A King's Ransom (77 page)

Richard was giving final instructions to the knights who would escort Anna to Rouen, Eleanor to Fontevrault, and Joanna on to Poitiers, when he happened to catch an enigmatic exchange between André and Mercadier, André asking, “He is with you?” Seeing Richard’s curious look, André smiled slyly. “We have a surprise for you, sire,” he said. “He’s awaiting you out in the courtyard.”

Glancing around, Richard saw that others were in on André and Mercadier’s secret; even his son Philip was grinning. Richard’s first thought was that the Earl of Leicester had accompanied Mercadier, but he was not likely to be lurking outside. Vexed when André refused to tell him more, he bade farewell to the women, and then hastened from the great hall to see what his cousin was up to now.

He halted so abruptly that he was jostled by the men coming through the doorway after him. He never heard their embarrassed apologies, for he had eyes only for the dun stallion being held by a beaming groom. Taking the reins from the youth, Richard ran his hand caressingly over the horse’s pale gold withers, laughing when he was nudged by a warm muzzle.

“You remember me, do you?” he said and then swung up into the saddle. André was saying something about the horse transport being forced ashore in Sicily and eventually landing at Marseille, but Richard was not listening. He could feel the Cypriot destrier’s coiled energy, his eagerness to run, calling to mind memories of racing the wind and Saracens. “You’ll be chasing the French now, Fauvel,” he told the stallion, and when he gave the signal, Fauvel exploded into action, rocketing across the courtyard as if launched from a crossbow. The men laughed and applauded and then hurried toward their own mounts, for Richard and Fauvel would soon be out of sight.

F
ROM
L
ISIEUX,
Richard rode to Tuboeuf, just twelve miles from the siege of Verneuil. There he met a knight from the garrison who’d managed to slip away under cover of darkness to seek aid, for the French mangonels were pounding away relentlessly at the castle’s defenses. Richard at once dispatched a force of knights, men-at-arms, and crossbowmen to reinforce the garrison, then sent others to cut off Philippe’s supply lines. He was deeply grateful to God that the French king’s day of reckoning was coming so soon, but when he arrived at Verneuil with the bulk of his army on May 30, he discovered that Philippe was gone and the siege was over. He promised to reward the garrison lavishly, although his triumph was tarnished in his eyes by his enemy’s escape.

Captured French prisoners told a disjointed, confusing tale, claiming their king had suddenly left the siege two days earlier, leaving men behind to continue the assault upon the castle. But they were demoralized by their king’s departure and fled when they heard of Richard’s approach. Richard would later discover that Philippe had ridden off in a fury after learning what had befallen Évreux. Eager to demonstrate his newfound loyalty, John had returned to Évreux and easily gained admittance, for it was not yet known that he’d switched sides. He had no trouble taking control of the town; he beheaded many of the garrison and cast the rest into the castle dungeons. Outraged by his former ally’s betrayal, Philippe raced to Évreux, so intent upon making John pay for his treachery that he doomed his chances of taking Verneuil. He found that John had already gone, but he recaptured Évreux and since John was out of reach, he took his vengeance upon the town and its people, turning his men loose to pillage and rape, not even sparing churches; he was said to have fired the abbey of St Taurin himself.

This was not the first time that Philippe’s temper had gotten the better of him; he’d had the Peace Elm chopped down after a frustrating encounter with Henry and ordered his own siege engines destroyed after being outmaneuvered by the Earl of Leicester at Rouen. But even the French chroniclers were shocked by the charred ruins of Évreux, and as word spread of its fate, the people of Normandy and towns to the south felt a chill of fear. Wars were always brutal and the innocent and the defenseless were usually the ones to suffer. This war, though, promised to be bloodier than most, for the hatred that the French and English kings bore each other burned hotter than the fires that had consumed so much of Évreux.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

JUNE 1194

Poitiers, Poitou

B
erengaria’s parents had been very happy together. It had been a marriage of state, of course, but they’d come to love each other and after Sancha died giving birth to Berengaria’s youngest sister, Blanca, Sancho had not wed again. Berengaria had been only nine when she lost her mother but her father and elder brother had kept Sancha alive for her by sharing their own memories. She’d realized that theirs was not a typical royal marriage, and she felt she’d entered her own marriage with realistic expectations. She’d have been content with mutual respect, while hoping, too, that affection would grow in her marital garden. But nothing had turned out as she’d imagined it would.

She’d been nervous about wedding Richard, knowing how drastically her world would change once she was his queen. And from their first meeting in Sicily, she’d been caught up in an Angevin riptide. Hers had been a sheltered upbringing and at first she’d been troubled that she enjoyed her betrothed’s kisses and caresses, fearing that she was being tempted by the serious sin of lust. But Joanna had proved to be a much better marriage counselor than Padre Domingo, her confessor, assuring her that what she felt was desire, not lust, and desire was part of the Almighty’s plan, for many believed that a woman could not conceive if she did not experience pleasure. And once they were wed, she’d discovered that she liked paying the marital debt, liked the intimacy and the closeness, liked having Richard’s undivided attention, which only seemed to happen in bed.

In these past weeks, she’d deliberately called up every memory of her marriage, trying desperately to discover a clue, something that would explain why things had suddenly gone so wrong. But she found no answers. Despite the dangers of their journey and the hardships of life in an army camp, she’d been happy most of the time. It was exciting being married to Richard. He dominated every gathering, always the center of attention. He was all that their world most admired—a man of prowess—and she was proud to be married to such a renowned battle commander, very honored to be wed to the savior of the Holy City. She’d believed he was content, too, with the bride he’d chosen for himself, and she was sure that they would have a more normal life once they returned to his domains, once she no longer had to fear that she’d become a widow ere she could truly become a wife. After they went home, she would be able to entertain his guests, dispense alms to those in need, hear petitions, manage the royal household, and fulfill a queen’s primary duty, which was to bear his children.

That had been the only snake in her Eden: her failure to conceive. With her usual candor, Joanna had reminded her that she’d not had many opportunities to share Richard’s bed in the midst of a war, and she knew that was true. Nor had Richard reproached her for it. In fact, the one time her flux had been so late that her hopes had soared, he’d even said that it might be safer if she did not become pregnant until they’d left the Holy Land, pointing out that it was not a kind country for infants, for women and children, for any man not born and bred there.

Even if she’d not become pregnant as quickly as she’d wanted, she’d remained confident that it would happen in God’s time. Her contentment with her new life and her new marriage had been shaken, though, toward the end of their stay in Outremer. She’d been shocked by Richard’s failure to retake Jerusalem. She did not think to question his military expertise and when he said it could not be done, she accepted that. Yet she grieved for the failure no less than his soldiers had, and she’d been bitterly disappointed that he refused to accept Saladin’s offer and visit Jerusalem’s sacred sites. When he finally admitted to her that he felt he did not deserve to see them, having failed to keep his vow, she’d been proud that he would not accept from the infidels what he could not win through God’s grace. But she’d still wept in secret for the Holy City that neither of them would see.

Was it possible that he’d sensed her disappointment? That he’d felt she was blaming him for his failure to liberate Jerusalem? But if that were so, surely he’d have said something? Or would he? She was beginning to wonder just how well she really knew him. When he’d been so close to dying at Jaffa, he’d not sent for her, and that had raised doubts she’d been unwilling to confront, even to acknowledge. She’d been able to convince herself that he’d kept her away because of the danger. Now, though, his decision took on more sinister significance. How often had he confided in her? Had he ever offered any intimacy that was not carnal? Yes, they were bound by the sacred vows of holy wedlock. But they were often two strangers sharing a bed.

Even so, none of her unhappy conjecturing explained why he would want to keep her at a distance all of a sudden. Joanna had been right; they’d parted on good terms. So what had come between them? If she’d done nothing to offend him, why was he delaying their reunion like this?

Berengaria was lonely, too, for Joanna had not yet returned, sending word that she would be staying at Fontevrault Abbey for a while. Berengaria did not begrudge her sister-in-law some time with her mother, but she missed Joanna very much; for three years, they’d seen each other daily. She did get a surprise visit in early June from her brother Sancho. He’d been ravaging the lands of the rebel lords Geoffrey de Rançon and the Count of Angoulême and was now on his way north to besiege Loches Castle with Richard. Berengaria was delighted to see Sancho. He brought welcome news of home, had stories to relate of her sisters Constanza and Blanca, and he also had word of their young brother Fernando, who’d written that he was being well treated at the imperial court.

But even Sancho’s unexpected arrival would prove to be a mixed blessing. He’d assumed she’d joined Richard in England, and although he tried to hide it, he’d been taken aback to find out that she’d not yet seen her husband. It was humiliating enough for Berengaria that her household ladies and knights knew of her plight, but it was far more mortifying that her family now knew, too. Even worse was to come. Sancho had been evasive whenever she’d mentioned their father and at last he’d confessed that the elder Sancho was not well. Their father’s health had always been good, but he was sixty-two now, an age where men were vulnerable to any number of dangerous maladies. When Sancho departed for Loches, Berengaria gave him a letter for Richard, as sparing and laconic as any of his own letters had been, and then passed the endless hours praying for her ailing father and trying not to think about her missing husband.

J
OANNA FELT A LITTLE
guilty about staying so long at Fontevrault, knowing how miserable Berengaria must be. But when Eleanor got a letter from her granddaughter the Countess of Perche, Joanna delayed her departure yet again, for she very much wanted to meet Richenza. The young woman did not resemble Joanna’s elder sister, for she’d inherited her father’s dark coloring, but she had her mother’s beauty and much of her charm, and she and Joanna felt an immediate empathy. Like her brothers Otto and Wilhelm, Richenza had grown up at the English royal court, forming a close bond with Eleanor and Richard that was now causing her great pain.