A King's Ransom (81 page)

B
ERENGARIA STUDIED HERSELF
in a hand mirror, biting her lips to give them more color. Her women had brushed her long, dark hair until it gleamed and daubed perfume on her throat and wrists, and she raised her arms so they could pull her chemise over her head. Slipping naked between the sheets, she ignored their giggling and whispering, thinking they were acting as if this were her wedding night. Dismissing them, she settled down to wait for her husband, admitting that she was more nervous now than on that May evening in Cyprus. At least then she’d felt confident that Richard wanted to share her bed. Now she was not sure what he wanted.

When he entered, she felt a frisson that was an odd blend of excitement and unease. It seemed like a lifetime since they’d lain together. He was carrying an oil lamp and he set it down on the small trestle table not far from the bed. She’d have preferred darkness, not wanting him to see her blush, but she was not going to object, not after his flare-up during dinner. She closed her eyes in a silent prayer that this would be the night his seed took root in her womb and when she opened them, he was standing by the bed, watching her. She thought he looked very handsome in the lamplight and gave him a shy smile; she was not a natural flirt like Joanna, had never even been alone with a man until Richard, and she had a disconcerting thought now, wondering if he’d rather she be more worldly, be more like the other women at the royal court.

“You look lovely,” he said, catching her by surprise, for in the past, his compliments had been as specific as they were sparing, praising her eyes, her smile, her hair, and once, to her acute embarrassment, her breasts. Hoping that he’d not notice the color in her cheeks, she slid over to make room for him as he started to undress. As usual, he did it quickly, letting the clothes lie where they fell, and then, after nigh on two years, she found herself in bed with her husband.

In a corner of her brain, an unspoken resentment lurked, whispering that it was not fair for him to claim his marital rights until he’d offered an explanation, if not an apology, for his inexplicable conduct. But there had been no opportunity to talk privately with him since his arrival and she knew better than to initiate such a dangerous discussion now. She did not want to quarrel with him. She wanted him to make love to her, she wanted her husband back, and so when he pulled her into his arms, she came willingly, telling herself that there would be time for talking later.

She soon discovered that her body had memories of its own, responding to his touch as if they’d never been apart. His mouth was hot on hers and his skin was hot, too. Her breath quickening as he kissed her throat and then her breasts, she slid her hands down his back, smiling as she felt his erection, proof that he did still want her. She cried out softly when he entered her, feeling pain that became pleasure, clinging tightly until he’d gained satisfaction and cried out, too. She was left wanting more, although she was not sure what that was, but she was happy, happier than she’d been in a long time.

When he started to withdraw, she said, “No, not yet,” feeling very daring and relieved to catch the glimmer of a smile, for she did not want him to think her a shameless wanton. The priests preached that even marital sex was blameworthy if done solely to gratify lust, warning that people must remain vigilant to avoid so tempting a sin.

Richard had propped himself up on his elbows to support his weight, but after giving her a quick kiss, he rolled over onto his back. After a few moments, he rose and went looking for a towel, which he brought back to the bed to pat them both dry. He’d done that on their wedding night, too, and she smiled at the memory. When he climbed into bed, she shifted so she could cradle her head against his shoulder.

Reaching out, she traced the path of a scar on his hip, trying to remember how he’d said he’d gotten it. The one on his left side, under his ribs, was the entry point for a Saracen crossbow bolt, and that she remembered all too well. “Whenever we’d been apart for a while,” she murmured, “I would always check your body for wounds, always afraid I’d find a new one. At least I need not worry about that this time.”

“No,” he said, sounding drowsy, “no scars from Germany.”

Joanna had warned her that he’d said very little about his captivity. Yet it seemed unnatural to ask no questions, to act as if his imprisonment had never been. “Richard . . . if you’d rather not talk about it—what happened in Germany—I will respect that, of course. But I hope that in time, you’ll be willing to share some of those memories with me.” She was pleased with how she’d phrased that, assuring him she did not want to pry whilst gently reminding him that a wife was a confidante as well as a bedmate. When she tried to assess his reaction, though, she found herself at a loss, for his eyes were impossible to read, utterly opaque.

When he yawned, she knew her window of opportunity for conversation was rapidly closing; he’d soon be rolling onto his side and sliding into sleep. Even if she dared not demand answers yet, there were a few things she could ask, that she had the right to know. “How long can you stay?”

“Just till Monday. I cannot concentrate upon putting out the fires in Normandy unless I can crush the rebellion in Aquitaine. Geoffrey de Rançon and the viscounts of Angoulême and Brosse were constantly stirring up trouble whilst I was in the Holy Land. They became even bolder after I was taken prisoner by that pompous dolt Leopold, but they were running up a debt, and now it is due and payable.”

Berengaria was no longer listening, for she’d heard nothing beyond
Just till Monday.
He was only going to stay two days and nights? After nigh on two years apart, that was all she was to get—two wretched days? She was dumbfounded that they were to have so little time together, but what occurred to her next was even worse. He’d not come into Poitou to see her. He’d come to deal with those southern rebels. His visit to Poitiers was an afterthought—just as she was.

Her first reaction was a rare flash of anger. She fought it back, struggling to see things from his perspective. It was only to be expected that he’d give first priority to ending a rebellion that could threaten his hold on the duchy. In the Holy Land, she’d learned to accept it, the fact that she was always going to take second place to his campaign against the Saracens. But it had been easier to defer to God.

“I am sorry you must leave so soon,” she said evenly. “Mayhap I ought to consider settling in Normandy to make it more convenient for you to visit.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she realized their full implications. Visit. What husband
visited
his wife? Apparently the one she had. Was this what she had to look forward to, a catch-as-catch-can marriage, with Richard stopping by whenever it suited him?

“Normandy . . . yes, that is probably a good idea,” he agreed, yawning again.

She decided that she would think no more about this tonight. There would be time enough after he’d gone to consider her future. Now, though, she wanted only to sleep with her husband like wives did all over Christendom, to have at least one or two nights to pretend that everything was normal. She was reaching for her pillow when Richard suddenly sat up, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. Assuming he wanted to use the chamber pot, she began smoothing out the coverlets rumpled by their lovemaking. But then he gathered up the clothing scattered about the floor and drew his braies up over his hips, started to pull his linen shirt over his head.

“Richard? Where are you going?”

He was dressing as quickly as he’d shed his clothes, already had his tunic on. “I had a bedchamber made ready for me.” He would rather have left it at that, but his wife was sitting up, looking so shocked that he came back to the bed. “I have not been sleeping well of late,” he said reluctantly. “I did not want to keep you from sleeping, too, Berenguela.”

She was still trying to make sense of this. “I do not mind.”

“Well, I do,” he said, summoning a smile. “I have enough on my conscience without robbing you of sleep, too, little dove.” Leaning over, he kissed her lightly and was gone before she could respond.

Berengaria sat without moving for a long time after the door had closed behind him. Kings and queens always had their own chambers. Richard had come to her when he wanted to claim his marital rights, as she’d suspected most kings did. But not once had he ever left her bed afterward. She was stunned now by his abrupt departure, feeling bereft, feeling rejected, feeling as if she’d just been slapped in the face. She realized suddenly that this was the first time he’d called her by his favorite endearment, “little dove.” And when had he used it? As he was about to leave her. She lay back, hugging the pillow tightly. After a while, she wept.

P
HILIPPE WAS ABLE TO
redress his humiliating defeat at Fréteval to some extent by inflicting an equally humiliating defeat upon John while Richard was off in Aquitaine. John and the Earl of Arundel had been besieging the stronghold of Vaudreuil, and when Philippe learned of this, he made an impressive march from Châteaudun to Vaudreuil, covering the one hundred miles in just three days. Arriving at dawn, he caught John and Arundel by surprise. John and the earl fled, as did their mounted knights, but Philippe captured their men-at-arms, supplies, and siege weapons.

Richard had a much more successful campaign than his younger brother. On July 22, he wrote to Hubert Walter that “By the Grace of God, who in all things upholds the right, we have captured Taillebourg and Marcillac and the whole land of Geoffrey de Rançon; also the city of Angoulême, Châteauneuf sur Charente, Montignac, Lachaise, and all the other castles and the whole land of the Count of Angoulême in its entirety.” With perhaps pardonable pride, he boasted that he’d captured the city and citadel of Angoulême in a single evening, and had taken prisoner three hundred knights and a vast number of soldiers, signing it “Myself as witness at Angoulême, 22 July.”

Despite Richard’s overwhelming success in the south, he agreed to a truce that ratified the status quo, allowing Philippe and him to keep the lands they held as of July 23. The terms were favorable enough to Philippe to start rumors that Longchamp had acted on his own and that Richard was not pleased with his chancellor. But Longchamp did nothing that his king did not want him to do. As little as Richard liked the terms of the truce, he needed the breathing space, for although he’d easily quenched rebellion in his southern domains, he knew that the real war would be fought in Normandy, and because of the vast ransom he’d been forced to pay, for the first time he had fewer resources to draw upon than the French king. According to the Treaty of Tillieres, the truce was to hold until November of the following year. All knew, though, that neither Richard nor Philippe intended to honor it.

T
HE DEATHS OF
T
ANCRED
and his son Roger had taken the heart out of the Sicilian resistance to Heinrich and when he marched into Italy, he encountered no opposition. By August 13, the city of Naples opened its gates to him. He then exacted a merciless vengeance upon Salerno, whose citizens had seized his empress three years ago and given her to Tancred. Taking the city by storm, he turned it over to his army and the result was a bloodbath of rape and murder and plunder. The citizens not slain were banished into exile and Heinrich ordered the city walls razed. Tancred’s desperate widow fled with her daughters and her small son to Caltabellotta and Admiral Margaritis negotiated the surrender of the Sicilian government to the German emperor.