A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I will gladly accept a meal, my lady, but I cannot stay the night. After the Mass, I must be on my way. I am going to Fontevrault to preside over the king’s funeral on Sunday. It would be my honor to escort you.”

  She was quiet for a time, and then she slowly shook her head. “No, my lord bishop. I will do my grieving here. The funeral is for the queen’s son, not my husband.”

  He did not chide her for her bitterness as many priests would have done, and she had the comforting sense that he understood, that he always understood. He left a few hours later, and with his departure, she felt as if she’d lost her only friend. She stood in the bailey, watching as he rode through the gateway and out of sight. Only then did she return to the chapel, rebuffing her chaplain when he would have accompanied her. Tears had begun to flow again, but she let them fall. The small church was filling with shadows as the day’s light waned, the air faintly scented with burning candles and incense. Moving down the nave, she knelt by the altar and began to pray for her husband’s soul.

  WILL MARSHAL AND HUBERT Walter were at Vaudreuil Castle, arbitrating a dispute between two Norman barons, when an urgent message arrived from Châlus. Will was stunned by Richard’s letter, for he made it clear that his chances of recovery were not good. He instructed Will to go to Rouen and take control of the castle, warning him to keep the news of his injury secret. Will confided only in the archbishop, who was just as shaken, and they set out at once for Rouen.

  The following three days were difficult ones. The death of a king was always a troubling time, especially if the succession was not settled. But Richard was also a man they both knew well, a man they greatly respected, and their grieving was personal as well as political. Will had not given up all hope, though, for Richard had so often defied the odds that it was easy to believe he could do so again. Will clung to that hope until Palm Sunday Eve when another messenger rode in from the south as he was preparing for bed. Slumping onto the closest coffer, he stared down at the letter as if he expected those bleak, brutal words to change, as if the world as they knew it had not become an unfamiliar, frightening place. It took a while before he could bring himself to order his horse saddled, to tell his startled squire that, despite the late hour, he would be calling upon the Archbishop of Canterbury at the priory of Notre-Dame du Pré.

  THEY SAT IN SILENCE, watching the dying embers in the hearth flicker and fade away. Hubert Walter had sent for wine, but they had yet to touch it. Hubert had always prided himself upon his pragmatism. He was finding it impossible to put his emotions aside, though, to respond to this crisis as a prince of the Church rather than a friend of the man who’d died on Tuesday eve.

  “This may sound foolish,” he said, “but after watching Richard dice with Death more times than I could count, I came to believe that it was a game he could not lose.”

  Will blinked rapidly, for his eyes were stinging. “I think we all did. . . .”

  “And what solace is there for us now? I greatly fear that the Angevin empire will not long survive him.”

  Will thought it would be all too easy to give in to despair. However, that was a luxury he could not afford, not with a wife and six children and the vast de Clare estates to protect. “We must act quickly, my lord archbishop. Once the French learn of our king’s death, they will swoop down upon us like a hawk upon a crippled heron.”

  Hubert’s mouth thinned as he thought of the joy that the news from Châlus would give Philippe Capet. “It would have been easier if Arthur were better known to us, if his mother had only allowed him to be raised at Richard’s court. But that is spilt milk. He is said to be a clever lad, and a spirited one, for all his youth. If men rally to him—”

  “I think that would be a bad course to take,” Will cut in, for there was too much at stake not to speak bluntly. “Arthur has treacherous advisers around him, and he is already said to be prideful and stubborn. If we crown him, who will truly be ruling in his stead? The King of France, I fear.”

  “And would you rather it be John? We do not know the manner of man Arthur may become, but we know all too well the man that John is.”

  “I know,” Will conceded. “But a brother is closer in blood than a nephew. Moreover, at least John is a man grown. And our king named him as his heir.”

  “What choice had he? Lacking a son of his own . . .” Hubert let the words trail off, for as deeply as he mourned Richard, he was angry, too, that he had been so irresponsible, that he had not taken greater care to ensure the succession. He ought to have put his queen aside once it became obvious she was barren or have come to terms with the Bretons. “I do not want to see John as king.”

  “Few do. But John is all we have.”

  The archbishop started to speak, stopped himself. He knew most men were likely to agree with the Marshal that John was the lesser of evils, and a civil war would be an even worse calamity than choosing John over Arthur. But he remained convinced that this was a great mistake. “So be it,” he said grimly. “But this much I can tell you, that you will never come to regret anything you’ve done as much as you will regret this.”

  MARIAM DID NOT APPROVE of Joanna’s decision to seek Richard out. It was easy enough to understand. Who better to ask for military aid than the Lionheart, after all? So Joanna’s logic could not be faulted. But Raimond had not wanted her to do it, and Mariam thought she ought to have deferred to him on this. Whilst Raimond seemed more good-natured than many husbands, she was sure he still had his share of male pride, and male pride was so fragile it could be bruised if breathed upon—or at least it seemed that way to Mariam.

  Glancing over at Joanna, she sighed. It would have been better to coax Raimond’s consent. Joanna would have been able to win him over had she only been patient. Joanna’s patience could not have filled a thimble, though. For certes, she’d proved it by insisting upon leading that attack upon the rebel stronghold at Les Casses instead of waiting for Raimond to return home. He’d been furious when he’d found out, and Mariam could not blame him. They’d made their peace, of course, most likely in bed. But did Joanna realize how lucky she was to be wed to a man who was also her lover? Mariam sighed again, knowing that would have been true, too, for her and Morgan had fate been kinder.

  “My lady?” Sir Roger de Laurac, the captain of Joanna’s household knights, reined in beside the two women. “There is a stream up ahead. I would suggest we stop to water the horses if that meets with your approval.”

  “Of course, Sir Roger,” Joanna murmured, smiling. Roger was new to her service, selected by Raimond, and she had to admit her husband had chosen well. She was confident Roger would have offered up his life to protect her, but he was also unusually discerning. He’d clearly noticed how easily she was tiring these days and he’d begun to find excuses to halt so she might rest, while taking care to spare her pride. It was frustrating enough that her energy seemed at such a low ebb in the past fortnight, and she was grateful for his tact, not normally a knightly virtue.

  After Roger assisted the women from their mounts, Joanna followed him toward a grove of trees off to the side of the road, and once a blanket was spread upon the grass, she seated herself in the shade of an ancient oak, bracing her aching back against the tree’s vast trunk. Mariam joined her, offering to unpack a basket of food. Joanna’s stomach was roiling as if she’d been at sea instead of perched in the sidesaddle of her favorite mare, and she hastily shook her head. She was very thankful that they were only five miles from Poitiers. Roger had already dispatched one of her knights to alert the palace of her arrival, and she hoped there would not be a lengthy welcome, for she wanted only to go to bed.

  “Joanna . . .” Mariam hesitated, for Joanna had rebuffed all of her earlier attempts to discuss this mission to find Richard. But she was tired of being kept in the dark. “After Poitiers, where next?”

  “To Fontevrault Abbey, of course. If anyone knows where Richard is off shedding blood, it is likely to be my mother.”

  Mariam thought
she detected the faintest glimmer of a smile and that encouraged her to persevere. “You and Raimond . . . You did not part in anger?”

  “No . . . We were not happy with each other, but no longer quarreling. He finally agreed that I could seek help from Richard, saying it was marginally preferable to my leading another expedition against his rebel lords.”

  This time there was no mistaking her smile, and Mariam was emboldened to say firmly, “You are very fortunate that he has a sense of humor.”

  “I know,” Joanna admitted. A pity her dignity did not allow her to lie down on the blanket and nap, for her eyelids felt as heavy as stones. After a while, she said drowsily, “I cannot blame Raimond. He always warned me he was a lover, not a fighter.”

  Mariam sat up, staring at her in dismay. “You mean like . . . William?”

  Joanna’s eyes snapped open. “Good God, no!”

  They had never discussed it—that fatal flaw in the man who’d been a good brother to Mariam, a fond husband to Joanna. It was too dangerous, for Joanna had realized that if she’d ever given voice to her qualms, she’d be releasing a demon to prey upon the peace of her marriage. William had pursued a very aggressive foreign policy, dispatching military forces to Egypt, North Africa, Greece, and Spain, yet he’d never taken a personal role in any of those campaigns. Theirs was a world in which a king was expected to lead his army into battle, but William had sent men out to die in his name whilst he’d remained safe and comfortable in his Palermo palaces. Joanna had not loved William; love was not expected in royal unions, however. She’d known, though, that she’d have been miserable with a man she could not respect, and so she’d kept that particular door securely shut and bolted.

  Mariam was thankful to hear Joanna’s assurances that she did not equate Raimond’s lack of martial fervor with William’s cowardice. Even now that was too painful a topic to explore in the light of day and she said only, “I am so glad you see that.”

  “Of course I do, Mariam. Raimond may not be the soldier that Richard is—how many men are? But he leads his men into battle, risking his life with theirs. No, the problem is that Raimond always sees war as the last resort, even when that is not so.”

  Joanna’s backache was getting worse, and she shifted her position before continuing. “I’ve been giving it some thought, Mariam, and I’ve realized that Richard and Raimond have more in common than I’d first thought. They both share the same vice, if it can be called that: an overabundance of confidence. They differ only in their choice of weapons. Richard is convinced that he is invincible with a sword in his hand. And Raimond is just as sure that he can talk anyone around to his point of view if he has the chance to do so.”

  “I had not thought of it that way. I think you might well be right.”

  “I know I am. I’d be the last woman in Christendom to dismiss the potent power of Raimond’s charm. But charm does not work well with princes of the Church or disgruntled, disloyal vassals, and I’ve been unable to make Raimond see that. In truth, he shares another trait with Richard that I wish he did not. Neither one has any interest in bearbaiting, but they both enjoy baiting their enemies. Raimond jokes that I see it as my wifely duty to keep him off the road to Hell, and he is not far wrong about that. Our lives would be so much more peaceful if only I could get him to understand that churchmen ought not to be publicly mocked, even when they deserve it, and not all rebels are worthy of his mercy.”

  “Is this why you are so set upon seeing Richard?”

  Joanna nodded. “I am hoping that he’ll heed Richard as he’s not heeded me. It is easy enough for him to dismiss my opinions about rebellions. But if Richard tells him that a ruler needs to be feared as well as respected, he might well listen. I do not expect him to adorn the roads of Toulouse with the rotting heads of treacherous lords and outlaws. He just needs to understand that there are times when forbearance only encourages further defiance.”

  Mariam was relieved to know that Joanna’s mission had her husband’s grudging consent. But now that they were finally able to speak freely again, she meant to take advantage of the opportunity. “When we get to Poitiers, Joanna, I think we ought to summon a physician. It is obvious to me that you are ailing.”

  “I am not ill, Mariam.” Joanna paused before saying reluctantly, “I am with child.”

  Mariam stared at her. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “Even Raimond does not know yet. I was not sure myself when we left Toulouse. I’d missed my March flux, but one miss does not mean all that much. But I ought to have had my April flux a fortnight ago and it did not come. I’ve also begun to feel queasy in the past few days. It may be why I am so tired, too. I never felt so bone-weary with the other pregnancies, though.”

  Mariam knew she had an expressive face and she could only hope that her misgivings did not show too nakedly. She sensed that Joanna had some ambivalence, too. Not too many women would have welcomed three pregnancies in three years. She did not doubt that this was why Joanna was so exhausted; her body had not had time to recover. Well, now that she knew, she meant to make this pregnancy as easy for Joanna as she could, whether Joanna liked being fussed over or not. “I think that when we get to Poitiers, we ought to take one of the palace horse litters. That is bound to be more comfortable for you than riding Ginger.” She was pleased when Joanna did not protest, but surprised, too, which confirmed her suspicions that Joanna was not feeling well at all.

  While Roger had allowed his knights to dismount and stretch and go into the bushes to relieve themselves if needed, he’d kept several on watch, and one of them now yelled, “Riders coming!” The warning stirred up a flurry of activity, for the roads were not always safe, not even for those as well armed as Joanna’s escort. She let Mariam assist her to her feet, sorry their respite had been so brief. By now the men had relaxed, for the lead rider was one of their own, Sir Alain de Muret, the knight Roger had sent on ahead to Poitiers.

  Joanna soon recognized the man riding at Alain’s side. “That is Maurice de Blaron,” she told Mariam. “As Bishop of Nantes, he accompanied Constance when she came to meet Richard at Caen a few years ago. I’d heard that he’d been elected recently as Bishop of Poitiers, but I did not expect him to ride out like this to bid me welcome.” Turning so Mariam could brush off her skirts, she smiled over her shoulder. “I must remember to tell Raimond that not all churchmen are hostile to the Count of Toulouse.”

  Mariam smiled, too, touched by Joanna’s pride in her husband. She was rarely so naïve, for surely the bishop was honoring the Lionheart’s sister, not Raimond’s wife. Joining Joanna beside Roger, they watched as the riders approached. Joanna’s smile soon vanished, for the bishop and his entourage were as somber as men leading a funeral cortege and Alain slumped in his saddle as if he bore the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

  Joanna took an instinctive backward step as she realized she was watching a wave of sorrow sweeping toward her, one that would engulf her world. She knew, of course, what grief they were bringing her. Her mother was in her seventy-fifth year. Rarely a day passed that Joanna did not thank the Almighty for letting her mother live to such an impressive age, but she never forgot that Eleanor’s remaining time on God’s Earth was borrowed and payment would eventually come due. Because she’d so often dwelt upon this inevitable loss, she’d believed that she would find that loss easier to accept when it came. She now knew that she was wrong.

  “My mother . . .” Discovering that the words were impossible to say, she let them hang in the air, like distant echoes of thunder. Alain had already dismounted. He knelt before her, and she saw tear tracks streaking through the dust of the road on his upturned face. He said nothing, though, and it was left to the bishop to break her heart.

  He was not a young man and had been afflicted with the joint evil, so he needed help in dismounting. “My lady countess, there is no easy way to deliver such news as this. It is the king. He is dead.”

  There were outcries behind her, but Joanna nev
er heard them. “No,” she said. “That cannot be.”

  “I am sorry, my lady. The ways of the Almighty are not always easy to understand. But with God’s grace, even the greatest losses can be endured. It will be my privilege to pray with you and my honor to say a Requiem Mass for the king on the morrow. If you open your heart to God’s healing, He will not deny you His mercy.”

  Joanna was not listening. “No. Not Richard. I do not believe you.” She would have continued to deny it, this monstrous lie. But something strange was happening. The ground was shifting under her feet and the horizon had begun to tilt, as if the world were suddenly out of focus. Mariam and Roger got to her before she fell, but by then she was already spiraling down into darkness.

  THE ABBESS MATHILDE PAUSED in the doorway of Eleanor’s bedchamber, not wanting to disturb the woman in the bed. “How does she?” she asked softly as Mariam hastily rose to bid her welcome.

  “She is sleeping now.”

  “I was told she fainted in the church?”

  Mariam nodded, thinking it a miracle that Joanna had not collapsed sooner. She’d agreed to stay just one night at Poitiers before riding on to Fontevrault, only to be told that her mother had departed the abbey not long after Richard’s Palm Sunday funeral. Joanna had insisted upon going at once into the church then, where she’d knelt for hours in the nun’s choir, praying for her brother until her body could endure no more. Now she slept but she did not seem to be finding any peace in her dreams, for she whimpered from time to time, turning her head from side to side as if seeking escape from a reality too painful to be borne.

  The abbess soon departed, saying she’d be back later. The Prioress Aliza was the next visitor, pulling up a chair and joining Mariam’s bedside vigil. “She does not look well,” she murmured. “Shall we send for a doctor?”

  Mariam hesitated before shaking her head. “I think she just needs to sleep.”