A King's Ransom (89 page)

After the meal, there was a performance by troubadours and a daring youth who juggled knives. Richard soon rose, reaching for his wife’s hand to draw her to her feet. When she realized his intent, she blushed, murmuring that she should summon her ladies. Richard assured her that he could assist her in undressing. She did not doubt that he had considerable experience in ridding women of their clothes, for she was not so naïve as to think he’d been faithful to her during their estrangement. She did not protest and they exited the great hall to a round of cheers and approving smiles.

As they crossed the threshold of the bedchamber that had been prepared for Berengaria, Richard halted in surprise, for it resembled a bridal bower. It was too early for flowers, but fragrant floor rushes had been scattered about with a lavish hand, incense was burning to perfume the air, silver candelabras kept the shadows at bay, and a small trestle table held two jeweled cups, a large flagon of wine, and a dish of dried fruit. He wondered who had ordered this. It was not his mother’s style. It
was
Joanna’s style, but she’d not had the time. Mayhap André’s wife or Will’s Isabel. It might even be Johnny’s idea of a jest. Well, at least there was wine. After sliding the latch into place, he crossed to the table, asking Berengaria if she would like wine.

“Yes, please.” She watched him reach for the flagon, still not sure what she would do. She well knew what was expected of her; she’d been taught from the cradle that wives were to be dutiful and deferential. Did Scriptures not say that they should submit themselves to their husbands, as unto the Lord? “The bishop told me that you were very ill last week, Richard,” she said at last.

He paused, then began to pour wine into one of the cups. “I had a fever for a few days,” he said dismissively.

She had not known she meant to speak until she heard her own voice, sounding so calm and cold that it could have been a stranger’s. “Yet it was serious enough for you to be shriven of your sins. I would not have you jeopardize your health by paying the marriage debt prematurely. I am sure the Almighty will understand if you choose to defer your penance until you are fully recovered.”

His hand jerked, wine splattering like blood upon the snowy white linen cloth. “Penance?” he echoed incredulously. “Why would you say something like that, Berenguela? Why would you even think it?”

“Do you truly need to ask that, Richard?”

He could not believe she’d chosen this night, of all nights, to provoke a quarrel. “I can assure you that I do not see bedding you as penance, little dove.”

She winced, for that endearment, once so pleasing to her ears, now seemed like a cruel mockery. “I do not believe you,” she said, and knew she’d angered him when color rose in his face. But she did not care. “In the year since your return from Germany, you’ve made it painfully clear that you do not want me, not as queen, wife, or bedmate. You chose not to have me join you in England or to attend your crown-wearing at Winchester—”

“Christ on the Cross, woman, I was putting down a rebellion!”

She discovered, to her surprise, that she was not intimidated by his rage, for what did she have to lose? “I am not as knowledgeable about statecraft as your mother and sister, Richard. But I am far from a fool, so I would ask you not to treat me like one. If your lady mother could accompany you to the siege of Nottingham, why could not your wife?”

She saw he did not have an answer to that, but it gave her no satisfaction. “Then you returned to Normandy and two months passed ere we were reunited—two months. You did not come to me even when my father died.”

“I was fighting a war! I seriously doubt that the French king would have agreed to a truce so I could pay a conjugal visit to my wife.”

“But you and Philippe did sign a truce in November. Yet you held your Christmas Court without me. You humiliated me before all of Christendom—”

“That was not my intent, Berenguela!” Furious at being backed into a corner like this, he lashed out suddenly, clearing the table with a wild swipe of his arm. She flinched when the flagon and cups crashed into the floor rushes, but she would not capitulate.

“Do you know how long it has been since we’ve been together? I do—eight months and five days. I thought that would change when you met the Duchess of Brittany at Angers. Yet you did not visit me afterward. It was just fifteen miles to Beaufort-en-Vallée, but you could not take the time.” She’d been proud of her self-control, proud that she’d been able to face him dry-eyed and composed. But her voice was no longer so steady when she spoke now of the greatest grievance of all. “And then you summoned me to your Easter Court and I learned that you’d done so only because you had promised God to atone for your sins. It took the fear of eternal damnation for you to reclaim me as your wife!”

“I’ve had enough of this foolishness. I’ll not discuss this further, not as long as you are being so unreasonable and irrational,” he snapped, and strode toward the door.

“If you will not tell me how I have offended you, how can I make amends?”

He halted, his hand on the latch, for that was a cry of pure pain, one that not even his anger could deflect. Turning back to face her, he said hoarsely, “You’ve done nothing, I swear it!”

She’d never heard such emotion in his voice before, and she did not doubt it was raw and real. “If it is not me, what, then?” Crossing the space between them, she looked up imploringly into his face. “Please . . . tell me.”

He was silent for so long that she thought he’d refuse to answer. Just when she’d given up hope, he moved to the closest chair and slumped down in it. “It is this accursed war,” he said, so softly that she could barely hear him. “It haunts me day and night. People think I’m winning because I’ve had a few flashy victories, but they mean little in the long run. Philippe still holds fortresses like Gisors and Vaudreuil and Pacy and Nonancourt. He controls the Norman Vexin, most of Normandy east of the Seine. And for the first time, the French have greater resources to draw upon. The ransom . . . Christ Jesus, it bled the Exchequer dry. To fight this war, I’ll have to keep raising taxes and men will hate me for it. But if I do nothing, the Angevin empire will crumble; my father’s life’s work will be dust upon the wind. . . .”

She’d listened without interrupting as he lied to her, for she knew he was lying. She could believe that he was obsessed with defeating the French king. But she did not believe this was the reason for their estrangement. What could have been more important than recapturing Jerusalem from the infidels? She knew full well the burdens he’d shouldered during his campaign in the Holy Land, the impossible demands that had been placed upon him, the constant strain of dealing with French treachery. Yet he’d not turned away from her then. So why now? She had no answer to that question, knowing only that something had gone dreadfully wrong between them and she did not know how to remedy it. And as she studied his haggard face, etched with fatigue and evidence of his recent bout with Death, she did not think he knew how to remedy it, either.

“I am sorry,” she said, for she was, sorry for so much.

He ran his hand through his hair, pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. She’d sat on a nearby coffer as he’d begun to speak, her skirts spreading about her in a silken cascade. He thought she looked very fragile and very young, her pallor pronounced in the subdued candlelight. “They say Easter is a time for new beginnings, Berenguela. Let’s agree to begin anew, too.” When she nodded, he took her hand in his. “How would you like it if we bought a house together? A place just for us.”

The idea had come to him suddenly, and he saw that it had been an inspired one, for her face lit up. “I would love that, Richard!”

Getting to his feet, he reached down and helped her to rise, too. “So you and Joanna go house hunting, then, and when you find something you like, I’ll buy it for us.”

Her smile lost some of its light. “I thought . . . thought we’d look for a house together.”

How could he find the time for that? Reminding himself that he’d not only promised her this would be a new beginning, he’d promised God, too, he said, “Well, you find a house and then I’ll come to see it with you. Fair enough?”

She studied his face and then nodded again. “Yes,” she said, “fair enough.”

B
ERENGARIA HAD BEEN EXHAUSTED
by their confrontation, both physically and emotionally, and she’d fallen asleep soon after their lovemaking. But when she awoke several hours later, she found she could not go back to sleep. Lying very still so as not to disturb Richard, she began to go over all that had occurred that night, trying to make sense of it.
You’ve done nothing, I swear it!
She wanted desperately to believe him. She did not understand, though, why he’d pushed her away if that was true. In so many ways, he seemed like a stranger, a troubled one. Not that they’d gotten to know each other all that well during their time in the Holy Land. They truly were starting anew, and so she must make a great effort to forgive him for the hurt he’d caused her. At least now they’d be living as man and wife, as God intended. And if He was merciful, she’d be able to fulfill her duty as a queen. She’d be able to give Richard a son.

She was growing sleepy again. The chamber seemed cold, though.
The hearth must have burned out,
she thought drowsily, sliding over to warm herself against her husband’s body. But his side of the bed was empty. She was alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

AUGUST 1195

Fontevrault Abbey, Anjou

S
itting on a shaded bench in the abbey gardens, Eleanor studied the man lounging on the grass at her feet. Richard often paid her brief visits when his travels took him near Fontevrault, but this was the first time that John had done so. She’d been surprised and even disconcerted, but so far, all had gone smoothly. John could be good company when he chose to be, and having spent some of the spring and summer with Richard, he was very well informed about the rapid pace of events, confirming that the fragile truce between Richard and Philippe was but a bad memory now. He began by diplomatically choosing a story sure to appeal to her maternal pride, about a raid that Richard and Mercadier had made into the Berry region in early July. They’d captured the town and castle at Issoudun, and Richard had then returned to Normandy, leaving Mercadier to wreak havoc against rebels in Auvergne.

John had a raconteur’s flair for vivid storytelling, and the one he was relating now cast the French king in such a bad light that he soon had Eleanor laughing. Richard had put so much pressure upon the garrison at Vaudreuil Castle that Philippe had concluded he would not be able to hold it and reluctantly decided to destroy it rather than have it fall into Richard’s hands again. To gain time, he’d entered into negotiations with Richard about turning it over, with the two armies gathered as the kings sent envoys to bargain.

“But Philippe’s engineers did too good a job undermining the castle walls, and one of them collapsed in a cloud of dust in the midst of the negotiations.” John grinned at the memory. “Richard realized at once what had happened, and vowing, ‘There’ll be some saddles emptied this day,’ he gave the command to attack. Philippe was already fleeing, though. He’s always been one for avoiding the consequences of his actions.”

Eleanor said nothing, but John caught the elegant arch of an eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose the same could be said of me,” he conceded, before offering her a disarming smile. “Until I repented my sinful past, of course.”

“Of course,” she agreed dryly. “So what happened next?”

“Philippe was able to cross the River Seine to safety, but at some cost to his dignity. The bridge gave way under the weight of so many men and horses and they were all plunged into the river. Philippe managed to reach the shore, looking like a drowned rat, I’m told,” John said, with another grin. “That improved Richard’s mood greatly and he returned to Vaudreuil, where he seized the castle and the French soldiers who’d been left behind in their king’s flight. Saying that ‘a castle half destroyed is one half rebuilt,’ he set about doing just that, so Philippe’s double-dealing gained him naught but a river bath.”