A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  They’d been keeping their voices low, but Joanna’s lashes had begun to flutter. Her eyes were swollen to slits and filled with such anguish that Mariam’s own eyes blurred with tears.

  The prioress reached over and took Joanna’s hand in her own. “I can tell you what has been happening if you wish. Once he was safely away from Brittany, Count John’s first action was to ride to Chinon and take control of the royal treasury. The young Breton duke and his mother chose to head for Angers, where he was warmly welcomed and, on Easter, proclaimed as Count of Anjou. Count John then had a very narrow escape, for he was almost captured at Le Mans. But the citizens had been so unfriendly that he’d departed at dawn, just hours before the Bretons arrived to occupy the city, where they were joined by the French king. By then, Count John was racing for Rouen, with the intention to be invested as Duke of Normandy ere he sails for England. I’ve been told that Normandy and England are likely to back his claim whilst Anjou, Maine, and Touraine favor Arthur—”

  “What of my mother?” Joanna interrupted, for she was not yet ready to contemplate a world without Richard; as raw as her grieving was, she was not sure she’d ever be ready.

  Aliza’s eyes brightened. “She has been magnificent, my lady. She and Mercadier led an armed force into Anjou and ravaged the countryside around Angers to punish the townspeople for their treachery and to warn others that there is a high price to be paid for disloyalty.” Hearing her own words, Aliza flushed, for nuns were expected to condemn all acts of violence. But how could she not admire what the elderly, grieving queen had done? “Your lady mother then summoned the Poitevin lords to make a progress through her duchy,” she told Joanna, “issuing charters, confirming privileges and liberties, recognizing communes, doing all she can to win support for Count John.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  “We heard she is at Poitiers.”

  “Then we shall depart on the morrow for Poitiers,” Joanna declared, and although she caught the worried look that passed between Mariam and the prioress, she ignored it.

  THEIR HORSE LITTER WAS swaying so wildly that Mariam was beginning to feel queasy. How could Joanna have fallen asleep? And yet she had, proof of how utterly exhausted she must be. Her pallor was troubling, her skin as waxen as church candles, and her breathing was soft and shallow. Mariam at first had assumed she was prostrated by grief alone, and had been slow to realize that she was also ill; it was becoming obvious by now that this pregnancy would be more difficult than her earlier ones. But Joanna had been adamant about finding her mother, and when they arrived at Poitiers and learned Eleanor had left for Niort, she insisted they continue on.

  When they were only a few miles from Niort, Joanna sent Sir Roger de Laurac on ahead to announce their coming, both women praying that Eleanor would still be at the castle. It was a massive stronghold, begun by Joanna’s father and completed by Richard, and at the sight of its stone turrets, Joanna blinked back tears, remembering how proud her brother had been of his handiwork. As soon as the horse litter came to a halt in the outer bailey, Mariam pulled the curtain aside and jumped out, not waiting for a stool to be brought over. Roger was hurrying toward them and then Eleanor appeared in the doorway of the great hall, with her granddaughter Richenza right behind her. Mariam turned back, crying, “Joanna, your mother is here!”

  No one had yet brought out a stool, but Roger quickly stepped forward to assist the queen up into the litter. As soon as she saw her mother, Joanna began to sob. Eleanor pulled the curtain shut, gathered her daughter into her arms, and held her close as they both wept.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  JUNE 1199

  Fontevrault Abbey, Anjou

  Raimond had been warned that Joanna was ailing. Although she’d given no details, her letter had revealed that she’d not been well enough to accompany her mother on her progress and Eleanor had sent her back to Fontevrault Abbey to convalesce. But Raimond was still shocked by his first sight of his wife. She’d not come rushing out to greet him as he rode into the abbey precincts, as she would normally have done. She was awaiting him in Eleanor’s guest hall, holding on to Mariam’s arm as if she needed support, and her always fair skin was so white that it looked almost transparent. When he embraced her, she felt as fragile and unsubstantial as cobwebs, smoke, and morning mist.

  “I am so sorry for your brother’s death, love.”

  “It still does not seem real,” she confided. She sounded as frail as she looked and he instinctively tightened his arms protectively around her. She clung for a moment, but then she shuddered and gasped, “Take me to my bedchamber, Raimond, quickly!”

  Her urgency was as compelling as it was bewildering, and he swung her up into his arms, following Mariam across the hall toward the stairwell. Mariam permitted Dame Beatrix to enter, but she refused to admit Anna and the rest of Joanna’s women. No sooner had Raimond set Joanna on her feet than she doubled over, vomiting into the floor rushes with such force that her body seemed to be convulsing. Mariam and Beatrix dropped to their knees beside her, offering wordless murmurings of comfort. Raimond had the sense to step back, realizing there was nothing he could do for his stricken wife. When Mariam glanced over her shoulder and asked him to wait down in the hall, he did not protest, for he knew Joanna never liked him to see her when she was sick.

  Anna at once assailed him with questions, none of which he could answer. Sitting down in a window-seat, he found himself wondering if Joanna could be with child again. She’d suffered greatly from nausea in her past pregnancies, yet nothing like what he’d just witnessed. Could she have sickened after eating tainted food?

  “My lord count.” A young woman was standing before him. She was clad as a nun, but he still took notice of her long-lashed blue eyes and heart-shaped face; he often joked he’d be paying heed to a woman’s beauty on his deathbed. When she introduced herself as the Prioress Aliza, he quickly rose and greeted her as gallantly as if she were a lady at the royal court.

  Once she was sitting across from him in the window-seat, though, he began to question her, no less intently than Anna had tried to interrogate him. How long had his wife been ill? What was being done for her? Why was Queen Berengaria not here with her? And when would her mother return to the abbey?

  The abbess would have bridled at his peremptory tone. Aliza was more forgiving. “She has been with us for over a month, my lord, and I regret to say that she has been ill every day since her arrival. We love her dearly and you may be sure that she has wanted for nothing. Queen Berengaria was here with your wife until she had to depart for the wedding, and your lady’s mother—”

  “What wedding?” Realizing how abrupt he sounded, Raimond made amends with a quick smile.

  “Queen Berengaria’s youngest sister, Blanca, is to wed Thibault, the Count of Champagne, at Chartres. I think it eased some of the queen’s grief to be able to take part in planning the wedding festivities. She then traveled to Poitiers to meet Blanca and escort her to Chartres. But she is devoted to your wife, as you well know, and I am sure she will return ere the summer is over. You asked about Queen Eleanor, too. Once the progress through her duchy was done, she rode straight to Fontevrault to check upon Lady Joanna. She could not stay for long, though, as she has to be at Tours in July to do homage to the French king for her Poitevin domains. From there, she must ride to Rouen to meet with King John, but she promised your lady that she will be back here in plenty of time for the birth.”

  Raimond was astonished by the prioress’s casual comment about Eleanor doing homage to the French king, for women did not do homage in their own right and his mother-in-law loathed Philippe Capet. But that was quickly forgotten when he heard the word “birth,” spoken no less casually. She’d taken it for granted that he knew of his wife’s pregnancy. Why would she not? He was spared the need to respond by the appearance of Mariam in the hall; she glanced around and then came swiftly toward him.

  JOANNA HAD BEEN PUT to bed. They’d cleaned up the soile
d floor rushes, but a faint odor still lingered. Raimond noticed that there was an empty basin and chamber pot on the floor by the bed, water buckets, flagons, herbal vials, and a stack of towels and blankets on the table. It looked more like the nun’s infirmary than Eleanor of Aquitaine’s elegant bedchamber. As soon as Mariam and Beatrix withdrew, leaving him alone with his wife, he pulled a chair over to the bed. “Why did you not tell me that you are with child?” And despite his best efforts, he knew his tone sounded accusatory.

  “I did not know when I left Toulouse. I was not sure until I missed a second flux in April and the queasiness began. I thought of writing, but decided that it was best to wait until I could tell you, for I knew you’d worry.”

  Christ on the Cross, how could he not worry? Three pregnancies in three years? He reached over and took her hand in his; he was startled that her skin felt so cold. “I know you’ve always suffered more from morning sickness than most women do. But nothing like this. What does the midwife say? You have seen one?”

  “Of course. She is said to be the best midwife in Saumur, very experienced. She told us that nausea like mine—so overwhelming and so frequent—is not common, and thank God for that, for no woman would ever have another child after going through this.” Joanna mustered up a wan smile. “But she said she had encountered it twice over the years and she assured us that both women stopped vomiting after the fifth month. So . . . I shall be counting the days until August,” she said, forcing another smile.

  Raimond was at a rare loss for words, for sharing his fears would only add to her own burdens. Why did God make childbirth so difficult and dangerous for women? He’d never understood that. Last year as Joanna labored to give birth to their daughter, he’d confided his concerns to her chaplain, Jocelyn, only to have the man remind him that it was punishment for the sin of Eve, quoting the scriptural verse in which God said, I will greatly multiply your pain in child-birth. In pain you shall bring forth children. Raimond had wanted to hit him.

  “Why are your hands so cold, love? They are like ice.”

  Joanna did not know; her constant coldness was only one of her mysterious symptoms. In addition to the extreme nausea—as dreadful and debilitating as her worst bouts of seasickness on their journey to the Holy Land—she was light-headed and dizzy, often short of breath, had trouble sleeping despite her constant fatigue, and there were times when her heart beat so rapidly that it seemed about to burst from her chest. She’d not given much thought to these symptoms, though, for they were a minor matter when compared to the persistent vomiting and her inability to keep food down. She’d been existing on water and a few mouthfuls of bread, and sometimes she could not even manage that much.

  Raimond had leaned over and when he kissed her on the forehead, she felt her stomach lurch. Like most men, he smelled of sweat and wine and horses, and she’d loved to breathe in his scent, finding it more of an aphrodisiac than the cinnamon, figs, and pine nuts commonly believed to stir lust. Now, though, she found herself fighting back queasiness. “Raimond . . . Can you fetch me something to drink?”

  The queasiness eased as he moved away from the bed, much to her relief; she did not want to vomit in front of him again like a sick dog. When he asked if she wanted wine, she hastily asked for water. Just the odor of wine was enough to make her gag.

  Raimond held the cup to her lips, watching as she took a few small sips. His original intent had been to bring her home to Toulouse once she felt strong enough, but it was painfully obvious by now that she was in no condition to make a three-hundred-mile journey. Even after the worst of her nausea abated, he was not sure she’d be up to it, as weak as she was. She was going to have to deliver their baby here at Fontevrault.

  She proved, then, that she’d not lost her knack for reading his mind. “Raimond, you cannot stay with me until the baby is born. That will not be until November. Think how rebel lords like that wretch St Felix would take advantage if you were gone from Toulouse that long.”

  “I am dealing with some disgruntled vassals, Joanna, not an all-out rebellion.”

  “How long would it take to become an all-out rebellion if you gave them such an opportunity by your absence? And what of our children? Think how confusing it would be for Raimondet and Joanna if we both were gone from their lives for months? Yes, they would still be well cared for, but they would not understand, especially Raimondet.”

  He knew that was true. She’d been gone two and a half months and their son had not stopped asking for “Mama.” “Well, what would you have me do, Joanna?”

  She’d had plenty of time to think about that during long, sleepless nights. She definitely did not want him here until the vomiting and nausea finally eased up. It was hard enough to let Mariam see her in such a pitiful, helpless state; it would have been intolerable to have Raimond witness those awful, endless waves of nausea that left her as weak as a newborn kitten. “I want you to go home to Toulouse, to take care of our children and keep the peace. And then you can come back to visit me in August, once I . . .” She’d been about to say “once I can eat again,” but the very thought of food made her queasy and she said hastily, “. . . once I am feeling more like myself.”

  He could not argue with her, for he knew what she said was true. He could not afford to be gone from Toulouse until she gave birth to their child. But even if he’d disagreed with her, he could not have balked, for the last thing she needed was more worries, more cares. Their midwife in Toulouse, Dame Esquiva, had once made him laugh by saying tartly that husbands were as much use during a woman’s pregnancy and lying-in as wings on a fish. “We’ll do it your way, love—as we always do. I ought to have been warned when I saw how well behaved your dogs were. A woman who could train those stubborn Sicilian hounds would have no trouble at all bringing a husband to heel.” And when he coaxed a smile, he felt as if he’d been given a gift.

  He remembered his own gift then, and went into the stairwell to call for his squire. Joanna took advantage of his brief absence to close her eyes and engage in some deep breathing, for that sometimes could keep the queasiness at bay. When a knock sounded, Raimond crossed to the door and opened it wide enough to take a small hemp sack. Bringing it back to the bed, he put it in Joanna’s hand.

  Within the sack was a small ivory box, delicately carved. “Raimond, it is beautiful.” She was curious as to the contents, for it was not big enough to hold much; mayhap a ring? He liked to give her jewelry. But when she lifted the lid, tears filled her eyes, for she understood at once what she was looking at—two locks of hair neatly tied with ribbons. The silky ebony curl was Raimondet’s and the smaller chestnut wisp had come from their daughter’s head. Pressing her son’s ringlet to her lips, she said huskily, “Not many men would have thought of this. You have a sentimental streak, Raimond de St Gilles, but your secret will be safe with me.”

  “I hope so. If word got about, I’d be a laughingstock,” he said, with such mock horror that she smiled again. She started to return Raimondet’s lock to the box, but noticed a third ribbon, this one tied around a clump of hair that was red and coarse to the touch. When she held it up questioningly, Raimond grinned. “After I explained to Raimondet why I wanted to cut off a strand of his hair, he insisted that I include some of Ahmer’s fur for you.”

  Joanna laughed—for the first time in many weeks. But then she felt the sickness surging back. Raimond was quick to snatch up the basin by the bed, and she endured the humiliation of vomiting into it while her husband held her upright. Once it was done, he brought her water so she could wash out her mouth, and when she asked for Mariam and Beatrix, he was wise enough not to argue. As soon as he left the chamber to fetch them, she sagged back against the pillow. Her mouth still tasted foul and the sheet was wet, for she’d spilled some of the water. Tears welled in her eyes again, but this time they were tears of shame and frustration and utter misery.

  MARIAM AND BEATRIX HAD cleaned Joanna up and changed her bed linen. She was so grateful that Beatrix was he
re, for the older woman had been her anchor since her journey to Sicily as a child-bride more than twenty years ago. She was not as glad that Raimond had brought Anna and Alicia, for they were so distraught that Beatrix had finally given them a sharp talking-to, warning them that they were there to help their lady and if they could not do so, she’d send them back with Count Raimond when he returned to Toulouse. Both Beatrix and Mariam were relieved that Joanna had prevailed, knowing that Raimond could offer no comfort, not yet, not until she was no longer throwing up day and night.

  Joanna had slept for a while and felt well enough to spend an hour with Raimond that evening. Talking took too much of her energy, but she listened as he told her stories about their son’s mischief-making and growing vocabulary. She was losing months of her children’s lives, time that could never be recovered. She was too sick to dwell upon that now, though. Her world had shrunk to the confines of this bedchamber, and for much of her waking hours, she could concentrate only upon what her body was doing to her. It was even worse than her shipboard suffering.

  Once Raimond had gently kissed her good night and departed, she closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, for that was the only respite she got. But sleep eluded her. Instead, she found herself in the throes of nausea again—the twentieth time it had happened that day. Fortunately Mariam and Beatrix had returned to the chamber as soon as Raimond had gone, and they kept her from vomiting all over herself and the bed. Afterward, she began to sob, clinging to Beatrix’s hand so tightly that her nails dug into the other woman’s flesh. “I cannot endure any more,” she wept. “I cannot . . . Merciful God, what have I done to deserve this? Please make it stop, please. . . .”

  Beatrix was not sure if Joanna was talking to her or to God. She did what she could, cradling the younger woman as she’d done when Joanna was a little girl, stroking her hair as her own eyes burned with tears. When Joanna at last fell into an exhausted sleep, she rose carefully from the bed and drew Mariam toward the far corner of the chamber.