A King's Ransom (83 page)

Oblivious to the tension between Baldwin and the Count of Aumale, Richard looked around the hall, seeking men he could trust implicitly; his gaze soon settled upon Guillain de l’Etang and his Welsh cousin. “Morgan, I want you and Guillain to fetch the girls from Rouen.” When they assured him they’d leave within the hour, he crossed to Baldwin’s side, counterfeiting a smile. “It looks as if you’ll be making another long journey, my old friend.”

Sitting down again, the Fleming smiled, too, just as unconvincingly. “It could be worse, sire. At least I’ll not have to set foot on shipboard again.”

“The other hostages . . . Do they know of Leopold’s threat?”

“Not your nephew. But the others, yes.” Baldwin proved himself adept then at reading minds, for he added softly, “They were not afraid, sire. They knew you’d never let harm come to them.”

“No,” Richard said grimly, “I would not.” As that whoreson Leopold well knew, God rot him. Glancing then toward the Earl of Chester, he said, “Tell your wife what has happened, Randolph.” He did not doubt that Constance would blame him for this, but that was the least of his worries at the moment. He was finding this a very bitter brew to swallow, but swallow it he must, for what other choice did he have?

Baldwin had never wanted anything as much as he now wanted a hot meal, a hot bath, and a soft bed. But he had not forgotten his Austrian escort, and he started to rise, saying that Leopold had sent a priest along who spoke Latin so he could communicate with his guards. He smiled when the Bishop of Lincoln volunteered to tell them what was going on, for that meant he did not have to move his aching bones just yet. The men were waiting uneasily by the door and the Austrian priest came forward hesitantly when Hugh beckoned, kneeling nervously to kiss the bishop’s ring. He looked greatly relieved, though, as soon as Hugh began to speak, and when he turned back toward his men, he was smiling, for they’d feared the English king might take out his anger upon them.

That had never occurred to Richard, but as soon as the priest addressed the other Austrians, he froze. The guttural sound of German called up memories so vivid, so intense, that for an eerie moment, he was not in the great hall at Chinon. He was back in that hovel at Ertpurch, hearing soldiers shouting in a language he did not understand, knowing there was no way out, that he and his men were trapped and the world as he’d known it would never be the same. Just as on that December day two years ago, he could hear the rasping of his own breath, could feel the cold sweat trickling down his ribs. Whirling, he grabbed for the closest chair and slammed it into the wall, with enough force to splinter the wood. He turned then to face the hall, his head raised defiantly. To his relief, they seemed to accept his violence as natural rage over this latest extortion, as nothing more than that.

K
INGS PUBLISHED THEIR ITINERARIES
weeks in advance so that their vassals and subjects would know where they’d be hearing court cases or accepting petitions. As soon as she knew Richard would be holding his Christmas Court at Rouen, Joanna did her best to convince her sister-in-law to accompany her there. Berengaria flatly refused, saying she’d go nowhere unless Richard sent for her. Joanna did not give up, though, and when she received a letter from Eleanor in mid-December that mentioned that Richard was then at Chinon, she persuaded Berengaria to spend Christmas at the Loire Valley castle, explaining that would give her a chance to visit with her mother since Chinon was only ten miles from Fontevrault Abbey. She felt no guilt about meddling; it was obvious to her that her brother’s marriage was in need of mending, and how could that be done if the estranged husband and wife were hundreds of miles apart?

But the best-laid plans could go awry, and upon their arrival at Chinon, Joanna discovered that Richard had already moved on into Normandy. Moreover, she and Berengaria had just missed bidding farewell to Anna, the girls having departed with Baldwin de Bethune for Austria two days earlier. And once Berengaria learned that Richard had been at Chinon, she reproached Joanna with unwonted sharpness. So as Joanna rode toward Fontevrault the next morning, she was fully expecting to be told that her mother had accompanied Richard to Rouen for his Christmas Court, for that was the way her luck seemed to be running.

“
I
AM SO GLAD
that you’re still here, Maman. I was afraid that you’d left with Richard.”

“My aging bones were not keen to travel so far in the dead of winter. Since I’d already seen Richard several times whilst he was at Chinon, I decided to celebrate Christmas here. It is not as if Richard plans any elaborate or lavish festivities, after all. I suspect his stay at Rouen will more closely resemble a council of war than a Christmas Court.”

Joanna thought it passing strange that Richard would not want to make much of his first Christmas back in his own domains. “It would have been a good time, though, to introduce his queen to his vassals and the people of Rouen,” she said, but her mother merely shrugged. Watching as Eleanor stroked Iseult, her elegant new greyhound, Joanna realized that as much as she loved her mother, she would not have wanted to have been Eleanor’s daughter-in-law. She at once tried to suppress this sacrilegious thought, reminding herself that Eleanor had seemed very fond of Hal’s wife, Marguerite. But Marguerite had grown up at the royal court and by the time she was old enough to be a true wife to Hal, Eleanor was Henry’s prisoner. John’s wife did not count, since he saw her so rarely. That left Constance and Berengaria. Eleanor returned Constance’s hostility in full measure. And while Eleanor had shown no antagonism toward Berengaria, Joanna could no longer deny her mother’s indifference toward her son’s queen.

“I am dining this afternoon with Prioress Aliza, and of course you will join us now, Joanna. I’ve become quite fond of Aliza. Even though she has been at the abbey since she was thirteen, she retains a lively curiosity about the world beyond these convent walls and she rarely fails to make me laugh—just as you do, dearest.”

Eleanor gave Joanna such a fond smile that she felt a pang of guilt for having entertained such uncharitable thoughts about her own mother. She was grateful when Eleanor turned to a safer subject, sharing family news. John was still on his best behavior, doing whatever Richard asked of him, although he spent little time in Richard’s company, which doubtless suited both of them. Geoff was continuing to trail turmoil in his wake. Hubert Walter had confiscated his estates that summer, but Richard had restored them when Geoff had appealed to him, pardoning his latest offense on the promise of payment of eleven thousand marks. She’d had another letter from Marie in Champagne, she confided, obviously very pleased that contact had been restored with the daughter she’d not seen since divorcing the French king more than forty years ago. Joanna was just as pleased when Eleanor let her read Marie’s letter. Marie had enjoyed a very good relationship with her half brothers, especially with Richard. But she and Joanna had yet to meet, and Joanna was quite curious about this worldly elder sister, having heard many loving stories about her from her son, Henri, during their time in the Holy Land.

Eleanor had news about Henri, too; Richard had gotten a letter from his nephew just before he’d left Chinon for Normandy. Henri reported that Saladin’s sons were squabbling with one another, and Richard had cursed the French king in language that might well have shocked a sailor, so angry was he that he could not yet join Henri in retaking Jerusalem, as he’d vowed. Anna’s father had been released from his prison by the Knights Hospitaller, as demanded by the Duke of Austria, and Isaac had promptly confirmed all of the rumors of his being in league with the Saracens by going to the Sultanate of Rum in Anatolia. According to Henri, he was said to be plotting against the Emperor of the Greeks, apparently realizing he had no chance of regaining control of Cyprus from Guy and Amaury de Lusignan.

“Henri did have some good news, though, Joanna. He and Isabella have had their first child, a daughter. Since they named Isabella’s daughter Maria after her mother, they named this lass Marie after Henri’s mother—which pleased her greatly.” Eleanor’s smile shadowed. “Henri’s decision to stay in Outremer and marry Isabella was a heart’s wound to Marie, for she knows how unlikely it is that she’ll ever see him again.”

Joanna was glad for Henri and Isabella; she loved her nephew and liked his bride very much. She still felt a small dart of envy, thinking how lucky Isabella was to conceive again so quickly, thinking of those long, barren years in her own marriage after the death of her infant son.

“Oh, and there is interesting news from Toulouse, Joanna. The Devil has called their count home.”

Joanna’s heart seemed to skip a beat. “The father, not the son?”

“The father, of course. I do not see Raimond as one of the Devil’s acolytes, although the Church most likely would disagree with me about that.”

Joanna agreed that they would, indeed, remembering Cardinal Melior’s intense hostility toward Raimond. So he was the Count of Toulouse now. Surprised by how pleased she was to hear this, she decided it was because Raimond was bound to be a better ruler than his father had been.

When she relayed this to Berengaria upon her return to Chinon, Berengaria was pleased, too, expressing the hope that Raimond might be less tolerant of heretics now that he had the responsibility of ruling all of Toulouse. She thought they should write to Raimond and offer their sympathies, pointing out that he’d been very kind during their long journey from Marseille to Poitiers. Joanna agreed and that evening, she dictated a brief letter of condolence to her scribe, even though she doubted Raimond was all that grieved by his father’s death. But then she snatched it back and penned a postscript herself, writing that Raimond had been right. “At times I am too quick to pass judgment, as on a September eve in a Bordeaux garden.” She was sure that Raimond would understand this oblique apology, and she could imagine him smiling as he read it, a thought that made her smile, too.

T
HE
E
MPRESS
C
ONSTANCE STILL
had nightmares about what she’d endured in Salerno three years ago. Left behind by Heinrich after he and most of his invading army had been stricken with the bloody flux, she’d found herself in grave danger, for the townspeople panicked once they learned that the emperor and the German army were in retreat. Besieged in the royal palace by a drunken mob, she’d come close to death, rescued just in time by a cousin of King Tancred, who’d then turned his prize prisoner over to the Sicilian king. She’d never forgiven Heinrich for abandoning her in Salerno, or for refusing to make any concessions to gain her freedom. She had forgiven the Salernitans, though, for she knew they’d acted from terror, not treachery, and while she thought they deserved some punishment, she’d been horrified by her husband’s bloody vengeance upon that unlucky town and its citizens.

But she’d taken away from Salerno more than bad memories. The famed medical school of Salerno admitted women, licensing them to practice medicine, and in the course of her high-risk, improbable pregnancy, Constance had been very grateful to have a female physician. She was convinced that Dame Martina had gotten her safely through those early, perilous months in which miscarriage was most likely, and she had faith that Dame Martina would help her to give birth to a living male child; she never doubted that God would bless her with a son. Yet on this December night, she was not thinking of the dangers of the birthing chamber, for that afternoon she’d learned what her women had tried desperately to keep from her—that people believed her pregnancy was a hoax. She was too old to bear a child, they insisted, after eight barren years, but Heinrich needed an heir and so he had concocted this ruse. A baby would be smuggled into the birthing chamber, mayhap one of Heinrich’s by-blows, and it would be announced that the empress had given birth to a fine, healthy boy.