He turned her around and lifted her chin to kiss her, soft and slow. She didn’t know if she was floating or drowning, but after a few minutes, she dared attempt to kiss him in return.
“Now you undress me,” Raymond whispered.
Her blood chilled. “I…I don’t know how.”
He pulled back to see her face. “That’s all right. I won’t mind a few mistakes.”
He was teasing her. The chill left. Her embarrassment was hot. “You do it, please. I can’t.”
Perhaps he responded to her piteousness, because he backed away and untied his girdle, letting it drop where he stood. Then he stripped to his undershirt and braies. She averted her eyes, wishing she could faint again. Memories of all the shame and pain she’d endured with William flooded back to her. And they’d do this for naught. There would be no heir.
The chair legs scraped against the floor. Raymond sat.
“Come here.”
She stepped forward and he drew her onto his lap. With kisses and caresses, he pulled her closer until she resisted.
“What is wrong?” he asked, ceasing abruptly.
“Wrong?”
“The more I kiss you, the more you tie yourself into a knot. You must talk to me. I can’t guess your thoughts. Is it…are you so unhappy to be with me? Is your heart still with your husband?”
“My…? William? No, of course not.”
“Of course not?” He seemed bewildered.
Mortification made her irritated. “I’m nervous. God’s legs, is that so hard to understand?”
“No.” He shifted her weight on his lap. “Well, yes. It’s not going to hurt.”
“That’s something men say.” Words ran out of her mouth, though she regretted them even as she spoke. “It will hurt me, and you won’t care.”
“Jeanne!” His face grew pinched. He cupped her chin with his hand. “Are you nervous or frightened?”
Jerking her head away, she said, “I’m not frightened. I wish you’d just get it over with instead of—”
“Get it over with?” He sounded aghast. “What did he do to you?”
She didn’t answer.
Raymond stood, setting her on her feet. He returned to the wine table and poured a chalice full. She was about to protest she didn’t want a drink, but he brought the cup to his own lips and gulped. “Go lie down.”
Joan stomped to the bed and climbed into it. He followed, nudging her over to make room.
“You needn’t scowl at me like that. I’m not going to ‘get it over with.’”
“But—”
“Not tonight and not until you’re ready. Nothing will hurt.”
She lay flat on her back, arms crossed over her chest. Her face burned with humiliation when he snuggled beside her and ran his fingertips down her arm. She’d prefer quick pain to this prolonged embarrassment.
“If you don’t like anything that I’m doing, tell me and I’ll stop.” His hand rested lightly on her belly. He started kissing her shoulder, then up along her neck to her ear. He must have felt her tense again, because he moved away and whispered, “Won’t you trust me, Jeanne? Grant it to me as a gift, just this once.”
His earnestness pulled at her heart. What would it be like to trust someone?
He wrapped a lock of her hair around his wrist and kissed it. “I won’t fail you. I swear.”
JOAN COULDN’T REMEMBER EVER SLEEPING SO SOUNDLY. SHE woke feeling languorous but rested, then blushed to feel her husband’s warmth and the hair of his chest tickling her back. Although she was naked, Raymond, true to his word, had not removed his braies.
Shame fought with desire as disconnected images of the night flitted through her memory. The things he’d done—and she’d let him, her body betraying her with its response.
She rolled over very slowly so he wouldn’t awaken and studied him. That was her idea of a perfect face. His jaw was strong, but tapered enough not to be square. When he laughed, he had not dimples but crevasses. And she was glad he wouldn’t change the cut of his hair. It was silken against her fingers, and he had liked her to touch it.
His eyes opened and slowly focused. He flung his arm around her and pulled her close for a kiss. “How are you feeling this morning?”
She said, “Ravenously hungry.”
“Me too.” It sounded like a growl. He nuzzled her neck and stroked her hip and flank.
“Oh!” She pushed his hand away. “Raymond, that tickles.”
“It didn’t tickle last night.”
“Yes, it did. I just didn’t mind.”
Lord help her, she could fall in love with that smile.
“Do we rise and greet the day or linger?” he asked.
“You’re giving me the choice?”
“If you choose lingering.”
His hands grew busy again, and she buried her fingers into his hair, lifting her face for his kisses, then becoming bold and kissing him, his chin, his neck, his collarbone. He hugged her tight.
“You tell me when, Jeanne.”
“Now.”
THEY STAYED IN ROUEN FOR SIX DAYS, THE PLEASANTEST SIX days of Joan’s life. They hunted and rode, played games and listened to troubadours, feasted and prayed, with everyone as polite and happy as angels in God’s own court.
But the morning of their departure, Joan was summoned into her mother’s chamber—alone.
How well she remembered the room from her youth. A large tapestry covered one wall, depicting dancing maidens and a unicorn. The unicorn wore the most mournful expression; it had always bothered her. Now it seemed fitting that her mother could make even a unicorn mourn.
“Joan.” Eleanor stood tall and straight, a brittle smile on her face.
Joan bent her knee. “Mother. I’m sorry to have to go so soon. But the weather is turning—”
“Raymond needs to get back.” Her lips pursed. “I must say, he’s been very kind to John. It’s done the boy good.”
It was true. Raymond had made a point of seeking John out. He treated him like a prince and peer instead of merely Richard’s ill-favored younger brother, all this without annoying Richard. Joan wanted to point out Raymond’s presence had been good for everyone—Richard was even flirting with Berry—but something in her mother’s stance kept the words in her mouth.
“You’ve done very well, Joan. To all appearances, the man is smitten. Richard is encouraged.” She sighed, her face as gray as Sarum’s winter clouds. “I shouldn’t worry. You’ve always been sensible. But it’s what mothers do.”
“Why are you worried, Mother?”
“When you reach Toulouse, be sure to keep an eye on that…the count’s natural son, Bertrand. I’ve heard it said Raymond dotes on the boy.” She frowned a moment then added, “A man should not let his by-blows rise so far. Perhaps he married you because you are barren.”
That dagger sliced Joan to the bone.
“He’s fickle, the count. You know that. I hope you aren’t so very fond as you’re pretending. Don’t love him, Joan. He doesn’t love you. Remember, he chose Theodora first. If she hadn’t betrayed him, he’d be married to her still.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“He’s kind, Joan, and your heart has always responded to kindness. The same way you took pity on John when you were children. Some men are simply weak, and you can’t make them strong, no matter how much you pity or love them. Sweetling, you mustn’t love Raymond.”
“Because he’s kind?” She meant to sound sarcastic, but she was so hurt, she didn’t succeed.
Her mother answered sternly, “He’s kind because he needs to be. He appeases his enemies because he isn’t strong enough to fight them. If you love that kind of man, you deserve what you get. Now, go to Toulouse and do your duty. Richard is depending on you.”
T W E N T Y - T W O
YOU CAN’T TURN A CORNER WITHOUT TRIPPING OVER ONE of the count’s brats,” Joan grumbled.
Charisse didn’t answer, except with a sigh that said What did you expect? S
he continued unpacking their trunks.
Upon arriving in Toulouse, they had been met by a swarm of young courtiers, Ermengarde at the forefront. Ermengarde had shown Joan to her apartments, along the way introducing many maidens of the court. Six of the girls—six!—were Raymond’s natural daughters. And there was one more who’d already been married away.
But it wasn’t the daughters who concerned Joan. On the journey to Toulouse, they had been met by Raymond’s son, Bertrand, who was no longer a boy but a fine young man. They rode alongside one another during the long days and sat together at supper. Raymond even made a point of saying good night to him before retiring, even if he had to seek him first, a habit that became more irksome each night. The other knights deferred to Bertrand, not excepting men who were older. Worse, he was perfectly well-bred, deferential without being obsequious, and polite even when Joan was not.
Her mother had said to keep an eye on him and, try as she might, Joan could not banish the ominous words. Her brothers had risen up and destroyed their father over inheritances they were assured of but impatient to claim. How far should one trust a man with no birthright? A man whose only fortune would be what he could win by guile or by force? She would not see Raymond’s heart broken as her father’s had been.
The last two days of the journey, Raymond had been grumpily preoccupied by reports messengers had brought from Toulouse—reports he did not share with her, but did with Bertrand. Bertrand—his only son. God help her, she could not look at the young man without seeing her own failing. How long until Raymond realized he must put her aside?
Ermengarde’s animated tour failed to lift Joan’s spirits. The first time she had seen Toulouse’s castle, she’d been struck by how comfortably welcoming it seemed. Yet now she rattled about in its vastness feeling like an interloper. Then, she had known who she was—Richard’s sister—and what was expected of her. Now, she was Raymond’s wife and didn’t know how to behave.
When they arrived in the city, she thought he would show off his home—their home—even though she’d seen much of it before. She hadn’t anticipated this—being shunted off to the countess’s apartments.
She’d grown accustomed to their conversations before sleeping, to being awakened each morning with kisses. Now what? Would he send a messenger for her whenever the mood struck him? Or come to her door like William?
With Ermengarde chattering in her ear, Joan tried to appreciate her surroundings despite the moldering disappointment that had gripped her. Her apartments occupied the third story of a turret. The bedchamber was spacious, with a window overlooking the cathedral and city. The walls were warmed and softened by remarkably well-made tapestries decorated with familiar Arthurian scenes. Jutting out from one wall was a large hammered-metal basin. Ermengarde presented it, bursting with pleasure as if it were gold.
“Raymond asked what you’d like in your room, and I told him how you missed Sicilian baths.”
Joan had found it difficult to respond with enthusiasm. Did she have to refer to him so familiarly? Had they really discussed the way she preferred to wash?
After her tour of chamber, toilet closet, and antechamber, Joan had asked Ermengarde to grant her a few hours alone. “I’m exhausted. If I seem peevish, I apologize. Let me sleep awhile and begin again.”
Ermengarde’s relief proved she’d noticed Joan’s distance. She shooed the other maids from the room, leaving Joan alone with Charisse to finish unpacking. Charisse wasn’t fooled. She didn’t offer to loosen Joan’s gown or turn down the bed. She simply carried out her tasks, letting her mistress pace about.
“Lady Ponsa must have had some strong attachment to Camelot,” Joan mused, running her fingertips over a tapestry.
“Lady Ponsa or one of the previous ladies,” Charisse said absently.
“The nunneries of southern France are peopled with former ladies of Toulouse.”
Charisse set down the linen sheet she was folding. “You seem unhappy.”
“No, just out of sorts.”
She missed her husband. It was ridiculous. She doubted it had been two hours since he fobbed her off on the women. And yet…
Richard had said Raymond would soon tire of her. And Mama had warned her not to love a man who didn’t love her. Charisse was right—Joan was unhappy.
TOULOUSE WAS A BUSY PLACE, AND JOAN DISCOVERED NEW duties daily. The kitchen steward required her to order the menus; the head chambermaid reported to her. She was expected to minimize discord among the courtiers and distribute patronage evenly among an extravagant number of troubadours. Visitors and messengers came and went, and they all had to be flattered, entertained, and fed.
The court attended prayers each morning in the chapel and every Sunday went to mass in St. Stephen’s Cathedral. Even if she didn’t cross her husband’s path all day, she knew she would see him at prayers, at supper, and at night.
Initially, she had been wary, not knowing what he expected of her. But each evening as supper drew to a close, he took hold of her hand. When he retired to his chamber, she went along because he was still holding on. She thought at first it was because he wanted to make love to her, until one night when he didn’t. He merely helped her disrobe while asking about her day. He smiled at her successes and offered suggestions for her difficulties. Then he undressed and climbed into bed, complaining about a suit he’d heard between two merchants whose shops shared a wall that had fallen into disrepair. She giggled as he mimicked them and yawned after he yawned. He put his arm around her, kissed her, and went to sleep. It occurred to her then that perhaps he craved her presence as much as she did his. The thought filled her with a terrifying joy.
They went on in such a way for three weeks before Joan made a bold decision. Summoning several women and menservants, she packed her trunks and her washtub, even the tapestries, and had them carted from her chambers to Raymond’s. That evening, when they returned hand in hand, he turned slowly, taking it in. Joan held her breath, afraid of his reaction, afraid she’d revealed too much of herself.
“Jeanne,” he murmured at last, and a pop of laughter came from his mouth. He scooped her up and carried her to bed.
“What possessed you?” he murmured afterward.
Inexplicably shy, Joan covered by saying archly, “My mother said the best way to keep other women out of a husband’s bed is to be there.” But seeing his puzzlement, she yielded to her heart and whispered, “Besides, I like the way you feel next to me.”
His arms enfolded her. “I never want to be anywhere else.”
STILL MIXING UP NAMES OF THE TOULOUSAIN LADIES AFTER A month, Joan couldn’t understand how Ermengarde knew everyone. Not only the ladies at court but women in Foix, Quercy, Carcassonne, and Provence. She knew every broken engagement, every second cousin, every rumored harsh word. It astounded Joan that a girl who talked incessantly could still have heard so much. Ermengarde’s timely cautions had prevented Joan from making several mistakes in seating arrangements and scheduling entertainments.
Yet no matter what else she reported, Ermengarde never divulged the names of Raymond’s previous lovers. There were jealousies enough without the countess adding to them.
It all gave Joan a headache. There were several women who attended her—pretty, charming, amusing women—whom she could not befriend. She would not be deceived as she’d been by Constance.
She couldn’t help watching to see whom he spoke to, who received his smiles. She hated the fact that, most often, it was Ermengarde.
In December the weather turned rainy and chill. They kept a fire burning in the hearth in the great hall, and smoke hung in the air and saturated their clothes. Joan bathed more frequently, but it didn’t help. Never before had the smell of wood smoke so offended her. Even the blankets stank of it. Raymond said she was mad, he couldn’t smell anything, but she insisted the chambermaids launder the bedding twice a week.
In three weeks, it would be Christmas. Her first Christmas court as countess. One day her mind soared with
plans: a winter hunt, a tournament, a Court of Love like her mother enjoyed. The next day she would feel so tired and sodden-headed she wanted to take to her bed until January.
One morning she found Raymond had risen and left the chamber without waking her. Struggling from bed, she padded across the floor to peer out the window. The sky was a dismal gray, but light enough to show she’d slept far longer than she should have. She opened the door to the antechamber.
“Charisse?”
The maid looked up from her sewing. “Lady? Are you well? The count said to let you sleep. You were complaining last night that you felt ill.”
“Whatever wood they used in the cookstove, everything at supper tasted burnt. But I’m not ill. Help me dress.”
Charisse laced her into a clean gown. Joan sniffed it suspiciously.
“Where is the count?”
“It’s Tuesday. He’s hearing petitioners.”
“Already?”
“It’s almost noon, lady. Shall I send for a tray from the kitchen?”
“No, I’m not hungry.” The thought of food brought the burnt taste back to her mouth. “If it’s almost noon, I should find Ermengarde in the music room.”
They were supposed to listen to a harpist recommended by the count of Comminges to grace their Christmas court. Unfortunately, two other harpists also expected the honor—fine musicians, but nasty, spiteful men. She’d told Raymond she’d like to give them swords and let them decide for themselves.
She hurried to the music room, leaving Charisse to her mending. The door was ajar. As she stepped into the doorway, her heart stopped.
Ermengarde was with Raymond, in his arms. Quickly, Joan backed out of the room and whirled flat against the corridor wall. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She heard her mother’s voice calling her coward. She couldn’t faint, not this time.
Drawing herself up tall, she stalked back to the door and threw it open so that it slammed against the inside wall. Startled, they both looked toward her. Joan’s rival was pallid, her face streaked with tears. Raymond hadn’t even the decency to let go of her elbows.
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