“No, of course not!” She was flustered by his hostility, but it was too late to retreat. More convinced than ever that something was wrong, she leaned over and touched his arm. “She is not ailing, Richard. She is bewildered, though, that you seem to be deliberately delaying a reunion. She does not understand why you did not want her to join you in England, and neither do I—”
She could feel the muscles in his arm tense even before he pulled away and got abruptly to his feet. “I’ve warned you before, Joanna, about meddling in my marriage!”
“I am not meddling. I just want to help—”
“Did I ask for your help? Did Berenguela? You have a bad habit of interfering in matters that are not your concern and I am bone-weary of it!”
Joanna rose, too, staring at him in dismay. This was not the first time she’d taken him to task for neglecting his wife, for she’d become very protective of Berengaria during their time together in the Holy Land. Usually he’d been amused, occasionally annoyed, but only once had he become angry with her, and that was when he’d been in the initial stages of Arnaldia. She’d never seen him as furious as he was now. Instead of snapping back, as she would ordinarily have done, she found herself trying to pacify him. “I am sorry. I did not mean to meddle. . . .”
He was not appeased, continuing to glare at her. “See that it does not happen again,” he said, sounding like such a stranger that she could only nod, at a rare loss for words. She was greatly relieved when Arne returned then with the wine, for the silence was becoming suffocating. Accepting a cup from the boy, she managed to make stilted small talk while she drank it, but when she offered an excuse for leaving, Richard did not object. To the contrary, she thought that he seemed glad to see her gone.
“SIT HERE, and I will brush out your hair,” Eleanor suggested. They were alone, for Joanna had requested that they go up to their bedchamber before their women joined them for the night. She sat upon the bench as directed, and enjoyed this brief, blessed regression back into childhood, relaxing as her mother tended to her needs. Eleanor drew the brush through her daughter’s long, curly hair, establishing a lulling rhythm before saying, “What is wrong, Joanna?”
“I had a dreadful quarrel with Richard this afternoon, Maman. I was trying to learn why he seems set upon keeping Berengaria at arm’s length, and he accused me angrily of meddling in his marriage.”
Eleanor continued to wield the brush. “Well, you were meddling, dearest.”
“I know,” Joanna conceded. “But I always meddle, Maman! I love Richard dearly, and when we were in the Holy Land, I am sure he did not mean to neglect Berengaria. It is just that he is utterly single-minded, and he tended to forget he had a wife unless I reminded him of it.”
“I can see how he might have been distracted,” Eleanor said wryly, “what with fighting a holy war at the time.”
Joanna looked over her shoulder and grinned. “I’m sure that crossed his mind when I scolded him for not paying more attention to his bride.” Her smile faded then. “But this is different, Maman. It has been two months since his return to England. Berengaria is very hurt that he has not sent for her.”
Twisting around on the bench, she looked up searchingly into her mother’s face. “They seemed to get along well enough in the Holy Land. She was bedazzled, of course, but he appeared to be pleased, too, for she was sweet and loyal and quietly courageous. I know they did not quarrel ere they parted at Acre. So what has happened to make him so loath to have her with him? Have you spoken to him about it?”
“No, I have not.” Anticipating the question forming on Joanna’s lips, Eleanor said, “Nor do I intend to, dearest, for what would be the point? You ought to know by now that men cannot be talked into doing what they do not want to do.”
Joanna sighed, thinking that was certainly true for a man as stubborn as her brother. She had no intention of trying again to pry answers from Richard; as reluctant as she was to admit it, she’d been perturbed by his rage, not having seen it burn so hot before. But she could not be as philosophical as her mother seemed to be, for she knew how much Berengaria was hurting. “Is there nothing we can do, Maman?”
Eleanor paused, for even with Joanna, her instinct was to protect Richard at all costs. “Yes . . . we can give him time.”
Joanna wondered, How much time? She knew what her mother would say: as much time as he needed. But how could she explain that to Berengaria? How could she expect her sister-in-law to understand when she did not understand herself?
She offered to brush her mother’s hair and, after removing Eleanor’s veil and wimple, she admired its color; once a rich, dark brown, it was now as silvered as summer moonlight and she hoped that her own hair would become this spectacular shade, too, when she aged. “Where will you go after Lisieux, Maman? We cannot accompany Richard on campaign, so I thought I’d return to Poitiers. Will you come back with me?”
“No, I intend to stay at Fontevrault Abbey.”
The brush paused in midstroke. “You do not mean to take holy vows, do you?”
Eleanor laughed softly. “No, child, I am not intending to become a nun. But I find myself yearning for the quiet of the cloister after all the turmoil of these past years. I think it time to reassure the Almighty that I am not as worldly and jaded as my enemies allege. Then, too, Fontevrault is ideally located, close to both Poitou and Normandy.”
Joanna was amused by the mixed motives of piety and practicality. She was also relieved that her mother was not going to reject the secular world for the spiritual one; she was not willing to lose Eleanor even to God. She continued to brush out Eleanor’s hair as they chatted about less risky topics than Richard’s raw nerves. She was caught off balance, though, when her mother suddenly said, “I have never met Raimond de St Gilles. What did you think of him?”
Joanna was glad Eleanor could not see her face, for she could feel herself flushing. How long was the mere mention of that wretched man going to make her react as if she were a novice nun? “Well,” she said, “I’d say he is the sort of man mothers warn their daughters about.”
Eleanor laughed again. “Yes, I’d heard he is not like his snake of a father. Raimond is said to lust after women, not power.”
“He told me it baffles him that his enemies are so sure he is a Cathar,” Joanna confided, “since that would mean he’d have to forswear all pleasures of the flesh.” An idea came to her then and she marveled that she’d not thought of it before. She wanted to know if Raimond had wed again, although she could not justify that curiosity even to herself, and she realized now that her mother was likely to know that. Eleanor’s interest in Toulouse was a very proprietary one, which meant she made certain that she was kept well informed about the county and its people. “I suppose you heard that Raimond put aside his wife last year?” she ventured.
“Of course. I was surprised he’d hung on to that marriage as long as he did.”
Joanna discovered that she was as interested in learning about Raimond’s former wife as she was in finding out if he had taken a new one. “Was their marriage as unhappy as that?”
“Well, how many men would be happy to have a wife who shunned his bed?” Eleanor winced, for Joanna had inadvertently banged the brush against her temple. “You did not know that Beatrice Trencavel is a Cathar?”
Joanna shook her head, so shocked it took her a moment to recover. “Was she always one?”
Eleanor shrugged. “The Trencavels have long been known to be very sympathetic to the Cathars. My guess is that Beatrice was a Believer when she wed Raimond and she grew more devout as the years passed. I assume you know that their priests see carnal intercourse as the greatest of all sins because it leads to procreation. They are practical enough to realize that they cannot expect their Believers to be celibate, but once Beatrice needed to live a more holy life, she would be loath to pay the marital debt, convinced she’d be imperiling her chances of salvation.”
Fortunately for Joanna, Dame Amaria entered the chamber th
en, followed soon afterward by Dame Beatrix and Mariam, and the conversation flowed into other channels. But once Joanna was in bed beside her mother, she could not sleep, assailed by mortifying memories that burned hot color into her cheeks. She could hear her own angry words echoing in her ears, scorning Raimond for putting aside an unwanted wife, attacking him when he’d hesitated before saying Beatrice had entered a convent. No wonder he’d hesitated. He would not want to admit that it was a Cathar convent. How gleefully his enemies would have used that against him. And that night in a Bordeaux garden, she’d been his enemy, too, blaming him for the failure of his marriage, even accusing him of being a bad father to his daughter. Now the voice she was hearing was Raimond’s. Are you always so quick to pass judgment? She had not even bothered to deny it then. She would gladly have denied it tonight. It was too late, of course. Nigh on a year too late.
AS A CHILD, Joanna had spent several years in Poitiers with the girls betrothed to her brothers, Constance, Duchess of Brittany, and the Lady Alys of France. Because they were both older than she was, they’d never become friends. She was still surprised by the coolness of Constance’s greeting upon the other woman’s arrival at Caen—until she remembered that Constance detested all of the Angevins except Geoffrey. Certainly her meeting with Eleanor was an icy one; Joanna joked afterward to her mother that they’d been in danger of getting frostbite. Although she was too far away to hear, she thought that Constance’s audience with Richard was no less chilly. She knew that her brother had no liking for Geoffrey’s widow, a distrust rooted in Geoffrey’s two invasions of Aquitaine. But she did not know why Eleanor was so hostile, and when she asked, she was taken aback by the response.
“Because she did nothing but pour poison into Geoffrey’s ear,” Eleanor said, staring across the hall at the Breton duchess. “She did her best to estrange him from his family, to ally him with the French king, and if not for that accursed alliance, Geoffrey would not have taken part in that tournament.”
While Joanna would agree that Hal had been as malleable as wax, her memories of Geoffrey were not of a man easily influenced, even by a wife. Glancing over at her mother, she decided that Eleanor needed someone to blame for Geoffrey’s death, and Constance’s hostility made her a natural target. She held her peace, though, continuing to watch as Constance made a stiff curtsy and withdrew from the dais, pausing to give the most grudging of greetings to her husband, the Earl of Chester, before leaving the hall. Chester seemed no happier to see his wife than she was to see him, and Joanna felt pity for them both, fettered in holy wedlock like two oxen yoked to a plough.
When Richard joined them later, she asked why Constance had come to Caen, for she’d never been one to curry royal favor. “She wanted to know when her daughter must depart for Austria,” he said, “and she was not happy to hear Leopold is demanding Aenor arrive in Vienna by October. I told her I’d send Anna to join Aenor in Rouen so they could get to know each other, but that was all I could do.”
Joanna’s first impulse was to object, for she knew Anna would not be pleased. But after a moment to consider, she realized that both Anna and Aenor would benefit from it. At least they’d not be strangers when they had to start out on the marital journey that neither one wanted to make.
Glancing around to make sure no one else was within earshot, Richard confided to Joanna and Eleanor that he had no intention of honoring that provision of the Worms Pact. “I did not say anything to Constance or Anna yet, for I did not want to give them false hope. But I think there is a good chance that these marriages will not come to pass. I’ve been told the Pope has sent a stern warning to Leopold, demanding that he return my hostages and repay his portion of the ransom, threatening to lay all of Austria under Interdict if he does not obey.”
Richard’s mouth turned down, for he considered this sudden papal support to be too little, too late. Where was Celestine when he was chained in that Trifels dungeon? “I warned Leopold that he’d be the one to pay Heinrich’s debt,” he said bitterly, “but he would not heed me.” And for a moment, he found himself back at Dürnstein, listening as Leopold told him pompously that they no longer had the luxury of choosing their own fates. Well, if there was any justice under God’s sky, that would come to be one of Leopold’s greatest regrets.
JOHN KNEW HE’D MADE the only rational decision. As much as he dreaded facing his brother, Durand was right; groveling for the chance at a crown made more sense than begging for scraps from Philippe’s table. And it was surely a promising omen that within days of making his decision, he received a confidential message from his mother, urging him to meet Richard at Lisieux. But now that he was actually here, waiting for his brother to arrive, he began to have second, third, and fourth thoughts. What if Richard would not forgive him? If Richard decided to let him experience for himself what a dungeon was like? What if his mother’s message had been a ruse? Why had he believed he could trust her? He’d seen her in action and knew her methods were neither merciful nor maternal.
His confidence had begun to erode as soon as he reached Lisieux, for he’d received no warm welcome from his host, Archdeacon John de Alençon, Richard’s former vice-chancellor. The archdeacon had greeted him with cold civility, and after escorting him to the manor’s solar on an upper floor, he’d angered John by commenting that he need not feel nervous, saying, “The king will be kinder to you than you would have been to him.”
Now John could do nothing but wait and try to keep his imagination—always too active for his own good—from running away with him. A sudden uproar outside sent him flying to the window. Cautiously he opened the shutters, gazing down into the courtyard at the turmoil that always heralded a royal arrival. Retreating from the window, he medicated his nerves with some of the archdeacon’s wine, all the while staring at the door.
When it finally did open, he tensed in spite of himself. His mother paused in the doorway. Her face was impassive, but her eyes were amber ice in which he could read the reflection of his every sin, could read accusation and indictment, but no hint of absolution.
“Mother,” he said, his pride compelling him to meet that daunting gaze without flinching.
Eleanor let the door close behind her, but stayed where she was. This was harder than she’d expected it would be. How well did she truly know him, this stranger, her son? He’d been just seven when she’d been imprisoned, twenty-three when she’d finally regained her freedom. He’d always been Harry’s, never hers. She’d not expected to feel this sadness, this sense of loss. But when she reminded herself of what he had done—a betrayal that only God could forgive—she felt rage begin to kindle, and that she did not want, either.
“Well,” she said, “at least you had the courage to come.”
John bought some time by pouring wine into another cup, relieved that his hand was so steady. Carrying it across the chamber, he held it out, saying, “I hope you’ll not throw this in my face, for it would be a waste of good wine. You know why I am here, Mother. I need you to speak for me. You’re the one person Richard would be likely to heed.”
“I daresay you are right, John. But if I do that for you, there is something I want in return.”
John’s mouth was dry and he took a sip from the wine when she made no attempt to reach for the cup. “What is that?” he asked warily. “What do you want from me?”
“The truth. When I stopped you from leaving England for the French court two years ago, I thought we’d reached an understanding. I told you then that my first loyalty was to Richard, would always be to him. But if Richard did not sire a son, I wanted you as his heir, not Arthur, and I promised I would do what I could to make it happen. Why was that not enough for you, John?”
He did not hesitate, for he was clever enough to understand that what he’d done was indefensible. There was no way to whitewash his conniving with the French king, to deny that had they succeeded, Richard would have been entombed in some Godforsaken French dungeon, praying for death. It could not be rational
ized or explained away as an aberration. All he had to offer was the truth, however brutal it was.
“For what it’s worth, I fully meant to hold to our understanding.”
“Why did you not, then?”
“Because Richard’s capture unbalanced the equation. I truly did not believe he’d ever come back, ever regain his freedom, not with the enemies he’s made. The crown was suddenly there for the taking and so I put in my bid.”
Eleanor bit her lip. She’d asked for honesty and she’d gotten it—utterly without shame, conscience, or contrition. How had she and Harry failed so badly? Why had they been unable to foster any brotherly feelings between their sons?
Her prolonged silence was beginning to seem ominous to John. “Well?” he said, when he could endure it no longer. “Will you intercede with Richard on my behalf?”
She gave him a look he could not interpret. “I already have.”
John’s relief was intense, but ephemeral. So this whole scene had been yet another of her damnable games. Why could she not have told him that at the outset? “Thank you,” he said, and even to his ears, it did not sound convincing.
It did not sound convincing to Eleanor, either, but she was not seeking gratitude. She knew how little gratitude meant in their world. “It will help,” she said, very dryly, “if you try to seem somewhat contrite. But do not waste your breath telling Richard how very sorry you are. He well knows that you are only sorry you failed.”
Suddenly impatient to have this over and done with, she turned toward the door, glancing over her shoulder when he did not follow. “Richard is below in the great hall. Now would be as good a time as any.”
“The great hall?” John echoed in dismay. He thought it penance enough to have to humble his pride before Richard, shrank from doing it before a hall full of hostile witnesses. He opened his mouth to protest, then caught himself. Like Richard, she judged others by standards that made no allowances for human frailties. Richard measured a man by his willingness to bleed, to risk his life upon the thrust of a sword. With his mother, the test was more subtle and more demanding. She might forgive deceit and betrayal, but not weakness. Above all, he knew she would expect a man to answer for the consequences of his actions.