He raised his head. Tears glistened on his cheeks. “My love, yes.” Then he said the strangest thing, “Thank you.” And kissed her hand.
Charisse placed a swaddled bundle in her arms, and one of the women dragged a chair to the bedside for the count. After a few moments, he said, “Jeanne, let me see him.”
Reluctantly, triumphantly, she handed over the prize and watched her husband adore the heir she’d given him. Yet, by the joy shining in Raymond’s face, she could see he had not fallen under the spell of the future count of Toulouse. He loved the babe. In due course, their son would be count because it would be his right and his obligation. What a fool she’d been to worry about Bertrand just because he was Raymond’s son. No matter her husband’s faults, he had always known his duty to Toulouse. He’d tried to explain to her: His beloved Bertrand understood duty too.
“We should give the babe suck,” the midwife said. “The wet nurse is waiting.”
Raymond growled, “He won’t starve in the next few minutes. We’ll summon you when you’re needed.”
With a huff of indignation, the midwife left, followed by the other attendants. Raymond laid the babe back in Joan’s arms. He took hold of her hand and with his other hand, he brushed back a stray lock of her hair. Then he gestured with his chin to their son.
“I remember the first time I saw you, cradling your poppet just like that. The weight of the kingdom was on your tiny shoulders. How I despised our parents for the position you were in.”
“That was the start of the war,” she remembered. Raymond had been so young himself, and no friend of her family. He had come to her aid out of simple kindness. Mama said that was his weakness, but Joan saw now that kindness had ever been Raymond’s strength.
“You were often in my thoughts over those years. I was pleased to see you again at St. Gilles. To see how well you had weathered the storm. You were but a child, yet it was easy to see what a beautiful woman you would be. Jeanne, it’s strange how you haunted me.”
“I thought of you, too.”
“Did you?” He squeezed her hand, smiling a little as though he didn’t believe her.
“You were the champion of my youth. I could imagine you to be whoever I needed you to be.”
He laughed softly. “The reality is doomed to disappoint.”
“No. You offered us succor when we were stranded in Rome, believing Richard dead.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I wanted to help. I didn’t expect…my heart was lost from the moment you appeared in Toulouse. But none of my usual tricks seemed to work.”
“They did. Only not on me.”
His jaw hardened. “Of the many mistakes I’ve made in my life, I most regret Theodora. You mustn’t judge her too harshly. All she wanted was to go home, to avenge her father. She imagined if she married me, I’d march an army back to Cyprus and set her up as empress.”
“I cannot think you promised her those things.”
“No. Though I’d wager my father encouraged that plan. I paid very little attention to her beyond taking what she offered. My mind was on you, Jeanne, but you gave every indication of despising me. I accepted Theodora’s favors out of bitterness. Perhaps I was hoping to make you jealous. I can’t say what petty lovers’ games I thought I was playing. When I realized what I had done, I felt I owed her marriage. But I was not what she wanted. And she…she was not you. Terrifying as it was to try again, I had to set things to rights.”
“Have you?”
“You tell me. I confess I still don’t understand your heart as well as I’d like. My profoundest desire is your happiness. Have I succeeded?”
Eleanor possessed such lofty ambitions for her children, but happiness had never been one of them. Likely Mama thought only fools believed in happiness. Yet how, with the warm weight of her babe against her chest, could Joan feel anything but joy?
“You’ve given me a son.”
“God gave us our son. Are you happy with me, as my countess, my wife?”
As Sicily’s queen, she had tried to live by her mother’s precepts, only to discover too late that William’s kingdom was nothing like England and William’s faults differed from her father’s. She had not been happy in Sicily. Could she be happy in Toulouse?
Raymond pressed her hand again, awaiting her answer. “I love you, Jeanne. You know that, don’t you?”
Looking past him, she murmured, “My mother says there is no greater fool than a woman who loves her husband, unless it is a woman who believes a husband who says he loves her.”
She heard his sharp intake of breath and saw his expression, stunned, turning to hurt. She hadn’t meant for him to take her words at their value; she was merely thinking how she had come to be the person she was. A good girl listened to her mother. Even if…especially if…her mother was Eleanor of Aquitaine.
But she was more than just Eleanor’s daughter. She was Countess Jeanne. She was Joan. Quickly, she turned her palm over and laced her fingers through his.
“A thousand times over,” she assured him, “I am happily a fool.”
A U T H O R ’ S N O T E
IN HISTORY BOOKS, JOAN IS KNOWN BY THE COMPANY SHE KEPT: Eleanor of Aquitaine and King Henry II, Richard the Lionheart and Prince John, King William the Good, the last great Norman king of Sicily, and Count Raymond VI of Toulouse. However, unlike these well-documented historical figures, Joan left no record, with the exception of a will. And yet, imagine the life she must have led in the presence of such company! Imagine being Eleanor of Aquitaine’s daughter. This is why I love historical fiction.
If this novel inspires you to read more about this time period, or if you are already familiar with twelfth-century England, you may notice this book has omitted facts and embellished stories. For example, I’ve neglected to mention Joan’s older sisters, who would have been married away by the time the book opens, as well as King William’s older brother, who died in childhood. I’ve omitted much of the chronology of the crusade but embroidered Joan’s role. Joan and Berengaria did accompany Richard to the Holy Land, but we know nothing about how they spent their time there. It is reported that Richard tried to arrange a marriage between Joan and el-Adil; however, some historians doubt that this happened or that the offer was ever sincerely made.
Raymond’s wives are another puzzle. While his marriage to Joan is well documented, lesser-known ladies did not fare as well. The name of Isaac Comnenus’s daughter was never recorded, and historians have debated whether Raymond married her before or after marrying Joan. His first marriage, to the heiress of Melgueil, took place in either 1172 or 1173, when Raymond was only sixteen years old. For the sake of Joan and Raymond’s story, I’ve used the marriage sequence that best suited the tale and pushed back the year of Raymond’s first wedding.
I’ve tried to adhere to the facts about Joan’s life where they are known, but verifiable details leave only the sketchiest outline. So I’ve filled in the story with anecdotes as they have appeared in historical texts, even when the accuracy might be debatable. For example, the scene of Joan asking her father to give the imprisoned Eleanor an allowance for clothes is in the historical record but not in primary sources. Even with anecdotes, there is little historical documentation to give us true insight into Joan. And therefore this is primarily a work of fiction. Much of the book is plausible (to my mind) but purely made up. I admit there is absolutely no historical basis for the notion of a love affair between King William and Princess Constance.
Also, this story suggests Joan was unhappy with William but found love and joy with Raymond. Historians have variously speculated that her marriages were happy or unhappy, drawing opposite conclusions based on the same meager evidence. Raymond and Joan had a daughter together the year after their son was born. Joan had another son the following year who did not survive. Unfortunately, neither did Joan. Raymond was in another part of his domain at the time, at war with one of his vassals. Some Toulousain lords rose up in revolt and Joan, although pregna
nt, took an army to lay siege to their stronghold. When a group of her own knights turned against her, Joan fled, ending up at Fontevrault. She died in childbirth, in her mother’s company, not her husband’s. She was only thirty-four years old.
I encourage you to discover for yourselves the rich historical record surrounding the company Joan kept, consider the sometimes contradictory assertions in history books, and come to your own conclusions about Joan’s fascinating family.
Imagining Joan’s life is one thing. Putting it to paper and getting it out to a reading audience is entirely different. I could not have done this without a great deal of help. I need to thank my husband, most of all, for being my first reader and moral support. Next in line are my young “beta” readers, Anna Burke, Lila, and Lucas. Also crucially important is my writers’ group, all the talented people at Novelpro, especially Jamie Lankford, who founded the group and keeps it functioning. I also want to thank my marvelous agent, Irene Kraas, for taking me on and having faith in this book. Finally, it was a pleasure to work with my editor, Noa Wheeler, and I appreciate her dedication, her insight, and her tact.
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