by Rachel Bard
“No time like the present, daughter. It took some persuasion for John to agree and he isn’t likely to be this generous in future. I advise you to give it some thought. After we’ve signed the documents and the money is legally yours, send for Henri when you’re ready. He’ll record your wishes.”
“I’ll start thinking about it at once. I’m grateful to you for arranging this with John. Now may we talk about something else, before he comes?”
“Certainly.” Eleanor took another sip of wine and waited for Joanna to begin.
At which moment John strode in, preceded by two young pages. If clothes make the king, John was totally regal, bedecked in so much gold that Joanna wondered he didn’t stoop under the weight. The massive crown of his Angevin forefathers rested atop his cap of black hair. A heavy gold cross on a chain hung around his neck, glittering all the more brilliantly against the ink-black background of his velvet tunic. His waistline was kept firmly under control by a broad gold-mesh belt, studded with rubies. His black cape, fastened at the neck by a clasp in the shape of a golden lion, was flung back over his shoulders to display the scarlet lining. If his expression were not so sour and if he were just a little taller she might have admired the result.
“So, sister. Here you are, and looking somewhat better than I expected.”
She almost laughed—did he think that was a compliment?
He seated himself in the chair on Eleanor’s other side. “I expect my mother has told you what we’ve agreed on to insure your welfare. If the terms meet with your approval, we might as well sign the documents now.”
“Of course, John. You’re very generous.”
“It might have been more but Richard left the royal exchequer in a sadly depleted state.”
Eleanor signaled to Henri, who brought the table and set it in front of John. The secretary carefully placed the parchment—a single sheet inscribed in flowing letters—the inkwell and the pen on the table. John signed with a flourish. Henri repeated the process with Eleanor, then Joanna. Finally Jean-Pierre, who had been seated near the fireside, stepped over and signed as witness.
So quickly and simply done, thought Joanna. But what a difference it will make. She was already thinking of bequests to make in her will. She was anxious to have Jean-Pierre’s advice.
John stood up. The pageboys, who had been whispering in a corner, came to attention and resumed their places. John adjusted his crown.
“So that’s that. Now I must go back to the cathedral. I still have several vassals to receive this afternoon. Normandy seems to be overflowing with lords and nobles who want to see their new king for themselves.”
He left with as much pomp as he’d entered. Henri slipped out after him.
After the door closed, Eleanor rose, plumped up her cushions and sat down again. “Jean-Pierre, join us in a final glass of wine before I ask you to leave so I can have my nap.”
“Certainly,” said Jean-Pierre, taking the chair John had vacated. The three of them sat in contemplative silence for several minutes.
“I’m surprised John didn’t have a trumpeter to blow a fanfare on his arrival,” said Eleanor. “He’s certainly relishing being king of England and duke of Normandy.”
“To be charitable,” said Jean-Pierre, “he’s been waiting a long time. He probably never believed that he’d outlive all his brothers and this day would come.”
“Nor did I,” said Eleanor. Joanna knew she was thinking how different things would have been if Richard had lived.
Jean-Pierre finished his wine and rose. “I’ll be off now. Queen Eleanor needs her rest and so do you, Joanna. And if I’m to track Lady Mary down, I’ll need to find some sleuths and hounds for the hunt.”
“But I hope you yourself aren’t going sleuthing,” said Joanna. “I’d like to talk to you tomorrow. Perhaps you could come to my chamber in midafternoon?”
He agreed and took his leave.
“I want his advice on any charitable bequests I make in my will,” Joanna told her mother.
“Very wise. Jean-Pierre will know where the needs are greatest. I’m sure you won’t forget Fontevraud Abbey, and the kitchen in particular. With the abbey growing so, six hearths simply aren’t enough. More than once my dinner has been late because my cook had to wait in line for a free hearth.”
Joana smiled at the memory of the communal kitchen, one of her favorite places at Fontevraud. She’d loved, as a child, watching in awe as each cook at her hearth prepared meals for her house, whether Queen Eleanor’s and the noble ladies’ domicile, the nuns’ or monks’ convent, the refuge for the old and decrepit, the infirmary, the lepers’ dormitory, the school, or the house of retirement for dissolute women who were repentant. Joanna had studied that cook in particular, wondering if she might be one of the scandalous former sinners. But she wore the same sober, workaday garb as the other cooks and seemed as righteous and as skilled at cookery as the rest.
Eleanor recalled her from her reverie.
“But you said there was something in particular you wanted to talk to me about. I don’t think we’ll be interrupted now.”
So Joanna poured out her story again, leaving nothing out and ending with a plea for Eleanor’s support of her wish to enter the convent and take the veil now, before the birth of her child. She steeled herself for another firm rejection.
“Have you discussed this with anyone else?”
“First I talked to Brother Jean-Pierre. He said he was sure the abbess would not agree, that such a thing was against the rules of the order. He urged me to give it up. But I approached Abbess Mathilde anyway. She doubts if I have a vocation for the cloistered life. I tried to tell her how truly and sincerely I want to retire from the world and devote myself to the Lord’s service. But she wouldn’t listen. She thinks I’m being selfish, and only thought of doing this to protect my child. And she says that anyway, the Benedictine rules wouldn’t permit me to keep the child.”
“And I take it you refuse to give up your plan in spite of all the opposition? You always did have a stubborn streak, Joanna.”
“You’re my last resort, mother. Surely you can see how I feel. Won’t you speak to the abbess?”
Eleanor was silent, looking at the anguished face of her daughter. She sighed deeply. “In all my years, my family has presented me with more problems than I can remember and asked me for help, a decision, advice. This is, I believe, the first time that I could imagine myself so vividly in the same predicament as the one pleading for help. I’m well aware, daughter, of the trials and disappointments you’ve suffered ever since you left Sicily. I’m sorry I haven’t often told you of my sympathy. Now perhaps I can help. Because in your place I might also have set myself such an impossible goal and refused to give it up. So yes, I do understand.”
“And you’ll talk to the abbess?”
“First we must have an abbess to talk to. I’ll send for her at once. And meantime, I suggest—no, I order, just as though I were Dr. Basilio—I order you to go to bed and stay there. Frankly, my dear, you look worn out. You still haven’t begun to recover from all your traveling. And these last few weeks are your only chance to regain some of your strength. I’ll send for Jeanette to see you back to your room.” She signaled to a page, who scurried out.
Joanna would have liked to jump up and hug her mother in her gratitude. But Eleanor had never been one for hugging. Besides, Joanna was in no condition for jumping. Instead she rose as carefully as she could, pushing herself up by gripping the arms of her chair.
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You’ve given me new hope. Now you must have that nap and I’ll seek my bed.” How weak she felt! She looked at the door and wondered if she had the strength to walk that far. But before she took a step Jeanette appeared with Adelaide close behind. Each took an arm and supported Joanna as she slowly took her leave.
Eleanor called after her. “It has occurred to me that there’s another person who could be sympathetic to your cause. I’ll come to se
e how you are tomorrow. By then I should know more.”
Chapter 73
Joanna lay on her bed motionless, eyes closed. The room was dim, lit only by a few candles. Beside her in a cradle, a tiny, wrinkled face was visible. The rest of the baby was enveloped in layers of blankets. He was asleep.
The baby’s nurse sat by, knitting.
Lady Mary, seated next to the bed, was gently applying cool, damp cloths to Joanna’s fevered forehead. She was frowning with concern, willing her dear lady to wake up and recognize her.
The eyelids fluttered and the brown eyes opened wide.
“Mary!” she exclaimed. “How did you get here?”
Mary laughed. “By the speediest horses and fastest ships we could find. The minute I heard from your mother that you were about to give birth and that I might be needed, Stephen and I were on our way.”
“I’m so glad, so glad. You must tell me all about it, and your home in England.” She was talking very fast, as though she had more to say than time to say it. “It will be good to see Sir Stephen again. And how is your child?” She stopped, looking stricken. “Oh Mary—where is my child? They said I had a son but I haven’t even seen him. Where is he? How long have I been sleeping?” She tried to sit up but fell back, groaning.
“Now now, my lady, don’t you exert yourself,” said the nurse reassuringly. “He’s right here, and we’ll lift him and settle him by your side where you can get a good look.”
“No, put him in my arms. I want to hold him.”
The nurse carefully placed the small bundle in Joanna’s arms. Joanna’s face as she looked down at him was suffused with silent love. She caressed his fuzzy, almost invisible eyebrows, touched her finger gently to his nose. He slept on. But—“He’s so light! He hardly weighs more than a kitten. Mary, do you know if as anybody has called for a priest to baptize him? His name will be Richard, of course.”
“I understand Archbishop Hubert Walter is still here and plans to baptize him tomorrow. He’ll be here to see you later this evening.”
“Thank you, Mary. You’re always such a comfort to me. Maybe you’d better take the baby now. He’s getting heavy. I’m so tired! And so thirsty! Do you think you could find me something to drink?”
“Dr. Basilio said you could have a little of this sweetened wine. He said it would help you sleep.”
“Yes, I must get more sleep. Everybody says so.” She clutched the goblet with both hands and drank. “I must be fresh and fit for the baptism ceremony tomorrow. I think I should wear the habit of the sisters of Fontevraud that they gave me the other day. You’d better ask Jeanette to find it.”
Her voice became fainter. She fell back against the pillows and slept.
The nurse came and took the baby. She whispered to Mary, “The doctor says he shouldn’t sleep in the same room as his mother. He might be exposed to the same ill humors that are troubling her.”
When the archbishop came toward evening, he found the room crowded. Eleanor and Dr. Basilio sat by Joanna’s bed, one on either side. The others—Lady Mary and Sir Stephen, Jean- Pierre, Berengaria and Adelaide—stood and paced, sat down, got up, occasionally murmuring to one another. Jeanette stood at the foot of Joanna’s bed, alert to her needs.
Joanna was turning from one side to the other, as though trying to escape from some peril. Her eyes were wide open and she was mumbling, but the words were unintelligible.
“I’m afraid she’s taken a turn for the worse,” the doctor told the archbishop. “The fever is burning her up and she’s delirious.”
“I’ll wait a bit and see if she becomes coherent. If she does, I believe we should baptize the child now. I’ll keep it very brief.”
A serving man came in as quietly as he could and added a log to the fire. The dry wood caught at once and the fire flared up and crackled with unseemly cheer.
Another man came and asked Eleanor if she required anything in the way of refreshments.
“I think not. Well, perhaps you could bring some wine and a pitcher of warm hypocras.” He hurried out. “That will give us something to occupy us while we wait,” she said to the archbishop.
Dr. Basilio put a hand on Joanna’s forehead. “I think the fever may have gone down slightly.”
Joanna looked at him with recognition and said in a normal voice, “I think so too, though I’m still very warm. And thirsty. My mouth is terribly dry. Jeanette, maybe you could turn down this top coverlet.”
“Try some of this wine. It’s just come up from the cellar,” said Eleanor, filling a mug. Joanna tried to raise her head but fell back. Jeanette held her head up, and Lady Mary held the mug while she sipped.
“Thank you. That does help.” She saw the archbishop behind her mother and could vaguely see that there were others present. “Why are all these people here?”
“I thought we might have the baptism this evening instead of waiting until tomorrow,” said the archbishop. “If you feel up to it, that is. I really should be getting back to my duties in England.”
That sounded plausible, but Joanna had a good idea what the real reason for the haste was.
“Yes, by all means, let’s do it now. Has anybody asked the guest of honor if he’s agreeable?”
The archbishop looked confused. Eleanor smiled—it was so long since Joanna had made any attempt at humor. “He’s in the next room. We’ll have the nurse bring him in.” Eleanor the queen, welcoming the need for action, was taking charge. “And Adelaide, could you go to my chamber and look for my long white lace scarf? It would do very well as his baptismal garb.”
She asked the archbishop, “I expect you brought the holy water, just in case?”
“I did. I’ll go tell the assisting priest that we’re almost ready. He’s been waiting outside.”
There was a flurry of activity.
The nurse brought the baby, clad in a trailing robe of deep blue with gold embroidery. His eyes were open. They were the same warm brown as Joanna’s. He looked around as though wondering what all the activity was about. Apparently it wasn’t worth the trouble. He closed his eyes. “You may hand him to Joanna when I tell you,” said the archbishop.
The priest came in with a silver bowl of holy water and with the archbishop’s mitre. He placed the former on a table by the bed and the latter on the archbishop’s head, just so.
Eleanor held up the scarf Adelaide had brought. “It’s beautiful,” said Mary. “I wonder—wouldn’t it look lovely draped over Joanna’s hair during the ceremony?”
“Excellent idea,” said Eleanor. “I expect Joanna will be glad to have something pretty to wear, and the baby won’t know the difference.”
Jeanette brought the nun’s habit, a large, tentlike white garment with a hood. Adelaide and Berengaria held it up. Standing by Joanna’s bed, they looked at her, considering how and whether to put it on her. Dr. Basilio overheard them. “Certainly not! Getting the garment on her would be far too disruptive. Just that much exertion could finish her.”
They’re talking about me as though I weren’t here, thought Joanna. Just because I’m lying so quietly, not adding to the fuss.
She spoke up. “Nothing is going to finish me until Richard is properly baptized. I’m ready, the baby’s ready and the archbishop appears to be ready. Why don’t we proceed?”
The ceremony took less than five minutes. At Archbishop Hubert Walter’s signal, the nurse handed Baby Richard to his mother, who cradled him to her breast.
The archbishop knew he’d have to shorten the normal ritual quite drastically for Joanna’s sake. He was forced to improvise, but his listeners weren’t aware of it.
“Do you, Joanna, wish to entrust your child to God’s loving care and do you promise to rear him in the faith of the Holy Catholic church, ever mindful of his Christian duty to honor his parents and love his neighbor?”
“I do.”
“Will you teach him to resist temptation and to obey the commandments of our Lord Jesus Christ?”
“I s
hall.”
“By what name will he be known?”
“His name is Richard.”
“Please hand Richard to me.”
He took the infant from Joanna and held him in the crook of his arm. He dipped his other hand in the basin of holy water that the priest was holding. He allowed water to fall in drops over the baby’s head. The baby let out a surprisingly loud squawk and looked indignantly up at him.
“I hereby baptize thee, Richard, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Richard frowned and closed his eyes.
The archbishop turned to the assembled listeners.
“Remember the words of our Lord Jesus Christ. ‘Let the children come to me, for to such belongs the Kingdom of God.’ To Queen Joanna and to all of you, I entrust you with the spiritual welfare of Richard, on this twenty-fourth day of September, the Year of our Lord 1199. Now go in peace.”
Richard was returned to his mother, who held him close for a minute, then addressed him. “So now, my son, you’re well and truly Richard. See that you live up to the heritage of your namesake.” She kissed him on the top of his head and sank back on her pillow. The nurse took the baby. “Please, let him stay in the cradle by my bed for a little while. I want him here when I say goodbye. It won’t be long now.”
Her voice was so weak that nobody overheard those words except the nurse and Berengaria. Not the archbishop, who was taking his leave from Eleanor and Jean-Pierre. Not Adelaide or Lady Mary, who were remarking to each other on how well behaved the baby had been. Not Dr.Basilio or Sir Stephen, who were looking out the window and wondering if it would rain. Not Jeanette, who had gone to get fresh compresses for Joanna’s forehead.
But in a moment of silence, everybody heard Berengaria. She took her friend’s hand. “My dearest Joanna, don’t say goodbye, don’t leave us yet.” Her voice broke. The others hurried to gather around the bed.
Joanna was now very pale, but composed.