A King's Ransom (123 page)

Joanna had slept for a while and felt well enough to spend an hour with Raimond that evening. Talking took too much of her energy, but she listened as he told her stories about their son’s mischief-making and growing vocabulary. She was losing months of her children’s lives, time that could never be recovered. She was too sick to dwell upon that now, though. Her world had shrunk to the confines of this bedchamber, and for much of her waking hours, she could concentrate only upon what her body was doing to her. It was even worse than her shipboard suffering.

Once Raimond had gently kissed her good night and departed, she closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, for that was the only respite she got. But sleep eluded her. Instead, she found herself in the throes of nausea again—the twentieth time it had happened that day. Fortunately Mariam and Beatrix had returned to the chamber as soon as Raimond had gone, and they kept her from vomiting all over herself and the bed. Afterward, she began to sob, clinging to Beatrix’s hand so tightly that her nails dug into the other woman’s flesh. “I cannot endure any more,” she wept. “I cannot . . . Merciful God, what have I done to deserve this? Please make it stop, please. . . .”

Beatrix was not sure if Joanna was talking to her or to God. She did what she could, cradling the younger woman as she’d done when Joanna was a little girl, stroking her hair as her own eyes burned with tears. When Joanna at last fell into an exhausted sleep, she rose carefully from the bed and drew Mariam toward the far corner of the chamber.

“I need to know,” she said, her voice low but fierce. “Did the midwife truly tell you that Joanna’s nausea is likely to abate after the fifth month?” She was not reassured when Mariam nodded, for she’d averted her eyes. “What are you keeping from me?”

Mariam hesitated, but she desperately needed to confide in someone. “The midwife did indeed tell us that she’d treated two cases like Joanna’s, saying both of the women found relief in the fifth month, later delivering healthy babies. But she also told me in confidence that she’d lied. Only one of the women gave birth to a live baby. The other one continued to grow weaker even after she was able to eat again. She died in the sixth month of the pregnancy.”

R
AIMOND DREW REIN
and glanced back at the abbey walls. His men exchanged puzzled looks, but he was their lord and it was not for them to question why he’d chosen to halt in the middle of the road. Raimond could not have explained himself why he suddenly felt this reluctance to see Fontevrault recede into the distance. Returning to Toulouse would ease Joanna’s qualms about their children and his troublesome vassals; staying here would not. And although he was loath to admit it, he felt a certain relief that he would not have to watch helplessly as his wife suffered. Joanna’s women had made it clear—without saying a word—that they did not want him underfoot whilst they dealt with female matters that no man could truly understand.

He’d had a private talk with Joanna’s midwife and felt better afterward, for she seemed quite confident that Joanna’s nausea would not last much longer. He saw no reason to doubt her, for he’d never heard of a woman afflicted with morning sickness for the entire length of her pregnancy. And when he’d bidden Joanna farewell, she’d been in better spirits, revealing that she was sure she was bearing a son. The midwife had performed a test that she claimed was utterly reliable: putting a few drops of Joanna’s blood into a bowl of springwater. If they’d floated, that would have meant she would birth a daughter, but they sank, proof that the baby in her womb was a boy. Raimond did not wait for her to ask, suggesting they name their son after her brother, and he would take back to Toulouse the memory of her grateful smile. He did not doubt that she’d bedazzle their son with embellished stories of his renowned namesake, but a nephew would not feel the need to live up to the legend of the Lionheart the way a son would. If it would give Joanna comfort, he’d not care if she turned Richard’s crown into a halo and transformed what he saw as a needless death into a holy martyrdom.

Sensing that his men were growing restless, Raimond at last gave the signal to move on. When he returned to Fontevrault, he would bring Dame Esquiva with him, for Joanna would have greater trust in the midwife who’d delivered their children than in a stranger from Saumur. And he meant to have a confidential conversation with Esquiva, one that he doubted he’d share with his wife.

The Church preached that it was a mortal sin to prevent conception, but he had a more flexible concept of sin than Joanna, and he valued her life and her health more than the teachings of self-righteous holy men who knew nothing of the pleasures of the flesh. It was common sense that three pregnancies in three years would take a toll upon a woman’s body. Joanna could not keep getting with child every year like this. But abstinence was for monks and nuns, and even they often found it an impossible vow to keep. He remembered, though, a discussion with one of his bedmates, remembered her saying that a woman could avoid pregnancy by drinking wine mixed with willow leaves. She’d also claimed that there were magic charms and amulets that kept a man’s seed from taking root in a woman’s womb.

He did not doubt that Dame Esquiva would know of these methods. Because she was a good-hearted, practical woman, he was sure she would agree that Joanna needed time to recover her strength between pregnancies. Who understood the dangers of the birthing chamber more than a midwife, after all? And if Joanna never knew what they’d done, she’d be innocent of sin. Whereas his sins were beyond counting, so why would one more matter? If he must choose between risking his wife’s life and risking more time in Purgatory, that was not a difficult choice to make.

E
LEANOR HAD NEVER SPENT
much time at Tours during her marriage to Henry, for he preferred his castles at Chinon and Angers. The fortress at Tours was notable neither for its defenses nor its comforts, consisting of a great hall over ninety feet in length, with living quarters above and an adjoining square tower in the southeast corner of the bailey. But on this stifling summer afternoon in mid-July, it was the scene of a historic and dramatic ceremony. Eleanor was about to do homage to the French king for her Poitevin domains.

The hall was crowded with Philippe’s vassals, but only Mathieu de Montmorency had the courtesy or the courage to offer her his condolences for the death of her son. Barthélemy de Vendôme, the Archbishop of Tours, was seated on the dais beside Philippe, but he did not look to Eleanor as if he was enjoying the honor. Touraine was part of the Angevin empire, yet the archbishopric of Tours itself was under the French king’s control, and the archbishop was squirming like a man caught between two very hungry wolves.

Her grandson Arthur and his mother were seated on the dais, too, accompanied by Breton lords whom Richard would have called “the usual suspects,” men always eager to dip their oars in troubled waters. For a moment, Eleanor’s eyes rested on the boy. Only twelve, he would be taller than his father when fully grown. In truth, she could see little of Geoffrey in him; he had Constance’s dark eyes and arrogance. Would it have been different—would
he
have been different—had he been raised at her son’s court as Richard had wanted? The lad was spirited; Richard would have liked that. Her gaze shifted to her former daughter-in-law. Constance was making no effort to hide her hostility. Even now she did not realize that she’d sacrificed Arthur’s bright hopes for a grudge. Eleanor could have told her that revenge had a bittersweet taste, but she’d learn that for herself soon enough.

The presence of Guillaume des Roches amongst the Bretons was troubling, though, for he was an Angevin baron who’d been utterly loyal to Richard. He ought to have pledged himself to her son, not Arthur. She would, she decided, have a word with him ere she departed Tours. But now it was time.

The hall quieted as she stepped forward and began to walk toward the dais. It was customary for an heiress’s husband or sons to do homage in her name, yet now she was defying tradition by doing homage herself. She did not doubt that some of Philippe’s vassals were shocked and indignant that a woman could exercise authority in her own right, independent of a man. At the French court, they were saying that she must be desperate to safeguard her own lands. None would ever have believed she’d have put her duchy before Richard’s interests. She knew it was easier to believe of John.

Reaching the dais, she sank to her knees before the French king, holding her hands up for them to be clasped between his own. “My lady queen, are you willing to become my liege woman?” he asked, his voice as unrevealing as his expression. This was the first time she’d met him face-to-face. His appearance was not regal; he would never command all eyes merely by entering a chamber as Richard had done. But he was the one breathing God’s air and plotting to destroy the Angevin empire, whilst Richard slept in a marble tomb at Fontevrault Abbey. She could feel the pain stirring again and fought it back savagely; she’d have the rest of her life to mourn her son, but not now, not here.

“I am willing, my lord king,” she said composedly, her voice giving away no more than his had done. When he raised her up to give her the kiss that sealed the ceremony, she was not surprised that the lips brushing hers were cold to the touch.

An oath of homage must be followed by one of fealty, and she knelt again as a priest brought out a small reliquary. She wondered what holy relics she’d be swearing upon. Some were more credible than others; she very much doubted that straw from the Christ Child’s manger or nails from his cross had survived so many centuries. Not that it mattered.

“I promise on my faith,” she said, “that I will in future be faithful to King Philippe, not cause him harm, and will observe my homage to him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit.”

Only then did Philippe smile.

Eleanor rose to her feet again. All that remained now was the investiture ceremony, in which the French king would formally “return” her domains to her keeping. Male vassals were usually presented with a material symbol such as a scepter or lance. She was curious to see what Philippe would choose for his first female vassal. Most likely a glove. And then it would be done. As his vassal, she would owe Philippe obedience, military aid, and wise counsel, and as her liege lord, he would owe her protection.

The smile she gave him in return was so genuine, so satisfied, that Philippe’s own smile fled and his brows drew together. How wary he was, how suspicious—as well he ought to be. Now that he’d recognized her as the rightful heiress to her duchy, Arthur’s claim to Poitou as Richard’s heir was meaningless. And by doing homage to the French king, she deprived him of a legal basis for intervening in the affairs of Aquitaine and Poitou. As her liege lord, he was obligated to defend her rights—even against Arthur.

He would have understood that, of course. But she’d known that he could not resist this public submission by Richard’s proud mother, seeing it not only as a gratifying acknowledgment of his sovereignty but as a humiliation to John, proof that she had no confidence in his ability to protect her duchy. What Philippe did not know was that she planned to issue a charter in which she recognized John as her “rightful heir” and transferred to him the homage, fealty, and services owed her by her vassals. John would then do homage to her, proclaiming her “lady of us and all our lands and possessions.” And because she’d done personal homage to the French king, Philippe could not demand services directly of John. She—not John—would be answerable at the French court for any grievances Philippe might have.

John had been delighted with her idea, calling it a masterstroke. She knew, though, that it was not a long-term solution to the danger posed by the French king. When she died, her duchy would be vulnerable again. But she’d managed to checkmate Arthur and Constance whilst gaining John time to secure his hold on power, and that would have to be enough.

Philippe was watching her intently. He did not possess what Harry and Richard had—the easy mastery of other men. Nor would he ever win glory with a sword. Yet she saw a ruthless, icy intelligence in those pale blue eyes and, unlike the men in her family, he knew how to be patient; he knew how to wait for what he wanted. He’d never have been a match for Richard on the battlefield and Richard had outmaneuvered him on the diplomatic front, too. But would John be able to defend himself against such a determined, unscrupulous adversary? Well, John was clever, cunning, and unscrupulous, too. He’d be no lamb to the slaughter; it would be a war of wolves.