A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “And how much is ‘enough’?”

  “Three thousand marks will do. If you agree, that will release you of all liability for the debt that Richard owed to Joanna.”

  Three thousand marks! That would buy food to fill all the hungry bellies in Rouen, would keep candles lit for her soul until the Second Coming, would enrich a veritable host of greedy churchmen at his expense. John scowled, feeling as if Richard had gulled him from the grave. His mother remained silent. Why bother with words when she could deliver her message with her eyes? Eyes as piercing as any arrow, aiming for the very depths of his soul. He picked up his wine cup, tasting the dregs before saying with as much grace as he could muster, “Of course I agree, Mother. How could I refuse?”

  IT TOOK HOURS FOR Joanna’s will to be drawn up to her satisfaction, so determined was she to acknowledge all those who’d served her so loyally. She left a generous bequest to Dame Beatrix and smaller sums to her other maids of honor, to her chaplain and clerks and servants. She took care that the thousand shillings she’d borrowed from the moneylender, Provetal the Jew, would be repaid. She gave her favorite horse to the hospital at Roncevaux, six mares to the abbey of Mont Sainte Catherine, and two mares to every religious house in Rouen. She made a large gift to the abbess of Fontevrault and bequests to several of the nuns who’d befriended her, left a valuable wall hanging to St Stephen’s church in Toulouse, and placed the residue of her three thousand marks at the disposal of her mother and the archbishops of Canterbury and York, to be divided among religious houses and the poor.

  Abbot Luke then heard her confession and administered the sacrament of Extreme Unction, which normally gave the dying much comfort. It did not assuage Joanna’s fears, though, for she remained convinced that her only path to salvation led toward the abbey of Fontevrault.

  ELEANOR HAD BEEN UNABLE to save her son and she knew that she could not save her daughter, either. She could not defeat Death. But now her adversaries were flesh-and-blood, stubborn and hidebound, clinging to custom the way snails and turtles retreated into their shells whenever they encountered the unknown. She had been fighting men like this for her entire life and whilst she’d lost most of the time, this was the one battle she had to win.

  She at once sent word to Fontevrault, confident that she would have allies in Abbess Mathilde and Prioress Aliza. But Joanna had taken no comfort in that. She was sure that she’d be dead by the time the elderly abbess could travel all the way to Rouen, and Eleanor feared she was right, for it seemed to her that her daughter lost ground by the hour. She went next to the Archbishop of Rouen, only to be rebuffed. He was sympathetic to the countess’s deathbed wishes, he assured Eleanor. But canon law spoke clearly on the subject: a married woman could not take holy vows without her husband’s consent.

  Eleanor had expected such a negative response. She knew she might be maligning Archbishop Gautier, but she suspected that he remained resentful of his clash with her son over Les Andelys; even though he’d been well compensated for his loss, he’d also been humiliated when the Pope had sided with Richard, and she was not sure he was magnanimous enough to overlook that old grievance.

  She had better luck with Mathilde d’Avranches, the abbess of St Amand, Rouen’s prestigious nunnery. Abbot Luke of Turpenay Abbey was easy to persuade, too, as were the Bishops of Évreux and Lisieux. But since they’d argued Richard’s case before the papal curia, Archbishop Gautier was not likely to give their words much weight. She needed more influential allies before a council could be called to debate Joanna’s request.

  OF ALL HENRY’S SONS, it was generally conceded that the one who most closely resembled him was his bastard Geoff, York’s reluctant archbishop. His russet hair was well sprinkled with grey these days, for he was not that far from his fiftieth birthday, and he’d gained weight as his youth slipped away. But he remained as outspoken and obstinate as he’d ever been, and although he politely heard Eleanor out, he was already shaking his head by the time she was done speaking.

  “Do not mistake me, Madame. My heart goes out to your daughter, my half sister. And her wish to take holy vows is a most commendable one. Alas, it cannot be done without her husband’s consent.”

  “If he were here, my lord archbishop, he would give it gladly.” Geoff had never mastered the art of dissembling, and his doubt showed so plainly on his face that Eleanor drew an angry breath. But she kept her voice even as she said, “Do you truly believe he would deny his wife salvation?”

  “I do not know the Count of Toulouse well enough to say. He has not always been a friend to the Holy Church, after all.”

  Eleanor opened her mouth to argue that Raimond de St Gilles was not a heretic, whatever slanderous stories Geoff might have heard. But she knew that road led nowhere. She studied her husband’s most devoted son with calculating eyes, and then she almost smiled, for she’d realized how to break through his barriers.

  “I am not asking you to do this for me or for John. You do not even have to do it for Joanna. Do it for your father. Harry loved Joanna dearly, as you well know. Do not let his daughter go to her death fearing that she is damned.”

  He looked startled, but not defensive, and she took hope from that. Knowing he was not a man to be prodded, she kept silent as he considered this most personal of appeals. “If you are truly sure that the Count of Toulouse would give his permission,” he finally said, “then I see no harm in granting Lady Joanna’s wishes. But I doubt that the Archbishop of Rouen will see it in that light. Do you want me to speak with him?”

  “That is very kind of you, but not necessary,” Eleanor said quickly, for he had never been noted for his powers of persuasion; his impatience and lack of tact inevitably irked those he was trying to convince. She agreed that Archbishop Gautier must be won over, but she had a more eloquent advocate in mind than Geoff.

  “IT IS TRULY PROVIDENTIAL that you should be in Rouen now, when Richard’s sister has such need of you, my lord archbishop.”

  Hubert Walter nodded gravely, while silently saluting her for that adroit “Richard’s sister.” Not that he needed reminding of all he owed Richard, but he did not blame her for using every weapon at her disposal on her daughter’s behalf. “This grieves me more than I can say, Madame. I hold your daughter in high esteem.” And while that was the response demanded by courtesy, it was also true; he’d become quite fond of Richard’s spirited sister during their time in the Holy Land.

  “If I may speak candidly, my lord Hubert, my daughter needs more than your grief. She desperately needs your help.”

  “And she shall have it,” he said, so readily that she closed her eyes for a moment, blessing Richard for making this man Canterbury’s archbishop. “I do not see how the Church would be threatened by granting a woman’s deathbed wish, one that does honor to the Almighty and the sisters of Fontevrault. But some of my brethren embrace canon law the way soldiers embrace whores—with great enthusiasm. We will need a cogent, compelling argument to overcome Archbishop Gautier’s qualms.”

  Eleanor had one. “Tell them,” she said, “that Joanna’s desire to take holy vows is the result of a vision. The Blessed Mother Mary came to her in a dream and told her what she must do. She is but seeking to honor that divine command.”

  Hubert nodded again and then he smiled faintly. “Yes, that ought to do it.”

  AS ELEANOR ENTERED THE stairwell leading up to Joanna’s bedchamber, she came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the couple cloaked in shadows. For a moment, she felt rage spark through her exhaustion, anger that one of Joanna’s ladies would have arranged a tryst as her mistress lay dying. But then she realized that Morgan was holding Mariam as she wept against his shoulder and she was suddenly very frightened, fearing she was too late.

  They’d turned at the sound of her footsteps. Although it was too dark to see her face clearly, they sensed her distress and Morgan said quickly, “No, Madame, no. Your daughter still lives.”

  Mariam moved out of Morgan’s embrace. “It was the
letters,” she said in a choked voice. “You know about them, Madame? She dictated one to her husband and one to Queen Berengaria. Today she wanted to write two more . . . to her son and daughter, for when they are old enough to read them, to understand. . . .” She fought back a sob. “I thought of her children never knowing their mother, not knowing how much she loved them, and I . . . I could not bear it.” And there was so much emotion in her voice that Eleanor knew she, too, had lost her mother at a young age.

  Eleanor reached out, letting her hand rest for a moment upon Mariam’s arm. “Come with me,” she said. “I have news for my daughter, and you both will want to hear it, too.”

  JOANNA DRIFTED IN AND out of sleep more and more as her days dwindled. Sometimes her dreams offered respite. She rode through the streets of Toulouse at Raimond’s side, chased after Raimondet when he fled, giggling, from his bath, stood again on that ship’s deck as Messina came into view and she saw the fleet in the harbor, saw her brother’s red-and-gold banners flying from every mast. At other times, her dreams brought only terror, offering her a foretaste of what awaited her after death—lakes of flame, rivers of boiling blood, visions of fire and brimstone made familiar by the priests who preached incessantly of the horrors of Hell, in which suffering was eternal and there was neither hope nor mercy, for there was no God.

  Her latest dream had been kinder, wafting her back to her own childhood, to Poitiers and Sicily. She was still glad to awaken, though, when she opened her eyes and saw Eleanor leaning over the bed. She knew she clung to a precipice and only her mother could keep her from falling into the abyss. “Maman . . . ?”

  “The council has met, Joanna. They have agreed to disregard canon law and permit you to take vows as a sister of Fontevrault.”

  “Truly? You would not lie to me, Maman?”

  “No, my dearest, I would not lie. The Archbishop of Canterbury convinced them that you’d been blessed with a vision, that you were doing God’s bidding and it was not for them to thwart His Will.”

  Joanna had wept more in the four months since she’d learned of Richard’s death than she had in all the years since she’d flowered into womanhood. But now the tears were different; they were tears of joy for the most precious gift she’d ever received—salvation.

  “Thank you, Maman, thank you!” She tired very easily and soon afterward, she slept again. But this time she fell asleep smiling.

  “WHAT OF MY BABY?”

  This was the question Eleanor had been expecting and dreading. Joanna had spoken of her child’s plight before, but her fear of eternal damnation had been like a vast, smothering storm cloud, blotting out the sky. Now that she no longer need fear for herself, it was only natural that she would fear for the baby in her womb.

  Eleanor was not the only one loath to address that plaintive query. Master Gervase, her physician, took a sudden interest in a psalter lying open on the table. Joanna’s chaplain, Jocelyn, began to finger the Paternoster looped at his belt. The two midwives, Dame Clarice and Dame Berthe, remained silent. Nor did Joanna’s attendants speak up, for none of them wanted to discuss one of their Church’s most troubling teachings—that unbaptized infants were denied entry into Heaven.

  Joanna knew that, of course, for it cast a shadow over every woman’s birthing chamber, the knowledge that babies who died before they could be christened could not be buried in consecrated ground; few city cemeteries did not have small, pitiful mounds bordering the graves in hallowed soil, looking lonely, untended, and forlorn. But what gave parents the greatest grief was knowing their dead children would be consigned to Limbo for eternity, never to look upon the face of God.

  Joanna’s question seemed to echo in the air, the cry of mothers since time immemorial. Abbot Luke at last took up the burden, grateful that at least he no longer need tell her that her child would suffer the torments of the damned. For much of their Church’s history, priests could give grieving parents no comfort at all, but in the last fifty years, there had been a change for the better, thanks in some measure to the controversial French theologian Abelard, who’d argued persuasively that St Augustine was wrong and babies guilty only of original sin would not burn like the sinners cast down into Hell. Although Abelard had disgraced himself by seducing the beautiful young Heloise, Abbot Luke was glad that his doctrine had gained such quick acceptance, sparing him the need to defend the indefensible.

  “Whilst your baby will not be able to pass through Heaven’s Gates, my lady,” he said gently, “in Limbus Infantium, he or she will suffer only the pain of loss, not the pain of fire.”

  Joanna looked sadly at the abbot. But he will have lost the vision of God, so even if there is no physical torment, he will endure spiritual torment for all eternity. Not only will he be denied God’s Love, he’ll be denied the love of his family. He’ll never know his father, his brother and sister. He’ll never know his mother.

  She said none of that, though, for Abbot Luke was a good man. He did not deserve to be berated for a misery not of his making. Nor had her question been directed at him or her chaplain. Her gaze moved past the abbot, seeking out the two midwives. Dame Berthe had been summoned first, but although she’d come highly recommended, she’d not found favor with Joanna’s ladies—a tall, raw-boned, awkward woman with scant social skills and a blunt tongue. Beatrix and Anna had taken it upon themselves to find Dame Clarice, a soft, motherly soul who was sugar to Berthe’s salt. It was Clarice who came forward now, blue eyes brimming with tears, for she knew what Joanna would ask and what she must answer.

  “I have heard,” Joanna said haltingly, “that there are ways of baptizing a child whilst still in the womb.”

  “That is so, my lady. Sometimes when a mother is unable to deliver her baby and they are both sure to die, a baptismal sponge can be inserted up into her womb so he can be blessed with God’s grace.”

  “Then . . . you can do that for my son?” Seeing the midwife’s lips tremble, the tears start to trickle down those rosy cheeks, Joanna felt such pain that she gave an anguished cry. “Why not? I beg you, save my son!”

  “My lady, I would if I could! But that can only be done when the woman has begun labor and her womb is dilated.”

  Joanna had known she’d been clutching at a frail reed. That did not make it any easier to accept. “Surely there must be something you can do,” she whispered, although without any real hope. It was then, though, that the other midwife spoke up.

  “There is a way,” Dame Berthe said, striding forward to stand beside the bed, “although some are squeamish about it. When a woman dies, her child can survive briefly through the air still in her arteries. If it is done quickly enough, the child can be extracted from her womb in time to be baptized.”

  There was a shocked silence as they realized what she had in mind. Joanna’s ladies recoiled at the thought of her body being cut open like this. The physician and her chaplain were clearly skeptical, for midwives were often suspected of baptizing stillborn children in order to comfort their sorrowing parents. But Joanna’s eyes shone with sudden light and Eleanor moved closer so she could look intently into the midwife’s face.

  “You could do this for my son?” Joanna reached out, took the midwife’s hand; it was as big as a man’s, the knuckles reddened, the nails bitten to the quick, an old scar burned deep into one thumb. Not a hand to elicit admiring glances, no more than she herself was. But Joanna felt the strength in that ungainly hand, felt as if she’d just been thrown a lifeline.

  “I can, my lady.”

  That was too much for the physician. “The child is not due for two months or more. How could he draw air into his lungs?”

  The midwife met his accusing gaze calmly. “Women often mistake the time of conception. The countess could be further along than she first thought. And it is my understanding that it takes but one breath, however faint, to make a baptism valid.”

  “She is right,” Abbot Luke said, speaking for the first time. “One breath is sufficient.”

&
nbsp; The other midwife had remained conspicuously silent, an obvious way of conveying her disapproval. Joanna’s ladies still found it abhorrent, for there was an inbred, innate dread of the mutilation of the body after death. But now all eyes shifted instinctively toward Joanna’s mother, watching as she leaned over to murmur in her daughter’s ear. When Joanna nodded vehemently, Eleanor straightened up and turned back to the midwife.

  “Do it,” she said.

  JOANNA WAS TOO WEAK to rise from her bed to take her vows. But her voice was surprisingly strong as she pledged herself to God, and afterward, it was obvious to them all that she was at peace. She even sought to console her weeping women, assuring them that she was in God’s keeping and, with a flash of the Joanna of old, she scolded Mariam and Morgan, saying that if they did not wed, she’d come back to haunt them both. She asked again for the small ivory casket that held locks of her children’s hair, instructing them to add a long strand of her own hair.

  “Give it to Raimond,” she murmured. “Tell him he must not grieve too much, that he made me happy.” When Eleanor reached for her hand, she entwined their fingers together as she’d so often done as a small child. “I will tell Richard that Johnny owes his crown to you, Maman. Knowing Johnny, he is probably jealous that you gave me something far greater than a crown. You gave me eternal life.”

  She seemed to have been rejuvenated by the taking of her vows, and her women dared to hope that her death was not as imminent as they’d feared, that they might have more time to say their farewells. Eleanor alone was not deceived by this sudden burst of vitality, seeing it for what it was: the last flaming of the sun ere night came on. She knew that her daughter’s life was ebbing away even as they watched, for her green eyes were darkening. She’d seen Richard’s eyes change, too, in the moments before death, as his pupils dilated until they’d eclipsed all traces of grey.