“Sai, a la dolor de la den, vir la leng’, a leis cui mi ren,” Folq sang.
As the tongue is drawn to the toothache, so I am drawn to the one who scorns me. A labored analogy. Ladies giggled and men groaned. Joan inclined her head toward Berry to translate and caught Lord Raymond’s eye. He tucked his tongue into his cheek as if his tooth hurt. Joan rolled her eyes and turned away. He was shameless.
The door to the great hall suddenly swung open, admitting a herald who called, “A messenger!”
Folq stopped mid-verse. Lord Raymond stood.
The man entered, dripping wet, tracking mud. “The king of England lives!”
“How so?” Raymond demanded over the gasps and shouts of the court.
“His ship foundered, but he and some fellows made shore. The king was attempting to cross the lands of Duke Leopold of Austria when he was recognized and captured.”
Duke Leopold. Whom Richard had so gravely insulted in Acre. The Holy Roman emperor’s man.
Berry slid from her chair in a dead faint. Raymond joined Joan at her side, patting her hands and fanning her face until her lids fluttered open.
Raymond waved two knights nearer. “Take the queen to her apartments.”
“Charisse,” Joan said, clutching the maid’s arm, “go with them.”
She should go also, but she would not leave until she heard all the messenger had to report. One of the men hoisted Berry and carried her from the room.
“Where is the king now?” Raymond asked.
“In custody of the duke, to be handed over to Emperor Henry.”
“Has the emperor said what he plans?”
“In a letter to the king of France, he stated only that King Richard was in his power. The letter should have reached France by now. They rejoice, my lord. The world rejoices.”
In the babble around her, Joan heard an echo of France’s joyous gloating. Raymond glanced quickly toward Joan.
“He lives,” he said, as if that were the reason for their joy.
She couldn’t find voice to defend Richard, to accuse Philip and the emperor. She needed to weep. For joy. For fear. Raymond put a hand on her arm, but she shook him off and stamped from the hall, painfully aware of the court’s attention.
She must go to Berry. It was her duty. Yet instead she mounted the stairs to the second floor. Near the chapel’s entrance, a door exited onto a balcony. It connected with an open walkway that led around the perimeter of the castle, but the balcony itself, partially overhung with a roof and protected by a low guard wall, allowed a measure of privacy. She slipped outside.
How beautiful Toulouse was in the moonlight. She could see past the gleaming white cathedral to the shimmering waters of the Garonne. Pressing her hands on the top of the wall, Joan leaned over and pulled in great lung-drenching breaths.
Richard lived.
He lived, but in the Holy Roman emperor’s custody. Constance’s prisoner. What would Philip do? Richard dead at sea was a martyr. Richard alive and imprisoned could be prosecuted for his sins. And John, almost a king, must be trembling. Would he fight for his brother’s freedom? Or pray Richard languished in the emperor’s jail?
Joan heard footsteps behind her and knew it was Raymond.
“I’m glad I found you.”
How had he known where to look? She turned to gaze silently into his concerned face.
“Jeanne, what are you feeling? Please, talk to me.”
“Why?” Why was she so tempted to unburden her heart?
With low, rumbling earnestness, he said, “I want to know you.”
He bent his face closer to hers. She didn’t turn away.
His kiss was so tender. She felt curiously unsurprised it should happen, that she allowed it to happen. Had she expected him to follow her here?
The pressure of his lips increased, and for a moment, she yielded. So this was how it felt. His hands moved from her elbows to her waist. His lips parted and she felt his breath hot on her cheek. He wanted her. It was a heady sensation. He kissed her again, pulling her closer, enfolding her as she melted against him. This is how it feels. She wanted him.
“No,” she said in a sudden panic, turning her head, shoving away his hands. Shame engulfed her.
Flushing deeply, he retreated a step. “I beg your pardon.”
“How dare you!”
“I hadn’t intended that. I’m sorry.”
“Would you take advantage of my…my confusion?”
His eyes caught hers and held them, searching. Pride kept her from revealing what he sought. He blinked, and his warmth was snuffed like a candle.
“My lady, I’ve offended you, and for that, I apologize. I won’t intrude again.”
IT SEEMED THE PEOPLE OF TOULOUSE HATED NO ONE MORE than King Richard. Now that the mighty warrior had been brought low, nothing could stem the celebratory tide. Joan and Berry were loath to leave their apartments even for meals, even for prayers. But not Theodora. Some nights, lost in celebration, she even failed to return to her chamber.
After five days had passed, the count summoned them. Joan had a strong suspicion as to why. Another messenger had come to court, this one from France. The count had probably been taking orders from Philip all along. If Richard was a prisoner, they would be also.
She ascended the stairs and passed the door to the balcony, averting her eyes. Ahead she saw Lord Raymond, blocking the council room door.
“Lady Queen,” he said, bowing his head to Berry, then to Joan, “my lady. I must have a moment. A messenger has come from King Philip. I was not privy to his missive, but I’ll repeat, I’ve given my word you will go home.”
“We also have the word of your father,” Joan said. “Forgive me for being skeptical of the word of Toulouse.”
“My father’s allegiance belongs to his overlord,” Raymond answered, an edge to his voice.
“His lord? Yet I was in Limoges when your father pledged homage to mine.”
“I was there, too. Perhaps you’ll recall, even then, I chose to serve you.”
The assurance was bittersweet, warm words delivered coldly. Joan was glad Berry interrupted to say, “You’ve been very kind. Certainly, we will hold you to your promise. It was on your word, not your father’s, that we came.”
He nodded once again, then rapped on the door.
Joan expected the count to disapprove when he saw his son enter in company with the enemy, but he only smiled. He sat at the head of a long walnut table in a chair as plush as a throne. Toulouse’s elderly bishop stood beside him. Lady Ponsa was present, standing off to the side, and with her, Theodora. The two looked smug, confirming Joan’s fears.
“Ladies,” Count Raymond said, “we have much to discuss.” He didn’t offer them chairs, so they stood before the table like petitioners. “If you are ready to leave us, I will arrange an escort to Aquitaine.”
Joan stared. Warm relief coursed through her veins. She looked to Berry, whose mouth hung open.
“I am also to tell you the king of France sends his regards.”
Joan felt an odd urge to laugh. She wagered the count was as confused as she was. Yet, somehow, it was in character for Philip.
“Thank you,” Berry said. “You’ve been a generous host. I’ll remember you to my husband.”
The count’s smile broadened—maliciously, Joan thought.
“Unfortunately, I fear I owe your husband some restitution. My son has been indiscreet, an incorrigible habit of his.”
Joan felt dizzy. She didn’t dare look at Raymond. Had someone seen them?
“He’ll marry her, of course. And I’ll compensate the king for the loss of his ward when his own unfortunate imprisonment is ended.”
Theodora. Joan’s eyes were drawn against her will to the hated captive. Theodora hadn’t even the decency to blush. Her eyes blazed with triumph.
“You have no right!” Berry said shrilly.
“I have the obligation.” He sighed as if pained. “Unless, Raymond, you deny th
at the princess has cause to expect you to wed her?”
Joan had to look at him, to see his face for herself. He was pale, jaw clenched. Had he gone straight from her arms to Theodora’s? Deny it, she begged.
“Raymond?” the count pressed.
“No, sir. The princess has cause.”
T W E N T Y - O N E
ELEANOR WOULD NOT ABIDE HER SON’S IMPRISONMENT. Scarcely wasting a moment’s time to welcome her daughter and daughter-in-law home, she explained what had transpired and what they must all do next. The king of England would be released from captivity if he renounced his alliance with Tancred of Sicily and paid a fine of one hundred thousand marks to the Holy Roman emperor. It was up to Richard’s subjects to raise a king’s ransom.
In Aquitaine, no one could stir the people more effectively than their Duchess Eleanor. However, she was not so loved in England, and there, Berry was unknown. So Joan sailed across the Channel to sing her brother’s praises and vilify the emperor and French king. She badgered tax collectors and flattered abbots. Slowly, Richard’s ransom coffers filled.
Joan also met with John. It took only a glance to know she pitied him still. She told him what their mother commanded: Don’t cause any more trouble. Stop communicating with Philip. Mama would effect his reconciliation with Richard.
“Will she?” John asked, his eyes sad. “And what will she do for you? Fontevrault? Is this what we were born for? To serve Richard’s ambition or be shut away?”
“We serve our family, John. We must stand together.”
“When has Richard ever served anyone but himself? No. I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of. I’ll continue to fight for what is rightfully mine.”
John would not win. Who could stand against Richard, right or wrong? Only King Philip might prove Richard’s match, and they could not allow that to happen.
In the spring, the French king moved his army into Normandy, seizing Gisors and several other border castles. He stirred the ever-rebellious lord of Angoulême to raid Richard’s lands in Poitou.
Yet Richard had been busy also, forging an alliance with his captor. Having received the bulk of the ransom, Emperor Henry announced he would release the king at the beginning of the new year. The news made Philip wary enough to arrange a truce with Richard’s men in Normandy. If allowed to keep his gains, he would attempt no further advance.
As always, the French king spoke from both sides of his mouth. At the same time, he recognized John as Normandy’s duke, and John, more desperate than ever, formally ceded the entire duchy to France.
At January’s end, the emperor invited Queen Eleanor and two of Richard’s advisers to Mainz to pay the last installment of the ransom. On February 4, after nearly fourteen months in captivity, Richard was free. Free to seek revenge.
“HE WON’T SEE YOU.” AS HER MOTHER SWEPT INTO THE women’s chamber, Joan dropped her sewing and stood. How could a woman of her age travel so fast? She was a week early, at least, in returning from Mainz.
“Mama, what do you mean?”
Finger by finger, her mother pulled off her dark woolen riding gloves. With narrowed eyes she scanned the four corners of the poorly lit room as if assuring herself of Joan’s solitude. “He said it is still his wish that you enter the nunnery, but he no longer expects you to gratify his wishes. He understands how hard you’ve worked for his release, but said he never would have been imprisoned had you obeyed him.”
“That is unfair.” Though in despair she’d often thought the same, she knew it to be untrue when Richard accused her.
“You needn’t go to Fontevrault.”
Joan sank back onto the chair. “I don’t care. I would have gone. Better to serve God—”
“Richard did consent to see you to give his blessing if you decide to take the veil.”
So, there it was. He would forgive her only if she bowed to his will, yet he dared pretend he was giving her a choice.
“That,” Eleanor said, slapping the gloves lightly against her palm, “is why I said he won’t see you. It’s nonsense. What good could you do him there?”
“I could pray for his soul,” she muttered. Mama wouldn’t even pretend choice existed.
“You can do that here. Besides, I don’t know what Berry would do without you. I can’t blame Richard for finding her unappealing but—”
“She worships him. She’s docile and sweet. What more could he want?”
Eleanor shrugged. “I told Richard I’d bring her to Barfleur next month. Before he begins his spring campaign, he’s going to lie with her if I’ve got to stand over the bed and supervise.”
Joan almost laughed. If that threat didn’t frighten Richard, nothing would. “Will I be permitted to accompany you to Barfleur?”
“One thing at a time. He’s got to reconcile with John first. I can only push him so far.”
BY MAY, IT WAS CLEAR PHILIP HAD NO INTENTION OF HONORING any truce. He laid siege to Verneuil, a castle Joan well remembered. As Richard marched to the aid of his garrison, he was met by his younger brother, who fell at his feet begging forgiveness. In typical fashion, Richard tinged generosity with scorn.
“Don’t be afraid, Johnny-boy. You fell into bad company. We’ll punish those who’ve led you astray.”
However John felt about the matter, he now fought on Richard’s side. King Philip abandoned the siege of Verneuil.
Throughout the summer, Richard put Philip on the defensive, punishing France’s allies in Touraine, in Aquitaine, and in Angoulême. Philip moved his army back to Normandy. At the end of July, the two exhausted monarchs agreed upon a fourteen-month truce.
Although there were no major battles the rest of the season, it was hardly a truce. Richard concentrated on making his presence felt in Normandy, strengthening his fortifications, raiding the countryside up to the very walls of Philip’s castles.
“Richard says Philip has learned from Saladin how to wage war,” Eleanor said, reading one of his reports aloud. “He’s destroying some of his own castles rather than see them fall.”
Berry smiled weakly. “Then my lord will certainly defeat him also.”
Joan scowled at the inane comment. “He didn’t defeat Saladin.”
The great sultan had died while Richard was in prison. Joan refrained from pointing out that if Richard had stayed in the Holy Land rather than stupidly sailing for home so late in autumn, he could have taken advantage of the resulting turmoil among the Turks instead of landing in the emperor’s jail.
“You won’t win any favor with your brother with that attitude,” her mother chastised her. “And he’s coming to Poitiers for Christmas court, so you might practice your meek smile.”
“Is he?” she and Berry demanded almost simultaneously.
“And John, also.” Eleanor rose from her chair, pressing a hand to her chest. “God be merciful and grant us a month’s peace and quiet.”
THREE DAYS AFTER HIS RETURN TO POITIERS, RICHARD received Joan into his presence. With its damp gray walls and deep-set windows, the council chamber was as cheerless as a dungeon.
Surrounded by family and a few knights currently in favor, she knelt and kissed the hem of his tunic. “Will you forgive me, sire?”
He stood silent until their mother cleared her throat. Then he said haughtily, “When I’ve ascertained that you are truly contrite.”
With a burning in the pit of her stomach, she stood and backed several steps to the wall, keeping her head low. She would suffer him humbly, as John did, for their mother’s sake.
“I understand you’ve made my pretty little captive a countess.”
“Pardon?” Joan asked, head jerking up. Richard’s smile was so cold, she almost shivered.
“You haven’t heard? The count of Toulouse is dead.”
For a moment, she could not think to answer. Then she said, “Good. The devil likes company.”
“Count Raymond VI will pay homage to Philip in January. If he takes one step in the direction of Quercy, I’ll go south,
truce or no truce.” He paused, staring hard at her. “Will he press Theodora’s claim to Cyprus?”
“The old count might have wanted Cyprus, but I cannot say what tempted Lord Raymond.”
Richard laughed. “No? I can.”
“Richard!” The queen’s razor voice sliced the air.
He glanced lazily at Berry, whose face had turned bright red. Then he returned to Joan. “I told you to await me in Rome.”
“Yes, my lord. But we believed you were dead.”
“You were quick to believe it.”
“Richard, I was heartbroken.”
For just a moment, the coldness left his eyes. It returned so abruptly, she decided she’d imagined any thaw.
He said, “That’s no excuse. From now on, you do as I tell you.”
Joan hung her head. “Yes, my lord.”
THROUGHOUT THE FOLLOWING SPRING AND SUMMER, UNDER the guise of the truce, the French and English kings talked of peace while making war.
In Poitiers, Joan listened for news of Toulouse as carefully as for word of her brother’s progress. Although Richard expected—even welcomed—trouble from that quarter, the new count seemed to have little interest in the squabbles of the kings. He had troubles of his own—a border dispute with Foix; a treaty with his father’s old enemy, the king of Aragon; and the disputed election of a new bishop of Toulouse. Joan refused to give credence to a discussion she overheard between two clerics that the count needed a sympathetic bishop because he wanted his marriage annulled. John, bearing messages for their mother, confirmed it.
“By God’s ears,” he said, “the man takes his marriage vows lightly. Isn’t this the third wife he’s cast off? You might think he shouldn’t put her aside for barrenness after only two years, but his courtiers say two years is more than enough. Whenever he takes a new mistress, he swells her belly in three months.”
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