Mariam could not blame him. They’d made their peace, of course, most likely in bed. But did Joanna realize how lucky she was to be wed to a man who was also her lover? Mariam sighed again, knowing that would have been true, too, for her and Morgan had fate been kinder.

“My lady?” Sir Roger de Laurac, the captain of Joanna’s household knights, reined in beside the two women. “There is a stream up ahead. I would suggest we stop to water the horses if that meets with your approval.”

“Of course, Sir Roger,” Joanna murmured, smiling. Roger was new to her service, selected by Raimond, and she had to admit her husband had chosen well. She was confident Roger would have offered up his life to protect her, but he was also unusually discerning. He’d clearly noticed how easily she was tiring these days and he’d begun to find excuses to halt so she might rest, while taking care to spare her pride. It was frustrating enough that her energy seemed at such a low ebb in the past fortnight, and she was grateful for his tact, not normally a knightly virtue.

After Roger assisted the women from their mounts, Joanna followed him toward a grove of trees off to the side of the road, and once a blanket was spread upon the grass, she seated herself in the shade of an ancient oak, bracing her aching back against the tree’s vast trunk. Mariam joined her, offering to unpack a basket of food. Joanna’s stomach was roiling as if she’d been at sea instead of perched in the sidesaddle of her favorite mare, and she hastily shook her head. She was very thankful that they were only five miles from Poitiers. Roger had already dispatched one of her knights to alert the palace of her arrival, and she hoped there would not be a lengthy welcome, for she wanted only to go to bed.

“Joanna . . .” Mariam hesitated, for Joanna had rebuffed all of her earlier attempts to discuss this mission to find Richard. But she was tired of being kept in the dark. “After Poitiers, where next?”

“To Fontevrault Abbey, of course. If anyone knows where Richard is off shedding blood, it is likely to be my mother.”

Mariam thought she detected the faintest glimmer of a smile and that encouraged her to persevere. “You and Raimond . . . You did not part in anger?”

“No . . . We were not happy with each other, but no longer quarreling. He finally agreed that I could seek help from Richard, saying it was marginally preferable to my leading another expedition against his rebel lords.”

This time there was no mistaking her smile, and Mariam was emboldened to say firmly, “You are very fortunate that he has a sense of humor.”

“I know,” Joanna admitted. A pity her dignity did not allow her to lie down on the blanket and nap, for her eyelids felt as heavy as stones. After a while, she said drowsily, “I cannot blame Raimond. He always warned me he was a lover, not a fighter.”

Mariam sat up, staring at her in dismay. “You mean like . . . William?”

Joanna’s eyes snapped open. “Good God, no!”

They had never discussed it—that fatal flaw in the man who’d been a good brother to Mariam, a fond husband to Joanna. It was too dangerous, for Joanna had realized that if she’d ever given voice to her qualms, she’d be releasing a demon to prey upon the peace of her marriage. William had pursued a very aggressive foreign policy, dispatching military forces to Egypt, North Africa, Greece, and Spain, yet he’d never taken a personal role in any of those campaigns. Theirs was a world in which a king was expected to lead his army into battle, but William had sent men out to die in his name whilst he’d remained safe and comfortable in his Palermo palaces. Joanna had not loved William; love was not expected in royal unions, however. She’d known, though, that she’d have been miserable with a man she could not respect, and so she’d kept that particular door securely shut and bolted.

Mariam was thankful to hear Joanna’s assurances that she did not equate Raimond’s lack of martial fervor with William’s cowardice. Even now that was too painful a topic to explore in the light of day and she said only, “I am so glad you see that.”

“Of course I do, Mariam. Raimond may not be the soldier that Richard is—how many men are? But he leads his men into battle, risking his life with theirs. No, the problem is that Raimond always sees war as the last resort, even when that is not so.”

Joanna’s backache was getting worse, and she shifted her position before continuing. “I’ve been giving it some thought, Mariam, and I’ve realized that Richard and Raimond have more in common than I’d first thought. They both share the same vice, if it can be called that: an overabundance of confidence. They differ only in their choice of weapons. Richard is convinced that he is invincible with a sword in his hand. And Raimond is just as sure that he can talk anyone around to his point of view if he has the chance to do so.”