A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “This may come as an unpleasant surprise, Count Raimond, but not every woman finds you as irresistible as you seem to think you are. I assumed that you were worldly enough to take our flirtation for what it was, an amusing way to pass the time on a tedious journey. If you have read more into it, that is your problem, not mine.”

  Without waiting for his response, she spun around and strode off, head high, heart beating so loudly she feared he might hear it. She was thankful to see Mariam hurrying toward her, drawn by their raised voices. When Raimond called after her, “I do not believe you,” she flinched but did not look back.

  FROM BORDEAUX, they headed north, accepting the hospitality of Geoffrey Rudel, the Lord of Blaye, who had a small castle on the right bank of the Gironde Estuary. It was claimed that the hero of the Chanson de Roland, a nephew of Charlemagne, was buried in the Basilique St-Roman, but even Roland was overshadowed by Geoffrey’s father, the celebrated troubadour Jaufre Rudel. Jaufre had fallen in love with the Countess of Tripoli, a woman he’d never seen. Taking the cross on her behalf, he’d accompanied the French king and Eleanor to the Holy Land on their ill-fated crusade. According to legend, he’d taken ill and had been carried ashore at Tripoli. Being told of his devotion, the countess visited him in his tent and he’d died in her arms.

  Joanna was familiar with this romantic legend and under other circumstances she might have enjoyed staying in the love-struck troubadour’s castle. As it was, her stay at Blaye was not a pleasant one. Raimon de Miraval and Peire Vidal had left them at Carcassonne, and when the women expressed disappointment that they could not hear Jaufre’s famous songs about his beloved countess, Raimond offered to perform one of them himself. His rendition of “During May, When the Days Are Long” was enthusiastically received. Only Joanna, applauding politely, took no pleasure in it. It seemed to her that Raimond was looking directly at her when he sang of Jaufre’s “faraway love” and lamented, “I do not know whenever I shall see her, so far away our countries are.” When he concluded, “Never shall I enjoy love, unless I enjoy this faraway love,” some of the women blinked back tears, but Joanna yearned to pitch her wine cup at Raimond’s dark head, knowing full well that he was laughing at her.

  She was all the more furious with him because he was right. She was afraid to confront her feelings for him. Now that she knew she’d not be committing adultery, she feared that he might tempt her into a less serious sin, but one that she knew she’d regret afterward. For a queen, too much was at stake. So she did her best to keep her indignation burning at full flame, reminding herself repeatedly that he’d treated his wife rather shabbily, most likely putting her aside because she’d failed to give him a male heir, after just one daughter in fifteen years of marriage.

  She also did her best to limit their interactions, although that meant spending more time with Cardinal Melior and his clerics. Raimond took note of her new strategy, looking at her with mock sympathy when he saw her choosing to sit beside the cardinal at meals or ride beside him on the road. The papal legate seemed pleased that she was once more treating Raimond coldly and regaled her with stories of the impiety that hung over Toulouse like a storm cloud. There was not even a separate quarter for the Jews, he said; they dwelt wherever they pleased! The people of these benighted southern lands chased after pleasure the way a dog pursued rabbits, and since they allowed their women so much freedom, they were no better than they ought to be. Count Raimond encouraged their frivolous pursuits and wanton behavior and he probably tried to ensnare them in Cathar nets, too.

  Joanna listened dutifully to these lectures, knowing she’d brought them upon herself by her defense of Sicilian tolerance. She did not dare to tell the cardinal that, like Raimond, she believed the Almighty would not have created a world of such surpassing beauty without wanting them to glory in it and in all of its earthly pleasures.

  IT WAS MID-OCTOBER and the nights were noticeably cooler. From Blaye, they spent a night in a castle at Mirambeau, and then stopped at the Abbaye aux Dames de Saintes. Eleanor had been a generous patron of the convent in the years before and after her captivity, so the nuns welcomed this opportunity to receive her daughter and her son’s queen. Saintes had once been a Roman town, and they marveled at the remarkable Arch of Germanicus, towering above an ancient Roman bridge, still in use so many centuries after the empire’s fall. But few were curious enough to visit the ruins of a Roman amphitheater, for their enthusiasm for sightseeing had waned and their only interest now was in reaching Poitiers, eighty-five miles to the north.

  Their next stop was at Niort, whose castle had been begun by Joanna’s father and completed by Richard. They’d just settled in when a stir was created by the arrival of Joanna’s cousin, André de Chauvigny. They’d not seen him since their departure from Acre a year ago and they had an emotional reunion. André had a surprise for them. They’d dispatched letters to Germany before they left Rome, letting Richard know of their plans, instructing the courier to meet them at Poitiers, and he’d arrived that past week, André said, bearing letters from Richard; he even had one for Mariam from Morgan. These were the first letters that Richard’s wife or sister had received from him, and they snatched them up eagerly. Berengaria took hers up to the privacy of her bedchamber, while Joanna retreated with hers to a window-seat in the great hall.

  After she’d read it, she leaned back in the seat, closing her eyes, not opening them until she sensed she was no longer alone. When she realized she was now sharing the window-seat with Raimond, she scowled. Before she could rise, though, he said, “Your news is not good?”

  Because he seemed genuinely concerned, she did not flounce away, although she responded with a wary “Why do you say that?”

  He reached out, touching her cheek with his finger, as lightly as a feather. “Because of this,” he said, and only then did she realize a few tears had seeped through her lashes. “I can only imagine how difficult these past months have been for your brother,” he said, sounding quite serious for once. “You probably have a better idea than most do, for you, too, were held against your will.”

  Joanna nodded somberly. “It is nothing he wrote,” she said. “It is rather what he did not write. . . .” She said no more, for she would have felt disloyal to Richard had she discussed her fears with anyone else, and certainly not with Raimond, for she could not ever forget that he was the Count of Toulouse’s son. He nodded, too, and seemed content to sit beside her in a companionable silence. Joanna found his presence surprisingly comforting, and she began to wonder if there was a way to apologize for her rudeness without encouraging him to make overtures again. She would never know if she’d have proffered an olive branch, for it was then that she saw André coming toward them.

  He and Raimond exchanged cool greetings and the latter soon excused himself. “I hope he gave you no cause for complaint on this journey,” André said, watching Raimond depart with obvious suspicion. “I confess that I was not pleased when I heard that he’d be your escort. I considered riding south to meet you, but you know what they say—mice start raiding the pantry as soon as the cat is away—and that rat in Limoges is just biding his time ere he stirs up strife again.”

  Joanna smiled, knowing he was referring to the Viscount of Limoges, one of Richard’s more untrustworthy vassals, and assured him that Raimond de St Gilles had been both courtly and kind. André looked skeptical, but he had more important matters on his mind than the Count of Toulouse’s spawn. “Cousin Joanna, your courier brought me a letter from Richard, too. He wrote that he was being well treated now and expected he’d soon be free. But after I reread it, I realized he’d actually said very little. I’d almost think he’d been writing under duress, but your man insisted that this was not so. I was wondering if he was any more forthcoming in your letter?”

  Joanna shook her head slowly, and they regarded each other in a troubled silence. It never occurred to either of them to question Berengaria about her letter, for they both knew that if Richard was so guarded wi
th his sister and closest friend, he’d have been even more reticent with the young woman who was his wife but never his confidante.

  ANDRÉ RATHER POINTEDLY SUGGESTED that Count Raimond might want to return to Toulouse now that he was there to escort the women on to Poitiers, a suggestion quickly supported by Cardinal Melior. Raimond smiled blandly, saying that he was sure the ladies would be safe with Lord André, but he felt honor-bound to stay with them until the end of their journey. They all departed Niort the next morning, spending the night at the castle of the de Lusignans, who’d long been a burr under the Angevin saddle. Hugh de Lusignan had fought with Richard in the Holy Land, though, and so he was willing to play a role unfamiliar to the de Lusignans, that of a dutiful vassal. The following afternoon, the feast day of St Luke the Evangelist, they crossed the St Cyprien Bridge and rode into a wild welcome in Eleanor’s capital, the city she so loved.

  JOANNA WAS ACCUSTOMED to taking command, but she was careful to defer to Berengaria now that they were in Richard’s realm, and so it was Berengaria who planned an elaborate dinner to thank Cardinal Melior and Count Raimond. She’d have made it a belated birthday celebration for Joanna, too, who’d turned twenty-eight in Blaye, had Joanna not convinced her to keep that a secret for a while longer. The next day, the cardinal departed for the French court; he’d been entrusted with a diplomatic warning for Philippe, although neither the papal legate nor the Pope expected the French king to heed it. Joanna was very grateful to the cardinal for providing them with the Church’s protection; she was still glad to see him go.

  Later that afternoon, André asked Joanna to accompany him out into the gardens, acting mysterious enough to awaken her curiosity. A boy was pacing nervously around a towering yew tree and as soon as she saw him, Joanna understood. He was a sturdy youngster, tall for his age—which she knew to be twelve—with curly, red-gold hair and blue-grey eyes. Joanna’s throat tightened, for this handsome lad was the veritable image of his father. He watched uncertainly as she approached, and then made a credible attempt at a bow, saying “My lady” in a gruff, youthful voice that was just starting to change.

  “I prefer ‘Aunt Joanna,’” she said and drew Richard’s son into a warm embrace that seemed to fluster and please him in equal measure. Leading him toward a bench, she gestured for him to sit beside her. “I am delighted to meet you at last, Philip. Your father has often spoken of you.”

  “He has?” Philip flashed a surprised smile and she nodded emphatically, even though that was not so; Richard was notoriously closemouthed about his private life. But she knew that was what this bewildered boy needed to hear. She was sure he adored his famous father, even if he did not know Richard very well, and these past months must have been very difficult for him. She gave André a fond smile, thankful that he’d thought to take the youngster into his household, and then set about winning her nephew’s confidence, which did not prove challenging, so hungry was he for a family connection; André was the only one of his kin whom he’d met until now.

  André joined them and they enjoyed a much-needed respite from their current worries, taking turns telling Philip amusing stories about Richard’s own boyhood and his time in the Holy Land. When Philip jumped abruptly to his feet in obvious alarm, they were taken aback, until they followed his gaze and saw Berengaria and her ladies just entering the gardens.

  She came to a sudden halt, staring at Philip, for his appearance revealed his identity without a word being said. André started to rise; he’d become very protective of the boy and did not want to see him diminished or made to feel shame for a sin that was not his. Joanna knew her sister-in-law better than he did, and she patted his hand reassuringly, watching serenely as Berengaria approached Richard’s son.

  “You are Philip.” It was not a question, but he nodded, looking both defiant and dismayed. He was already as tall as she was, so Berengaria had to rise up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “I am so happy to meet you,” she said, and, as Joanna watched her nephew flush with astonishment, delight, and relief, she smiled, thinking that Raimond had been right. Richard had a pearl beyond price in his Spanish bride.

  BERENGARIA HAD EXPRESSED her gratitude for all Raimond had done and assured him earnestly that she would continue to pray for him. Next it was Mariam and Beatrix’s turn to bid him a safe return to his own lands, and then Anna gave him a highly inappropriate hug that would earn her a lecture afterward; Alicia contented herself with a shy smile and blush. Only after he’d exchanged terse farewells with André did Raimond turn toward Joanna.

  “I hope that your lord brother is soon free, my lady,” he said, and as he bent to kiss her hand, she murmured a polite “Go with God, my lord count.” But then he leaned closer and said softly, “Farewell, my beautiful coward.” Even though she knew no one else could have heard, Joanna still felt her face burn with heat. She stayed in the doorway of the great hall, watching as Raimond mounted his stallion and signaled to his men to ride out. Just before he rode through the gateway, he glanced over his shoulder, waved jauntily, and smiled. And Joanna could not help herself; she smiled back.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AUGUST 1193

  Amiens, France

  John and the French king had little in common other than a shared desire to keep Richard in a German dungeon until he drew his last mortal breath. John privately considered Philippe to be as much fun as an Anchorite recluse, so he was not enjoying himself at the French king’s wedding. Watching the royal couple seated at the high table, he studied the bride admiringly, for she was not only highborn—the sister of the King of Denmark—she was just eighteen, and lovely, a tall, slender, blue-eyed blonde. She was not John’s type, for he did not like his women to be taller than he was and he preferred more voluptuous paramours, but he still thought Philippe was luckier than he deserved. He would not even have to talk to the girl after taking her maidenhead, for she spoke no French and he spoke no Danish. Of course, she’d eventually learn French, but until she did, Philippe would have the ideal bedmate, young and pretty and mute.

  John laughed aloud at that, attracting a few curious looks from the other guests. He was already tipsy, and he could think of no reason not to get thoroughly drunk. Mayhap then he could forget for a little while that The Devil is loosed. Not yet, but soon. Unless he and Philippe could find a way to outwit that double-dealing spider on the German throne. He felt indignation flicker as he thought how Heinrich had used them to squeeze outrageous concessions from Richard. Of course, they were using him, too, so he supposed he was really vexed because Heinrich had been better at it. He laughed again, for he’d long ago learned to employ mockery as a shield; with a family like his, that had been a survival skill. And as long as he could see some humor in his plight, he’d not have to think about facing Richard’s fiery rage or their mother’s icy anger. Wine helped, too, a very effective way to blur the hard edges of reality.

  He was disappointed by the entertainment offered, although not surprised, for Philippe’s lack of interest in music was well known, and by the time the feast ended and the newlyweds were escorted to their bridal chamber, he’d drained so many wine cups that he was unsteady on his feet. So were many of the wedding guests and it was a raucous bedding-down ceremony. Ingeborg, now renamed Isambour, had been put to bed by the women and she watched, wide-eyed, clutching the sheet up to her chin as the men trooped into the chamber, laughing loudly at their own jokes and leering at the bride. John had discovered earlier in the evening that Ingeborg spoke a little Latin, so when he happened to catch her eye, he winked and wished her, “Bona fortuna,” adding, because she seemed so nervous, “Omnia vincit amor.” Of course he did not believe that love conquers all, any more than Virgil had, and he doubted that she’d find love in her marriage to Philippe. But the women he knew would much rather have a crown than a man’s heart.

  The bedding revelries showed no signs of winding down, and he was already growing bored. He’d left Ursula behind in Paris and regretted it now, for this was a n
ight when he wanted a warm female body in his bed. Fortunately, that was an easy need to satisfy; a king’s son never went hungry. Thinking that Ingeborg was a delightful little morsel compared to his own wife, a great heiress whom he tended to forget unless she was standing right in front of him, he pushed his way toward the door. The night was young and he was not yet drunk enough to exorcise his ghosts.

  JOHN AWOKE with the greatest reluctance. Squinting up at his squire, he flinched from the bright, blinding light and then groaned, for his head was spinning and his stomach was roiling as if he’d spent the night aboard ship in a monster gale. Beside him, his bedmate was stirring, too, saying, “Good morrow, my lord,” so cheerfully that he realized she was one of those odious souls who actually liked to rise with the sun. “The building had better be on fire, Giles,” he muttered. But the boy persevered, for all in John’s household were accustomed to his early-morning bad temper, reminding him that Lady Ingeborg’s coronation was scheduled for noon. John decided he could quite happily go to his grave without seeing Philippe’s bride crowned and he burrowed back under the coverlets with another groan. He remembered little about the woman in his bed, but he thought it was safe to assume she was a whore and not a nun, so he mumbled, “Pay her, Giles,” before pulling the pillow over his head.

  When he awoke again hours later, he called at once for the herbal drink that he’d often used to combat these morning-after woes: a mixture of pennyroyal, betony, and peppermint in white wine. He felt marginally better once he’d forced it down and let Giles help him dress. He was debating whether he ought to go back to bed, when the door banged open with enough force to make him wince. “Hellfire and damnation, Durand, must you make enough noise to awaken the dead?”