A King's Ransom (127 page)

They’d turned at the sound of her footsteps. Although it was too dark to see her face clearly, they sensed her distress and Morgan said quickly, “No, Madame, no. Your daughter still lives.”

Mariam moved out of Morgan’s embrace. “It was the letters,” she said in a choked voice. “You know about them, Madame? She dictated one to her husband and one to Queen Berengaria. Today she wanted to write two more . . . to her son and daughter, for when they are old enough to read them, to understand. . . .” She fought back a sob. “I thought of her children never knowing their mother, not knowing how much she loved them, and I . . . I could not bear it.” And there was so much emotion in her voice that Eleanor knew she, too, had lost her mother at a young age.

Eleanor reached out, letting her hand rest for a moment upon Mariam’s arm. “Come with me,” she said. “I have news for my daughter, and you both will want to hear it, too.”

J
OANNA DRIFTED IN AND
out of sleep more and more as her days dwindled. Sometimes her dreams offered respite. She rode through the streets of Toulouse at Raimond’s side, chased after Raimondet when he fled, giggling, from his bath, stood again on that ship’s deck as Messina came into view and she saw the fleet in the harbor, saw her brother’s red-and-gold banners flying from every mast. At other times, her dreams brought only terror, offering her a foretaste of what awaited her after death—lakes of flame, rivers of boiling blood, visions of fire and brimstone made familiar by the priests who preached incessantly of the horrors of Hell, in which suffering was eternal and there was neither hope nor mercy, for there was no God.

Her latest dream had been kinder, wafting her back to her own childhood, to Poitiers and Sicily. She was still glad to awaken, though, when she opened her eyes and saw Eleanor leaning over the bed. She knew she clung to a precipice and only her mother could keep her from falling into the abyss. “Maman . . . ?”

“The council has met, Joanna. They have agreed to disregard canon law and permit you to take vows as a sister of Fontevrault.”

“Truly? You would not lie to me, Maman?”

“No, my dearest, I would not lie. The Archbishop of Canterbury convinced them that you’d been blessed with a vision, that you were doing God’s bidding and it was not for them to thwart His Will.”

Joanna had wept more in the four months since she’d learned of Richard’s death than she had in all the years since she’d flowered into womanhood. But now the tears were different; they were tears of joy for the most precious gift she’d ever received—salvation.

“Thank you, Maman, thank you!” She tired very easily and soon afterward, she slept again. But this time she fell asleep smiling.

“
W
HAT OF MY BABY?”

This was the question Eleanor had been expecting and dreading. Joanna had spoken of her child’s plight before, but her fear of eternal damnation had been like a vast, smothering storm cloud, blotting out the sky. Now that she no longer need fear for herself, it was only natural that she would fear for the baby in her womb.

Eleanor was not the only one loath to address that plaintive query. Master Gervase, her physician, took a sudden interest in a psalter lying open on the table. Joanna’s chaplain, Jocelyn, began to finger the Paternoster looped at his belt. The two midwives, Dame Clarice and Dame Berthe, remained silent. Nor did Joanna’s attendants speak up, for none of them wanted to discuss one of their Church’s most troubling teachings—that unbaptized infants were denied entry into Heaven.

Joanna knew that, of course, for it cast a shadow over every woman’s birthing chamber, the knowledge that babies who died before they could be christened could not be buried in consecrated ground; few city cemeteries did not have small, pitiful mounds bordering the graves in hallowed soil, looking lonely, untended, and forlorn. But what gave parents the greatest grief was knowing their dead children would be consigned to Limbo for eternity, never to look upon the face of God.

Joanna’s question seemed to echo in the air, the cry of mothers since time immemorial. Abbot Luke at last took up the burden, grateful that at least he no longer need tell her that her child would suffer the torments of the damned. For much of their Church’s history, priests could give grieving parents no comfort at all, but in the last fifty years, there had been a change for the better, thanks in some measure to the controversial French theologian Abelard, who’d argued persuasively that St Augustine was wrong and babies guilty only of original sin would not burn like the sinners cast down into Hell. Although Abelard had disgraced himself by seducing the beautiful young Heloise, Abbot Luke was glad that his doctrine had gained such quick acceptance, sparing him the need to defend the indefensible.

“Whilst your baby will not be able to pass through Heaven’s Gates, my lady,” he said gently, “in
Limbus Infantium
,
he or she will suffer only the pain of loss, not the pain of fire.”

Joanna looked sadly at the abbot.
But he will have lost the vision of God, so even if there is no physical torment, he will endure spiritual torment for all eternity. Not only will he be denied God’s Love, he’ll be denied the love of his family. He’ll never know his father, his brother and sister. He’ll never know his mother.

She said none of that, though, for Abbot Luke was a good man. He did not deserve to be berated for a misery not of his making. Nor had her question been directed at him or her chaplain. Her gaze moved past the abbot, seeking out the two midwives. Dame Berthe had been summoned first, but although she’d come highly recommended, she’d not found favor with Joanna’s ladies—a tall, raw-boned, awkward woman with scant social skills and a blunt tongue. Beatrix and Anna had taken it upon themselves to find Dame Clarice, a soft, motherly soul who was sugar to Berthe’s salt. It was Clarice who came forward now, blue eyes brimming with tears, for she knew what Joanna would ask and what she must answer.

“I have heard,” Joanna said haltingly, “that there are ways of baptizing a child whilst still in the womb.”

“That is so, my lady. Sometimes when a mother is unable to deliver her baby and they are both sure to die, a baptismal sponge can be inserted up into her womb so he can be blessed with God’s grace.”

“Then . . . you can do that for my son?” Seeing the midwife’s lips tremble, the tears start to trickle down those rosy cheeks, Joanna felt such pain that she gave an anguished cry. “Why not? I beg you, save my son!”

“My lady, I would if I could! But that can only be done when the woman has begun labor and her womb is dilated.”

Joanna had known she’d been clutching at a frail reed. That did not make it any easier to accept. “Surely there must be something you can do,” she whispered, although without any real hope. It was then, though, that the other midwife spoke up.

“There is a way,” Dame Berthe said, striding forward to stand beside the bed, “although some are squeamish about it. When a woman dies, her child can survive briefly through the air still in her arteries. If it is done quickly enough, the child can be extracted from her womb in time to be baptized.”

There was a shocked silence as they realized what she had in mind. Joanna’s ladies recoiled at the thought of her body being cut open like this. The physician and her chaplain were clearly skeptical, for midwives were often suspected of baptizing stillborn children in order to comfort their sorrowing parents. But Joanna’s eyes shone with sudden light and Eleanor moved closer so she could look intently into the midwife’s face.

“You could do this for my son?” Joanna reached out, took the midwife’s hand; it was as big as a man’s, the knuckles reddened, the nails bitten to the quick, an old scar burned deep into one thumb. Not a hand to elicit admiring glances, no more than she herself was. But Joanna felt the strength in that ungainly hand, felt as if she’d just been thrown a lifeline.

“I can, my lady.”

That was too much for the physician. “The child is not due for two months or more. How could he draw air into his lungs?”

The midwife met his accusing gaze calmly. “Women often mistake the time of conception. The countess could be further along than she first thought. And it is my understanding that it takes but one breath, however faint, to make a baptism valid.”

“She is right,” Abbot Luke said, speaking for the first time. “One breath is sufficient.”

The other midwife had remained conspicuously silent, an obvious way of conveying her disapproval. Joanna’s ladies still found it abhorrent, for there was an inbred, innate dread of the mutilation of the body after death. But now all eyes shifted instinctively toward Joanna’s mother, watching as she leaned over to murmur in her daughter’s ear. When Joanna nodded vehemently, Eleanor straightened up and turned back to the midwife.

“Do it,” she said.

J
OANNA WAS TOO WEAK
to rise from her bed to take her vows. But her voice was surprisingly strong as she pledged herself to God, and afterward, it was obvious to them all that she was at peace. She even sought to console her weeping women, assuring them that she was in God’s keeping and, with a flash of the Joanna of old, she scolded Mariam and Morgan, saying that if they did not wed, she’d come back to haunt them both. She asked again for the small ivory casket that held locks of her children’s hair, instructing them to add a long strand of her own hair.

“Give it to Raimond,” she murmured. “Tell him he must not grieve too much, that he made me happy.” When Eleanor reached for her hand, she entwined their fingers together as she’d so often done as a small child. “I will tell Richard that Johnny owes his crown to you, Maman. Knowing Johnny, he is probably jealous that you gave me something far greater than a crown. You gave me eternal life.”

She seemed to have been rejuvenated by the taking of her vows, and her women dared to hope that her death was not as imminent as they’d feared, that they might have more time to say their farewells. Eleanor alone was not deceived by this sudden burst of vitality, seeing it for what it was: the last flaming of the sun ere night came on. She knew that her daughter’s life was ebbing away even as they watched, for her green eyes were darkening. She’d seen Richard’s eyes change, too, in the moments before death, as his pupils dilated until they’d eclipsed all traces of grey.

“Dame Berthe?” Joanna beckoned for the midwife to approach the bed. “You will do as you promised?” The midwife was as phlegmatic as always, repeating her promise without the slightest hint of emotion or empathy, but to Joanna, this rough-hewn, taciturn woman was one of God’s own angels, and she gave Eleanor a meaningful look, wanting to be sure her mother would reward Berthe as she deserved. What value, though, could be placed upon a baby’s immortal soul? No matter, Maman would find a way. She always did.

Eleanor was warned when she felt her daughter’s grip loosen. “There is so much light,” Joanna said, softly but distinctly. She died soon after that, and Eleanor would always believe it was with the name of her son on her lips.