Joanna (40 page)

This was no passion of the body. That Ian enjoyed coupling with his wife Geoffrey knew, but Ian did not suffer that restless hunger when Lady Alinor was with him, even when he could not lie with her. When she was heavy with child, for example, Ian would joke of his frustration, blaming his wife’s jealous nature for prohibiting him from easing himself on a whore. It was only a jest. Lady Alinor was not jealous in that silly way. Ian did not desire any other woman, and, so long as he could look at his wife, talk to her, touch her, he was quite content to endure the lack of a purely physical pleasure because he got no satisfaction from taking it elsewhere.

Geoffrey bit his lip and cursed softly. He knew that bitter truth from his own recent experiences. Since he had been betrothed to Joanna, it seemed to him he was always hungry and that the hunger grew worse the more it was fed. Hardly a night passed that his bed was empty, and he was as eager for another each new night as if he had been celibate for a year. Yet he had no contentment. He could scarce look at the women when he flung them their coins and cast them out. He had wondered vaguely from time to time what ailed him, blaming the whores’ lack of beauty or lack of cleanliness for the images of Joanna that rose constantly to his mind. Now he knew.

It was not so dreadful a thing to love one’s wife, Geoffrey thought. Certainly Ian was happy. Yes, he was, even when on occasion he quarreled bitterly with Lady Alinor and raved that he would kill her or mutilate himself in some dreadful way so that she would cease from tormenting him. That too was half in jest. Whatever his momentary rage or pain, Ian was sure of his wife’s deep love. She glowed only in his presence, and her heart looked out of her eyes when she gazed upon him. Geoffrey shifted uneasily in his saddle.   It was not so dreadful a thing to love one’s wife when that wife loved in return. What was in Joanna’s eyes when she looked at
him
?

He had come full round to the beginning and he had even less comfort for it. Now he understood his own trouble, but he was no closer to Joanna’s. She sought me in the teeth of the fire, he told himself. If that was not loveno matter how idioticwhat was? Then why did she turn cold as ice the next day, acting as politely indifferent as if he were a casual guest passing through her house that she never expected to see again? No matter how he turned that question he could find no answer to it. In disgust, he swore he would think no more of it nor of Joanna, and set about planning in his mind what he would tell the king. When he thought of the fire, of the scenes of devastation and leaping flames, these were swiftly overlaid by the fiery tones of Joanna’s hair spread on the pillows. Geoffrey groaned and cursed at himself to no avail. Before he knew it, he was treading the same round track of questions that had no answers.

The painful cycle was broken at last when Geoffrey finally found the king. It had not been quick or easy. When he liked, John could move about his kingdom with disconcerting swiftness and the destination he stated to his hosts in the morning upon leaving was not always the resting place he stopped in the evening. Early in his reign, such deviations from plan had usually been the innocent result of a massage that summoned the king from his path or an unexpected diversion to take advantage of a hunt for a great boar or a great stag that had been noted nearby. At this time, however, the detours were more frequent and more often the result of a sudden suspicion that rose in John’s mind or an ugly desire to catch a subject unaware so that he could be fined or punished for some failure of duty.

No fewer than four times had Geoffrey gone off on the wrong track and needed to retrace his steps and start anew. It was nearly the end of July before he was able to give John   the sad news and present the pleas of the Londoners for remission and assistance. The king was in a vile mood. He glared at Geoffrey and consulted the date on the letters.

‘‘Did you crawl from London on your hands and knees that you have taken so long in coming to me?” John snarled.

“No, my lord,” Geoffrey replied drily, “but I believe I have ridden thrice around England in doing so. So quickly did you ride that I could not catch you.

“Who set the fire?”

That time Geoffrey did not have to try to control his voice. He could not find one at first. If the king was implying that London had been burnt down just to avoid his levy, he was quite mad. Then Geoffrey caught the malicious gleam in the dark eyes fixed upon his. No, the king was not madat least, no madder than he had ever been. He is merely trying to bait me into anger, Geoffrey thought. Although the burns had begun to heal in the time he had been on the road, Geoffrey knew the scars were still plain on his face and hands. Thus John knew his nephew had been engaged in fighting the fire and that his sympathy would be with the city. It was either a cruel type of fun or the king hoped that Geoffrey could be driven into rudeness or defiance. But why?

Then it came to him. If Geoffrey’s manner was offensive, John might use that as an excuse to deny the petition of the Londoners. Geoffrey liked neither the king’s humor nor his deviousness. Either way, he determined, John would not have the satisfaction of winning this battle of wits and self-control. Geoffrey lowered his eyes demurely, the very picture of a modest young man, and told the tale he had learned from the alderman of Southwark of the candle that fell into the straw in St. Mary’s Church. He added, before John could comment on the fact that a wide river separated Southwark from London, a description of the wind that blew the conflagration across the bridge to destroy London.

By the time Geoffrey emerged from the king’s chamber,   he was all but laughing. He had bested John at every point by the simple expedient of keeping his own temper. His lips grew a little rigid as some of the provocations offered him returned to his mind, but the memory of John nearly foaming at the mouth when he was dismissed relaxed him again. His amusement faded before long. There really was nothing funny in a king who found his pleasure in enraging his nobles.

Over the next few days, Geoffrey found less and less to amuse him. The Welsh matter seemed well in hand, although the news from Wales was not good. John had obviously realized that this was more than petty restlessness. The army summoned to attack France had been redirected to assemble at Chester. Geoffrey was not looking forward to another campaign in Wales, but far worse than that was the ugly feeling in the court. FitzWalter and de Vesci strutted and were continually surrounded by knots of men who spoke in too-soft voicesunless the king was present. Then they avoided each other and made loud, senseless jokes about destroying the Welsh and driving the French from Normandy. That the king seemed unconscious of this behavior did not trouble Geoffrey. He was sure that John’s suspicious mind had noted it well. He regretted only that the king should choose the sly path of entrapment rather than open rebuke, and he hated the tension which grew and grew, noting that even the most loyal had drawn faces and eyes heavy with lack of sleep.

The latter might have been owing to the restless peregrinations of the king. The court was moving toward Chester, but not directly. They rode this way and that, more as if John were seeking something than with any intention of overseeing the muster. Geoffrey asked twice for leave to go to his men and was refused without reason but with looks that insinuated much. Those times, had it not been for his father’s presence, Geoffrey would have lost his temper despite his resolution. Perhaps, he thought later, it was because what the king hinted this time really was a temptation deep in his heart. He had sworn his oath to uphold John, and   he would do it, but, had honor not bound him, he would have been gladder to go down to defeat in Llewelyn’s service than grasp victory in John’s.

The only good thing that could be said for Geoffrey’s situation was that more pressing troubles left him little time to worry about Joanna. In that he was better off than his betrothed, who was no nearer a decision on which path would subject her to less misery. If she repudiated the contract with Geoffrey, would that diminish her love? Certainly his absences in the past year had not diminished it. She would have another husband to occupy her mind, of course. Joanna shuddered with distaste. It seemed more likely to her that a different husband would fix her attention more firmly on Geoffrey because of the constant, unfavorable comparisons she would be forced to make.

It did not occur to Joanna that it was odd that Geoffrey should have become handsomer, braver, and more perfectnot that any man did not require careful watching and managementthan Ian or even her rosy and marvelous memory of her father. She did not question the logic of whether Ian and Simon had diminished in stature or Geoffrey had unaccountably increased. All that was clear to her was that there was no man to match him in all England, and probably in all the world. Thus, to marry anyone else would subject her to lifelong sorrow and regret. Joanna was not of the kind who would knowingly choose second best and take pleasure in it.

Then, obviously, the answer was to go ahead with the marriage. This conviction always produced an immediate lightening of Joanna’s spirit. She was not unaware of how disappointed Ian and her mother would be and how hurt William of Salisbury and Ela would be if she said she wished to break the marriage contract. The pleasure she felt would last for a little while, during which time she would dwell happily on the memory of Geoffrey’s caresses, Geoffrey’s sweet voice and skilled fingers lending life and joy to long evenings, Geoffrey’s sturdy strength backing her as she sat to give justice or faced any other problem. Hard on   the heels of those memories would come othersthe courage and sense of duty that sent Geoffrey out not only to protect his friend Engelard’s mistress but to fight the fire to save others with whom he had no connection. Of course, she admired the courage and sense of duty, but such attributes would always thrust Geoffrey forward into any danger that threatened.

Again her heart died at the thought. Again she saw the terror-haunted eyes that had looked for so many years out of her mother’s face. The pang that would rend her when she thought of Geoffrey dead would nearly draw a cry of agony from her. She could not face a lifetime of such pain; she could not. Better the dull misery, the sullen ache of a longing for what she could not have. It was true any husband her mother chose would be a courageous and most honorable man and, thus, would also be exposed to danger, but Joanna would not care. She only cared about Geoffrey.

Would she care less about Geoffrey if he was not her husband? Geoffrey and Ian were close tied in love. She would still know when Geoffrey went into danger. She would still see him very often, still fear for him. Then why not marry him and make everyone happy? Except herself… And so the thoughts went round and round.

One aspect of the problem Joanna did her best to avoid. It was one thing to consider a different husband for herself, quite another to consider a different wife for Geoffrey. The stab of jealousy induced by that idea was no less painful than the agony fear induced. It was not possible to avoid the idea completely. A letter of thanks from Lady Maud, written in the most graceful terms by a skilled scribe, brought the painful question vividly to Joanna’s mind. Somehow, the letter seemed fuller of Geoffrey than of thanks. In the midst of all his pleasures and duties at court, Lady Maud informed Joanna, Geoffrey had not forgotten so poor a creature as herself. He had explained her fate and her troubles to Engelard so well that all had been solved.

It seemed to Joanna that the compliments should have been showered on Engelard, who had been to the trouble of   finding a new dwelling and the money with which to rent and furnish it. Joanna did not blame Geoffrey for Lady Maud’s admirationno, not at all! Merely it showed that any woman, even one whose heart should have been given elsewhere, would be glad to have him. There was little chance, Joanna thought, of a marriage of convenience where an indifferent wife would not strive to win Geoffrey’s affection. And even if he loved Joanna now, would not that in time wean him to a new love? It must, and Joanna knew she would be a monster to wish it would not.

Jealousy could be repressed but not quenched entirely. Joanna could not resist writing a note to Geoffrey to warn himjestingly, of coursethat he had better be careful lest he make a conquest which would turn a friend into an enemy. She enclosed Lady Maud’s letter, which she felt would be self-explanatory.

At the time when Geoffrey received Joanna’s packet, it would not have mattered if Lady Maud had said baldly that she was madly in love with him. He would have made no better sense of that than he did of Joanna’s more subtle hints about a letter of thanks that contained one graceful reference to his services. Geoffrey might well have been amused if he had comprehended his betrothed’s jealous misreading of a most innocent missive, but he was beyond amusement by anything at all. In the early morning of the fourteenth of August, the sky had fallen in.

The court had been near Derby in a keep so small that Geoffrey was sharing his father’s bed. Thus, he had been among the very first to hear of the message John received to the effect that Llewelyn had openly joined the rebels at last, that Aberystwyth had fallen and been razed, and that the Welsh princes boasted openly that not a single king’s man would remain on Welsh soil. Although he must have known that these events were very likely, John seemed stung into madness by the news. The court was roused and a council held. There was no holding back. All were agreed that the Welsh must be punished.

Such was the unanimity of opinion, that Geoffrey did not   note it as odd that FitzWalter and de Vesci were among the most vociferous in urging the king to immediate action. Even if he had noticed, he would have thought little of it, assuming that their enthusiasm was another ploy to divert John’s suspicion from them. When he had the council’s agreement, however, John did not ride for Chester.

Geoffrey stared at Joanna’s letter. The words she had written made little sense to him. Only her name and the seal of Roselynde and the dear, familiar slant of the hand she wrote had meaning. They were a haven against horror; they brought an image of peace and reason to his shuddering soul. Yet he could not ride to her and find that peace and reason. The sky had fallen in.  
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