A King's Ransom (124 page)

M
ARIAM WAS SITTING IN
a garden arbor, the only place she could escape the eyes of others. In all of her thirty-three years, she had never been so frightened, never felt so helpless. If only she could talk to Joanna’s husband and mother. But Raimond was over three hundred miles away and the queen was in Normandy, devoting herself to the needs of her youngest son.

She swiped at her wet cheek with the back of her hand. Weeping would not help. When had tears ever changed a blessed thing? Hearing footsteps on the garden path, she drew farther back into the arbor, hoping she’d go unnoticed. But then she heard her name called, and the voice was one that still haunted her dreams. Jumping to her feet, she emerged onto the walkway. “Morgan?” she said incredulously. “I thought you’d gone back to Wales after Richard died!”

He’d reached her by now and took her hands in his. “I did return to Wales,” he said, for he’d wanted to see his brother and sister and to visit his parents’ graves. But he’d stayed only a few weeks, for Wales was no longer where his roots were. His curiosity had been a golden key, admitting him to a world of endless horizons, soaring vistas, and exotic, alien locales. There was a price to be paid for such freedom, though: the loss of his homeland.

“I came back to check upon my Norman manors,” he said, omitting the real reason: that he did not know where else to go. Since Richard’s death, he’d been a ship without a rudder, sure only that he did not want to seek refuge in John’s harbor. He’d even thought of pledging his loyalty to Arthur, for he was Geoffrey’s son. But Arthur was the French king’s pawn, and serving him would be serving Philippe Capet, which was even more distasteful than the idea of serving John. “When I landed at Barfleur, I heard that Joanna was ailing, so I rode for Fontevrault straightaway. I have not yet seen her, for Dame Beatrix said she is sleeping. How bad is it, Mariam?”

“She has been in Hell, Morgan. I do not know how else to describe it. Joanna has always had more severe morning sickness than most women, but nothing like this. She was unable to eat, sometimes even to drink water. The nausea never went away. She became sensitive to odors that no one else could smell, odors that had never bothered her before. We could not wear perfume or use soap to bathe her and the candles had to be wax, not tallow. There were days when she vomited as often as thirty times. She has lost so much weight that we had to make her gowns smaller instead of enlarging them to accommodate her pregnancy. The nausea began in the sixth week and nothing eased it, not ginger nor herbal remedies, not prayers to St Margaret, who protects women in childbirth, not even a holy relic that the abbess let us borrow. All we could do was to hope that the midwife was right, that the worst of it would abate in the fifth month. Joanna called August the Promised Land, for it would either bring salvation or doom. Whilst we did not talk of it, we all knew she could not keep on like that.”

“And now that August has come?”

“The nausea has lessened considerably, although it has not gone away entirely. At least now she can take liquids like soup without throwing them up afterward. But she is still so weak, Morgan. She gets light-headed when she rises, so she must use a chamber pot, and the more time she spends in bed, the more strength she loses. She will not admit it, but I know she is terrified that she will not survive childbirth, for she is insisting that we go to Rouen to find her mother. We’ve reminded her that Eleanor promised to return to Fontevrault in time for the baby’s birth. But Joanna says she cannot wait, that she needs Eleanor now. I truly think she has convinced herself that she will die without her mother.”

Morgan was silent for several moments. “That is not so surprising,” he said at last. “I have heard men wounded on the battlefield cry out for their mothers. It is a need that seems bred into our bones. And who better to stand sentinel between Joanna and Death than Queen Eleanor?” Reaching over, he took Mariam’s hand. “If Joanna is set upon seeking out her mother, nothing we say will deter her. She is every bit as strong-willed as any of her brothers, as you well know. But what matters is not her determination; it is her need. If Eleanor can ease her fears and assure her that she will be able to deliver this child, we ought to be thanking God for it. I know little about childbirth, but I do know about battlefield injuries, and men who think they are going to recover have a better chance of doing so than those who think they are sure to die.”

“I know you are right. But the journey will be so hard on her. Rouen is so far away.”

“Well, since Joanna has made up her mind to do this, all we can do is ease her discomfort as best we can. We’ll put a bed in the horse litter, stop whenever she needs to rest. If we can only cover ten miles a day, what of it? What matters is that we get her to her mother, not how long it takes.”

He put his arm around her shoulders then and she leaned against him. “You’ve been saying ‘we.’ You will come with us, Morgan?”

“Of course I will. Joanna is my cousin, Richard’s sister. There is nothing I would not do for her.”

His assurances were very welcome and she felt great relief that he’d be there to help shoulder the burdens. Yet illogically she felt disappointed, too, for there was a time when he’d have said there was nothing he’d not do for
her
.

“You must have faith, Mariam. Joanna will reach Rouen. She will recover. And she will safely give birth when the time comes. Her mother is not going to lose another child.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

AUGUST 1199

Rouen, Normandy

E
leanor was watching as her son read the drafts of the charters in which she would name him as the heir to her duchy and he in turn would do homage to her for it. He smiled from time to time and once he laughed outright. John, first of that name to rule England since the Conquest, a king of three months. For most of his life, his age had been cited in defense of his follies or betrayals. Again and again her husband had excused his failings as the sins of youth. Even Richard had done that. But the time had finally come for John to stand or fall on his own merits as a king, as a man grown of thirty-two. A memory slithered out to remind her that Richard had been thirty-two at the time of his coronation. She shoved it back into the oubliette where she kept such memories penned up, for memories were her enemies now. Memories sapped her strength, undermined her resolve, reminded her of all she’d lost.

She focused her thoughts instead on John’s brief reign. So far it was going better than she’d dared hope. He’d had a narrow escape at Le Mans, but even there his instincts had served him well; he’d sensed the danger that enabled him to evade a Breton trap. And he’d later punished the citizens of Le Mans harshly for their disloyalty as a king must, razing the castle and the town’s walls. He’d been generous with those who had been loyal, though, bestowing the earldom of Pembroke upon Will Marshal, making the reluctant Hubert Walter his chancellor, and naming the Viscount of Thouars as castellan of Chinon Castle and seneschal of Anjou. He’d been able to retain Richard’s valuable alliances with the Count of Flanders and the Count of Boulogne. And he’d made his half brother Geoff welcome upon his return from Rome. She doubted that their reconciliation would last, no more than it ever had with Richard, for Geoff had never forgiven his brothers for rebelling against their father, and he loathed John for that deathbed betrayal of Henry. But as the Archbishop of York, he had to be placated, at least initially. A new, unproven king was wise to adopt a policy of conciliation, to turn as many of his enemies as he could into allies, even temporary ones.

Philippe had not learned that lesson. He’d been unable to keep Richard from weaving a web of dangerous alliances and then entangling him in it. He’d been badly hurt by the defections of the counts of Flanders and Boulogne, by the enmity of Richard’s German allies in the Rhineland, and now by the hostility of the new emperor; Otto had pledged his support to John in any war against the French king. Most damaging of all was the anger of the new Pope; Innocent was set upon making Philippe put aside his “concubine,” Agnes of Meran, and acknowledge Ingeborg as his lawful wife and queen. But Philippe continued to defy the Church. Nor had he been conciliatory when he and John had met a week ago near Castle Gaillard. He’d agreed to recognize John as the rightful heir to Normandy, but only if John surrendered the Norman Vexin to him and agreed to make Arthur the liege lord of Anjou, Touraine, and Maine. Not only had John spurned such outrageous demands, he’d laughed in Philippe’s face. Eleanor would have enjoyed witnessing that.

Almost as if reading her mind, John looked up with a grin. “I’d love to be there to watch when Philippe learns that you’ve outwitted him and turned your homage into a shield to use against him.” Rising, he moved to the table and poured wine, serving her with a flourish and a jest about having a king as her cupbearer. She suspected there were still times when he could hardly believe it himself—that he was king at long last.

Eleanor took a sip, then saw that he was still watching her. “What is it?”

“I heard from the papal legate again. He claimed it was a warning, but it was actually a threat. You know that some of Philippe’s men captured the Count of Flanders’s ally, the Bishop-elect of Cambrai?”

Eleanor nodded. “That was foolish of the French, a needless provocation of a Pope who needs no urging to protect the Church’s prerogatives and privileges. But why should Cardinal Pietro threaten you for a crime committed by the French king?”

“My thoughts exactly. But it seems the Pope wants to appear evenhanded. He means to lay an Interdict upon France if Pierre de Corbeil, the bishop-elect, is not freed at once. And he warns that he will do the same for Normandy if I do not agree to set that polecat Beauvais loose.”

She’d known this day would eventually come, for Innocent III was strong-willed, shrewd, and not about to let a prince of the Church languish in a dungeon, even one he held in such low regard as the Bishop of Beauvais. Richard would never have freed him, but John had no personal stake in his continuing confinement, and so it was not surprising that he’d yield to the Pope in order to avoid an Interdict. It still left a bad taste in her mouth.

“I told the cardinal—a truly tiresome man—that I would take the Church’s demand under advisement. I shall have to let the swine go, but I mean to charge him two thousand marks for the cost of feeding him during those two years he was Brother Richard’s guest.”

When he laughed, Eleanor could not help laughing, too, imagining the bishop’s utter outrage at being billed for the time he’d spent in Angevin dungeons in Rouen and Chinon. John poured wine for himself, perching on the edge of the table. “One of my spies tells me that Guillaume des Roches is becoming discontented with Philippe’s high-handedness and may be amenable to switching sides again. Tell me, Mother, what did you say to the man at Tours?”

“I asked if it was true that Philippe had proclaimed him seneschal of Anjou. He admitted it but indignantly denied that he’d been influenced by this. I agreed that he was not a man to be bribed, that what mattered to him was honor. And I assured him that we value men of honor, too.”

John’s eyes shone golden in the sunlight streaming through the open window.
Cat eyes,
she thought, wondering if others said the same of her own eyes. When he confided that he’d be going into Maine next week and hoped he’d have an opportunity for a private talk with des Roches, she knew that he’d make sure the opportunity came to pass. He thrived on intrigue, this youngest son of hers. Mayhap too much so, for he’d shown a decided preference for the oblique approach, enjoying guile and subterfuge as much for their own sake as for what they could accomplish.

“Is it true what I heard, John, that the Earl of Chester has annulled his marriage to Constance?”

He grinned again. “Indeed he did, faster than a rabbit with a fox on its tail. Whilst he got little pleasure from his Breton hellcat of a wife, I think he rather fancied being Duke of Brittany. Even if it was an empty title, it had a nice ring to it, and there was always the chance that his stepson could be named as Richard’s heir. But once I became king, he was no longer so keen on being the stepfather of a traitorous whelp, and he shed Constance as fast as he could find a compliant bishop.”