Lionheart

  “I only had one brother,” Anna said sadly, “and he died. I still miss him. Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “Yes . . . I had an older half-brother and sister from my father’s first marriage, who are both dead.”

  Anna mulled this over, for she found the genealogy of the kingdom’s Royal House to be rather confusing. “Oh, of course! Your brother was the Leper King!”

  Joanna winced, and Berengaria and Sophia frowned. But Isabella did not lose her composure. “Yes, Baldwin was sometimes called that. There are people who believe leprosy is divine punishment for sin. The Pope even declared that Baldwin’s leprosy was the judgment of God. In Outremer, we know better. My brother was well loved by his subjects and greatly admired for his courage and gallantry.”

  Seeing then that Anna was distressed by her faux pas, Isabella deftly changed the subject, saying, “And I have four younger siblings, two brothers and two sisters born to my mother and Balian. They’ve lived in Tyre since Balian’s lands were captured by Saladin—” She stopped so abruptly that she drew all eyes. Letting out an audible breath, she summoned up a smile when she saw that she was the center of attention. “My baby is active today. If I did not know better, I’d think there was a game of camp-ball going on in my womb.”

  Those who’d borne children shared knowing smiles, remembering their own pregnancies. Berengaria had avoided this subject whenever possible and she felt a twinge of remorse; it was rude, after all, to ignore Isabella’s coming motherhood. “When is the baby due?” she asked, as warmly as she could.

  “My midwife says early November, most likely around All Saints’ Day, but definitely ere Martinmas.”

  Anna had thrown a cushion on the ground and settled herself comfortably at Isabella’s feet. “Have you selected any names for the baby?”

  “No, I’ve not had a chance to discuss it with Henri yet. We’ll probably name a daughter Maria, for that would honor both our mothers. If it is a son, I think I’d like to call him Henri.” Isabella raised her chin, meeting the eyes of the other women with a trace of defiance. If any of them thought that unseemly, they were wise enough to hide it. Seeing no disapproval on their faces, she leaned back against the pillows and addressed the issue head-on. “Balian told me the Saracens are scandalized that I would wed Henri whilst carrying Conrad’s baby. One of them asked him, ‘But whose child will it be?’ And my stepfather, bless him, said, ‘It will be the Queen’s child.’ They found that impossible to understand.”

  Joanna had come to admire Isabella’s courage and she proved that now by saying emphatically, “Well, we understand and that is all that matters. You did what a queen must always do—put the needs of your kingdom first.” She paused to make sure the other women got the message—that gossip would not be tolerated—for she’d heard several of Berengaria’s handmaidens and even her own Lady Hélène doing just that.

  “I agree,” Berengaria said, just as staunchly, her gaze singling out the worst offender, who blushed and averted her eyes.

  Isabella was pleased that both queens had spoken out so forcefully, for she’d noticed some tension lately between her own attendants and a few of their ladies-in-waiting, and she suspected careless or malicious chatter was at the heart of it. Her sense of mischief soon asserted itself, though, and she could not resist pointing out the obvious with an impish smile. “I did indeed do what I believed to be my duty. Of course few women would see it as a great hardship to wed the Count of Champagne.”

  Midst the laughter that followed, Anna took advantage of the mellow mood. “May I ask a question, Lady Isabella?”

  The fact that she’d felt the need to ask warned Isabella that it was likely to be intrusive. “You may ask, Anna. I cannot promise that I will answer.”

  “I was wondering . . . Did you ever think of reuniting with your first husband after Conrad was slain?”

  She was at once rebuked by Sophia for asking something so personal, but Isabella decided it was best to have it out in the open. “The past is like an impregnable castle perched on a sheer cliff, visible to all for miles around, but impossible to enter. There is no going back, Anna. Nigh on two years ago, the barons and bishops of Outremer made it quite clear that they would never accept Humphrey as king, and nothing has changed since then.”

  Anna nodded, satisfied. “Humphrey is good-looking,” she acknowledged, damning him with faint praise. “But Henri is handsome, too, and he is very dashing, as well, almost as brave as Malik Ric. I hope I can find a husband like him.” This last comment was delivered with artless abandon, as if the thought just happened to pop into her head. It was actually calculated to nudge the conversation in the direction she wanted it to go. “I have another question,” she confided, meeting their eyes innocently, “this one for those who’ve been married. Can you tell me what it is like to lie with a man?” Before she could be reprimanded again, she said quickly, “I have the right to know, for I will be wed myself one day, and surely you’d not have me learn from the prattle of servants. I’ve heard the first time is supposed to hurt, but after that? Is it pleasant?”

  Joanna was wryly amused when all eyes naturally turned toward her. She did indeed think Anna had a right to know; ignorance posed its own dangers. “Yes, it is pleasant,” she said, adding prudently that it must be enjoyed within the sacrament of marriage.

  Anna leaned forward, blue eyes shifting from Joanna to Berengaria to Isabella, then back to Joanna again. “But what does it feel like?”

  Joanna found that was not easy to explain. “It is . . . pleasurable,” she said, giving the other women a “help me” look.

  Sophia remained conspicuously silent, confirming their suspicions about her years as Isaac’s wife, but Berengaria did her best. “It is an act of great intimacy, Anna. Most women find it very comforting to share such closeness with their husbands.”

  Isabella had listened in growing surprise, not expecting them to use such bland, benign phrases for an experience so awesome. She opened her mouth to offer a far more vivid and compelling description of love-making, but caught herself in the nick of time, suddenly comprehending the reason for their caution.

  Anna was disappointed, hoping for more specific answers, but she saw this was all she was going to get and, after a few moments, she wandered off with Alicia, who was obviously impressed by her friend’s boldness, for they were soon giggling together. Once the girls were out of hearing, Isabella leaned closer and lowered her voice. “At first I could not understand why you both were being so reticent, so reluctant to tell her the truth, but then I—”

  “Reticent?” Joanna echoed, genuinely puzzled. “I was truthful with her, Isabella. It is important that young girls know it is not a sin to find pleasure in the marriage bed. If they are not told that by other women, they may pay heed to the wrong voices, to those who would have them believe that the loss of their virginity is to be mourned even within the sacrament of marriage. From childhood, they hear our priests preach that not even God can raise up a virgin once she has ‘fallen.’ Little wonder so many girls go to their marriage beds in such dread. Far better that Anna or Alicia should listen to us than to—”

  “A Padre Domingo,” Berengaria interjected, and she and Joanna exchanged smiles, as if sharing a private joke.

  Isabella was embarrassed now that she understood the magnitude of her mistake, and she was not sure what she was going to say if they questioned her about her “reticent” comment. Fortunately at that moment, Joanna cried out, “Anna! You and Alicia are too close to the roof’s edge.”

  “There are men coming up the Jaffa Road, lots of them!” Anna shaded her eyes, balancing on tiptoe as she strained to see the distant banners, and then she turned back toward the women with a radiant smile. “It is Malik Ric!” Adding for Isabella’s benefit, “And your husband, too!”

  ISABELLA WAS SOMEWHAT self-conscious about disrobing before Henri, for in the six weeks they had been apart, her body had changed dramatically, at least in her eyes. Her face seemed
fuller, her slender ankles no longer so slender, her breasts larger than they’d ever been, blue veins vivid against the fairness of her skin. She supposed that many women felt like this as their pregnancies advanced, wondering if their husbands would continue to find them desirable. But few of them went to their marital bed carrying another man’s child. Would Henri still be able to see the woman behind that distended belly?

  Her ladies had undressed her and she was already in bed when Henri entered. He was obviously eager to be alone with her, but he still took the time to greet her women courteously before he ushered them out; she’d been struck by his good manners from the time of their first meeting, when she was still Humphrey’s wife. Watching as he stripped with flattering speed, she felt desire stirring at the sight of his naked body. She’d been more fortunate than most women, for she’d been wed to three uncommonly handsome men, but she’d never wanted Humphrey or Conrad the way that she wanted Henri, and had since their first kiss upon the roof of the archbishop’s palace. She’d gloried in their love-making during their brief time together, experiencing sensations that were new and overwhelming, and she caught her breath when he turned, for he was offering indisputable physical proof of his need for her.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice husky. “No troubadour or trouvère would ever praise flaxen locks again after seeing you with your hair loose, flowing down your back like a midnight river.”

  As he slid into bed beside her, she put her hand upon his chest, over his heart. “Thank you for that, Henri, for making me still feel desirable. I’m as swollen as a ripe melon, and I was not sure you would—”

  She got no further, for he stopped her words with a kiss. “Melons,” he said, “are my favorite fruit.” He was nuzzling her throat, his breath warm on her skin. “But is it safe for the baby . . . ?”

  “I asked the midwife,” she assured him, “and she said it was quite safe until the last month.”

  The bed curtains were open and she could see the candle’s golden light dancing in his eyes; they were the blue of a harvest sky, she thought, for she was still in that sweet, bewitched state where everything about her lover was a source of pleasure and fascination. “So you asked the midwife,” he murmured, tightening his arms around her. “Dare I hope that means you missed me as much as I missed you?”

  “I missed you very much, my darling.” She wasn’t sure she’d have confided so readily in Humphrey or Conrad, for she’d played a more passive role with them, as an innocent and then a dutiful wife. With Henri, honesty came easily, for with him, she felt free to be herself, free to admit that she’d been eager to have him back in her bed. “I was so glad when Dame Helvis told me our love-making would not endanger the baby. But . . .” She paused and then sighed when he kissed her breast; they were so close now that she could feel his arousal, hot against her thigh.

  “But what, my love?”

  “Well . . . look at my belly, Henri. How are we to . . . ?”

  “Is that what is worrying you, Bella?” He laughed softly. “That is easy enough to remedy.” And he proceeded to prove it.

  ISABELLA HAD REACHED her climax first, and so she was able to watch as Henri enjoyed his. Now she lay in the circle of his arms, marveling that the simple act of love-making could be so different. Their first couplings had been urgent and impassioned; they’d usually left a trail of discarded clothing scattered about their bedchamber and remained abed so late each morning that they were greeted with sly smiles when they eventually appeared in the great hall. Tonight, though, it had been less intense, slower and more deliberate. She knew he’d held back, and was touched that he was so protective of the baby, so protective of her. Surely a man capable of being both lustful and tender would be a good father.

  “So . . .” he said, giving her a drowsy smile, “did you like being the one in the saddle?”

  She had; this new position had given her greater freedom to move, and knowing it was prohibited by the Church was somehow exciting in and of itself. “Will I have to do penance for it?”

  “Only if you tell your confessor. Have you never wondered, Bella, at the oddity of it—that the men who decide what comprises sins of the flesh are the same ones who shun such sins themselves? My uncle once said it was like asking a holy anchorite to lead an army into battle.”

  “Which uncle—Richard?”

  “No, Geoffrey, the one who was killed in a tournament outside Paris. Although I’m sure Richard would agree—as most men would. Few would argue that adultery is not a serious sin. But why is it sinful for you to mount me or for us to lie together during your pregnancy or even when you will have your flux? Granted, that might be untidy, but why sinful? Above all, I do not understand why the Church cautions men against loving their own wives too well, insisting that they sin if their lust burns too hot. If that be true, I am doomed,” he said cheerfully, “truly doomed!”

  “I am, too, then,” she confessed, propping herself up on her elbow so she could watch the amusement playing across his face. She loved the intimacy of conversations like this, loved the way they could shut their bedchamber door and shut out the rest of the world, at least for a while. “That reminds me,” she said. “I had a very interesting and surprising discussion about carnal matters with your two aunts this afternoon.”

  He cocked a brow in feigned shock. “Women talk about carnal matters?”

  “As if you men do not!”

  “Well, yes, we do that,” he conceded, grinning. “But men tend to boast about the vast number of their bedmates, and I would hope that is not true for royal wives like Joanna and Berengaria!”

  “Speaking of that, you’ve said very little about your past. I know nothing of the women you’ve bedded.”

  “And I intend to keep it that way,” he said firmly, although the corner of his mouth was twitching with suppressed laughter. Sitting up, he swung his legs onto the floor and returned a moment later with a cup of spiced wine. Offering her the first sip, he took several swallows before setting the cup down on the carpet. “So what do women say, then, when they talk of the marriage bed?”

  “Well, it began with Anna asking us what it felt like to lie with a man. She wanted to know if it was ‘pleasant.’”

  “It is only natural that she’d wonder about it,” Henri said with a chuckle.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Joanna assured her that it was indeed ‘pleasant,’ and Berengaria agreed, saying the intimacy was very comforting. I could scarcely believe my own ears, for they made it sound so . . . so tame, so downright dull! I started to speak up, but then it occurred to me that they were deliberately understating it, lest Anna be too intrigued.”

  “That makes sense. Anna is a handful, and if they’d dwelled too much upon the delights of the flesh, she might be tempted to try them for herself.”

  “So I thought. But when I said as much once Anna was out of earshot, they looked at me in perplexity. Joanna said Anna deserved an honest answer and they’d given her one. It was only then that I understood, Henri. To them, love-making is indeed pleasant, enjoyable, intimate. But they know nothing of what else it can be, what you taught me it can be!”

  “I am not sure I want to hear about my uncle’s bedsport, and for certes I do not want to envision my aunt Joanna in the throes of passion. They are my family, after all, and I still remember how discomfited I was as a lad when I realized that my own parents did the deed, too!”

  They both laughed and she wished she’d known him then; she did not doubt he’d been a happy child and she thought that she must do all in her power to make sure that he would be no less happy in Outremer than he’d been in Champagne. Henri leaned over and gave her a soft, seeking kiss. “Well? Are you not going to tell me ‘what else it can be,’ Bella?”

  “I do not know if that would be wise. I’d not want to puff up your male pride too much. . . .” She let him persuade her, though, with a few caresses. “It is not easy to find the words. When you make love to me, I stop
thinking. I just . . . feel. It is as if my very bones are melting, as if every nerve in my body is afire. It is a little scary to be so out of control, but it is very exciting, too, the way it must feel to be drunk. Only I’m not drunk on wine, Henri, I’m drunk on you.”

  Henri kissed the hollow of her throat, brushing back a strand of her long black hair. “How did I ever get so lucky?”

  “By letting my stepfather lure you back to Tyre,” she said with a smile. “Your turn now. When you make love to me, how does it make you feel?”

  “Blessed,” he said, with a smile of his own, “truly blessed.”

  “Silver-tongued devil,” she said lightly, but the candlelight caught a suspicious sheen in those wide-set dark eyes. “All those troubadours and trouvères at your mother’s court taught you well—Oh!”

  “What?” His immediate alarm revealed the intensity of his protective instincts.

  “Are you hurting?”

  “No, the baby just kicked, and quite a kick it was, too.” Remembering that her womb had not quickened until he’d gone to join Richard at Bait Nūbā, she said, suddenly shy, “Would you . . . like to feel it?” When he nodded, she placed his hand on her abdomen, with a stab of regret that her pregnancy must be so complicated, not the source of pure joy it ought to be.

  Henri’s eyes widened. “I felt it move!” He laughed, fascinated, for the first time seeing the baby as an individual in its own right, not just part of Isabella’s body. “Do you think it swims around in your womb like a tadpole? I wonder what it thought was happening whilst we were making love?”