A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Dame Berthe?” Joanna beckoned for the midwife to approach the bed. “You will do as you promised?” The midwife was as phlegmatic as always, repeating her promise without the slightest hint of emotion or empathy, but to Joanna, this rough-hewn, taciturn woman was one of God’s own angels, and she gave Eleanor a meaningful look, wanting to be sure her mother would reward Berthe as she deserved. What value, though, could be placed upon a baby’s immortal soul? No matter, Maman would find a way. She always did.

  Eleanor was warned when she felt her daughter’s grip loosen. “There is so much light,” Joanna said, softly but distinctly. She died soon after that, and Eleanor would always believe it was with the name of her son on her lips.

  JOANNA’S WOMEN HAD RETREATED in haste as soon as she’d drawn her last breath, for none of them could bear to watch as the midwife cut Joanna’s baby from her womb. Eleanor had drained the last of her reserves, too. Upon returning to her own chamber, she dismissed her attendants. Her eyes were dry, for she did not think she had any tears left. She could not mourn, nor could she pray. Sitting on the bed, she could only stare blindly into space, too emotionally exhausted to feel anything yet, as if she were lost in Limbo like those legions of unbaptized babies.

  The knock on the door came as a surprise even though she’d been expecting it. Getting wearily to her feet, she crossed the chamber to admit Dame Berthe.

  “It was a son, my lady. I baptized him Richard as the countess wished.”

  The eyes of the two women caught and held. And then Eleanor thanked the midwife, telling her to return on the morrow. Once she was alone again, Eleanor crossed to a window-seat and opened the shutters. Joanna’s last day seemed more like high summer than early September, the sun burning away clouds in a sky so blue it could have come from a potter’s wheel. She gazed up at that blazing sphere of white heat until the bright, dazzling light began to hurt her eyes. She’d always hoped to have a grandson named Richard, a worthy namesake of the man who would be five months dead in just two days’ time. Because he was so premature, she very much doubted that Joanna’s son had drawn that one crucial, life-affirming breath. But she did not care that the midwife had lied. And she did not think that God would care, either.

  AT FIRST READING, Joanna’s letter had seemed to offer good news, for she assured Raimond that her nausea had finally abated. She told him then, though, that he should delay his visit, for she’d decided to join her mother at Rouen. He’d have preferred that she’d stayed at Fontevrault, for he’d need an additional week of travel to reach Rouen. But he understood her desire to be with Eleanor as her time drew nigh. His indomitable mother-in-law put him in mind of those ancient Greek legends of a warrior race of women called Amazons. And Dame Esquiva agreed with him that Joanna must indeed be on the mend if she felt well enough to make that long journey. So he took solace in that and made arrangements to leave for Rouen before Michaelmas, intending to stay with Joanna until the birth of their child.

  Yet he was not easy about this ill-starred pregnancy, which had done such damage to his wife’s health and kept them apart for so long. Again and again, he’d cursed himself for allowing her to make that stubborn pilgrimage to seek aid from Richard. If only he’d forbidden it, she’d be awaiting her confinement here in Toulouse, under the care of Dame Esquiva, a midwife she knew and trusted. He smiled ruefully then, for trying to turn Joanna into a docile, submissive wife would be like hitching a purebred mare to a plough. Whilst it might be possible, what man in his right senses would want to do it?

  A PALL HUNG OVER the count’s castle at Toulouse. People spoke in hushed whispers, their gazes drawn toward the stairwell that led to the count’s bedchamber. He’d been up there for hours, ever since he’d gotten the English queen’s letter. He’d gone ashen at the sight of Eleanor’s seal, broken it with shaking fingers, and then turned away without saying a word. It was left to the queen’s messenger to tell them that the Lady Joanna was dead and, with her, the count’s infant son.

  RAIMOND DID NOT KNOW what time it was, not sure if hours or days had passed. He’d refused food, all feeble attempts at comfort, his chaplain’s offer of prayers, but he’d finally admitted a servant with wine. Empty flagons lay scattered about in the floor rushes. Like discarded gravestones, he thought hazily. He was not truly drunk, though; God had denied him that mercy. Moving aimlessly to the window, he pulled the shutters back, gazing out at a night of heartbreaking beauty; the moon was in its last quarter, a silvered crescent floating in an infinite ebony sea. During those summer months without Joanna, he’d liked to remind himself that they were gazing up each night at the same starlit sky. It was a poetic way of keeping her closer to him. Now all he could think was that she’d never look upon the sky again.

  When he opened the door, he tripped over a shadow that yelped when he stepped on it. He gave a startled cry of his own before recognizing Ahmer, one of Joanna’s Sicilian hounds. He knew Joanna was being mourned in Toulouse, for she’d been popular with the men and women of his city. But somehow it was the dog’s lonely vigil that caught at his heart. With Ahmer at his heels, he slowly climbed the stairs to the small chamber above his own. A wet nurse was sleeping on a pallet beside his daughter’s cradle; she was swaddled like a butterfly waiting to hatch from its cocoon. Nearby, Raimondet was sprawled on his back, snoring gently, and fresh tears came as Raimond recalled how proud the little boy was when he’d been allowed to sleep in a bed of his own.

  Reaching down, he lifted his son into his arms. Raimondet whimpered, his lashes flickering, but then he sank back into sleep, snuggling against Raimond’s shoulder. He’d have to be told, but he was too young, at two, to understand. He would keep asking for “Mama” as he’d been doing all summer. Until her memory faded, until he could no longer remember the woman who’d sung him to sleep at night and made him squeal with laughter when she’d tickled him and pretended not to see him when he’d hidden behind the billowing bed curtains.

  For Raimond, this was the pain that tore him apart, even harder to bear than the realization that he’d never hear her laugh again or make love to her or see her sleepy smile upon awakening in the morning. “I will not let him forget you, Joanna,” he whispered. “I promise you that, my love, upon the surety of my soul.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  SEPTEMBER 1199

  Le Mans, Anjou

  John’s smile reminded Constance of a cat who’d just gotten into the cream. As little as she’d liked Richard, she’d never had trouble envisioning him as a king. But John? If he were fit to rule, then unicorns roamed the Breton hills and mermaids sunned themselves on Breton beaches. Having to make peace with him was not easy, but they’d concluded they had no choice. Despite Arthur’s early successes, it had become obvious that the scales were weighted in John’s favor. Moreover, the Bretons were growing uncomfortable with Philippe’s heavy hand on the reins; his support of Arthur was coming at a higher price than Constance was willing to pay. She’d already made a dutiful curtsy to the new king, and she watched now as her son knelt before the dais. As always, she felt great pride. Even at twelve, he was poised and self-confident, so handsome that his smile never failed to catch at her heart. She’d explained why they had to accept John’s kingship—to buy time until Arthur was old enough to challenge John himself. He said he’d understood, but he had not liked it any, and she was relieved now when the fealty ceremony went off without a hitch.

  John was in good spirits. He’d greatly enjoyed watching his young rival humble himself and he had a surprise in store for the lad’s prideful mother, too. Leaning back in his seat, he regarded Constance with a smile that put her instantly on guard.

  “I have news for you, my lady, that I am sure will please you as much as it pleases me. Now that your marriage to the Earl of Chester has been annulled and you have done your grieving over his loss—for I know how much you valued him—I think it is time to find you another husband. I am not often given to quoting from Scriptures, but I believe St Paul counsele
d that it is better to marry than to burn.”

  Constance heard a low murmur from her barons, a growl of pure displeasure. Arthur was frowning, too, even though he was not likely to have understood John’s silken malice, the implication that Constance found her bed a cold one. She alone was not surprised, for she’d been expecting an ambush like this; she’d lived amongst the Angevins since she was a small child.

  “Are you offering to begin a husband hunt for me, my lord king? How very kind.”

  “Not at all. Naturally I want the best for my former sister-by-marriage. But there is no need to ‘begin a husband hunt.’ I’ve already found him.” John let the suspense drag out, his eyes gleaming. “I am sure you will be very happy with . . . Sir Guy de Thouars.”

  The growl behind Constance became a snarl. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Guy and his brother the viscount. Aimery’s expression was almost comical it was so conflicted—pride that his House would be able to boast such a highborn sister-in-law warring with astonished jealousy that his younger brother was to become a duke. Guy, quite simply, looked as if he’d been poleaxed.

  “Your generosity leaves me speechless, my lord king,” Constance said coldly. “I am sure you will understand that I must consult with my son and my barons and bishops about something so important as my marriage.”

  “Of course,” John said, and she thought of cats again, for he was practically purring. “By all means, discuss it. But I have every confidence that you will reach the right conclusion—now that you and your son have been restored to royal favor.”

  He smiled genially, but Constance heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being slid halfway up its scabbard. And as she looked at her lords, she saw that they’d heard it, too.

  THERE WERE EIGHT MEN in the chamber and all but one were in a state of high dudgeon. Constance sat in a window-seat and listened wearily. They were cursing John in the most intemperate language she had ever heard, and she was accustomed to the Angevins’ creative use of profanity; even the bishops of Rennes and Vannes were joining in. While they were enraged that John should meddle in Breton matters so blatantly, it was the choice of husband for Constance that had their tempers at full blaze. They considered it a mortal insult that John should have selected Guy de Thouars, a landless younger brother of a Poitevin lord, and none of them were shy about saying so.

  At last the others fell silent, yielding to Guillaume des Roches and the de Vitré brothers, André and Robert. Des Roches was an Angevin lord, but Richard had given him the heiress of the barony of Sable, which lay close to Brittany, and he’d supported Arthur over John after Richard’s death. He’d been outraged, though, when Philippe had razed Ballon, a castle that ought to have been Arthur’s, and then disdainfully dismissed his protest as if it were of no matter. His had been the most vocal and persuasive voice of those urging Arthur to make peace with John. Now he was the only one urging them not to act rashly, saying the marriage was not as demeaning as the others claimed. He was at once shouted down.

  “John is mocking us, my lady,” André de Vitré spat, “by offering you such an unworthy husband! The Duchess of Brittany to wed a man with no title, no lands of his own, no prospects?”

  André’s denunciation was not quite accurate, for the viscounts of Thouars did not pass their lands from father to son, but from brother to brother, so although Aimery had three sons of his own, if Guy outlived him, he’d eventually become the next viscount. Constance knew that, but she did not bother to correct him, for the gist of his complaint was true. The possibility that Guy might one day inherit his brother’s title was not enough to transform him into a suitable match for the Duchess of Brittany. She did respond, however, when Robert de Vitré charged John with deliberately forcing her into a disparaging marriage to shame her, to shame them all.

  “I am not defending John,” she said. “I’d sooner walk barefoot to Mont St Michel clad only in my chemise. But I do not think he chose Guy de Thouars because he wanted to degrade me. I suspect his primary concern is to see me wed to someone ‘safe,’ someone he can trust to do his bidding.”

  They saw that as an even more damning accusation. Constance let them rant and fume, for she knew how little it meant. She’d known that John would exact a price for his peace and that she’d likely be the one to pay it. Her eyes came to rest upon her son, slouched down in the other window-seat; he was sulking because none of the men were paying him any mind and not happy at the thought of his mother remarrying.

  “We have to face the truth,” she finally said, “however little we like it. John’s father forced me to wed a man of his choosing whilst he knew I was still grieving for Geoffrey, for his own son. Why should John be any more merciful? If I balk at wedding this man, he’ll compel me to wed another, one even less acceptable than Guy de Thouars, as punishment for my defiance.”

  Their silence was a reluctant acknowledgment that they knew she was right. Only Arthur did not understand. “Maman? What will you do then?”

  What I’ve always done—what I must. “I think,” she said, “that I shall have to talk to Sir Guy.”

  THEY WERE WALKING in the palace gardens, trailed at a discreet distance by several of her ladies and barons, for Constance wanted to talk with Guy herself before subjecting him to an interrogation by her Breton lords. She did not know him well, but she’d not forgotten his kindness at St James de Beuvron, and she thought he was a decent man. Of course, so was Randolph of Chester, as loath as she was to admit that. She would never forgive him for holding her prisoner, yet she knew he was not evil. Slanting a sidelong glance toward Guy, she murmured, “So this took you by surprise, too?”

  “Good God, yes!” he said and laughed. “I’d sooner have expected to be told the cardinals in Rome had elected our parish priest in Thouars as the next Pope.”

  She found his candor refreshing, accustomed as she was to a world in which all had ulterior motives and royal courts were breeding grounds for intrigue and double-dealing. “My barons think John chose you because you lack a title, Sir Guy. I think he was more interested in your fidelity to the Angevin House.” Coming to a halt on the walkway, she looked up intently into his face. “I’ve been told that you were very loyal to Richard.”

  He nodded, no longer smiling. “I would have followed the king into Hell itself if need be.”

  That was not what she’d wanted to hear, but at least he’d been honest. “Well, you followed him to Germany,” she said dryly, “so that was close enough to Hell, I expect. And John?”

  “He is my liege lord,” he said, and she gave him another searching look, for he sounded dutiful, not enthusiastic. Who would be enthusiastic about serving John, though, with his history of broken promises and betrayals? They walked in silence for several moments before he said, “There is this you must know, my lady. If we were to wed, my first loyalty would then be to you, as my wife.”

  He sounded sincere. She knew how easily sincerity was feigned, yet she sensed no guile in him. “So you’d not resolve any of our marital disputes by locking me up in the castle keep?”

  “Jesu, no!” he exclaimed before realizing that she was being flippant. He smiled again, ruefully this time. “My brother thinks I am a chivalrous fool,” he admitted, “and he may be right. But I am comfortable in my own skin, my lady, and have no desire to be other than as I am.”

  Constance thought there were worse fates than being married to a chivalrous fool. “I believe you to be an honorable man,” she said, “and I think you have a good heart.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming,” he said lightly. “I was planning to plead my case with you. Yet I do not know how persuasive an argument it is to say, ‘You could do worse, much worse than me.’”

  Constance was realizing that Guy was also quite likable—and that he had a very engaging smile. He was not at all like Geoffrey. But mayhap that was for the best. “Did you mean it when you said that if we were wed, your first loyalty would be to me?”

  “Yes—to yo
u and to our children.”

  For some reason, that caught her by surprise. “You want children?”

  “Of course. Do you not want them, too?”

  During her marriage to the Earl of Chester, the last thing she’d wanted was to become pregnant. Whilst she was no longer young, women of thirty-eight could still get with child. Would she want that? “Yes . . . I think I do.”

  Still, she hesitated. Was it such a risk, though? If he were to prove too troublesome, her barons could always run him out of Brittany as they had Chester. Why not take this attractive, good-humored man? For indeed, she could do much worse. “Very well,” she said. “I will marry you, Sir Guy.”

  “You truly will?” He laughed, looking so boyishly elated that she could not help laughing, too. At least he had the mother wit to understand how lucky he was.

  She was not expecting what he did next, for so far they’d discussed the marriage as the political arrangement it was. But he stepped forward then, tilted her face up to his, and kissed her.

  “I shall do my best to make sure you have no regrets,” he vowed, and kissed her again. The first kiss had been tentative. This one was not, and Constance found herself responding to it. It had been so long since a man had shown her tenderness. She felt as if her body were awakening after years of sleep. His mouth was warm, and when he pulled her to him, she did not care that she was embracing a stranger in a public garden, probably under the shocked eyes of her ladies and barons.

  When they ended the embrace, she gazed up at him in wonderment, for this was the first time that she’d felt herself free of Geoffrey’s ghost. He’d always hovered close at hand during her unsatisfactory couplings with Randolph, reminding her of all she’d had and lost. Was it possible that Guy de Thouars could exorcise his sardonic spirit, banish him back to the realm of memory where ghosts belonged?