A King's Ransom (100 page)

J
OANNA WAS SEATED BESIDE
her brother on the dais, her eyes never straying from the entrance at the far end of the great hall. Raimond and his men had been sighted approaching the castle, so he’d soon be walking in that door. She was suddenly nervous, for it had been three years. Would it still be the same between them? Could her memory be trusted?

She was surprised when Richard reached over and squeezed her hand. “You need not fret,
irlanda
,” he said softly. “There’s not a man alive who could resist you when you put your mind to it. Even as a little lass, you had us all singing your song. And husbands are much easier to handle than brothers.”

Joanna smiled, touched that he’d noticed her unease, for he was not always so observant, for certes not where his wife was concerned. It amused her, too, that he still thought she’d agreed to wed Raimond as a dutiful daughter and sister. She’d have to enlighten him about that—eventually.

There was a stir outside, enough noise to indicate Raimond had come with a considerable entourage. Joanna was glad, for she wanted him to show them all that he was a prince of power and influence; she knew some of Richard’s vassals, especially the Normans, did not think highly of the southerners, considering them to be lazy, dissolute, and infected by heresy. Given how freely wine flowed at weddings, there was a potential for trouble, but she was confident that Richard would keep these regional animosities from getting out of hand.

Raimond was accompanied by the lords and bishops of Toulouse. Some of the men had brought their wives, and Joanna recognized his sister Azalais and his nephew Raimond-Roger. They’d changed in the three years since she’d last seen them, for Azalais had been widowed and her son was now a self-possessed youngster of eleven. Richard leaned over, asking their identities, but she never heard him. Raimond was striding toward the dais, looking just as he had upon their first meeting in Alfonso’s palace at Marseille.

“My lord king,” he said respectfully and knelt, for Richard—not Philippe—was now his liege lord, owed homage for Toulouse. He greeted Richard’s mother and queen next, with the gallantry for which the south was famous. Joanna watched with composure, for all her qualms had vanished as soon as their eyes had met. When he took her hand, she felt again the heat surging between their bodies, a fever of the flesh that burned just as hot as it had in that moonlit Bordeaux garden. He pressed a kiss into her palm, a lover’s gesture that he now had the right to make, and as they smiled at each other, she remembered what he’d said that night.
Like being struck by lightning and living to tell the tale.
Words meant to seduce, but true, nonetheless. It was, she thought, the best description she’d ever heard of the sweet madness that could ensnare men and women, decried by the Church but soon to be sanctioned within the bonds of matrimony.

T
HE
O
CTOBER DAY OF
Joanna’s wedding dawned with harvest blue skies and sun so unseasonably warm that it reminded Berengaria of her own wedding day on the isle of Cyprus. It had rained heavily that night, so she was glad the storm had passed. She hoped it would be a good omen for her sister-in-law’s future happiness. She’d been dismayed by the Archbishop of Rouen’s refusal to attend the ceremony and distressed that she seemed to be the only one troubled by his absence. But the Bishop of Évreux, one of Archbishop Gautier’s own suffragans, seemed comfortable stepping into the archbishop’s shoes, and as Joanna and Raimond knelt on the porch of the cathedral of Notre-Dame to receive the bishop’s blessing, Berengaria did her best to put her misgivings aside.

She thought Joanna was a lovely bride, her gown a rich shade of emerald, her coppery-gold hair set off by a gossamer veil fretted with seed pearls, tumbling down her back in the style worn only by queens and virgin brides. Raimond wore a deep red tunic that enhanced his dark coloring, and as he bowed his head, Berengaria thought the sun made his hair gleam like polished ebony. Hundreds of people had gathered to watch them exchange holy vows before entering the cathedral for the Marriage Mass, but the bride and groom seemed oblivious to their large audience, never taking their eyes off each other as they were joined as man and wife.

Beside her, Berengaria’s husband gave a soft chuckle. “I think I’ve been had, little dove. My sweet sister seems to have played me like a lute.”

Berengaria glanced up sharply, but Richard had gone back to watching the bridal couple. His playful comment struck her like a blow, for it reminded her of the easy intimacy they’d shared in the Holy Land, reminded her of all she’d lost. Like Richard, she, too, returned her attention to the ceremony. The scene had blurred, but she did not try to hide her tears, for women were supposed to cry at weddings, were they not?

J
OANNA HAD ALWAYS ENJOYED
social occasions like weddings, for they provided opportunities for music and rich fare, for flirting, dancing, and basking in the flattering attention that she inevitably attracted during such festivities. But she was eager for her own wedding celebration to be over, wanting only to be alone with her new husband. Raimond did not make it any easier for her to be patient, murmuring in her ear that she looked beautiful in her bridal gown, but he was sure she’d look more beautiful out of it, telling her that her blazing bright hair made her look like a woman on fire, adding that
he
was on fire, too, only his flames were burning in his nether regions, and pretending to be shocked when she laughed. While Joanna was doing her best to be circumspect under constant public scrutiny, she’d begun to wonder if the revelries would ever end.

Eventually, of course, they did, and she and Raimond were escorted up to their bedchamber by the raucous wedding guests, where they knelt for the traditional blessing. Garin de Cierrey, the Bishop of Évreux, was a courtier as well as prelate and he showed a realistic assessment of his audience by keeping his remarks brief, praying that their marriage would be fruitful and that they would find favor in the eyes of the Lord. Nor did he make a serious attempt to convince the bridal couple that they ought to refrain from consummating their marriage at once, spending their first night in meditation and contemplation of the holy state of wedlock; he was worldly enough to know that very few ever heeded that particular Church admonition.

Once the male guests had been chased out, the women helped Joanna to remove her wedding finery. Clad only in her chemise, she sat on a stool as her long hair was brushed until it glowed in the candlelight with a burnished bronze sheen. A jar was handed to her so she could perfume herself again, and another jar was passed so she could reapply her lip rouge. Once she took off her chemise, she was dusted with a fragrant powder before being tucked into bed. The other women tactfully drew back then, so she could have a few private words with her mother.

This was the first time Eleanor had been present for a daughter’s bedding-down ceremony. Joanna and her older sisters, Leonora and Tilda, had been sent off at early ages to wed foreign princes, and once her marriage to the French king had ended, Louis had cut her out of the lives of their two daughters. She sat for a moment on the bed, reaching out to arrange Joanna’s hair on the pillow; she knew from experience how erotic men found long hair, for a woman let it down only in the privacy of the bedchamber.

“You are such a beautiful bride,” she said fondly, “and I am very pleased to see that you are such a willing one. Mayhap your brother does not owe you as great a debt as he first thought.”

Joanna grinned. “When did you guess the truth, Maman?”

“From the moment Raimond entered the great hall and I saw the way the two of you looked at each other, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. I am very happy for you, dearest,” she said, leaning over to kiss Joanna on the cheek. “Were you lovers?”

Joanna actually blushed. “Of course not, Maman!”

“No?” Eleanor sounded surprised. “Well, that will make tonight all the sweeter.” And she smiled, remembering her own wedding night to Joanna’s father. It was a wonder she and Harry had not set their bed on fire, so much heat had been kindled. If her daughter found even half as much pleasure with the Count of Toulouse, she would be a lucky woman.

J
OANNA HAD LEFT THE BED CURTAINS
open a bit, just enough for her to see without being seen. She’d not had a bedding-down ceremony before. She’d been only eleven when she wed William, so there was no question of consummating the marriage on their wedding night. She’d been nigh on fifteen when he’d deemed her old enough, and that was done privately, with him simply showing up in her bedchamber. The memory brought a smile to her face, for it had been a pleasant experience. She’d been bedazzled by her handsome husband, eager to become his wife in every sense of the word. She’d known about his
harim
of Saracen slave girls by then, but she’d convinced herself that he’d get rid of them once he began sharing her bed. Her smile faded as she remembered how hurtful it had been once she’d realized he had no intention of putting them aside. Most wives expected their husbands to be unfaithful occasionally. Few demanded fidelity, only discretion. But even at fifteen, Joanna had seen a
harim
as a greater sin than a concubine and a far greater affront to her pride.

She could hear the clamor in the stairwell that warned of the arrival of the male guests and hastily put her old memories aside. They burst into the bedchamber like an invading army, many of them drunk by now, all of them eager to torment and tease the bridegroom, for this was an accepted rite of passage. She wondered if any bride or groom ever truly enjoyed being at the center of this circus. The risk of violence was always present, too, for wine was combustible and male humor could quickly cross the border from bawdy to obscene to offensive. From stories she’d been told, trouble often began when the wedding guests no longer confined themselves to jests about the groom’s manhood and began making lewd jokes about the bride. Most grooms had been drinking, too, and many were just as hot-tempered as the males in her family. So she was very thankful that she had such a formidable peacekeeper in her brother.