by Rachel Bard
Richard and Berengaria had left that morning for Beaufort. She missed Berengaria already. She missed Lady Mary, far off in England.
I need someone to talk to and get some perspective, she thought. She’d just made a hasty decision that would determine the course of the rest of her life. Had it been too hasty? She decided to take some air and clear her head. A walk in the garden, that’s it. But when she looked out she saw that the skies had opened and released a torrent of rain.
For four days the rain continued. She got out her Arabic manuscripts but couldn’t concentrate. She took up a long-discarded tapestry project but had no interest in resuming it. This was more than boredom. It became close to panic as she recognized how quickly and heedlessly she’d taken such a major step. She thought back to her first marriage which, as a child, she’d entered into unquestioningly at her parents’ bidding. But how fortunate she’d been! She found herself remembering her years of happiness with William and wondering if Raymond could be so kind, so considerate, so unfailingly loving.
Maybe she should open her heart to her mother. Eleanor had lived through two marriages—the first, with the king of France, unsatisfactory; the second, with the king of England, begun with passion on both sides, then deteriorating into conflict, not always civil. But in all those years, surely she’d learned something of how to how to judge a man. Though she’d never found the time to be a real confidante for Joanna, and though she undoubtedly thought of this marriage as her own doing and a brilliant solution to strained relationships with Toulouse—surely she’d listen to her daughter’s doubts and offer reassurance.
That’s all I need, thought Joanna. Someone I trust to tell me I’m doing the right thing.
She went down to the great hall to see if her mother was there. She was, but conferring with her council.
She broke off and asked, “Yes, Joanna, did you need to talk to me? Can it wait?”
“It’s not important.” She went into the small chapel beyond the hall and sat staring at the statue of mother and child near the altar. She tried to pray. “Help me find peace of mind,” she pled. Mary continued to smile serenely but offered no guidance.
She wandered out to the palace entry to assess the weather, unheeding of the buzz of palace activity—footsteps of hurrying servants in the corridor, chattering of visitors on their way to or from the great hall, distant clangs and shouts from the kitchens. The rain had stopped but the courtyard was muddy and strewn with puddles. A weak sun peered hazily down through the overcast.
She saw a lone horseman riding into the courtyard. He wore a long dark mantle and his hood hid his face. He dismounted and trudged slowly toward the palace steps, nodding to the groom who came to tend to his horse. He looked up to see her standing there and only then did she realize that this stooping man was her old friend Brother Jean-Pierre.
She ran down the steps and took his hands in hers.
“What a wonderful surprise! And here you are, just when I need a friend. It’s been years. I was beginning to think you’d taken up permanent residence in England. I suppose you’ve come to report to my mother? But you must find time for me. I have so much to tell you!” She kept talking to hide her dismay at how he’d aged. He’d never been plump but now she could see, in spite of his enveloping cloak, that he was quite thin. When he threw back his hood she saw that his sparse fringe of hair had turned iron-gray. Deep furrows ran from his nose down to the corners of his mouth.
But when he smiled, it was the same warm, unfeigned smile she remembered. It told her he was as glad to see her as she was to see him.
“All the time in the world, my dear—after I see your mother, that is.” As they walked up the steps, Adelaide appeared and stopped short when she saw the visitor. She greeted him warmly.
“Queen Eleanor will be very glad to see you as well. Only this morning she said she’d sent for you ages ago and she wondered why you hadn’t come. She’s just gone to her chamber. Shall I run up and tell her you’re here?”
“Yes, that would be a kindness. Tell her I’ll come to her as soon as I’ve cleaned off the grime of the road.”
“And I’ll see you at dinner,” said Joanna. Her spirits had risen immeasurably. Their reunion would take her mind off the concerns that had been tormenting her. Already they seemed less consequential.
It wasn’t complicated, she thought. Raymond had proposed marriage. She’d wholeheartedly accepted. What could be simpler or more satisfactory than that?
Dinner was served in the small reception chamber rather than the cavernous great hall. Only a dozen were present. Besides Eleanor, Joanna and Brother Jean-Pierre, there were Lady Adelaide and two other ladies in waiting, two members of the royal council and a bishop from Limoges who had mistaken the night Queen Eleanor had invited him to dinner and was there a week early. Eleanor, who had no patience with such carelessness, placed him far down the table. He was next to Lady Adelaide, who kept up a running one-sided conversation throughout the meal so he had little to do but nod, murmur a few words occasionally and enjoy his meal.
Queen Eleanor was less profligate than Richard and had ordered only four courses whereas the Christmas banquet had offered ten. Joanna preferred this evening’s menu. The flying peacocks had been spectacular but no better eating than a well-roasted capon.
She was seated between her mother and Jean-Pierre. As usual, Eleanor ate rather slowly, chewing carefully. Joanna had never known whether this habit was in order to detect any bones, or to avoid undue strain on the muscles of her face and thus prevent wrinkling. Or it may simply have been the way she was reared as a daughter of French nobility. In any case she wasn’t given to conversation during the meal. This left Joanna free to talk to Jean-Pierre.
“Now you must tell me what you’ve been doing all this time and give me news of my dear friends, Sir Alan, Federico and Lady Mary.”
“Gladly.” In between spoonfuls of a thick, spicy chickpea soup, he began his account. “It happens I saw both Sir Alan and Lady Mary just six months ago during a journey up to York. Sir Alan is officially retired and has settled down at his estate near Nottingham. He’s still hale and hearty though he moves a little more slowly. But he’s not comfortable being a country gentleman and itches to be serving his king as a soldier. He knows there’s little chance he could go back to France, but whenever the forces King Richard keeps on active duty in England are within fifty miles he hies there and joins them. And from what I hear they’re glad to have him, with his experience and good sense. Even the younger ones know his reputation.”
“As well they should. Dear Sir Alan. I’m glad he’s doing so well. Now tell me…”
She stopped because servants had just carefully set a heavy silver platter on the table before them. It was laden (thanks to Richard’s hunting expedition) with thin slices of roast boar, served with a pepper sauce and roasted chestnuts.
Jean-Pierre watched appreciatively as he was served.
“I take it you didn’t eat this well in England,” Joanna teased him.
“I’m afraid not. There was always too much, and most of it was tasteless. They don’t give much attention to subtle seasonings. They’ve hardly heard of pepper, much less cinnamon and such.”
Conversation flagged for some time. Finally, Jean-Pierre looked uncertainly at the few morsels left on his plate, decided to leave them, leaned back in his chair and sighed with contentment. “Now, my dear, I think you were about to ask me what I knew of Lady Mary. She and Sir Stephen live between Nottingham and York, so I was able to pay them a visit on my way north. She’s not far from her father’s farm, so she sees the rest of the family often. And I can report that she’s healthy, contented and expecting a child.”
“That’s wonderful news. How I miss her. I’d been hoping I might persuade my mother to send me on some kind of mission to England, but that will have to wait now.”
“Aha. You haven’t said a word about your own situation, but news travels fast. You’ll not be journeying to England
soon because you’re about to become the countess of Toulouse, right?”
“Yes. I’m glad you’d heard. I’ve been wondering how to tell you. Please, Jean-Pierre, tell me you approve?”
“It’s not for me to approve or not. But I know you well enough to be sure that this was your own decision, not dictated by your mother, and that’s enough for me. You obviously hold Count Raymond in high enough regard to agree to become his wife. I pray you’ll find peace and contentment with him.”
She looked at him gratefully. She’d been afraid he’d object on the grounds of Raymond’s history of failed marriages.
He raised his goblet and toasted her: “To your happiness, my dear.”
As they finished their almond flan, Joanna looked around and saw that the other diners were drifting out of the room. She just glimpsed Eleanor’s blue skirt as the queen swept out the door. Adelaide had risen and Joanna heard, “And if I find myself in Limoges, you must show me the famous abbey where blessed Saint Martial is buried.”
“Of course, with pleasure,” the bishop replied genially. When she’d departed, he leaned back, gazed at the ceiling and patted his stomach. He didn’t demur when a servant refilled his wineglass. He picked up a candied orange peel from a silver salver before him.
Jean-Pierre had been watching too, and caught Joanna’s eye and smiled. She whispered, “I can imagine he’s thinking, ‘For a dinner like that, I could listen to twenty talkative ladies.’”
She rose. “Why don’t we sit over there by the fire? And you must tell me what you know about my dear Federico, and what you’ve been doing all this time.”
Jean-Pierre settled into a high-backed chair with a plump velvet cushion. Joanna fetched another cushion for his back—she feared he’d become so bony that the unyielding wood might cause him discomfort.
“Thank you, that’s welcome. I’m more weary from the journey than I thought. But it’s wonderfully reviving to be back in this familiar palace. Do you remember, Joanna, that it was in this very room that I taught you your alphabet and gave you your first reading lessons?”
“Barely. I must have been only five or six. I do remember resenting your insistence that I spend time indoors instead of playing in the garden.”
He chuckled. “So you did. And more than once you simply ran away.”
“But I’ve long since forgiven you for being such a strict teacher. Now tell me, have you seen Federico?”
“Not for years. But Sir Alan told me he’s rising in the ranks of Richard’s army. He may be a captain before he’s twenty-five. “
“I’m not surprised. I wonder if he’s found a lady-love? With his looks he should be surrounded by eager girls.”
“He may well be. But Alan thinks that for now, he’s much more interested in the footloose life and serving his king, even at a distance.”
She thought a minute. “I wonder if I couldn’t persuade Richard to bring Federico over to France to join the army here.”
“Richard is going to need to strengthen his forces now that he’s launching a major assault against Philip This would be a good time to approach him.”
“I wonder if he’s still at Beaufort.” She signaled to a servant who was clearing the tables to bring more spiced wine. They sipped slowly and stared into the fire. Jean-Pierre fidgeted. At last he spoke.
“No, he isn’t at Beaufort. I stopped there before coming here. I’d hoped to see him but he’d left the day before. I must now tell you something that will pain you. I’ll try to be brief.”
She listened in growing dismay as he told how he’d found Richard gone and Berengaria distraught. He described how her face had shown signs of tears and her voice trembled as she welcomed him. He persuaded her to explain what had happened.
“Richard left yesterday morning to go back to his castle-building,” she’d told Jean-Pierre. “I asked him when I would see him again. ‘When you send word that you are with child,’ he said without looking at me while he buckled on his sword. ‘I’ve stayed a month and my work here is done. If I haven’t fathered a child in all this time it won’t be my fault.’ And he was gone, without an embrace or affectionate word. Oh Jean-Pierre, all this time I’ve been so happy, thinking at last our marriage was working. And it was all a pretense.”
“Poor Berengaria!” exclaimed Joanna. “I must go to her. She doesn’t deserve this.” She wrung her hands. “How could Richard be so cruel and thoughtless?”
She had a sudden qualm. What if Raymond proved as fickle as Richard? She was quite sure that he genuinely cared for her now. But what if in time he too lost interest and rejected her? He’d done it to other wives before.
She collected herself. Jean-Pierre was speaking.
“And yet, it may not have been all a pretense. We know that Richard’s emotions are volatile. It may well be that, having decided to give their marriage a chance of being productive, he discovered at last what a treasure he had in Berengaria, and for that month he truly loved her. But then his other priorities took over and he left her.”
“That may explain, but it doesn’t excuse,” said Joanna.
“Certainly not. And as you can imagine, there was very little I could say to make her feel better. I couldn’t justify Richard’s behavior, nor could I criticize my king. I think it would do her worlds of good if you went to Beaufort.”
“I’ll send word to her at once.” They’d finished the wine and the fire was dying. “It’s late—shall we say good night until tomorrow?”
The next day she began making her plans for the journey to Beaufort. But Queen Eleanor demanded her attention to her bridal gown and her trousseau, which had to be commissioned immediately, so she sent word to Berengaria to expect her in ten days.
But everybody’s plans were disrupted when word came two days later that several of Raymond’s barons in the east had suddenly risen in defiance of his truce with Richard and begun taking over territories claimed by Aquitaine. Richard was not pleased. Raymond sent Joanna a brief message, saying he’d almost succeeded in reining in the rebels and he would keep her informed.
A few days later he sent another message arrived, even more alarming.
“My dear Joanna, you may have already heard of this or you soon will. Pope Celestine has excommunicated me. The clerics of the Abbey of Saint-Gilles maintain that I’m claiming more than my share of the benefices. But it’s exactly the same proportion the counts of Toulouse have been receiving for decades. They put their case to the pope and he agreed to issue a decree excommunicating me. I must go to Rome.
“I’ll do all I can to persuade him to relax his decree so our wedding can take place as planned—or perhaps just a bit later. I embrace you. Raymond.”
Shocked, she put down the parchment, then picked it up and read the brief message again. Excommunication! It meant the church would have nothing to do with Raymond and certainly wouldn’t officiate at his marriage.
All her doubts about the wisdom of her decision to marry had been replaced by anxiety and concern for Raymond. She realized now that she deeply, truly wished for their union.
But in the face of all this, how could the wedding possibly take place as planned?
Chapter 60
Joanna wondered what good it would do for Raymond to go to Rome but hoped for the best. Pope Celestine had already been old and vague when she and Berengaria had seen him five years ago in 1191. By now he must be well into his nineties and even less decisive.
“Still,” said Eleanor, “a pope’s a pope.”
In mid-March Raymond came to Poitiers to report to Queen Eleanor and Joanna. He arrived about noon, well before the dinner hour. He was directed to Eleanor’s chambers where she and Joanna waited. They were partaking of barley water with honey and lemon. Eleanor’s goblets, engraved with lions and fleur-de-lys, gave even such a modest drink authority.
Raymond, offered barley water but requesting wine, delivered his account succinctly. He was pleased to tell them that he’d been successful. The pope tended to b
e influenced by the last person he talked to. So though he’d originally been easily persuaded by the urgent pleas of the administrators of Saint-Gilles to issue the excommunication, he now listened carefully to Raymond.
“By the time I saw him,” Raymond said, “he really didn’t seem to care one way or the other. It wasn’t hard to get him to agree not to enforce the decree.”
“I see,” said Joanna. “The excommunication has been officially issued. And that takes care of the pope’s obligation. But since he’s not going to order anyone to enforce it, it won’t really have any effect? Then there’s nothing to stand in the way of our marriage.”
“Well…” he hesitated. Eleanor looked him with calm expectancy, Joanna with worry. “Yes, there is something, Affairs in the County of Toulouse will require my presence there for a time.”
“It’s something to do with that trouble around Beziers, isn’t it?” Eleanor took a sip and peered at him over the rim of her goblet. “When your local lords took matters into their own hands and led forays into our Aquitaine?”
“I’m afraid so, or at least that’s part of it. Richard wants me to demand that they swear a solemn oath to respect the borders he and I have agreed on. That means I must go in person to deal with four powerful lords who think of themselves as supreme in their domains. It may take some time.”
“You said that was part of it. What else?” Joanna couldn’t keep a hint of annoyance out of her voice. When she’d accepted Raymond, she’d blithely assumed they’d be married soon and her totally new life would begin. But it had been delay after delay.
“Richard and I must agree on the terms of the marriage settlement before we can with confidence set the date.”