A King's Ransom (128 page)

J
OANNA’S WOMEN HAD RETREATED
in haste as soon as she’d drawn her last breath, for none of them could bear to watch as the midwife cut Joanna’s baby from her womb. Eleanor had drained the last of her reserves, too. Upon returning to her own chamber, she dismissed her attendants. Her eyes were dry, for she did not think she had any tears left. She could not mourn, nor could she pray. Sitting on the bed, she could only stare blindly into space, too emotionally exhausted to feel anything yet, as if she were lost in Limbo like those legions of unbaptized babies.

The knock on the door came as a surprise even though she’d been expecting it. Getting wearily to her feet, she crossed the chamber to admit Dame Berthe.

“It was a son, my lady. I baptized him Richard as the countess wished.”

The eyes of the two women caught and held. And then Eleanor thanked the midwife, telling her to return on the morrow. Once she was alone again, Eleanor crossed to a window-seat and opened the shutters. Joanna’s last day seemed more like high summer than early September, the sun burning away clouds in a sky so blue it could have come from a potter’s wheel. She gazed up at that blazing sphere of white heat until the bright, dazzling light began to hurt her eyes. She’d always hoped to have a grandson named Richard, a worthy namesake of the man who would be five months dead in just two days’ time. Because he was so premature, she very much doubted that Joanna’s son had drawn that one crucial, life-affirming breath. But she did not care that the midwife had lied. And she did not think that God would care, either.

A
T FIRST READING,
Joanna’s letter had seemed to offer good news, for she assured Raimond that her nausea had finally abated. She told him then, though, that he should delay his visit, for she’d decided to join her mother at Rouen. He’d have preferred that she’d stayed at Fontevrault, for he’d need an additional week of travel to reach Rouen. But he understood her desire to be with Eleanor as her time drew nigh. His indomitable mother-in-law put him in mind of those ancient Greek legends of a warrior race of women called Amazons. And Dame Esquiva agreed with him that Joanna must indeed be on the mend if she felt well enough to make that long journey. So he took solace in that and made arrangements to leave for Rouen before Michaelmas, intending to stay with Joanna until the birth of their child.

Yet he was not easy about this ill-starred pregnancy, which had done such damage to his wife’s health and kept them apart for so long. Again and again, he’d cursed himself for allowing her to make that stubborn pilgrimage to seek aid from Richard. If only he’d forbidden it, she’d be awaiting her confinement here in Toulouse, under the care of Dame Esquiva, a midwife she knew and trusted. He smiled ruefully then, for trying to turn Joanna into a docile, submissive wife would be like hitching a purebred mare to a plough. Whilst it might be possible, what man in his right senses would want to do it?

A
PALL HUNG OVER
the count’s castle at Toulouse. People spoke in hushed whispers, their gazes drawn toward the stairwell that led to the count’s bedchamber. He’d been up there for hours, ever since he’d gotten the English queen’s letter. He’d gone ashen at the sight of Eleanor’s seal, broken it with shaking fingers, and then turned away without saying a word. It was left to the queen’s messenger to tell them that the Lady Joanna was dead and, with her, the count’s infant son.

R
AIMOND DID NOT KNOW
what time it was, not sure if hours or days had passed. He’d refused food, all feeble attempts at comfort, his chaplain’s offer of prayers, but he’d finally admitted a servant with wine. Empty flagons lay scattered about in the floor rushes.
Like discarded gravestones,
he thought hazily. He was not truly drunk, though; God had denied him that mercy. Moving aimlessly to the window, he pulled the shutters back, gazing out at a night of heartbreaking beauty; the moon was in its last quarter, a silvered crescent floating in an infinite ebony sea. During those summer months without Joanna, he’d liked to remind himself that they were gazing up each night at the same starlit sky. It was a poetic way of keeping her closer to him. Now all he could think was that she’d never look upon the sky again.

When he opened the door, he tripped over a shadow that yelped when he stepped on it. He gave a startled cry of his own before recognizing Ahmer, one of Joanna’s Sicilian hounds. He knew Joanna was being mourned in Toulouse, for she’d been popular with the men and women of his city. But somehow it was the dog’s lonely vigil that caught at his heart. With Ahmer at his heels, he slowly climbed the stairs to the small chamber above his own. A wet nurse was sleeping on a pallet beside his daughter’s cradle; she was swaddled like a butterfly waiting to hatch from its cocoon. Nearby, Raimondet was sprawled on his back, snoring gently, and fresh tears came as Raimond recalled how proud the little boy was when he’d been allowed to sleep in a bed of his own.

Reaching down, he lifted his son into his arms. Raimondet whimpered, his lashes flickering, but then he sank back into sleep, snuggling against Raimond’s shoulder. He’d have to be told, but he was too young, at two, to understand. He would keep asking for “Mama” as he’d been doing all summer. Until her memory faded, until he could no longer remember the woman who’d sung him to sleep at night and made him squeal with laughter when she’d tickled him and pretended not to see him when he’d hidden behind the billowing bed curtains.

For Raimond, this was the pain that tore him apart, even harder to bear than the realization that he’d never hear her laugh again or make love to her or see her sleepy smile upon awakening in the morning. “I will not let him forget you, Joanna,” he whispered. “I promise you that, my love, upon the surety of my soul.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

SEPTEMBER 1199

Le Mans, Anjou

J
ohn’s smile reminded Constance of a cat who’d just gotten into the cream. As little as she’d liked Richard, she’d never had trouble envisioning him as a king. But John? If he were fit to rule, then unicorns roamed the Breton hills and mermaids sunned themselves on Breton beaches. Having to make peace with him was not easy, but they’d concluded they had no choice. Despite Arthur’s early successes, it had become obvious that the scales were weighted in John’s favor. Moreover, the Bretons were growing uncomfortable with Philippe’s heavy hand on the reins; his support of Arthur was coming at a higher price than Constance was willing to pay. She’d already made a dutiful curtsy to the new king, and she watched now as her son knelt before the dais. As always, she felt great pride. Even at twelve, he was poised and self-confident, so handsome that his smile never failed to catch at her heart. She’d explained why they had to accept John’s kingship—to buy time until Arthur was old enough to challenge John himself. He said he’d understood, but he had not liked it any, and she was relieved now when the fealty ceremony went off without a hitch.

John was in good spirits. He’d greatly enjoyed watching his young rival humble himself and he had a surprise in store for the lad’s prideful mother, too. Leaning back in his seat, he regarded Constance with a smile that put her instantly on guard.

“I have news for you, my lady, that I am sure will please you as much as it pleases me. Now that your marriage to the Earl of Chester has been annulled and you have done your grieving over his loss—for I know how much you valued him—I think it is time to find you another husband. I am not often given to quoting from Scriptures, but I believe St Paul counseled that
it is better to marry than to burn
.”

Constance heard a low murmur from her barons, a growl of pure displeasure. Arthur was frowning, too, even though he was not likely to have understood John’s silken malice, the implication that Constance found her bed a cold one. She alone was not surprised, for she’d been expecting an ambush like this; she’d lived amongst the Angevins since she was a small child.

“Are you offering to begin a husband hunt for me, my lord king? How very kind.”

“Not at all. Naturally I want the best for my former sister-by-marriage. But there is no need to ‘begin a husband hunt.’ I’ve already found him.” John let the suspense drag out, his eyes gleaming. “I am sure you will be very happy with . . . Sir Guy de Thouars.”

The growl behind Constance became a snarl. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Guy and his brother the viscount. Aimery’s expression was almost comical it was so conflicted—pride that his House would be able to boast such a highborn sister-in-law warring with astonished jealousy that his younger brother was to become a duke. Guy, quite simply, looked as if he’d been poleaxed.

“Your generosity leaves me speechless, my lord king,” Constance said coldly. “I am sure you will understand that I must consult with my son and my barons and bishops about something so important as my marriage.”

“Of course,” John said, and she thought of cats again, for he was practically purring. “By all means, discuss it. But I have every confidence that you will reach the right conclusion—now that you and your son have been restored to royal favor.”

He smiled genially, but Constance heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being slid halfway up its scabbard. And as she looked at her lords, she saw that they’d heard it, too.