“Tell him he is very kind to think of us,” Berry said, her whispery voice unexpectedly strong. “But my husband bade me wait for him here.”
Aimery turned to Joan with a flustered, quizzical look, as if the queen had just proved herself mad. Yet Joan knew Berry was simply emulating her own stubborn denial. Swallowing disappointment, she said, “Take my love to Ermengarde.”
His eyes still on her face, Aimery’s voice grew quieter. “That’s not the only message I was asked to carry. Lord Raymond asked me to remind you that you’re always welcome in Toulouse.”
“Pardon?” The words fanned a flicker of memory into a blaze. The vision of a young knight pulling a doll from a satchel rose before her eyes. She remembered the strength of his hands scattering her tormentors and preventing her fall.
“He said you mustn’t fear his father. If need be, he will escort you to Aquitaine himself.”
Her heart beat so hard she thought it must be audible. “I…I can’t answer now. The queen—”
Charisse moved toward Aimery. “I’ll show you out, sir. The queen will send for you when she’s reached a decision.”
Aimery bent his knee, then followed her from the room. Joan felt Berry’s stare, yet she could not face her. Rattled, she wished for just a moment to think.
“Do you trust Lord Raymond?” Berry asked, rising and coming to stand closer.
What if she led Richard’s wife into a trap? Hardening her heart, she forced herself to answer sensibly. “I have no reason to. He knows we’d never go to Toulouse on his father’s invitation. How better to lure us there?”
“Yet you want to trust him,” she said. Joan turned away, wondering why it should be true.
“I want to go home.” Her voice caught.
Leaning over her, Berry wrapped both arms around her shoulders. “Then we’ll go.”
THE POPE ASSIGNED A CARDINAL TO ESCORT THEM AS FAR AS St. Gilles. Lord Aimery returned from Toulouse to meet them there with ten knights, four palfreys, and a thickly cushioned wain spacious enough to carry them as well as their baggage. For Berry, raised with a Spaniard’s love of horses, the choice was simple. Theodora also proved a surprisingly competent horsewoman. Joan rode for the sheer pleasure of being outdoors, while Charisse, offered the company of Theodora or the baggage, chose the wain.
Though it was December, Joan needed only a light cloak. Leaves crunched beneath the horse’s hooves, and the scent of wood smoke brought back memories of traveling with her father. Know the scents belonging to the locale, he’d taught her. Cows and sheep. Drying hay. Each night they ate fresh game and drank new wine.
Aimery, Joan soon learned, was as loquacious as Ermengarde when talking about nothing.
On the sixth day he told them they would reach their goal by nightfall. That afternoon the walls of the great city loomed in front of them. The stones had a pink cast, so that Toulouse seemed to exude warmth. The blue-green Garonne coursed alongside, with numerous barges, mills, and fishing boats clinging to its banks.
As they drew closer, a troop of men spilled forth through the east gate. At the head, two heralds carried scarlet banners embellished with the twelve-pointed cross of Toulouse. The count rode between them. Five knights followed, riding abreast. One was Lord Raymond.
“Ladies,” the count called, holding up his hand to halt the dust-raising approach of his party.
Joan noticed Lord Raymond’s hair was still a shade too long but now thinning in front. He must be near thirty-six, William’s age when he died. He still looked fit, though it was hard to tell when a man was on horseback. He swiveled his head, as though searching for something. Then he saw her and smiled.
His father’s horse pranced daintily up to the women. “Lady Joan. I’d know you anywhere. You have your father’s eyes.”
It sounded like an accusation, but Joan bowed her head and said, “Thank you for your kindness, Lord Count.”
“And you are Queen Berengaria,” he said, turning to Berry. “Welcome to Toulouse.”
“Your generosity redounds to your good name.”
“I am not so hard a man I cannot be moved by the plight of grieving ladies.” He shifted his gaze. “Princess Theodora? Welcome.”
Joan tensed. Theodora was the captive daughter of a deposed usurper. What did he mean, calling her princess?
“Please, ladies, come along.”
Surrounded by the knights, enemies of her family, Joan’s small party entered Toulouse. Her stomach bubbled with fear, and each step of her horse jarred her spine. Had they made a mistake in coming?
The streets were wide and lined with square wood-and-stone houses, stoops swept and shutters in good repair. She smelled leather and wool, but not butchery, tanning, or sheep. The count was showing them a prosperous quarter.
The burghers on the street bowed to the passing cortege, but almost perfunctorily, as if they had more important business to attend to. She heard Lord Raymond’s laughter and saw someone had tossed a bouquet into the street. A girl waved from a high window, and he waved back.
When they reached their destination, Joan had to blink away unexplainable tears. More graceful and compact than the Norman fortresses of her youth, less fantastical than the pleasure palaces of Sicily, Toulouse’s rather ordinary castle seemed comfortably welcoming. The hooves of their horses clattered against the paving as they entered the gates. Grooms swarmed about. Her escort had already dismounted and held a hand to her. Joan grimaced and slid from the horse, hoping she didn’t look too awkward.
Several ladies wended closer, led by a tall, gray-haired woman whose smile appeared carved in stone. Seeing Ermengarde among them, Joan let out a breath of relief.
“Ladies.” The gray-haired dowager caught hold of Berry’s hand and Theodora’s. “You’ll want to refresh yourselves after your journey.”
Joan shot a glance at Ermengarde, who mouthed something she could not interpret. Not until they crowded into a narrow hallway did she worm close enough to catch Ermengarde’s hand and squeeze it. “Who is that?”
“The count’s mistress, Lady Ponsa.”
A mistress pretending to be a countess. “Where is your lady? Lord Raymond’s wife?”
“Shh, later,” she whispered.
Lady Ponsa led them along a narrow corridor to an antechamber subtly scented with herbs. The room contained a few cushioned chairs and two small tables arranged on a thick green carpet; two narrow couches sat against the far wall. At either end of the room were doors. Ponsa opened one to display a tall bed swathed with opaque curtains.
“For the queen and princess,” she said with a slight curtsy. “Your women may share the anteroom.”
Berry turned red. “Lady Joan will share my bed. Theodora can have a couch.”
“Oh! Of course, you may choose who shares your bed, lady, but we won’t put the princess with the maid.” Lady Ponsa had the courtesy to look flustered, but the insult was clearly intentional.
Joan could understand why they would demean her; she was her mother’s daughter. Eleanor of Aquitaine had pressed her own claim on Toulouse too vigorously for one of her offspring to find a true welcome there. But were they deliberately favoring Theodora?
“Princess Theodora may have this chamber,” Ponsa said. She crossed the room to open the second door. Inside, linens were stacked as though it were a storage room, but it also held a bed, half hidden by the piles. “It needs but an airing. Lady, is this to your liking?”
“Certainly,” Theodora said.
“Your trunks should be here shortly.” She smiled her granite smile at Theodora before turning it on Berry and Joan. “We’ll see you at supper.”
Ermengarde cast an apologetic glance toward them, then followed her lady. When the door closed, Theodora whirled around.
“The king is dead, my father avenged.” She sneered. “I expect I will go home before you do, Joan.”
“LADY JEANNE,” LORD RAYMOND MURMURED. HE CAUGHT hold of her hand and brought her fingertips to his lips. “You�
��ve come.”
They stood in a narrow corridor before the massive oak doors of the castle’s great hall. As if her desire had conjured his presence, Lord Raymond had slipped through the crowd of courtiers and caught her unawares, though she’d been looking for him.
This was not the youth she remembered. His skin was coarser, with fine laugh lines around his mouth. The gray eyes she’d once thought coldly metallic now radiated heat like molten lead. Lankiness had given way to broad shoulders and muscular limbs, and the hand holding her own was pleasantly callused. William’s hands had ever been soft.
She merely nodded, tongue-tied, as he released her. She hoped the heat rising to her neck would not be visible in her face. How absurd to come undone in his presence simply because he’d been kind to her when she was a child.
He turned to Berry. “Lady, you do us honor.”
She held out her fingers to be kissed. Joan noticed she didn’t blush.
“And where is Lady Theodora?” he asked.
“Having her hair combed,” Berry answered flatly and turned away.
Joan didn’t elaborate. Lady Ponsa had sent a half score of maids to unpack their trunks and help them dress for dinner. Berry possessed a fairly simple trousseau—her gowns were well-made but modest. It was not Joan’s intention to outshine her. She had meant to wear her plainest robe until she saw Theodora’s choice: a samite gown of imperial purple, the molded bodice decorated in bold Greek style. Joan switched to a rich blue silk with silver beading.
The doors opened to reveal the count and his lady.
“Raymond,” he said, a scowl on his face, “what are you doing?”
“Dining, sir. Had you something else in mind?”
“Come here.”
Raymond left Joan and entered the hall beside his father. Scarlet cloths lined the walls to muffle noise. The room had only tiny windows close to the ceiling, so torches provided illumination. With the flickering light and faintly smoky air, Joan felt she was walking into fire.
Lady Ponsa showed them to their places. Joan was to sit at the far end of the high table with Berry to her right. The seat to her left remained empty—for Theodora, she surmised. Several courtiers were interposed between them and the count, then Ponsa and, beside her, Lord Raymond. The chair next to Raymond remained unclaimed. Did it wait for his wife?
Joan swept her eyes across the hall. Chairs surrounded the head table; the others were flanked by benches that were rapidly filling.
“They will honor Theodora,” Berry said, her voice even quieter than usual.
Theodora chose that moment to make her entrance. All eyes turned. Even, a quick glance confirmed, Raymond’s. Lady Ponsa beckoned to her, and Theodora glided across the room to claim the empty place beside Raymond. Yet at the same moment, assuaging Joan’s outrage, Ermengarde appeared at her side.
Joan jumped from her chair to embrace her old friend. Ermengarde flushed with pleasure, then curtsied low before Berengaria as Joan seated herself again.
“Where is Lord Raymond’s wife?” Joan asked, tipping her head toward the offending parties.
“He doesn’t have one,” Ermengarde answered, voice low, gaze wandering, as if making sure they could not be heard by anyone who might understand their French. She slid into her chair. “She entered a…a religious house.”
“A nunnery? But why?”
“No, not a nunnery. She held Cathar views.” Defensively, she added, “Many gentlewomen of Carcassonne do.”
“A heretic!” The hair on the back of Joan’s neck prickled. She had heard of this strange religious sect. They called themselves true Christians, but they had been condemned by the pope. And Raymond had married one? “No wonder he put her aside.”
“It wasn’t like that.” Ermengarde shook her head with vigor. “He thought she would recognize her error. But she was so unhappy. She wanted to be a Cathar goodwoman.”
Uneasily, Joan realized it meant Ermengarde and Raymond were now both free. Yet the heir to Toulouse could not marry a woman with no dowry or property. Would Ermengarde settle for less than a marriage? Joan prayed she’d hear no more confessions.
To Joan’s relief, uncomfortable silences could not last in Ermengarde’s company. She seemed to feel the awkward topic had been disposed of, and now she might chatter every thought that entered her head. Joan laughed to listen, glad for an informer who never needed prompting.
The food was faultless: roast pheasant, bread and cheese, baked honeyed apples, Provençal wine. While she ate, Joan learned that Count Raymond had been ill—not deathly, but feeling his age. Lord Raymond had taken over many of the day-to-day duties of the court, and the courtiers adored him.
As much as Joan enjoyed Ermengarde’s company, she could not help but keep one eye on Lord Raymond’s end of the table, where Theodora appeared to be entertaining the count and his son.
After supper, a talented troubadour sang several Occitan songs. The last, humorously bawdy, he sang in French. Rocking with mirth, Theodora bumped her shoulder against Raymond’s chest. It pained Joan to see the light in his eyes as he laughed along.
Afterward, they retired. Joan could not complain of their quarters. Airy and clean, the chamber was lit by candles on the wall as well as a lamp that sat on a small table. After helping the ladies undress, Charisse sank to the couch.
“Pardon me. I cannot stand any longer.”
“Nor I,” Joan admitted, watching Theodora strut to her chamber. She looked as though she could easily dance.
Berry stumbled toward the bed the widowed queens were to share. Joan followed and lay beside her, exhausted by the long days of travel, the anticipation and fear. Her prayers swirled senselessly. Then she realized Berry was weeping.
“Oh, darling.” There was no point asking what was wrong. The list was endless.
“I hate her.” Berry’s sobs shook the bed.
“Theodora? You mustn’t let—”
“You don’t know. She’s afraid of you, but when you aren’t here she…she tells me the things she and Richard did together.”
Joan gasped. “You mustn’t listen to such…She was less than dirt to him.”
“More to him than I was.”
“No. He loved you. He told me so.” God forgive her untruths.
The sobs subsided into whimpers. “What will we do with her?”
Joan had no answer. For all she might wish to abandon the Cypriot to her fate, she could not—Richard had made her responsible for his prisoner. Berry had good excuse to hate Theodora; she had no such cause.
IT RAINED THEIR ENTIRE FIRST WEEK IN THE CITY: MISTS, drizzling, and, at last, a deluge with lightning and thunder enough to make the dogs howl. Cold and damp seeped into the castle. Lord Raymond apologized as if he were at fault.
“I want to show you Toulouse,” he said wistfully, including Berry yet directing his words mainly to Joan. Or so it seemed. His eyes on her face melted her bones. “There’s the church of St. Sernin, perhaps not so impressive as Sicily’s cathedrals, yet beautiful after our fashion. And I’d hoped to take you across the bridge to St. Cyprien. The street markets are as lively as a fair.”
Joan sat in the great hall with her small entourage apart from the general congregation—the ladies spinning, the lords throwing knives at improvised targets.
He heaved a sigh, loud enough to be playful. “Now I’m boring you with repetitious complaints. But wait till the sun shines, my ladies. You won’t find us so dull.”
She smiled, knowing it was what he wanted. “Dull, my lord? Wearying, perhaps, but never wearisome.”
The days were filled with entertainments he’d devised: word games, jugglers, and a hunt for painted wooden coins complete with prizes. Joan took part in the more subdued games, often at Berry’s urging, though Berry would do no more than watch.
It was a youthful and lighthearted court he presided over, yet Raymond never seemed frivolous. His smiles were always measured, his tone reserved. He attended daily morning worship service with
out fail, and Joan learned from Ermengarde that the prayers for King Richard were included at his insistence.
“Raymond, there you are.”
Lady Ponsa came toward them. Joan’s heart sank as he rose without a hint of irritation at the interruption. She enjoyed his company more than she wanted to admit. Was it simply wishful thinking to imagine he enjoyed hers?
“Princess Theodora has asked to see the rose bower. Will you be so kind?”
“Of course. If she doesn’t mind muddying her feet on the garden paths.”
Berry said, “Theodora doesn’t mind mud.” Her sweet, soft voice made the jab sound complimentary. Ponsa turned to her with a puzzled smile and furrowed brow, and Joan stifled a laugh.
“Will you come?” Raymond asked, addressing Berry. “The bower is remarkably constructed. The bushes intertwine to form a”—he made a tent with his fingers—“a little house. Of course, it’s prettier when the flowers are in bloom.”
“No, thank you,” Berry answered. “I want to spend time in the chapel before supper.”
Berry would not stomach Theodora’s company if ever she could avoid it. Joan refused to meet Lord Raymond’s gaze. If he asked, she would accompany him; otherwise, she would do her duty and pray with Berry.
He cleared his throat. Lady Ponsa said, “The princess is waiting.”
Joan saw his bow from the corner of her eye.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
When he walked away, Berry stood, sighing a little. “She’ll make a conquest of him.”
Charisse rose and set down her spindle. “Or he’ll seduce her. He’s like the king your father,” she said to Joan. “Half the women at court worship him, but that isn’t enough. He must bed one and all.”
Had they been alone, Joan would have rebuked her for her impertinence. She glanced at Ermengarde. Eyes cast down and cheeks pink, she seemed to hope no one would notice her. Joan’s anger leaked away. How terrible it would be to love such a man.
THE TOULOUSAIN COULD NOT BE EXPECTED TO RESPECT THE grief of its guests at Christmastide but rather gave itself over to merriment. Joan was relieved when Christmas finally passed into the new year and the festive atmosphere waned. Several of the visiting courtiers left, but a new troubadour named Folq came to court. Those who were so inclined gathered in the great hall to listen to his songs. Raymond left his seat near the front of the hall to join the circle seated near Joan. He sat behind Berry, close enough for Joan to see the gray of his eyes.
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