A King's Ransom (56 page)

Joanna thought his smile was more mischievous than salacious and she could not keep from smiling, too, when he said, with a mock sigh, “After all, it is no secret that I do like women.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said, very dryly.

“I’m sure you have,” he agreed, just as dryly. “But what you may not know is that I differ from most men in that I enjoy the company of women in and out of bed.”

“You do not think most men do?”

“Sadly, no. Too many of them show far more interest in the female body than the female brain. They never find out that St Peter was wrong when he called women the weaker vessel. The women I’ve known have more common sense than most men and they are more resilient, too, for they’ve had to learn to bend, rather than break. And they can be delightfully unpredictable . . . as a beautiful queen proved to be on a recent evening in Narbonne.”

Joanna’s breath quickened as their eyes met. But she knew that it was far too dangerous to flirt with this man, for she was acutely aware of his physical presence, wanting to stroke his wind-tousled black hair, to feel his arm slide around her waist, to taste his mouth on hers. She stiffened her spine and her resolve. Before she could say she wished to return to the great hall, though, he drew back, almost imperceptibly, and said casually, “Tell me about Sicily, Lady Joanna.”

She was both relieved and unsettled that he seemed able to read her moods so easily. But because she did not really want to go, she found herself doing as he asked. As she spoke, memories came flooding back and she took pleasure in reliving them, in telling him of that beautiful jewel in a turquoise sea, a sun-kissed kingdom prosperous and peaceful during the years of her husband’s reign, not yet threatened by the looming shadow of the German emperor. She’d already noticed that Raimond was an unusually attentive listener. As he listened to her now, his eyes never left her face, so intent upon what she was saying that it was as if the world had contracted, shrinking until there was only this lush, flowering garden and a man and woman seated on a narrow stone bench in the shade of a cherry tree.

But if her body and her heart seemed in collusion to tempt her into an unforgivable sin, her brain still functioned clearly and began to raise the drawbridge and lower the portcullis. “It grows late,” she heard herself say, pointing toward a sky glowing with the glorious crimson and gold of a southern sunset. “I think we ought to go back.”

“Of course,” he agreed, rising at once to his feet. But when he offered her his arm, she realized that escape would not be so easy. After the conversation they’d just shared, how could she revert back to her defensive aloofness? Rising, too, she brushed her skirts, and then reluctantly rested her hand lightly on his arm, wondering how she’d be able to keep him at a distance in the weeks and miles that lay between Carcassonne and Poitiers.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SEPTEMBER 1193

Toulouse, France

A
t Cardinal Melior’s urgings, they soon departed Carcassonne and now headed north, stopping at the abbey of St Papoul, and then on to Avignet, before the famous rose-colored walls of Toulouse appeared on the horizon. Joanna was excited to visit the city that loomed so large in her family’s history. She’d seen it as a child, on her bridal journey to Sicily, but she remembered little of that stressful odyssey. She did not even remember Raimond, though he swore he’d met her at St Gilles, where she’d bade a tearful farewell to Richard and had been turned over to the Sicilian envoys. He’d been impressed by her bravery, he confided, an eleven-year-old girl leaving all that was familiar to wed a stranger in a distant land. He laughed when she apologized for having no recollection of their meeting, joking that there was nothing memorable about his twenty-year-old self, but she thought it ironic nonetheless, for now she knew she’d never forget him.

They were to stay in the great citadel known as the Castle Narbonnais, just outside the town walls, and Raimond had promised to take them on a personal tour of the city he obviously loved, for he told them proudly that Toulouse had eleven hospitals and six lazar houses, feigning surprise when they politely declined a visit to the leper hospices. He’d assured Joanna and Berengaria that his father would not be present, and so it was a shock to them all when they saw the red banner flying from the castle battlements, emblazoned with the familiar gold cross of the Count of Toulouse. The count was in the inner bailey to welcome them, smiling complacently. If he’d been expecting to surprise them into civility, he was to be disappointed. Cardinal Melior and his retinue politely did their best to ease the awkwardness, but the queens and his son measured their words like misers hoarding coins. Dinner was a lavish one, with numerous courses, fine wines, and a dramatic subtlety shaped like a dragon. It was also an unmitigated disaster, for Joanna, Berengaria, their ladies, and their household knights were silently seething, and Raimond was making no attempt to hide his own anger. He apologized profusely to the women once the meal was over, swearing his father had promised to stay away, and assuring them that they would leave the city on the morrow.

Joanna had gone to bid Berengaria a good night and was surprised to find only Mariam when she returned to her own bedchamber. “I told the others to wait,” Mariam explained, “for I wanted to talk to you in private.” Helping Joanna to remove her veil and wimple, she unpinned the other woman’s bright hair and began to brush it out, saying one of Sir Stephen’s knights had told her he’d heard shouting from the count’s bedchamber and thought one of the voices was Raimond’s. “He was truly distressed about this, Joanna. He’d not have betrayed you and Berengaria this way.”

“I know that, Mariam, and so does Berengaria.” Joanna picked up a mirror to study the image reflected in the polished metal. She was in her twenty-eighth year, and she found herself suddenly thinking how fleeting time and beauty were, as ephemeral as memories. “What did you wish to talk about?”

“I wanted to tell you that whilst it is not easy to find privacy, it can be done. With my help, I am sure we can arrange for you and the count to be alone without anyone knowing.”

The mirror clattered into the floor rushes as Joanna swung around to face the other woman. “What are you talking about?”

“Joanna, the man is besotted with you and it is obvious to me that you are just as bedazzled by him. That is so rare. Do not let—”

“I am not ‘bedazzled’ by him,” Joanna said sharply, but ruined the impact of her indignant denial by then asking, “Why do you think he is ‘besotted’?”

“Because I have eyes to see, dearest. The two of you have been playing this game for weeks, each watching the other when you think no one else will notice. And he never misses an opportunity to ask me questions about you. What color is your hair? Are you close to Richard? Were you happy with William? Not that I answer them, of course, but he keeps on asking. I understand there can be no future for you since his father is such a bitter enemy of your House. But that does not mean you cannot snatch a few precious memories for yourself. As long as you are very discreet, and I can help—”

Joanna was truly shocked. “Have you lost your mind, Mariam? How could you think I’d commit so grave a sin?”

“Do you see Morgan and me as doomed sinners? Granted, you’re a queen, but I do not think God will judge you too harshly for seeking a little happiness for yourself. You are free, after all, a widow, a woman grown, and as long as you take care—”

“No queen is ever free, Mariam, and Raimond most certainly is not! I think God would judge me very harshly indeed if I were to take a married man as my lover.”

“He is married? He has never said a word to me about a wife!”

“Trust me, he has one.”

Mariam looked stricken. “Oh, Joanna, I am so sorry!”

Joanna was no longer angry, remembering that Mariam had not been present when Sancha had related Raimond’s marital history. Smiling, she said, “Are you sorry that he is married? Or sorry that you tried to tempt me into a mortal sin?”

“Both!” Touched to see tears in Mariam’s eyes, Joanna embraced her, and if she had tears in her eyes, too, Mariam tactfully pretended not to notice.

A
FTER A HASTY DEPARTURE
from Toulouse, they pushed on to Montauban, where they were the guests at the local Benedictine abbey. From Montauban, they rode to Agen, where they were welcomed by its bishop, Bertrande de Beceyrus, who’d been at the deathbed of Joanna’s brother Hal in Martel ten years earlier. After listening to his detailed account of Hal’s last hours, Joanna had wept, tears of relief. Her father had written to assure her that Hal had made his peace with God, but it meant more to hear it from one who’d been an eyewitness. From Agen, they made a shorter journey to Marmande la Royale, and both Joanna and Berengaria were delighted to discover that this small town owed its existence to Richard, who’d granted a charter while Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Poitou. Their next stop was the Benedictine priory at La Reole, where they were pleased to find another connection to Richard, who was responsible for its stone walls. La Reole had also been the site of a private meeting between Richard and agents of the Navarrese king to discuss marriage with Sancho’s daughter. Berengaria found it comforting to be in the same place where he’d bargained for her hand, and confided that he did not seem so far away whilst they were at La Reole. Raimond indulged her by prolonging their stay for a few days before they continued on toward the crown jewel of Aquitaine, the splendid port city of Bordeaux.

T
HEY WERE GIVEN
an enthusiastic welcome into Bordeaux, the citizens turning out in large numbers to cheer their duke’s wife and sister. The Archbishop Hélie de Malemort, a member of a prominent Limousin family, personally escorted them to the Ombrière, the riverside palace of the Duke of Aquitaine since the eleventh century. And although they were still a hundred and fifty miles from Poitiers, as she rode through the streets of Bordeaux toward the castle where her mother had been born, Joanna felt as if she’d finally come home.

I
T HAD BEEN
a whirlwind week of festivities and sightseeing for the two queens and their entourage. The local nobility and clerics arrived to pay their respects, there had been bountiful feasts in their honor, and Joanna had been able to hear Mass in St André, the great cathedral where her mother had wed the French king more than fifty years ago. On this Saturday eve, most of the palace guests had retired to their own chambers, but Joanna felt restless and she and Mariam had gone out into the gardens. They were far more elaborate than Adelais’s small garden at Carcassonne, putting the women in mind of the magnificent gardens of Palermo, with raised flower beds, fruit trees, pebble-strewn paths, trellised arbors, and elegant fountains that cascaded water into deep marble basins. It was so peaceful that they lingered even as twilight’s lavender haze darkened and stars began to glimmer in the heavens high above their heads. But that peace was not to last, for they soon heard footsteps on the path, and as her dogs ran to investigate, Joanna knew the identity of the intruder even before Raimond de St Gilles came into view.