A King's Ransom (80 page)

But to Richard, the long-term significance lay in the capture of the French archives, for Philippe’s government would be crippled by such a loss, in disarray for months to come. He laughed, thinking of the dismay of Philippe’s counselors and chancery officials, thinking of Philippe’s horror when he learned that all his state secrets were now in the hands of the English king. Much to Richard’s satisfaction, these included a list of the Norman and Poitevin lords who’d disavowed allegiance to him and done homage to Philippe.

He was going over these charters in his tent when André joined him, bearing news that he expected to ignite his cousin’s temper. One of their prisoners had information about the French king, he said, and a frightened youth was soon ushered before Richard. Shoved to his knees, he stared up mutely at the English king until André said impatiently, “Go on, tell the king what you told us.”

It took a while to get the story out of him. Philippe had turned aside when he’d reached that crossroad, declaring he wanted to offer prayers in a nearby parish church. And whilst he hid in the church, his enemies had galloped heedlessly past, never suspecting that he was so close at hand.

Richard’s knights watched him warily, waiting for the explosion. He surprised them all by laughing—a soured laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “Come on,” he said to André, “let’s get some air.” The other men took that for what it was, an invitation meant only for his cousin, and none followed as Richard and André left the tent and began to walk through the camp. Richard paused often to banter with soldiers, to offer praise that they valued almost as much as the plunder they knew he’d be sharing with them. He paid a visit to the tent that was serving as a makeshift hospital, jesting with the wounded, pleased to see that there were not very many; most of the casualties that day were French. After that, he wanted to make sure that Fauvel had been cooled down, rubbed, and fed. Getting a dried apple from the groom, he fed the treat to the dun stallion, assuring Fauvel that he was much faster than Scirocco, joking to André that he did not want jealousy to fester amongst his horses.

André was surprised by his good mood, for he’d been certain Richard would be furious to learn he’d come so close to capturing the French king. When he said that, Richard shrugged. “It was not a total loss. When that story of Philippe cowering in a church gets around, he’ll be a laughingstock with his own troops. I’ll have other chances to run that fox to earth, for I am going to make it my life’s mission from now on.”

Richard hesitated, giving the other man a sidelong glance. “The truth is that I had something else to do this day, something that mattered almost as much as capturing King Cravenheart. I needed to prove to myself that I am still the same man I was, that my imprisonment left no lasting scars.”

André frowned as he thought that over. “But surely you proved that already at the siege of Nottingham and then again at Loches. If you feared death during those assaults, you hid it very well.”

Richard was regretting his impulse, for it was not easy to bare his soul, even to André, who was likely to understand if anyone could. “There are worse fates than death,” he said at last, and André cursed himself for not having seen it sooner. When Richard had charged into those besieged castles, he’d risked a fatal wound. But by racing into the very midst of the French army, he was risking capture.

“Well,” he said, “you need not fret, Cousin. To judge by what I saw today, it is clear that you are the same crazed lunatic on the battlefield that you always were.”

Richard grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.” They looked at each other and then began to laugh, sounding so triumphant that soldiers passing by smiled, glad that their king was so pleased with their victory over the French.

W
HEN THE WALLS OF
Poitiers came into view, Richard could feel himself tense, for he was not looking forward to this reunion with his wife. He’d lashed out at his sister in part because he could not explain to her why he was loath to see Berenguela, why he so often felt distant and detached from his former life. Even with Joanna, there was a constraint between them that had not been there before. Women could not understand the humiliation of being utterly powerless, for few of them ever exercised power. Even his mother did not comprehend why he felt such shame for submitting to Heinrich’s demands. That was especially true for the innocent he’d wed. He’d realized early on that Berenguela saw him through a golden glow, not as he really was. He’d liked her adulation, though, liked her bedrock faith that he was so much more capable than other men, that he would always prevail. Now he did not want to see her brown eyes reflect his own deep-rooted disappointment.

Her father’s death had cast a new shadow over his marriage, for he’d begun to feel guilty for staying away. No matter how often he told himself that he’d done what he had to do, he knew he’d not been there when she’d most needed him. That awareness made him even more reluctant to face her and angry with himself for feeling this way, so he was in an edgy mood as they approached the Pont de Rochereuil. As the gate swung open, he saw crowds gathered in the streets, already beginning to cheer. Summoning up a smile, he urged his stallion forward into Poitiers.

T
HEY WERE AWAITING HIM
in the palace courtyard. His wife wore the mourning black of the Spanish kingdoms and Sicily, a stark shade that accentuated her pallor, making her seem fragile and even more petite and delicate than he remembered. Dismounting, he handed the reins to Arne and crossed to Berengaria. Kissing her hand, he said, “I was grieved to learn of your father’s death. He was a good man, a good king.”

Berengaria inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord,” she said softly, and then turned to present him to Bishop Guillaume. Richard already knew the bishop, who’d been elected to the See of Poitiers ten years ago, and their exchange was coolly civil, for they’d clashed over Church prerogatives when Richard was Count of Poitou. He turned then to Joanna, giving her a brotherly kiss on the cheek. She smiled at him, all the while hoping that the decorum of the public greeting between husband and wife was due to the presence of the bishop and the other clerics. But as she looked up searchingly into his face, she could not tell what he was thinking; his court mask was firmly in place.

Upon getting word that Richard would be arriving on the second Saturday in July, Berengaria had insisted upon arranging a formal reception for him, inviting Bishop Guillaume, the abbess of Ste Croix, the Abbot of St Hilaire de Grand, most of the city’s clerics, the Viscount of Thouars and his brother Guy, and even their quarrelsome neighbor Hugh de Lusignan. Joanna had noticed that Richard did not seem to enjoy these elaborate public gatherings as much as he once had, and she’d tried to convince Berengaria that Richard might prefer a quiet family dinner. But Berengaria had insisted that Richard be given a ceremonial welcome befitting his rank, leaving Joanna to worry that her sister-in-law was more nervous than joyful about her long-delayed reunion with her husband.

Trestle tables draped in white linen had been set up in Eleanor’s splendid great hall, laid with silver plate. The cooks had prepared an extravagant menu: a roasted peacock, its bones strutted, its skin and feathers then refitted to give the impression that it still lived; marrow tarts; venison stew; trout boiled in wine; sorrel soup; rice in almond milk; blancmange; Lombardy custard; salmon in jelly; red wine from Cahors and Bordeaux, and even the very costly Saint Pourçain wine from Auvergne; and then sugared subtleties shaped like dragons and war galleys and Richard’s new coat of arms, for upon his return, he’d added two more royal lions to his standard.

Bishop Guillaume did not approve of such excess, although he politely said nothing, reminding himself that the English queen would make sure that her almoner distributed the leftover food to the poor. He could not resist chastising the English king, though, for having turned out the monks of St Martin’s at Tours, for he considered that a typical Angevin provocation. He thought Henry had been the worst offender, having the blood of the martyred Thomas of Canterbury on his hands, but Richard did not always show the proper respect for the Holy Church, either, and his harassment of the Tours monks was shameful in the bishop’s eyes—as was the presence amongst good Christians of Richard’s cutthroat captain, Mercadier, who was calmly enjoying his dinner at one of the side tables.

Richard felt that he’d been quite justified in punishing the monks for welcoming the French king. He meant to return their property once they’d learned a lesson in loyalty, but he had no intention of sharing that with Bishop Guillaume. He heard the bishop out with icy courtesy, though, for Berengaria was watching him imploringly, dark eyes filled with distress. He supposed he should have expected her to become the bishop’s devoted disciple, for her piety inclined her to give the benefit of every doubt to the Church. As likely as not, she’d even defend that inept fool on the papal throne.

He was determined to be on his good behavior and did his best to keep the conversation going, telling them that the Archbishop of Rouen was back from his stint as a hostage in Germany, news that pleased them all, especially the clerics. He revealed that his chancellor, Longchamp, was meeting with French envoys to discuss a truce, a reluctant but realistic acknowledgment that Normandy needed time to recover from the war that had been ravaging it for over a year, and this, too, was well received by his audience. And he entertained them by relating the story of a “fat fish” that had been stranded on the manor of the canons of St Paul’s. Whales were considered the property of the Crown, but Hubert Walter had ruled that this one belonged to the dean and chapter of St Paul’s, and Richard amused them by grumbling good-naturedly that his justiciar now owed him a whale, a debt that would not be easy to pay. He and André and his knights were the only ones who’d actually seen a whale and after they described the one they’d encountered as they sailed to Sicily, a lively discussion ensued about whether the “great fish” that swallowed Jonah in Scriptures had been a whale.

Berengaria began to relax once she was sure Richard was not going to quarrel with Bishop Guillaume, and she was grateful that he’d introduced a topic their clerical guests found so interesting. She’d feared that he might seem like a stranger after more than twenty-one months apart, but he seemed reassuringly familiar—the way he cocked a brow or tilted his head to the side when he was considering a question, the curve of his mouth when he was suppressing a smile, the sound of his laugh, how he gestured with his hands when he talked. This was the husband she remembered, the man who’d always treated her kindly even though she knew kindness was not an essential aspect of his nature. The other man was the stranger, the one who’d written her such impersonal, unrevealing letters and made excuses to keep them apart.

She was still hurt that he had not come to her as soon as he’d learned of her father’s death, but Joanna had almost convinced her that he could not interrupt a war and even Bishop Guillaume had not criticized him for that. She was pleased now when he began to talk about her father, saying how much he’d respected Sancho and reminding their guests that the Navarrese king had been known as Sancho el Sabio, Sancho the Wise. Richard caught the sheen of unshed tears behind Berengaria’s lashes and reached over to take her hand, saying again how very sorry he’d been to learn of Sancho’s death.

This was their first truly intimate moment since his arrival, and she smiled, speaking so softly that he alone could hear. “It is a comfort that he is with my mother now,” she confided. “And my brother finally admitted he’d been in pain for months, so I am thankful he is no longer suffering. I am sure that Sancho will be a fine king, and that helps, too. I just wish my brother Fernando will not have to hear such sorrowful news when he is so far from home, away from family and friends—”

She stopped abruptly when Richard jerked his hand away. “I had no choice in the matter. The German emperor demanded that Fernando be one of the hostages.”

She was dismayed by his angry, accusatory tone. “I know that, my lord husband.” Painfully aware that they were attracting attention, she said hastily, “I do not blame you, truly I do not.” He regarded her in silence before nodding and then reaching for his wine cup. She drank some wine, too, and the moment passed. But after that, she ate without tasting the food, disquieted by what she’d seen in his eyes—that he did not believe her.