A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  John sat up straight, staring at his brother in astonished delight. “Richard, thank you!”

  “Your lands, not your castles. They will remain in my hands.”

  That was a great letdown, for castles were power, but John knew better than to let his disappointment show, and thanked Richard effusively again. André and Will were trying to hide their disapproval, having already argued that John’s capture of Évreux had been dishonorable and his flight from the Vaudreuil Castle siege had been craven. They did not understand why Richard was so indulgent with John, although they suspected the queen mother had played a role in this. Exchanging glances, they silently agreed that no outsiders could ever fully comprehend the family dynamics of the Angevins, at once personal and political, vengeful and forgiving, and always dynastic.

  ARNE SAT UP ON HIS PALLET, listening intently. When it came again, a muffled, indistinct sound, but one he’d heard before, he flung the covers back, shivering as he struggled to pull his shirt over his head. Padding barefoot across the chamber, he drew aside the linen hangings that cocooned Richard’s bed, allowing the low-burning flames in the hearth to chase away some of the dark. As he expected, Richard was trapped in another bad dream, tossing his head from side to side on the pillow, his mouth contorted, his breathing labored. But his sheets were soaked in sweat, and when Arne reached out timidly to shake Richard’s shoulder, he jerked back in dismay, for his king’s skin was searing to the touch.

  RICHARD KNEW HE MUST BE in Jaffa, for it was so ungodly hot. He tried to open his eyes, but the Outremer sun was too blindingly bright. He could hear people moving about, recognizing the voices of André and Master Ralph Besace, his personal physician. He was puzzled, though, to hear his mother’s voice, for Maman had not accompanied him to the Holy Land. Steeling himself against the glare, he squinted to see if she was truly there, and set off turmoil in the chamber.

  “He’s awake!” This voice was familiar, too, that of another of his doctors, Master John of Brideport, which alarmed him, for he’d last seen Master John in Germany. Holy Christ, was he back at Trifels? He struggled to sit up and was at once urged to lie still. He did, realizing that wherever he was, it was not Germany. His mother was there, as was André, Will Marshal, his doctors, even his fourteen-year-old son, Philip, hovering behind the others. Before he could speak, a hand was laid upon his forehead. “God be praised, the fever has broken!”

  By now Richard had recognized his surroundings, his bedchamber in the palace at Le Mans. As his wits cleared, it was coming back to him. He’d developed a sudden, intense headache, joking with André that God was punishing him for giving Johnny back his lands. He remembered feeling very hot that night, throwing off the covers to escape the suffocating heat. After that, nothing. “How long . . . ?”

  “You fell sick on Monday eve, sire. Today is Maundy Thursday.”

  He’d lost three days? “It was not the quartan fever?” he said, somewhat uncertainly, for he had no memory of the chills that always followed those bouts of fever. Both of his doctors assured him that he’d not been stricken with a recurrence of the ague that had plagued him for years. “What, then?”

  “We do not know, my liege.” Master Ralph shook his head slowly. “It is passing strange that you’d become so very ill so suddenly. Were you feeling poorly ere that fever flared?” Richard mentioned the headache and sore throat, but his doctors still seemed baffled. Eleanor was beside him now, kissing his forehead to assure herself that his fever truly had broken. As he looked from face to face, he saw joy so intense that he realized they had not been sure he’d survive. He was both astonished and disquieted. He’d lost track of the times he’d confronted Death, but he’d never been ambushed like this before. In the past, Death had always given him fair warning. He was too tired, though, to give any more thought to his mysterious malady, not when sleep was beckoning so imperiously. He murmured a drowsy apology before surrendering to it, so abruptly that a frisson of fear swept the chamber. But after making sure that his breathing was regular and his pulse steady, both physicians declared that what he most needed now was rest. Master Ralph dared then to tell the queen mother that she ought to get some sleep, too, for God willing, it seemed likely the king would recover. Eleanor was too exhausted to argue with them. André and Will soon headed for their own beds. Philip balked and, wrapping himself in his mantle, he curled up in a nearby chair to keep vigil while his father slept.

  WHEN RICHARD AWAKENED AGAIN, he could tell it was daylight for the windows of the royal chambers in the Le Mans palace were luxuriously fitted with glass. After getting up to use the chamber pot, he did not protest when the doctors insisted he go back to bed, for his body was recovering more slowly than his brain, and his legs felt weak. He was sitting up, finishing a bowl of soup, when John was admitted. “Come in, Little Brother. Sorry to shatter your hopes, but it looks as if I am not going to die.”

  John did not even blink. “And glad I am of it, Big Brother. Had you gone to God in Holy Week, most of your lords would likely have chosen little Arthur as their next king, for I’m still tainted goods in many eyes. So I’d be grateful if you could stop flirting with Death for a while, at least until I can restore my reputation.”

  The doctors gaped at him, openmouthed. But his gamble paid off, for Richard was amused by his cockiness, not offended. Pulling up a chair, John did his best to be entertaining, knowing what a poor patient his brother was. At first, he appeared to be succeeding. Soon, though, Richard seemed to be withdrawing into himself, dwelling upon thoughts that were not pleasant—or so John judged from the somber look on the older man’s face.

  By then, Eleanor, André, and Will had joined John at Richard’s bedside. He was quiet, but they thought that only natural, and were encouraged that he had been willing to eat. He had to endure brief visits from the Bishop of Le Mans, the Archbishop of Rouen, the Earl of Chester, the Viscount of Thouars, and several other highborn lords and clerics. He slept again after that and, upon awakening, he found that shadows were infiltrating the chamber. Propping himself up on his elbows, he regarded them searchingly, his gaze moving from his doctors to his mother, his brother, his cousins André and Morgan, then on to Will Marshal; his chaplain, Anselm; his vice-chancellor, Eustace; and the newly arrived Dean of St Martin’s le Grand, William de St Mère-Eglise.

  “I would ask this of you all. Could this sickness be a sign from God? A warning that I need to atone for my sins and lead a more godly life?”

  John saw at once where this was heading and did not like it in the least. If his brother decided to “lead a more godly life,” he’d reconcile with his wife, and the last thing John wanted was for Richard to spend enough time in Berengaria’s bed to sire a son. “You cannot mean that mad hermit, Richard. He was spouting nonsense!”

  But the three churchmen were already assuring Richard that God may indeed have been warning him, and both doctors agreed that the strange nature of his illness could be explained if it had been divine chastisement. Will was the next to speak. It was not Richard’s sickbed he was seeing; it was his brother Hal’s deathbed. God is punishing me for my sins, Will. His eyes dark with fear, Hal had cried out despairingly that it was too late, that Lucifer was in the chamber with them, waiting to claim his soul. Nigh on twelve years later, that memory still brought tears to Will’s eyes, for he’d loved his young lord, even though Hal had lost his moral bearings and had been no better than a bandit in his last weeks of life. Will had helped Hal to make a good death, and now he told Hal’s brother what he’d once told Hal, saying with such passion that he choked up, “The Almighty has given you a great mercy, sire—time to repent and seek His forgiveness.”

  Morgan added his voice to Will’s, remembering a warning more credible than the hermit’s, Bishop Hugh of Lincoln’s. André and Eleanor were not sure how to answer; André in particular was dubious, for he thought John was likely right and the hermit mad. But it was always better to err on the side of caution, and Eleanor thought it logical that the Alm
ighty would care more for the soul of a king. Then, too, Richard could not beget a son and heir unless he mended his broken marriage.

  When she did not argue against it, John knew that his voice would go unheeded. Richard would make another spectacular repentance as he had in Messina, wanting to be judged worthy to lead the fight against the infidels. And with his accursed luck, Brother Richard would get his little Spanish bride pregnant ere the month was out. Wishing he could hunt that wretched hermit down with lymer hounds and feed him his own entrails, John lapsed into a morose silence that no one noticed.

  JOANNA KNEW THAT SOMETHING was wrong. While Richard was meeting with Constance in Angers, Morgan had paid a visit to Mariam at Beaufort-en-Vallée. It had been a very brief one, and in the two and a half weeks since then, Mariam had been quiet and withdrawn, rebuffing all of Joanna’s questions. But Joanna was nothing if not persistent, and when Mariam slipped out into the garden after hearing Easter Mass in the castle chapel, she followed.

  She found Mariam sitting on a turf bench by the fishpond. “Yes, I know I am meddling,” she said before the other woman could speak. “But you are as dear to me as my own sisters, and I can see you are in pain. Let me help.”

  “As if I could stop you.” Mariam’s compelling golden eyes were brimming with tears, though, and once Joanna sat beside her, she began to unburden herself. “Morgan came to tell me that Richard had given him and Guillain very generous grants, large estates in his ducal domains in Normandy and Aquitaine. He was so joyful, Joanna, saying that now we could marry. It well-nigh broke my heart to turn him down.”

  “But why? I know you love him.”

  “Yes, I do love him, and I would not burden him with a barren wife.”

  Joanna reached over to take Mariam’s hand in her own. “How often have you been able to share a bed with Morgan? A few times in the Holy Land, an occasional tryst in the past year. That you did not conceive yet proves nothing, Zahrah.”

  The use of that Arabic endearment, her brother William’s pet name for her, caused Mariam’s tears to overflow. “You are forgetting that during four years of marriage to Bertrand, not once did I conceive.”

  “That does not mean you cannot conceive,” Joanna insisted, for the female physicians she’d consulted at Salerno had espoused the revolutionary view that a childless marriage was not always to be blamed upon the woman. “Many wives conceive after years of a supposedly barren marriage. What of Constance? Who expected her to become pregnant in her fortieth year?”

  Mariam merely shook her head. But after a few moments of silence, she said, “I was not being entirely truthful, Joanna. Yes, I have worried that I might not be able to conceive. But that is not why I cannot wed Morgan. Our children would never be welcome here. I have seen how people stare at me, whisper behind my back. In Poitiers, they called me ‘the Saracen witch.’”

  Joanna was outraged; she’d had no idea that Mariam felt like such an outsider in the Angevin domains. “Why did you not tell me? The mean-spirited louts! You’re a better Christian than the lot of them!”

  Mariam was warmed by Joanna’s indignation and reached over to hug her before saying, “I do not care what they say of me, for my life with you shelters me from the worst of their suspicions and ill will. But my children would care. In Sicily, their Saracen blood would not matter. But I could not ask Morgan to abandon his world for mine. Even if he would have considered it, now that Heinrich has been crowned the King of Sicily, a life there is impossible. Morgan would never be willing to live under Heinrich’s rule, and in truth, neither would I.”

  Joanna knew Mariam well enough not to argue further, but she had no intention of giving up. She was ashamed that she’d felt a brief flicker of relief as Mariam had explained why a return to Sicily was out of the question, for losing Mariam would be like losing part of herself. Yet she loved Mariam too much to be selfish, and as they walked back toward the castle, she was privately vowing to find a way for her friend and Morgan to have a life together.

  When they entered the great hall, Joanna started toward Berengaria, who was standing by the open hearth. But her step quickened as soon as she got a glimpse of the younger woman’s face. “Berengaria? Is something amiss?”

  Berengaria’s eyes looked very dark against the whiteness of her skin. She was holding a letter that looked as if it had been crumpled in her fist and then smoothed out. “It is from Richard,” she said. “He wants me to join him at his Easter Court in Le Mans.”

  “Dearest, that is wonderful!” Joanna exclaimed, delighted that her stubborn brother was finally reaching out to his neglected wife.

  “Yes, wonderful,” Berengaria echoed after a long pause, saying, as always, what was expected of her. But she shared none of Joanna’s pleasure, feeling only unease, confusion, and even a touch of apprehension.

  IT WAS DUSK TWO days later when the walls of Le Mans came into view. Berengaria had not seen Richard since that past July, at the beginning and end of his lightning campaign into Poitou, and in the eight months since then, she could do little but mourn her ailing marriage. Her bruised and battered pride had suffered a serious wound when Richard celebrated Christmas in Rouen without her, for her absence proclaimed to all of Christendom that she’d failed as a queen, as a wife. How else explain why Richard would not have wanted her with him on one of the most sacred days on the Church calendar? Her hurt was already well salted with resentment when he met the Duchess of Brittany in March and did not visit her, even though Beaufort-en-Vallée was just fifteen miles from Angers. On the road to Le Mans, she’d tried to banish her grievances to the back of her brain, telling herself that what mattered now was showing Richard and the world that she knew how to behave as a queen ought, serene and benevolent and regal, never giving a hint of her inner agitation, her anger, or her pain. But with each passing mile, she became more and more nervous, not sure that she had her wayward emotions under proper control.

  She received a surprise as they approached the Vieux Pont, for the town gate opened and Richard rode out to meet her once they crossed the bridge. He was accompanied by an impressive entourage of barons and bishops, few of whom she knew, since she’d never been formally presented to his vassals. When he reined his stallion in beside her, she thought he looked tired and tense. He smiled, though, reaching over to kiss her hand with a flourish before introducing her to Hamelin, the Bishop of Le Mans, a portly, affable man who seemed very pleased to see her, for he kept talking about what an honor it was to have her visiting his city.

  Richard rode beside Berengaria as they entered Le Mans, telling her that the town had both a castle and a royal palace and pointing out the city’s ancient Roman walls. He made a brief detour to show her the magnificent cathedral of St Julien, saying that this was where his grandfather Count Geoffrey of Anjou had been buried and where his father had been christened. The narrow streets were thronged with people eager to get their first glimpse of the Lionheart’s bride, and they cheered as she and Richard passed, turning their ride into a torch-lit triumphant procession. Berengaria smiled and waved, thinking how much she would have enjoyed this if only it had happened months ago.

  BERENGARIA HAD ALWAYS HARBORED ambivalent feelings toward Richard’s mother. She could not approve of Eleanor’s scandalous past, but she thought Eleanor played the role of queen to perfection: confident, courageous, and elegant. She’d never aspired to compete with her formidable mother-in-law, knowing that was a contest she’d have been sure to lose, and she was regretful that their five-month journey to Sicily had not developed any intimacy between them. She did not doubt that Richard might never have regained his freedom if not for his mother’s fierce determination, and she was deeply thankful that in his time of greatest need, he’d had Eleanor to fight for him. But she’d begun to resent Eleanor in the past year, always at Richard’s side while she was relegated to the shadows. So upon their arrival at the palace, she offered a coolly formal greeting to her mother-in-law, only to feel ashamed and outmaneuvered when Eleanor
was very gracious in return.

  Her first meeting with Richard’s brother was just as strained. She was startled by how little John resembled Richard; he was handsome enough, but much shorter than Richard, with dark hair, Eleanor’s eyes, and an irreverent, sensual smile that made her think he was envisioning her naked in his bed. She knew hatred was an emotion that good Christians should eschew, but she hated John, for he’d done his best to make sure her husband would never see the sun again. She would never forgive him for that and she did not understand how Richard and Eleanor had, how he was swaggering around Richard’s court as if his foul betrayal had never been. They are not like us, little one. The words were her brother Sancho’s, uttered on her last night in Pamplona, a gentle, rueful warning that she would be marrying into a family utterly unlike her own.

  It was daunting to meet so many people at once, and she struggled to commit their names and faces to memory, knowing that they’d be offended if she did not remember them at their next encounter. She was grateful that Richard was so often at her side, and when he was called away, he saw to it that she was watched over by Joanna or André. It was Joanna who came to her rescue when they saw John bearing down upon them. Knowing that Berengaria did not want to interact any more than necessary with the man she’d privately dubbed the Prince of Darkness, Joanna adroitly steered her sister-in-law toward a group encircling the Bishop of Le Mans.

  Bishop Hamelin at once interrupted his conversation to acknowledge the two queens, visibly proud to have so many highborn guests sojourning in his beloved city. “We are indeed honored that you could join us for Eastertide, my lady queens. It is always a season for rejoicing, but especially so this year, for just a week ago, we feared that our king might be breathing his last. Yet look at him now!” Beaming, he gestured across the hall, where Richard was conversing with the Archbishop of Rouen and the Bishop of Angers. “As Scriptures promise, Return unto Me, and I will return unto you, saith the Lord of Hosts. Because the king repented his sins, he was restored to full health, for God’s mercy is everlasting.”