A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

Mariam tried to remember when she’d seen Joanna as happy as this. Only when she’d held her infant son for the first time, and then in the harbor at Messina, as she’d gazed at the ships flying the royal lion of England, realizing that her ordeal was over, that her brother had set her free.

  “It is not uncommon to use marriages to end rivalries, to forge new alliances. Joanna . . . did you never think that might happen for you and Raimond?”

  Joanna shook her head emphatically. “Never, for there was too much hatred between our Houses. The dukes of Aquitaine claimed Toulouse for their own, Mariam. I could not imagine Richard being willing to cede that claim, not when he knew Raimond was no match for him on the battlefield. Why would he have chosen compromise over conquest? No, it would have been mad to torment myself with false hope.”

  “And yet it happened,” Mariam pointed out and Joanna nodded.

  “Yes . . . Richard continues to surprise. People are always praising his skills as a soldier, but he has a sure touch when it comes to statecraft, too, and he does not often get enough credit for that. He was willing to offer Raimond terms generous enough to bridge that sea of bad blood. I never expected that and I am sure Raimond did not, either.”

  Kicking her shoes off, Joanna curled up on the bed. “So much to be thankful for, Mariam. That I am able to do this for my family. That I’ll not have to bid them farewell again. That this marriage is going to give the French king so many sleepless nights.”

  “And . . . ?” Mariam prompted playfully.

  Joanna lay back against the pillows, green eyes glowing. “What am I forgetting?” she murmured, with a soft, sultry laugh. “Ah yes . . . that I get to take Raimond de St Gilles as my lover, with the blessings of Holy Church!”

  JOANNA WAS SEATED BESIDE her brother on the dais, her eyes never straying from the entrance at the far end of the great hall. Raimond and his men had been sighted approaching the castle, so he’d soon be walking in that door. She was suddenly nervous, for it had been three years. Would it still be the same between them? Could her memory be trusted?

  She was surprised when Richard reached over and squeezed her hand. “You need not fret, irlanda,” he said softly. “There’s not a man alive who could resist you when you put your mind to it. Even as a little lass, you had us all singing your song. And husbands are much easier to handle than brothers.”

  Joanna smiled, touched that he’d noticed her unease, for he was not always so observant, for certes not where his wife was concerned. It amused her, too, that he still thought she’d agreed to wed Raimond as a dutiful daughter and sister. She’d have to enlighten him about that—eventually.

  There was a stir outside, enough noise to indicate Raimond had come with a considerable entourage. Joanna was glad, for she wanted him to show them all that he was a prince of power and influence; she knew some of Richard’s vassals, especially the Normans, did not think highly of the southerners, considering them to be lazy, dissolute, and infected by heresy. Given how freely wine flowed at weddings, there was a potential for trouble, but she was confident that Richard would keep these regional animosities from getting out of hand.

  Raimond was accompanied by the lords and bishops of Toulouse. Some of the men had brought their wives, and Joanna recognized his sister Azalais and his nephew Raimond-Roger. They’d changed in the three years since she’d last seen them, for Azalais had been widowed and her son was now a self-possessed youngster of eleven. Richard leaned over, asking their identities, but she never heard him. Raimond was striding toward the dais, looking just as he had upon their first meeting in Alfonso’s palace at Marseille.

  “My lord king,” he said respectfully and knelt, for Richard—not Philippe—was now his liege lord, owed homage for Toulouse. He greeted Richard’s mother and queen next, with the gallantry for which the south was famous. Joanna watched with composure, for all her qualms had vanished as soon as their eyes had met. When he took her hand, she felt again the heat surging between their bodies, a fever of the flesh that burned just as hot as it had in that moonlit Bordeaux garden. He pressed a kiss into her palm, a lover’s gesture that he now had the right to make, and as they smiled at each other, she remembered what he’d said that night. Like being struck by lightning and living to tell the tale. Words meant to seduce, but true, nonetheless. It was, she thought, the best description she’d ever heard of the sweet madness that could ensnare men and women, decried by the Church but soon to be sanctioned within the bonds of matrimony.

  THE OCTOBER DAY OF Joanna’s wedding dawned with harvest blue skies and sun so unseasonably warm that it reminded Berengaria of her own wedding day on the isle of Cyprus. It had rained heavily that night, so she was glad the storm had passed. She hoped it would be a good omen for her sister-in-law’s future happiness. She’d been dismayed by the Archbishop of Rouen’s refusal to attend the ceremony and distressed that she seemed to be the only one troubled by his absence. But the Bishop of Évreux, one of Archbishop Gautier’s own suffragans, seemed comfortable stepping into the archbishop’s shoes, and as Joanna and Raimond knelt on the porch of the cathedral of Notre-Dame to receive the bishop’s blessing, Berengaria did her best to put her misgivings aside.

  She thought Joanna was a lovely bride, her gown a rich shade of emerald, her coppery-gold hair set off by a gossamer veil fretted with seed pearls, tumbling down her back in the style worn only by queens and virgin brides. Raimond wore a deep red tunic that enhanced his dark coloring, and as he bowed his head, Berengaria thought the sun made his hair gleam like polished ebony. Hundreds of people had gathered to watch them exchange holy vows before entering the cathedral for the Marriage Mass, but the bride and groom seemed oblivious to their large audience, never taking their eyes off each other as they were joined as man and wife.

  Beside her, Berengaria’s husband gave a soft chuckle. “I think I’ve been had, little dove. My sweet sister seems to have played me like a lute.”

  Berengaria glanced up sharply, but Richard had gone back to watching the bridal couple. His playful comment struck her like a blow, for it reminded her of the easy intimacy they’d shared in the Holy Land, reminded her of all she’d lost. Like Richard, she, too, returned her attention to the ceremony. The scene had blurred, but she did not try to hide her tears, for women were supposed to cry at weddings, were they not?

  JOANNA HAD ALWAYS ENJOYED social occasions like weddings, for they provided opportunities for music and rich fare, for flirting, dancing, and basking in the flattering attention that she inevitably attracted during such festivities. But she was eager for her own wedding celebration to be over, wanting only to be alone with her new husband. Raimond did not make it any easier for her to be patient, murmuring in her ear that she looked beautiful in her bridal gown, but he was sure she’d look more beautiful out of it, telling her that her blazing bright hair made her look like a woman on fire, adding that he was on fire, too, only his flames were burning in his nether regions, and pretending to be shocked when she laughed. While Joanna was doing her best to be circumspect under constant public scrutiny, she’d begun to wonder if the revelries would ever end.

  Eventually, of course, they did, and she and Raimond were escorted up to their bedchamber by the raucous wedding guests, where they knelt for the traditional blessing. Garin de Cierrey, the Bishop of Évreux, was a courtier as well as prelate and he showed a realistic assessment of his audience by keeping his remarks brief, praying that their marriage would be fruitful and that they would find favor in the eyes of the Lord. Nor did he make a serious attempt to convince the bridal couple that they ought to refrain from consummating their marriage at once, spending their first night in meditation and contemplation of the holy state of wedlock; he was worldly enough to know that very few ever heeded that particular Church admonition.

  Once the male guests had been chased out, the women helped Joanna to remove her wedding finery. Clad only in her chemise, she sat on a stool as her long hair was brushed until it glowed in the candlelight with a burnished b
ronze sheen. A jar was handed to her so she could perfume herself again, and another jar was passed so she could reapply her lip rouge. Once she took off her chemise, she was dusted with a fragrant powder before being tucked into bed. The other women tactfully drew back then, so she could have a few private words with her mother.

  This was the first time Eleanor had been present for a daughter’s bedding-down ceremony. Joanna and her older sisters, Leonora and Tilda, had been sent off at early ages to wed foreign princes, and once her marriage to the French king had ended, Louis had cut her out of the lives of their two daughters. She sat for a moment on the bed, reaching out to arrange Joanna’s hair on the pillow; she knew from experience how erotic men found long hair, for a woman let it down only in the privacy of the bedchamber.

  “You are such a beautiful bride,” she said fondly, “and I am very pleased to see that you are such a willing one. Mayhap your brother does not owe you as great a debt as he first thought.”

  Joanna grinned. “When did you guess the truth, Maman?”

  “From the moment Raimond entered the great hall and I saw the way the two of you looked at each other, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. I am very happy for you, dearest,” she said, leaning over to kiss Joanna on the cheek. “Were you lovers?”

  Joanna actually blushed. “Of course not, Maman!”

  “No?” Eleanor sounded surprised. “Well, that will make tonight all the sweeter.” And she smiled, remembering her own wedding night to Joanna’s father. It was a wonder she and Harry had not set their bed on fire, so much heat had been kindled. If her daughter found even half as much pleasure with the Count of Toulouse, she would be a lucky woman.

  JOANNA HAD LEFT THE BED CURTAINS open a bit, just enough for her to see without being seen. She’d not had a bedding-down ceremony before. She’d been only eleven when she wed William, so there was no question of consummating the marriage on their wedding night. She’d been nigh on fifteen when he’d deemed her old enough, and that was done privately, with him simply showing up in her bedchamber. The memory brought a smile to her face, for it had been a pleasant experience. She’d been bedazzled by her handsome husband, eager to become his wife in every sense of the word. She’d known about his harim of Saracen slave girls by then, but she’d convinced herself that he’d get rid of them once he began sharing her bed. Her smile faded as she remembered how hurtful it had been once she’d realized he had no intention of putting them aside. Most wives expected their husbands to be unfaithful occasionally. Few demanded fidelity, only discretion. But even at fifteen, Joanna had seen a harim as a greater sin than a concubine and a far greater affront to her pride.

  She could hear the clamor in the stairwell that warned of the arrival of the male guests and hastily put her old memories aside. They burst into the bedchamber like an invading army, many of them drunk by now, all of them eager to torment and tease the bridegroom, for this was an accepted rite of passage. She wondered if any bride or groom ever truly enjoyed being at the center of this circus. The risk of violence was always present, too, for wine was combustible and male humor could quickly cross the border from bawdy to obscene to offensive. From stories she’d been told, trouble often began when the wedding guests no longer confined themselves to jests about the groom’s manhood and began making lewd jokes about the bride. Most grooms had been drinking, too, and many were just as hot-tempered as the males in her family. So she was very thankful that she had such a formidable peacekeeper in her brother.

  She was not happy to see that some of the men had brought flagons of wine with them, for that might make it harder to get rid of them. For reasons that escaped her, men seemed to think it hilarious to drag out the bedding revelries long past the point where the unhappy bridegroom had lost all patience. She occasionally saw a familiar face as they moved within her limited range of vision. Her nephew Otto looked as if he’d rather be elsewhere; she imagined he was not comfortable envisioning his own aunt in the throes of carnal lust. Her brother Johnny did not seem to be taking an active role in the bantering, either, and she wondered if he, too, felt protective of her. That seemed out of character for Johnny, but she could not rule it out, for every now and then he gave her an unexpected glimpse of the boy he’d once been. She could not catch everything that was being said, for it often seemed as if they were all talking at once, their words wine-slurred and interspersed with bursts of loud laughter. But the jests she did hear were rather tame, nowhere near as raw or crude as she’d expected, and she suddenly realized why; even men in their cups were leery of being disrespectful of the Lionheart’s favorite sister. Richard and Berengaria’s own bedding-down revelries must have rivaled a nunnery for decorum and propriety, she thought, stifling a giggle.

  When she finally saw Raimond, she frowned, for he was still dressed. The men would be here all night at this pace. Someone made a toast to “storming the castle” and someone else expressed the hope that Raimond would “plant his seed in fertile soil.” She’d given up trying to identify the voices by now, so she did not know who cried out that they ought to drink to the “conquest of Sicily.” She could hear wine cups being clanked together and sighed with relief when she saw Raimond sit down so he could remove his shoes and chausses, thinking this would soon be over. They began teasing him about taking so long to undress, laughing uproariously when he said good-humoredly that the only person he was interested in getting naked with that night was his wife. But it all changed for Joanna when she heard an unfamiliar voice say with a sneer that there was no need to strip since he’d be praying over his bride, not swiving her.

  Most of the men seemed to assume that the speaker meant Raimond would be heeding the bishop’s plea for contemplation, not consummation, and there was some halfhearted laughter, for few thought the joke all that funny. Joanna knew better and from the look on Raimond’s face, she could tell that he did, too. This was not a jest aimed at a bridegroom, it was a jeer aimed at a Cathar. Clearly the Norman speaker—and she could tell from his accent that he was Norman—believed that Raimond was a heretic at heart and would shrink from sins of the flesh even on his wedding night.

  “So you are saying that I’ve just been wed to one of the most beautiful, desirable women in all of Christendom and I am going to abstain like a monk? Now, why is that?”

  Joanna was proud of Raimond for taking up the challenge so boldly, but she was furious, too, that some drunken Norman lout would dare to bring his biases into her bedchamber, casting a shadow over her wedding night. She tucked the sheet carefully around her and before the man could respond, she pulled the bed hangings back.

  That at once drew all eyes toward her and men began to jockey closer, hoping for a chance to see some skin. Joanna ignored them. “My lord brother, may I have a word with you?”

  It was highly unusual for a bride to participate in the bedding-down revelries, and there were murmurings of astonishment. Even Raimond looked startled. Only Richard took it in stride. Approaching the bed, he leaned over, his expression quizzical. But by the time Joanna was done whispering in his ear, he was grinning. “I’ll do my best,” he promised. Turning back to the gaping men, he declared, “My sister is greatly troubled, for she fears that strange men have invaded her bedchamber.” He paused then, for dramatic effect. “Even worse, she suspects that they might be French!”

  That evoked laughter, as he’d known it would. Looking around the chamber, he pretended to be shocked, exclaiming, “By God, she is right! Well, we’ll have none of that. This is Rouen, not Paris. Out, the lot of you!”

  They didn’t like that, for it was looking as if there would be a confrontation between the count and the Norman knight, and they were not happy with either Joanna or Richard for spoiling their fun. But then Richard seized Raimond by the arm and when they realized he was going to be ejected, too, they were immediately enthusiastic. That would be a great joke, holding the groom hostage down in the hall whilst his bride slept alone on her wedding night. Laughing, they started towa
rd the door.

  Richard had to laugh, too, at the expression on his sister’s face. He wasn’t sure if it was dismayed indignation or indignant dismay, but he thought if looks could kill, he’d be writhing in the floor rushes. Raimond was balking, and Richard winked, hoping he’d take the hint. He apparently did, for he no longer resisted as Richard ushered him toward the door. The others were already trooping into the stairwell and André helped to get the stragglers moving by telling them to clear a path, for he thought he was going to puke. Just as Richard reached the door, though, he came to a sudden halt.

  “Wait, what if they come back? We know the French are not to be trusted. Best to leave a bodyguard. My lord count, are you up to guarding my sister’s body against all intruders?”

  “I am sure I can rise to the occasion, my liege,” Raimond assured him and before the men milling about in the stairwell could object, Richard pushed Raimond aside and plunged into the stairwell himself.

  Raimond at once slammed the door and slid the bolt into place, cutting off the protests as the men realized they’d been hoodwinked. “Alone at last,” he said, as Joanna shook her head, torn between amusement and exasperation.

  “For a moment or so, I could cheerfully have throttled Richard,” she admitted. “I thought he was serious!”

  “It would not have mattered, love. I was not going to be removed from this chamber, not even if I had a knife at my throat.” Raimond glanced around the room, pointing to a gilt flagon on the table. “Do you want some wine?” When she declined, he crossed to the bed. “I was hoping you’d refuse. Now I shall demonstrate how quickly a man can shed his clothes if he is properly motivated.”

  Joanna was sitting up, no longer being as careful of the sheet’s slippage. “This is where a modest, demure young woman would blush and dutifully avert her eyes, having been taught that it is not seemly to look upon male nudity. Alas, I am not particularly modest, not at all demure, and dutiful only on occasion.”