A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “King Alfonso is also Count of Barcelona and Marquis of Provence, which gives him control over Marseille. The Holy Father told us he’d written to Alfonso several months ago, asking for his aid once it was safe for us to venture from Rome, and Alfonso promised that he would make sure we got safely from Marseille to Poitiers. I suspect he feels guilty for betraying Richard and allying with that viper in Toulouse. And indeed, he ought to feel guilty, for he and Richard had been friends since they were fifteen!”

  The mention of “that viper in Toulouse” jogged Mariam’s memory. She knew Joanna’s mother had a claim to Toulouse, for her grandmother had been the only child of one of its counts, her inheritance usurped by her uncle. That had occurred a hundred years ago, and the dukes of Aquitaine and counts of Toulouse had been feuding ever since. Two years ago, the current Count of Toulouse, Raimon de St Gilles, had somehow inveigled Alfonso into an alliance against their mutual enemy, Navarre, and as a result, Richard had been forced to make his way home through Germany. “I know you say Alfonso was once Richard’s friend, Joanna. But do you think he can still be trusted? What if he hands you and Berengaria over to the Count of Toulouse?”

  “No, Alfonso would never do that. He is not utterly without honor like St Gilles. He guaranteed our safety to the Pope and would not renege upon it. Moreover, we will be escorted to Marseille by Cardinal Melior, of San Giovanni e Paolo in Pisa. He is French,” Joanna said, making a wry face, “but he is also a papal legate. I’ve spoken to him on several occasions and he seemed truly indignant about Richard’s plight. He’ll not let us come to harm.”

  “A cardinal and a papal legate? I am impressed, Joanna. Dare we hope that the Holy Father is finally heeding his conscience?”

  “I suspect his newfound solicitude is due more to fear of my mother than belated conscience pangs,” Joanna said with a sudden grin. When the Pope would no longer meet with them, Joanna had begun to cultivate other sources of information and had easily found a sympathetic ear in one of the papal secretaries, for even men who’d taken holy vows were not immune to a beautiful woman’s charm. She’d not revealed the name of her new friend, playfully calling him the “Good Samaritan,” and she referred to him as that now, saying that he’d told her Eleanor had been assailing Pope Celestine with letters, by turns beseeching and accusing.

  “He said she expressed outrage that the Holy Father had not sent a ‘single nuncio, not the humblest subdeacon’ to negotiate on Richard’s behalf. She wrote movingly of a mother’s grief, saying she’d lost ‘the staff of my old age, the light of my eyes,’ whilst she is ‘tortured by the memories of my dead,’ the sons who ‘sleep in the dust.’ She warned him that his failure to act cast a shadow over the Church, demanding to know how he could be unmoved whilst her son is ‘tortured in chains.’ She reminded him of the great evil Heinrich had done against the Church—the murder of the Bishop of Liege, the imprisonment of five other bishops. She accused him of ‘keeping the sword of Peter sheathed,’ of yielding to ‘human fear.’ She wrote, ‘Restore my son to me, man of God, if indeed you are a man of God.’”

  “She truly dared to say that, Joanna?”

  Eleanor’s daughter nodded proudly. “She signed one of the letters ‘Queen of England by the Wrath of God.’” She added, with another grin, “My Good Samaritan swears the Holy Father shudders at the mere sight of a letter with my mother’s seal.”

  When Joanna laughed, Mariam joined in, both women grateful for a moment of levity in a season of such gloom. Neither one heard the soft footsteps approaching, not turning until Ahmer gave a welcoming whine. Berengaria was smiling at them, her expression curious. “What is so amusing?”

  “I was telling Mariam about my mother’s letters to the Pope,” Joanna explained, sliding over on the bench to make room for her sister-in-law.

  Berengaria had been shocked at first by the accusatory tone of her mother-in-law’s missives, yet she’d been secretly pleased, too, for she was finding it harder and harder to be patient with the Holy Father’s passivity. He was God’s vicar on earth, and she wanted to believe that he would never shirk his pastoral duties for venial political reasons. She needed to believe that. But he was not making it easy for her.

  “It is outrageous that Richard should have to pay so much money to regain his freedom,” she said, showing them that she was not oblivious to the burden the ransom would impose upon his kingdom. “It will be a massive undertaking to raise the ransom, especially since Richard’s subjects had already been taxed for the Saladin tithe. Do you think your mother will be able to do it, Joanna?” Getting assurances from her sister-in-law, she smiled shyly. “It may be selfish of me to be so happy when I know this ransom will cause misery to so many. But I cannot help it. For the first time, I can see our reunion as a reality, not just a hope glimmering on the horizon. Richard and I have been apart for so long. I was thinking about that this morning and I realized it has been nine months since we left him at Acre. Nine months . . .”

  She continued to smile, but there was a catch in her voice, and Joanna understood why, understood all too well. To a woman desperate to bear a child, nine months could have but one meaning. Berengaria was undoubtedly tormenting herself with thoughts of what might have been, thinking that had God been kinder, she might have been pregnant when they sailed from Acre, that she might have had a son to show Richard when they were finally reunited. Joanna had suffered the same stifled yearnings during her marriage to the Sicilian king, anguished that she’d not conceived again after the death of their infant son. She’d felt guilty, as well, fearing she might not be able to give William an heir. She knew Berengaria was haunted by such fears, too, for in the sixteen months between her wedding in Cyprus and her parting from Richard at Acre, her flux had come with heartbreaking regularity.

  Joanna had done her best to dispel those fears, pointing out how rarely Berengaria and Richard had been able to share a bed, assuring her that would change once he was no longer fighting a holy war. She did not know if her common sense reminder had helped, though. She’d told herself that her own barren marriage had been as much William’s fault as it was hers, for there’d been too many nights when he’d bypassed the marital bed for one that held a seductive Saracen concubine. But that knowledge had not helped to assuage any of her own misery.

  Reaching over, she gave Berengaria’s hand a gentle squeeze. “We have good reason to be happy,” she said, “for the worst is over.” And she managed to sound very convincing, given that she did not really believe it.

  WHEN THE POPE HAD requested his help, it never occurred to the Aragonese king to refuse. Even had Alfonso considered Richard to be an enemy, he would still have offered his assistance to the Lionheart’s wife and sister. Since he saw Richard as a friend with a just grievance against him, he was eager to make amends however he could. That did not mean he was looking forward to receiving Joanna and Berengaria. They were sure to blame him for the part he’d played, however inadvertently, in Richard’s capture; moreover, Berengaria’s Navarre had always been Aragon’s adversary. He considered trying to ease the situation with candor, explaining that he’d felt he had no choice but to ally with the Count of Toulouse, for Berengaria’s brother Sancho had been too successful in putting down the rebellion in Richard’s lands. He’d gotten as far as the walls of Toulouse itself and, fearing that Sancho would be tempted to move into his own lands in Provence, Alfonso had been alarmed enough to take desperate measures. Could he really expect them to sympathize with his predicament, though, whilst Richard was languishing in German captivity?

  In any event, kings had little practice in offering apologies, and so he chose instead to rely upon their good manners, for surely they’d be too well bred to rebuke the man who was acting as their host. He also took the precaution of having his queen, Sancha, present. She’d not been happy at being summoned from Aragon, for the birth of their eighth child had not been an easy one. But he’d insisted, for she was the sister of the King of Castile, who happened to be
wed to Joanna’s sister Leonora. And he’d heard Richard’s queen was quite devout, so he thought she’d find common ground with Sancha, who’d founded a nunnery five years ago.

  As it turned out, it was not as awkward as he’d feared. Just as he’d hoped, the women were coolly civil, politely thanking him for his hospitality and keeping their real feelings to themselves. And, as he’d expected, they both thawed with Sancha. The presence of the famed troubadour Peire Vidal helped to ease the tension, too. Cardinal Melior also proved to be an asset, being one of those worldly prelates as much at home in society as he was in the cloister. Alfonso saw to it that his guests had every amenity, and they did not protest when he insisted that they take time to recover from the rigors of their journey from Rome. Things were going so well that he even dared to hope Richard would be mollified when he heard how warmly his wife and sister had been welcomed at Alfonso’s court.

  ALFONSO CELEBRATED THE END of his guests’ first week in Marseille with a lavish feast in their honor. After a five-course meal of southern delicacies, Peire Vidal performed a song he’d written about Richard’s captivity, and Joanna and Berengaria applauded enthusiastically when he disdained the French king as “neither true nor faithful,” scornfully claiming Philippe “buys and sells like a serf or a burgher,” and accusing Heinrich of breaking God’s Law in holding Richard prisoner. As he joined in the applause, it occurred to Alfonso that he ought to write a song himself about the English king’s plight; that would be a way of expressing his regret to Richard’s women without having to offer an actual apology. He was a talented poet, had even learned the lenga romana of Aquitaine so he could write in the language of the troubadours, and he was mentally composing verses in his head as the evening’s festivities drew to an end.

  He was not paying attention, therefore, when Berengaria expressed her gratitude to Sancha for their hospitality, saying it was very kind of Alfonso to accompany them all the way to Poitiers. Sancha frowned, turning to look at her husband in surprise. “You have not told them?” She’d spoken in Catalan, the preferred language of the Aragonese kings, but her tone of voice and her expression alerted both Joanna and Berengaria that something was amiss, and Alfonso suddenly found himself the focal point of all eyes.

  Alfonso had deliberately kept his plan secret, knowing it would not be well received. He’d been waiting for Raimond to arrive, hoping he’d be able to dispel their misgivings once they met him. Too late now. “Did I not mention it?” he asked blandly. “Regretfully, I will be unable to accompany you all the way to Poitiers, my ladies. This presented me with a dilemma, since I wanted to make sure you’d be able to continue your journey in safety. Fortunately, a good friend of mine offered to do what I could not. I will escort you through Provence and he will then take over. In fact, he will be meeting us here in Marseille, as he wanted you to get a chance to know him—”

  Kings were not interrupted, but Joanna did so now, for an awful suspicion was taking root in the back of her brain; the lands beyond Provence were held by the Toulouse viper. “And the name of this friend you would entrust our safety to, my lord?”

  Alfonso resisted the instinct to duck for cover. “Raimond de St Gilles, the Count—”

  As he’d feared, he’d just tossed a torch into a hayrick. Both women were staring at him in horror. “You cannot be serious!” Joanna cried, once again cutting him off in midsentence. “The Count of Toulouse is an avowed enemy of our House!”

  For once, Berengaria showed herself quite willing to join her sister-in-law in making an unseemly public scene. “He hates and fears my husband,” she said tautly. “We know he connived with the French king against Richard. I think he is quite capable of making us his hostages and turning us over to Philippe.”

  Joanna was even more outspoken. “The man is a monster. He is believed to be responsible for the murder of the Viscount of Béziers some years ago, and many think he was behind the killing of your own brother, my lord king. He has terrorized his neighbors for years, none of whom would trust him with a dog, much less a queen!”

  “You have distressed yourselves for naught, my ladies,” Alfonso said coolly, irked by Joanna’s tactless mention of his brother’s slaying; he had indeed suspected the Count of Toulouse of complicity in the plot, although it never had been proven. But he did not appreciate being reminded that he’d allied himself with a man who might have his brother’s blood on his hands. “I would never expect you to travel in the company of the Count of Toulouse. I was not speaking of Raimon de St Gilles, but of his son Raimond, the Count of Melgueil.”

  He benefited momentarily from their earlier indignation. Normally they’d have balked at any member of the House of Toulouse, but because they saw the father as such a threat, his son seemed like the lesser of evils. They exchanged troubled glances, for neither of them knew enough about Raimond de St Gilles to make a persuasive argument against him.

  In extinguishing one fire, though, Alfonso ignited another one. Cardinal Melior had been listening in growing concern, for the ultimate responsibility for the queens’ safety rested with the Church. He did not like this unexpected involvement of the Count of Toulouse any more than the women did. But when he heard the name Raimond de St Gilles, he reacted as if stung, coming to his feet so hastily that he nearly stepped on the tail of one of Alfonso’s dogs, who’d been napping peacefully on the dais.

  “The Count of Melgueil poses a far greater danger than his father. At least the Count of Toulouse’s faith is not in question. His son is a heretic!”

  Berengaria gasped at that. Joanna did not take the cardinal’s judgment as absolute the way her sister-in-law did, for she knew the religious life of the south was complex and not always conventional. But she willingly seized the weapon he’d just handed her and said challengingly, “My lord king, is this true? You’d have us escorted by a heretic?”

  “Of course not!” Alfonso said through gritted teeth. “You have been misinformed, my lord cardinal. Raimond de St Gilles is no more a heretic than I am. Surely you are not suggesting that the King of Aragon is not a good Christian?”

  He’d not usually have been so heavy-handed in pulling rank, but he wanted to end this argument before it spiraled out of control. The cardinal refused to take the hint, though, for more was at stake than a king’s displeasure. “Of course your faith is not in question, my liege. But I cannot say as much for Raimond de St Gilles. He often consorts with the Albigensian heretics known as Cathars, and has been seen honoring the perfecti, their so-called priests. He allows their vile beliefs to flourish in Toulouse, and vile they are indeed! They deny the Resurrection and the Eucharist, claim the Lord Christ is not the Son of God, and insist the Sacraments are snares set by the Devil!”

  “I am not defending those vile beliefs, my lord cardinal! I am saying that Raimond de St Gilles is not a Cathar. He is a faithful son of the true Church.” Turning toward the women, Alfonso took up Joanna’s challenge. “I would never entrust you to Raimond’s care had I any doubts about your safety with him. I admit that his father is not a man of honor. But fathers and sons are not always alike, and Raimond and his sire are very different men. If he is guilty of any sin, it is one of courtesy. Yes, he has shown respect to the Cathar priests, but only because most are aged and he sees them as harmless—”

  “‘Harmless’?” Cardinal Melior sputtered, so great was his outrage to hear enemies of the Church described in such benign terms.

  Realizing he’d misspoken, Alfonso said quickly, “‘Harmless’ was an ill-chosen word. I meant that Raimond does not see the Cathars as posing a serious threat to the Holy Church. He tells me that their perfecti cause no trouble, living austere, simple lives and occupying themselves in prayers and good deeds. Raimond has a kind heart and sometimes it leads him astray. That does not make him a heretic, my lord cardinal.”

  The expression on Cardinal Melior’s face said otherwise, and Alfonso raised his hand imperiously. “I regret that this does not meet with your approval, my lord cardinal,
but I cannot escort the queens personally to Poitiers and I am grateful to the Count of Melgueil for offering to act in my stead. So there is no point in discussing this further.”

  The cardinal was a seasoned diplomat. But he was also a prince of the Church. Struggling with these conflicting claims, he waited until he was sure his voice would not betray his anger. “I defer to your wishes, my lord king. However, I do not share your confidence in the Count of Melgueil’s goodwill. So I think it necessary to alter my own plans. Instead of bidding farewell to the queens of England and Sicily here in Marseille, I shall be accompanying them all the way to Poitiers.”

  Both Berengaria and Joanna at once expressed their gratitude to the cardinal, with such obvious relief that Alfonso realized he’d not been able to ease their qualms. Looking from the unhappy queens to the irate prelate, he suppressed a sigh, thinking, Poor Raimond. He has no idea what is in store for him.

  BERENGARIA AND JOANNA WANTED to find out all they could about Raimond de St Gilles since they’d be spending so many weeks in his company. Cardinal Melior was only too happy to repeat the stories he’d heard of Count Raimond’s transgressions. When the count was not keeping company with heretics, he was chasing after women; he’d had two wives, the cardinal related disapprovingly, and bastard-born children beyond counting. He had a subversive sense of humor that often bordered on sacrilege and the troubadours who flocked to his court were just as impious. Sadly, the man was very popular with his father’s subjects, which only confirmed the cardinal’s dark suspicions about the people of these sun-blessed southern lands.

  Joanna and Berengaria then sought out Sancha, who had a keen ear for gossip and enjoyed sharing it. “I do not know Raimond well,” she confided, “but he and Alfonso are good friends. He is one of those men with more charm than the law should allow, and I daresay he could seduce a mother abbess if he truly tried. His first wife was some years older than he was; he was just sixteen at the time of their marriage. When she died four years later, he inherited her county of Melgueil. He then married the sister of the Viscount of Béziers—”