A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Philippe had not learned that lesson. He’d been unable to keep Richard from weaving a web of dangerous alliances and then entangling him in it. He’d been badly hurt by the defections of the counts of Flanders and Boulogne, by the enmity of Richard’s German allies in the Rhineland, and now by the hostility of the new emperor; Otto had pledged his support to John in any war against the French king. Most damaging of all was the anger of the new Pope; Innocent was set upon making Philippe put aside his “concubine,” Agnes of Meran, and acknowledge Ingeborg as his lawful wife and queen. But Philippe continued to defy the Church. Nor had he been conciliatory when he and John had met a week ago near Castle Gaillard. He’d agreed to recognize John as the rightful heir to Normandy, but only if John surrendered the Norman Vexin to him and agreed to make Arthur the liege lord of Anjou, Touraine, and Maine. Not only had John spurned such outrageous demands, he’d laughed in Philippe’s face. Eleanor would have enjoyed witnessing that.

  Almost as if reading her mind, John looked up with a grin. “I’d love to be there to watch when Philippe learns that you’ve outwitted him and turned your homage into a shield to use against him.” Rising, he moved to the table and poured wine, serving her with a flourish and a jest about having a king as her cupbearer. She suspected there were still times when he could hardly believe it himself—that he was king at long last.

  Eleanor took a sip, then saw that he was still watching her. “What is it?”

  “I heard from the papal legate again. He claimed it was a warning, but it was actually a threat. You know that some of Philippe’s men captured the Count of Flanders’s ally, the Bishop-elect of Cambrai?”

  Eleanor nodded. “That was foolish of the French, a needless provocation of a Pope who needs no urging to protect the Church’s prerogatives and privileges. But why should Cardinal Pietro threaten you for a crime committed by the French king?”

  “My thoughts exactly. But it seems the Pope wants to appear evenhanded. He means to lay an Interdict upon France if Pierre de Corbeil, the bishop-elect, is not freed at once. And he warns that he will do the same for Normandy if I do not agree to set that polecat Beauvais loose.”

  She’d known this day would eventually come, for Innocent III was strong-willed, shrewd, and not about to let a prince of the Church languish in a dungeon, even one he held in such low regard as the Bishop of Beauvais. Richard would never have freed him, but John had no personal stake in his continuing confinement, and so it was not surprising that he’d yield to the Pope in order to avoid an Interdict. It still left a bad taste in her mouth.

  “I told the cardinal—a truly tiresome man—that I would take the Church’s demand under advisement. I shall have to let the swine go, but I mean to charge him two thousand marks for the cost of feeding him during those two years he was Brother Richard’s guest.”

  When he laughed, Eleanor could not help laughing, too, imagining the bishop’s utter outrage at being billed for the time he’d spent in Angevin dungeons in Rouen and Chinon. John poured wine for himself, perching on the edge of the table. “One of my spies tells me that Guillaume des Roches is becoming discontented with Philippe’s high-handedness and may be amenable to switching sides again. Tell me, Mother, what did you say to the man at Tours?”

  “I asked if it was true that Philippe had proclaimed him seneschal of Anjou. He admitted it but indignantly denied that he’d been influenced by this. I agreed that he was not a man to be bribed, that what mattered to him was honor. And I assured him that we value men of honor, too.”

  John’s eyes shone golden in the sunlight streaming through the open window. Cat eyes, she thought, wondering if others said the same of her own eyes. When he confided that he’d be going into Maine next week and hoped he’d have an opportunity for a private talk with des Roches, she knew that he’d make sure the opportunity came to pass. He thrived on intrigue, this youngest son of hers. Mayhap too much so, for he’d shown a decided preference for the oblique approach, enjoying guile and subterfuge as much for their own sake as for what they could accomplish.

  “Is it true what I heard, John, that the Earl of Chester has annulled his marriage to Constance?”

  He grinned again. “Indeed he did, faster than a rabbit with a fox on its tail. Whilst he got little pleasure from his Breton hellcat of a wife, I think he rather fancied being Duke of Brittany. Even if it was an empty title, it had a nice ring to it, and there was always the chance that his stepson could be named as Richard’s heir. But once I became king, he was no longer so keen on being the stepfather of a traitorous whelp, and he shed Constance as fast as he could find a compliant bishop.”

  Eleanor thought his assessment of the earl’s action was cynical but probably accurate. She wondered how long it would take John to rid himself of his own unwanted wife. Kings found it even easier than earls to find compliant bishops, and unlike Philippe and the unfortunate Ingeborg, John had legitimate grounds for invalidating his marriage: they were cousins. She was about to ask him if he’d given any thought to a foreign marital alliance when a servant entered the solar and murmured a few words in her ear. John had turned back to study the charters that were going to infuriate Philippe. He looked up, though, when he heard her cry out.

  “A messenger has just ridden in from Joanna! She is on her way here, is only a few miles outside the town.” Eleanor was astonished and pleased, but she was aware, too, of a vague sense of foreboding that she could neither explain nor dismiss out of hand.

  John did not share it. “That is good news,” he said with a smile. “She must surely be feeling much better if she’d undertake such a long journey.”

  After a moment to reflect, Eleanor smiled, too, realizing he was right. Even though she’d not seen a case of morning sickness as severe as Joanna’s, it never lasted through the entire pregnancy. It was the constant vomiting that had made Joanna so weak; she’d soon have recovered once it stopped.

  “Come,” she said. “Let’s find out more from Joanna’s knight and order a bedchamber made ready for her.”

  AS THEY ENTERED THE GREAT HALL, John stopped in his tracks at the sight of Joanna’s messenger. While most of his brother’s vassals had accepted the inevitable and pledged their loyalty to him, there were a few who’d kept their distance. André de Chauvigny was one, and the man coming toward them was another.

  “Well, if it is not Cousin Morgan. I’d assumed you must have gotten lost in the wilds of Wales.”

  “My lord king,” Morgan said, dropping to one knee. But the obeisance seemed perfunctory to John. The Welshman’s gaze was already moving past him, seeking his mother.

  Eleanor had halted, too, as soon as she saw Morgan’s face. “My daughter . . . ?”

  Morgan courageously kept his eyes upon hers, resisting an overwhelming urge to look away as she realized the truth. “Madame . . . she is very ill,” he said softly, and those close enough to hear quieted, sensing that the queen was to be visited by yet more sorrow.

  “MAMAN?”

  “I am right here, dearest. Let your ladies settle you in bed and then we’ll talk.”

  Once Morgan gently deposited Joanna upon the bed, he and her chaplain were ushered from the chamber. As soon as Beatrix and the other women began to undress her daughter, Eleanor took Mariam by the arm and propelled her toward a far corner. “Why did you bring her on such a journey when she is so obviously ill?”

  Mariam did not resent the sharp tone, understanding that she was speaking to the mother, not the queen, a mother greatly shaken by her daughter’s frail appearance. “We tried to dissuade her, Madame. But she was insistent and . . . and we came to realize it was for the best that she seek you out. We’d expected her to regain her strength once the nausea no longer tormented her day and night. She did not. Instead, she grew weaker, until she feared that she’d not survive childbirth. Her need for you was great enough to justify the journey.”

  Mariam had been speaking without emotion, almost as if relating the story of strangers. Now she faltered,
tears welling in her eyes. “But once we were on the road, she got worse, not better. She knows her health is failing and she no longer believes you can vanquish the dangers of the birthing chamber, my lady. She . . . she is convinced that she will not live long enough to deliver her child. And I . . . When I look at her, I fear she is right.”

  “No,” Eleanor said, and although she remembered to keep her voice low, it resonated with resolve, with a determination that recognized no higher authority than the Angevin royal will. “She is not going to die.”

  But once Eleanor was seated on the bed beside her daughter, that certainty began to crumble, for Joanna did look as if her life could be measured in weeks, even days. She was painfully thin, her collarbones thrust into sudden prominence, her face almost gaunt. Her eyes were sunken back in her head, so darkly shadowed that they seemed surrounded by contusions. Her skin was as white and cold as falling snow; her lips, too, were pallid. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, her pulse so faint that Eleanor could barely find it when she pressed her fingers to Joanna’s wrist. Even her hair, always as brightly burnished as molten gold, was limp and lusterless, feeling like sun-dried straw. “I am dying, Maman,” she whispered, “and I am so afraid. . . .”

  “I know you are, dearest. But your baby is not due for more than two months. There is time enough for you to recover, to get your strength back. I’ve already sent for Rouen’s best midwife, and my own physician will attend you. . . .”

  She stopped then, for Joanna was shaking her head, closing her eyes as if even that small movement had exhausted her. Her hand tightened on Eleanor’s own; her fingers felt as fragile and delicate as the hollow bones of God’s fallen sparrow. “My sweet child, listen to me,” Eleanor said, with all the conviction at her command. “You are not going to die.”

  “You do not understand. It is not death I fear so. . . . Maman, I am damned. When I die, I will be condemned to Hell.”

  Eleanor was not easily shocked, yet her daughter had managed it. “My darling girl, why would you say that? Why would you think that?” When Joanna did not reply, she held that cold hand against her cheek, inadvertently triggering a troubling memory of doing that during her deathbed vigil for her son. “Joanna, you are making no sense. What sins could you have committed that would deserve eternal damnation?”

  “The worst of sins. . . .”

  Joanna said nothing more and Eleanor realized that she was ashamed to confess this “worst of sins” even to her mother. What could she possibly have done to believe God had turned His face away from her? “You can tell me anything, my darling. I would never judge you.” Feigning a smile, she said, “How could your sins be darker than mine, after all?”

  Joanna turned her head aside on the pillow. “I hoped I would lose my baby. My own child. I was so sick, so sick. . . . I just could not take any more. . . .” She’d begun to sob, but softly, as if she did not even have the energy to grieve. “I actually prayed that it would happen. I know now that I was praying to the Devil, for God would never heed such a wicked prayer. . . .”

  Eleanor gathered the younger woman into her arms. “Joanna, you must not judge yourself so harshly. You were ill, not in your right senses. The Almighty will understand that.”

  “No, He will not. This was my child, Raimond’s son, but I would have sacrificed him if I could. I even thought about asking Mariam to get me pennyroyal or black hellebore. I could not do that to her, though, could not damn her, too. . . .”

  Eleanor tightened her arms around her daughter. “God absolves us of our sins if we are truly contrite. He will forgive you.”

  “I cannot forgive myself, Maman. So how could God forgive me? A mother’s first duty is to protect her child. I would have murdered mine if I could have. . . .”

  “You are tormenting yourself needlessly. Since you are unable to believe me, I will send Abbot Luke of Turpenay to you. He accompanied me to Fontevrault, never left my side as I had to watch Richard die. He will hear your confession, lay a penance upon you for whatever sins you have committed, and then absolve you of them.”

  “No priest can shrive me of such a sin. Contrition is not enough. There is only one way I can hope to escape eternal damnation, Maman. Two nights ago, she came to me in a dream, told me what I must do.”

  “Who, Joanna? I do not understand.”

  “The Blessed Lady Mary, Our Saviour’s mother. She said that God would forgive me only if I can take holy vows, can die as one of the sisters of Fontevrault.”

  Eleanor knew the Church would not allow it. But when Joanna raised her head, her eyes filled with panic and pleading, and entreated her to make it happen, she heard herself promising that she would do her best, words that sounded as hollow as she felt. Her promise seemed to give Joanna her first measure of comfort, though, for she could feel some of the tension ebbing from her daughter’s shoulders. Lying back upon the bed, Joanna closed her eyes again, murmuring, “Thank you, Maman, thank you . . .”

  Within moments, she slept. Eleanor brushed her hair back from her face, tucking the covers warmly around her, for she’d been shivering as if it were winter, not late August. Only then did Eleanor lean forward, dropping her head into her hands. How much more would the Almighty demand of her?

  JOHN DID NOT HAVE many warm memories of his siblings. He did not remember his sisters Tilda and Leonora, who’d been sent off to wed foreign princes when he was very young. He’d not often seen his older brothers, and when he had, they’d either ignored him or teased him as mercilessly as older brothers had done since the dawn of time. It had been different with Joanna, his companion during their time at Fontevrault, and he’d missed her after her departure for Sicily. When they’d been reunited eighteen years later, though, he’d discovered that she was one for bearing grudges. She’d never forgiven him for conniving against Richard with the French king, and he’d come to resent her for it.

  But he’d been genuinely shocked to be told that she was gravely ill, not expected to live. She was only a year older than he was, too young to die, and he suddenly found himself recalling the lively, mischievous girl who’d once been fond of her little brother. “There is no hope, then?”

  Eleanor shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “My physician has examined her, as have the two best midwives in the city. All three reached the same conclusion—that she is in God’s hands.”

  John knew that there was no love lost between doctors and midwives, so their unusual unanimity did not bode well for his stricken sister. He knew, too, that whenever some poor soul was consigned to God’s mercy, that one was not long for the world. “I am sorry,” he said, vaguely surprised by how much he meant it. Leaning back in his seat, he regarded his mother admiringly. She was the strong one in their family, not his father, nor his brothers. Her spine, like the finest swords, had been forged in fire. She kept her head high even as her heart bled. But then a dark thought intruded; did she blame God for taking Richard whilst sparing the son she did not love? He reached for the wine cup at his elbow, draining most of it in several deep swallows. Was he still yearning after a mother’s love, like a mewling babe in need of a teat? She’d done what mattered, traveling more than a thousand miles to win over her Poitevin vassals to his cause. And he was honest enough to admit that if not for her efforts, he might not have prevailed over that Breton brat.

  “I shall pray for Joanna,” he said, because it was expected of him, not because he believed it would help his sister.

  “There is more you can do for her, John. She is in need of money.”

  Now that he was king, John was learning to dislike any sentence that mentioned money, for like as not, he’d be the one asked to pay it out. “She has a husband who is rich and indulges her every whim, Mother,” he reminded Eleanor, with a thin smile.

  “When she left Toulouse in April to seek Richard’s aid for Raimond, she did not expect to be gone more than a month or so. Her lack of money did not matter much, though, for few merchants would deny credit to the king’s sister.”


  That was a song John could sing in his sleep; he’d lived for years on credit and expectations and the foolishness of men eager to curry favor with one who might be a future king. “Of course,” he said. “I will be pleased to give Joanna a hundred marks of rent, to dispose of any way she chooses.”

  “That is generous of you, John. But I had something else in mind. When Richard landed in Sicily, he did more than gain Joanna’s freedom. He insisted that Tancred compensate her in gold for the loss of her dower lands, which he then used to pay for his army’s expenses in the Holy Land.”

  “And he never repaid her.” John’s smile was sour, for when did Brother Richard ever repay a debt? He’d bled his kingdom white to finance his wars, and had gotten away with it because he was the Lionheart, because men admired and respected and feared him as they did not admire, respect, or fear his brother. John lied to many others, not to himself, and he knew he was going to find it much harder than Richard to raise money. “So what do you have in mind?” he asked warily, already sure he knew the answer.

  “Joanna never bothered to ask Richard for repayment since she had no need of it. Now she does. She must make her will, for the Church holds that dying intestate is like dying unconfessed. She wants to settle her own debts and to make bequests to those in her household. Above all, she wants to have enough money to bequeath to churches, to feed the poor, and to have prayers said for her soul.”