A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I need to know,” she said, her voice low but fierce. “Did the midwife truly tell you that Joanna’s nausea is likely to abate after the fifth month?” She was not reassured when Mariam nodded, for she’d averted her eyes. “What are you keeping from me?”

  Mariam hesitated, but she desperately needed to confide in someone. “The midwife did indeed tell us that she’d treated two cases like Joanna’s, saying both of the women found relief in the fifth month, later delivering healthy babies. But she also told me in confidence that she’d lied. Only one of the women gave birth to a live baby. The other one continued to grow weaker even after she was able to eat again. She died in the sixth month of the pregnancy.”

  RAIMOND DREW REIN and glanced back at the abbey walls. His men exchanged puzzled looks, but he was their lord and it was not for them to question why he’d chosen to halt in the middle of the road. Raimond could not have explained himself why he suddenly felt this reluctance to see Fontevrault recede into the distance. Returning to Toulouse would ease Joanna’s qualms about their children and his troublesome vassals; staying here would not. And although he was loath to admit it, he felt a certain relief that he would not have to watch helplessly as his wife suffered. Joanna’s women had made it clear—without saying a word—that they did not want him underfoot whilst they dealt with female matters that no man could truly understand.

  He’d had a private talk with Joanna’s midwife and felt better afterward, for she seemed quite confident that Joanna’s nausea would not last much longer. He saw no reason to doubt her, for he’d never heard of a woman afflicted with morning sickness for the entire length of her pregnancy. And when he’d bidden Joanna farewell, she’d been in better spirits, revealing that she was sure she was bearing a son. The midwife had performed a test that she claimed was utterly reliable: putting a few drops of Joanna’s blood into a bowl of springwater. If they’d floated, that would have meant she would birth a daughter, but they sank, proof that the baby in her womb was a boy. Raimond did not wait for her to ask, suggesting they name their son after her brother, and he would take back to Toulouse the memory of her grateful smile. He did not doubt that she’d bedazzle their son with embellished stories of his renowned namesake, but a nephew would not feel the need to live up to the legend of the Lionheart the way a son would. If it would give Joanna comfort, he’d not care if she turned Richard’s crown into a halo and transformed what he saw as a needless death into a holy martyrdom.

  Sensing that his men were growing restless, Raimond at last gave the signal to move on. When he returned to Fontevrault, he would bring Dame Esquiva with him, for Joanna would have greater trust in the midwife who’d delivered their children than in a stranger from Saumur. And he meant to have a confidential conversation with Esquiva, one that he doubted he’d share with his wife.

  The Church preached that it was a mortal sin to prevent conception, but he had a more flexible concept of sin than Joanna, and he valued her life and her health more than the teachings of self-righteous holy men who knew nothing of the pleasures of the flesh. It was common sense that three pregnancies in three years would take a toll upon a woman’s body. Joanna could not keep getting with child every year like this. But abstinence was for monks and nuns, and even they often found it an impossible vow to keep. He remembered, though, a discussion with one of his bedmates, remembered her saying that a woman could avoid pregnancy by drinking wine mixed with willow leaves. She’d also claimed that there were magic charms and amulets that kept a man’s seed from taking root in a woman’s womb.

  He did not doubt that Dame Esquiva would know of these methods. Because she was a good-hearted, practical woman, he was sure she would agree that Joanna needed time to recover her strength between pregnancies. Who understood the dangers of the birthing chamber more than a midwife, after all? And if Joanna never knew what they’d done, she’d be innocent of sin. Whereas his sins were beyond counting, so why would one more matter? If he must choose between risking his wife’s life and risking more time in Purgatory, that was not a difficult choice to make.

  ELEANOR HAD NEVER SPENT much time at Tours during her marriage to Henry, for he preferred his castles at Chinon and Angers. The fortress at Tours was notable neither for its defenses nor its comforts, consisting of a great hall over ninety feet in length, with living quarters above and an adjoining square tower in the southeast corner of the bailey. But on this stifling summer afternoon in mid-July, it was the scene of a historic and dramatic ceremony. Eleanor was about to do homage to the French king for her Poitevin domains.

  The hall was crowded with Philippe’s vassals, but only Mathieu de Montmorency had the courtesy or the courage to offer her his condolences for the death of her son. Barthélemy de Vendôme, the Archbishop of Tours, was seated on the dais beside Philippe, but he did not look to Eleanor as if he was enjoying the honor. Touraine was part of the Angevin empire, yet the archbishopric of Tours itself was under the French king’s control, and the archbishop was squirming like a man caught between two very hungry wolves.

  Her grandson Arthur and his mother were seated on the dais, too, accompanied by Breton lords whom Richard would have called “the usual suspects,” men always eager to dip their oars in troubled waters. For a moment, Eleanor’s eyes rested on the boy. Only twelve, he would be taller than his father when fully grown. In truth, she could see little of Geoffrey in him; he had Constance’s dark eyes and arrogance. Would it have been different—would he have been different—had he been raised at her son’s court as Richard had wanted? The lad was spirited; Richard would have liked that. Her gaze shifted to her former daughter-in-law. Constance was making no effort to hide her hostility. Even now she did not realize that she’d sacrificed Arthur’s bright hopes for a grudge. Eleanor could have told her that revenge had a bittersweet taste, but she’d learn that for herself soon enough.

  The presence of Guillaume des Roches amongst the Bretons was troubling, though, for he was an Angevin baron who’d been utterly loyal to Richard. He ought to have pledged himself to her son, not Arthur. She would, she decided, have a word with him ere she departed Tours. But now it was time.

  The hall quieted as she stepped forward and began to walk toward the dais. It was customary for an heiress’s husband or sons to do homage in her name, yet now she was defying tradition by doing homage herself. She did not doubt that some of Philippe’s vassals were shocked and indignant that a woman could exercise authority in her own right, independent of a man. At the French court, they were saying that she must be desperate to safeguard her own lands. None would ever have believed she’d have put her duchy before Richard’s interests. She knew it was easier to believe of John.

  Reaching the dais, she sank to her knees before the French king, holding her hands up for them to be clasped between his own. “My lady queen, are you willing to become my liege woman?” he asked, his voice as unrevealing as his expression. This was the first time she’d met him face-to-face. His appearance was not regal; he would never command all eyes merely by entering a chamber as Richard had done. But he was the one breathing God’s air and plotting to destroy the Angevin empire, whilst Richard slept in a marble tomb at Fontevrault Abbey. She could feel the pain stirring again and fought it back savagely; she’d have the rest of her life to mourn her son, but not now, not here.

  “I am willing, my lord king,” she said composedly, her voice giving away no more than his had done. When he raised her up to give her the kiss that sealed the ceremony, she was not surprised that the lips brushing hers were cold to the touch.

  An oath of homage must be followed by one of fealty, and she knelt again as a priest brought out a small reliquary. She wondered what holy relics she’d be swearing upon. Some were more credible than others; she very much doubted that straw from the Christ Child’s manger or nails from his cross had survived so many centuries. Not that it mattered.

  “I promise on my faith,” she said, “that I will in future be faithful to King Philippe, not cause hi
m harm, and will observe my homage to him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit.”

  Only then did Philippe smile.

  Eleanor rose to her feet again. All that remained now was the investiture ceremony, in which the French king would formally “return” her domains to her keeping. Male vassals were usually presented with a material symbol such as a scepter or lance. She was curious to see what Philippe would choose for his first female vassal. Most likely a glove. And then it would be done. As his vassal, she would owe Philippe obedience, military aid, and wise counsel, and as her liege lord, he would owe her protection.

  The smile she gave him in return was so genuine, so satisfied, that Philippe’s own smile fled and his brows drew together. How wary he was, how suspicious—as well he ought to be. Now that he’d recognized her as the rightful heiress to her duchy, Arthur’s claim to Poitou as Richard’s heir was meaningless. And by doing homage to the French king, she deprived him of a legal basis for intervening in the affairs of Aquitaine and Poitou. As her liege lord, he was obligated to defend her rights—even against Arthur.

  He would have understood that, of course. But she’d known that he could not resist this public submission by Richard’s proud mother, seeing it not only as a gratifying acknowledgment of his sovereignty but as a humiliation to John, proof that she had no confidence in his ability to protect her duchy. What Philippe did not know was that she planned to issue a charter in which she recognized John as her “rightful heir” and transferred to him the homage, fealty, and services owed her by her vassals. John would then do homage to her, proclaiming her “lady of us and all our lands and possessions.” And because she’d done personal homage to the French king, Philippe could not demand services directly of John. She—not John—would be answerable at the French court for any grievances Philippe might have.

  John had been delighted with her idea, calling it a masterstroke. She knew, though, that it was not a long-term solution to the danger posed by the French king. When she died, her duchy would be vulnerable again. But she’d managed to checkmate Arthur and Constance whilst gaining John time to secure his hold on power, and that would have to be enough.

  Philippe was watching her intently. He did not possess what Harry and Richard had—the easy mastery of other men. Nor would he ever win glory with a sword. Yet she saw a ruthless, icy intelligence in those pale blue eyes and, unlike the men in her family, he knew how to be patient; he knew how to wait for what he wanted. He’d never have been a match for Richard on the battlefield and Richard had outmaneuvered him on the diplomatic front, too. But would John be able to defend himself against such a determined, unscrupulous adversary? Well, John was clever, cunning, and unscrupulous, too. He’d be no lamb to the slaughter; it would be a war of wolves.

  MARIAM WAS SITTING IN a garden arbor, the only place she could escape the eyes of others. In all of her thirty-three years, she had never been so frightened, never felt so helpless. If only she could talk to Joanna’s husband and mother. But Raimond was over three hundred miles away and the queen was in Normandy, devoting herself to the needs of her youngest son.

  She swiped at her wet cheek with the back of her hand. Weeping would not help. When had tears ever changed a blessed thing? Hearing footsteps on the garden path, she drew farther back into the arbor, hoping she’d go unnoticed. But then she heard her name called, and the voice was one that still haunted her dreams. Jumping to her feet, she emerged onto the walkway. “Morgan?” she said incredulously. “I thought you’d gone back to Wales after Richard died!”

  He’d reached her by now and took her hands in his. “I did return to Wales,” he said, for he’d wanted to see his brother and sister and to visit his parents’ graves. But he’d stayed only a few weeks, for Wales was no longer where his roots were. His curiosity had been a golden key, admitting him to a world of endless horizons, soaring vistas, and exotic, alien locales. There was a price to be paid for such freedom, though: the loss of his homeland.

  “I came back to check upon my Norman manors,” he said, omitting the real reason: that he did not know where else to go. Since Richard’s death, he’d been a ship without a rudder, sure only that he did not want to seek refuge in John’s harbor. He’d even thought of pledging his loyalty to Arthur, for he was Geoffrey’s son. But Arthur was the French king’s pawn, and serving him would be serving Philippe Capet, which was even more distasteful than the idea of serving John. “When I landed at Barfleur, I heard that Joanna was ailing, so I rode for Fontevrault straightaway. I have not yet seen her, for Dame Beatrix said she is sleeping. How bad is it, Mariam?”

  “She has been in Hell, Morgan. I do not know how else to describe it. Joanna has always had more severe morning sickness than most women, but nothing like this. She was unable to eat, sometimes even to drink water. The nausea never went away. She became sensitive to odors that no one else could smell, odors that had never bothered her before. We could not wear perfume or use soap to bathe her and the candles had to be wax, not tallow. There were days when she vomited as often as thirty times. She has lost so much weight that we had to make her gowns smaller instead of enlarging them to accommodate her pregnancy. The nausea began in the sixth week and nothing eased it, not ginger nor herbal remedies, not prayers to St Margaret, who protects women in childbirth, not even a holy relic that the abbess let us borrow. All we could do was to hope that the midwife was right, that the worst of it would abate in the fifth month. Joanna called August the Promised Land, for it would either bring salvation or doom. Whilst we did not talk of it, we all knew she could not keep on like that.”

  “And now that August has come?”

  “The nausea has lessened considerably, although it has not gone away entirely. At least now she can take liquids like soup without throwing them up afterward. But she is still so weak, Morgan. She gets light-headed when she rises, so she must use a chamber pot, and the more time she spends in bed, the more strength she loses. She will not admit it, but I know she is terrified that she will not survive childbirth, for she is insisting that we go to Rouen to find her mother. We’ve reminded her that Eleanor promised to return to Fontevrault in time for the baby’s birth. But Joanna says she cannot wait, that she needs Eleanor now. I truly think she has convinced herself that she will die without her mother.”

  Morgan was silent for several moments. “That is not so surprising,” he said at last. “I have heard men wounded on the battlefield cry out for their mothers. It is a need that seems bred into our bones. And who better to stand sentinel between Joanna and Death than Queen Eleanor?” Reaching over, he took Mariam’s hand. “If Joanna is set upon seeking out her mother, nothing we say will deter her. She is every bit as strong-willed as any of her brothers, as you well know. But what matters is not her determination; it is her need. If Eleanor can ease her fears and assure her that she will be able to deliver this child, we ought to be thanking God for it. I know little about childbirth, but I do know about battlefield injuries, and men who think they are going to recover have a better chance of doing so than those who think they are sure to die.”

  “I know you are right. But the journey will be so hard on her. Rouen is so far away.”

  “Well, since Joanna has made up her mind to do this, all we can do is ease her discomfort as best we can. We’ll put a bed in the horse litter, stop whenever she needs to rest. If we can only cover ten miles a day, what of it? What matters is that we get her to her mother, not how long it takes.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders then and she leaned against him. “You’ve been saying ‘we.’ You will come with us, Morgan?”

  “Of course I will. Joanna is my cousin, Richard’s sister. There is nothing I would not do for her.”

  His assurances were very welcome and she felt great relief that he’d be there to help shoulder the burdens. Yet illogically she felt disappointed, too, for there was a time when he’d have said there was nothing he’d not do for her.

  “You must have faith,
Mariam. Joanna will reach Rouen. She will recover. And she will safely give birth when the time comes. Her mother is not going to lose another child.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  AUGUST 1199

  Rouen, Normandy

  Eleanor was watching as her son read the drafts of the charters in which she would name him as the heir to her duchy and he in turn would do homage to her for it. He smiled from time to time and once he laughed outright. John, first of that name to rule England since the Conquest, a king of three months. For most of his life, his age had been cited in defense of his follies or betrayals. Again and again her husband had excused his failings as the sins of youth. Even Richard had done that. But the time had finally come for John to stand or fall on his own merits as a king, as a man grown of thirty-two. A memory slithered out to remind her that Richard had been thirty-two at the time of his coronation. She shoved it back into the oubliette where she kept such memories penned up, for memories were her enemies now. Memories sapped her strength, undermined her resolve, reminded her of all she’d lost.

  She focused her thoughts instead on John’s brief reign. So far it was going better than she’d dared hope. He’d had a narrow escape at Le Mans, but even there his instincts had served him well; he’d sensed the danger that enabled him to evade a Breton trap. And he’d later punished the citizens of Le Mans harshly for their disloyalty as a king must, razing the castle and the town’s walls. He’d been generous with those who had been loyal, though, bestowing the earldom of Pembroke upon Will Marshal, making the reluctant Hubert Walter his chancellor, and naming the Viscount of Thouars as castellan of Chinon Castle and seneschal of Anjou. He’d been able to retain Richard’s valuable alliances with the Count of Flanders and the Count of Boulogne. And he’d made his half brother Geoff welcome upon his return from Rome. She doubted that their reconciliation would last, no more than it ever had with Richard, for Geoff had never forgiven his brothers for rebelling against their father, and he loathed John for that deathbed betrayal of Henry. But as the Archbishop of York, he had to be placated, at least initially. A new, unproven king was wise to adopt a policy of conciliation, to turn as many of his enemies as he could into allies, even temporary ones.