A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Did you? Very well done, Johnny!”

  John had been expecting Richard to make light of his success. He was pleased now by his brother’s obvious delight. His seizure of this French Vexin castle was his first military triumph, apart from his tainted capture of Évreux, and he was proud of it, even prouder now that Richard acknowledged it as a deed worth celebrating. It was sweet, too, to receive congratulations from Otto and several of Richard’s knights, although he did his best to accept the praise with nonchalance, never wanting Richard to suspect how much his good opinion mattered.

  John was on his way to the bedchamber that had been provided for him when he encountered a black-clad monk just entering the hall. He knew the man slightly—Guillebert, the abbot of the Benedictine abbey of St Benoit at Castres—and he paused to exchange greetings. It was only later that he wondered why one of the Count of Toulouse’s men was paying a call upon Richard.

  THE SEPTEMBER SKY HAD become overcast, rain clouds sweeping in from the west, and Guy de Thouars decided to pass the night at the closest castle, St James de Beuvron; a viscount’s brother could rely upon the hospitality of castellans rather than having to search for inns like those of lesser status. As he expected, he and his men were admitted at once. He was about to head to the great hall when he happened to glance toward the gardens, where several women were picking the last blooms of summer. He recognized the slender woman in a finely woven blue mantle, and he was pleased that the Duchess of Brittany was not being confined to her chamber, for he thought holding a woman hostage violated the tenets of the chivalric code. She was looking his way, doubtless wondering if a message had arrived for her; he knew she was allowed to correspond with her Breton barons. On impulse, he strode over, opened the gate, and entered the gardens.

  Constance watched him approach, her expression guarded, although her women were giving Guy an approving once-over. Bowing, he kissed the duchess’s hand. “I doubt that you’d remember me, my lady, but we met at Angers last year. I am Guy de Thouars, brother of Viscount Aimery.”

  “I remember you,” she said, in a cool tone that did not encourage further conversation.

  “I am honored.” He managed to infuse that trite gallantry with sincerity, and his smile was so appealing that Constance found herself thawing a little, enough to agree when he gestured toward the tablecloth they’d spread out on the grass and the basket of fruit and cheese, offering to bring them inside ere the rain began. With Juvetta and Emma casting him flirtatious glances from under fluttering eyelashes, he followed Constance as she led the way toward the castle keep. There she halted, thanked him, and gestured for Emma to reclaim the basket. Guy bowed again and bade them a good evening.

  He’d only taken a few steps, though, before he halted. Turning back, he asked if he might have a word in private. Constance hesitated, but curiosity won out. Sending her women on into the keep, she waited expectantly, and a little warily, to see what this Poitevin knight wanted from her.

  Guy’s action was unpremeditated. He did not regret it, though, for he felt she had a right to know. She was more than a duchess; she was a mother, too. “You may already have heard,” he said, “about your son.”

  Constance stiffened. “What about him?”

  “Word has it that the Bishop of Vannes succeeded in eluding Mercadier and the king’s seneschal and got Arthur safely to the French court.”

  Constance had not realized she’d been holding her breath. “Thank God!”

  “Well, I doubt that Mercadier or the king would echo those sentiments,” he said wryly. He suspected the Bretons would come to regret it, too, but the duchess was not likely to be interested in his views of the French king. He kissed her hand again, and when he looked up, he saw that she was smiling.

  “Thank you, Sir Guy,” she said. “I will remember your kindness.”

  “My lady.” Raindrops had begun to splatter about them, and as she disappeared into the keep, he quickened his pace, thinking that what he would remember was her smile.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  SEPTEMBER 1196

  Rouen, Normandy

  Eleanor was pleased to receive her son’s message, asking her to join him at Rouen, for that indicated he was showing common sense in recovering from his wound; she would gladly make that long, tiring journey if it would keep him out of the saddle long enough for his knee to heal. She’d not expected to find Berengaria and Joanna at Rouen, though, for it was painfully obvious by now that Richard rarely sought out his wife for the pleasure of her company. Their surprise presence confirmed her suspicions—that something was in the wind—even if she did not see the role they’d play in whatever grand design Richard had in mind.

  She was not kept in suspense for long. After an enjoyable family dinner, Richard said he needed to speak with her in private and, leaving Joanna and Berengaria to preside over the great hall, they withdrew to the solar. Richard still favored his injured leg, but he was no longer using a crutch and, her concerns over his health assuaged, she wasted no time going to the heart of the matter. “What are you up to, Richard?”

  He looked amused. “How well you know me, Maman. As it happens, I do have something of consequence to share with you. Do you remember when I said I was contemplating a way to end Philippe’s alliance with the Count of Toulouse?”

  She nodded. “You said you were not yet sure if that hawk would fly.”

  “I need not have worried, for it soared high enough to see the gates of Heaven. Raimond de St Gilles and I are about to launch a diplomatic revolution. After nigh on forty years of war with Toulouse, we are making peace.”

  Eleanor was highly skeptical of that, remembering how her husband had forced Raimond’s father to do homage for Toulouse and how quickly he’d repudiated it. “I suspect that any peace with Toulouse will last about as long as ice in the hot sun. What are the terms?”

  “Well, you know that Quercy has been a bone of contention since I regained possession of it some years back. So I have agreed to return it to the count. And I have also agreed to renounce the duchy of Aquitaine’s hereditary claim to Toulouse.”

  Her gasp of horror was so audible that he had to fight back a smile. “Richard, have you lost your mind? You would give up so much for so little? What do we get in return?”

  “Not much, Maman—merely Toulouse for your grandson . . . or granddaughter, if that be God’s Will.”

  He’d rarely seen his mother at a loss for words and leaned back in his seat to savor the moment, watching with a grin as she processed what she’d just been told.

  “A marital alliance, Richard?” She, too, was now smiling, a smile that shed years and cares, giving him a glimpse of the young woman she’d once been, back in the days when she’d been acclaimed as one of Christendom’s great beauties and her marriage to his father had been a happy one. “Raimond and Joanna . . . That is brilliant!”

  “I thought so, too,” he said complacently. “Alliances are easily broken, but not if they are sanctioned by the Church. The old count was a viper, about as trustworthy as Heinrich. Raimond is neither as treacherous nor as ambitious as his father. And by offering him such generous terms—as well as a beautiful bride—I give him some very convincing reasons to stay loyal.”

  The more Eleanor considered the proposal, the more she liked it. Richard would gain a useful ally, further isolate the French king, and resolve her family’s long-standing claim to Toulouse. “This is truly a blessing, Richard, both for us and for Joanna. She ought to have a good life as Raimond’s countess. She’ll like Toulouse for certes, and it will be wonderful not to have to send another daughter off into foreign exile. I do not expect to see your sister Leonora again in this world, but Joanna will be able to visit us whenever she wishes. And she . . .”

  She stopped abruptly then, puzzled by the expression on his face. “What is it? Surely Joanna is pleased about the marriage?”

  “Well . . . she does not know about it yet.”

  “Why not? Do you have any reason to
think she’d balk?”

  “No. It is just that she can be unpredictable, Maman. And . . . and Berenguela does not think it is a good idea.” Catching her look of surprise, he said, “It made sense to discuss it with her, for she’d seen Joanna and Raimond together, and I made her promise she’d say nothing to Joanna until I do. But as I said, she does not approve.” His mouth turned down. “In truth, I cannot remember the last time she did approve of something I’ve done.”

  “Why does she object? Does she think that Joanna disliked Raimond?”

  “Not exactly. She said sometimes they seemed very friendly and, at other times, quite cool with each other. But she feels he would not be a suitable husband for Joanna because he is out of favor with the Church. She says she does not think he is a heretic, just too sympathetic to the Cathars, too ‘tolerant of those who have strayed from God’s path,’ as she put it.”

  “That would not bother Joanna,” Eleanor said shrewdly, “for she grew to womanhood in Sicily. And when I discussed the count with her, I did not get the sense that she found him objectionable. As I remember, she said he was the sort of man mothers warned their daughters about, and I do not think she meant that as an insult.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” he admitted, showing her he was not as confident of Joanna’s reaction as he’d have her believe. “Whilst this marriage would be very beneficial to our family, I also believe it would be good for Joanna. So will you help me to make her see that?”

  “Yes, I will, Richard. But she is no longer a child being sent off to wed a man chosen for her by her parents. She is a queen, a widow, a woman grown, one with a mind of her own. If she refuses, we cannot compel her, nor would I try.”

  “Trust me, Maman, no one is going to compel Joanna to do anything she does not want to do!” he said with a laugh, remembering her volcanic rage when he’d confided his scheme to offer her in marriage to Saladin’s brother.

  She studied him intently for a moment, and then nodded. “We are in agreement, then, that this marriage is worth pursuing. So . . . let’s see if Joanna agrees with us.”

  JOANNA WOULD NORMALLY HAVE been pleased by Richard’s summons to Rouen, but it came so unexpectedly that it stirred up misgivings she’d not even realized she’d been harboring. Was Richard planning to end his marriage, wanting her there to comfort Berengaria afterward? Her concern was based in part on the recent upheavals in the south. In April, the region had been thrown into turmoil by the sudden death of King Alfonso of Aragon at age thirty-nine, leaving an untested eighteen-year-old son as his heir. Berengaria’s brother Sancho had embroiled himself in a war with the King of Castile, Richard’s brother-in-law, and even more troubling, he was showing signs of chafing under the Angevin-Navarrese alliance. Richard had confided to Joanna that Sancho had seized Berengaria’s dower castles and he’d appealed to the Pope to pressure Sancho for their return. Joanna did not know if Berengaria realized her increasing vulnerability, but a queen who could provide neither an heir nor a valuable alliance might not be a queen for very long.

  Upon their arrival at Rouen, Joanna was relieved when Richard said nothing to her about ending his marriage. The next day she could sense tension in her sister-in-law, but she decided Berengaria had probably had another quarrel with Richard about his appropriation of Andely, for she’d been distressed by the Archbishop of Rouen’s threat to lay Normandy under Interdict. Her foreboding came rushing back, though, as soon as Richard revealed that their mother was on the way. Joanna knew he’d not have asked her to make such a long journey unless something urgent was at stake. And so when she was called to the solar, she was already bracing for bad news.

  As soon as she was seated, she could not help herself, blurting out nervously, “Richard, do you mean to disavow your marriage and put Berengaria aside?”

  Her brother looked surprised. “No, I do not. Why would you think that, Joanna?”

  Feeling foolish, she shrugged. “Well, I know that Sancho is becoming troublesome.” Leaving unsaid the real problem, Berengaria’s failure to conceive.

  “He is,” Richard agreed, rising and moving to the table to pour wine for them all. “But Berenguela is not to blame for his erratic behavior of late.” Passing around cups, he sat down again. “Actually, I do want to talk with you about marriage. Not mine, though—yours. I’ve made a brilliant match for you, irlanda.”

  Joanna caught her breath, momentarily overwhelmed by emotion—excitement so intertwined with alarm that it was impossible to separate one from the other. She did want to marry again, for she did not like sleeping alone and she desperately wanted children. But marriage was the ultimate gamble for women; even a queen was subject to a husband’s will. She was loath to surrender the rare freedom she’d enjoyed in the six years since Richard had pried open the door of her gilded cage at Palermo. Nor was she eager to leave those she loved for life with a stranger in an alien land. Yet she had no choice, not unless she wanted to take holy vows. For women, it was either marriage or a nunnery. For her, marriage was the better road, albeit one fraught with risk. Discovering that her mouth had suddenly gone dry, she said huskily, “Who?”

  “He is not a king, and I did promise you one,” he said, with a quick smile, “but he is of noble birth and—”

  “Richard! Who?”

  “The Count of Toulouse.” Watching her intently, Richard saw her eyes widen, her lips part. But she said not a word and she looked so stunned that he felt a prickle of unease.

  Joanna was still struggling with disbelief. “Raimond de St Gilles?”

  “Well, he is the only Count of Toulouse I know, lass.” Richard slid his chair closer. “Such an opportunity is rarer than dragon’s teeth. You would be bringing Toulouse back into the family, Joanna, whilst depriving Philippe of a valuable ally. But the marriage is a good one for you, too. You already know Raimond, having spent several months in his company, so there’d be no surprises, and not many brides can say that. From what I’ve heard about the man, he ought to be easy enough to live with, for he likes music and women and wine and seems to find humor in most of life’s predicaments. And you’ll feel at home in Toulouse, for it is much like Sicily. Even the weather will be to your liking, warmer than Normandy or Anjou; you’ve often complained of our winters. . . .”

  He paused then, feeling that he was talking too much, spurred on by her strange silence. He glanced toward their mother, seeking some help, and she obliged by leaning over to take Joanna’s hand; she was startled to find it was as cold as ice. “What pleases me greatly,” she said, “is that I will not be losing you again. Few mothers and daughters are so lucky.” It troubled her, though, that Joanna seemed so shaken, and she tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand, saying, “But it is a decision that will change the course of your life, so that decision ought not to be a hasty one. You need not give us your answer now; you can take some time to think on it.”

  Richard was not willing to wait for another heartbeat, not with so much at stake. He saw the wisdom, though, in Eleanor’s suggestion, for there was a danger Joanna might make an impulsive refusal and then feel bound by pride to hold to it. “Maman is right,” he said, albeit without much enthusiasm. “You need time to consider this.”

  Joanna looked from one to the other, blinking as if she were awakening from a drowsy daydream. “No,” she said and was surprised to find them both staring at her in utter dismay, only belatedly comprehending why. “I meant that I do not need time to consider it.” She paused to draw a deep, steadying breath, and then smiled. “I am quite willing to marry the Count of Toulouse.” After that, she could say no more, for she’d been swept up into her brother’s arms and he was hugging her so tightly that she thought he might crack a rib.

  FLOATING DOWN THE STAIRS into the great hall, Joanna saw her sister-in-law hurrying toward her. Understanding now why Berengaria had seemed so preoccupied, she paused long enough to confirm that yes, she would be marrying the Count of Toulouse, and no, she did not believe she’d be wedding a heretic.
She saw that Berengaria would need convincing, but she did not have time for that now, and she hastily excused herself.

  She finally found Mariam in their bedchamber. The other woman glanced up as the door opened, the book on her lap forgotten as soon as she saw Joanna’s face. “What is it? You look . . . Well, I am not sure, for I’ve never seen you look like this!”

  “That is because I’ve never felt like this,” Joanna confided. “I am still not sure it really happened, for it seems so . . . so improbable. I’ve been with Richard and my mother in the solar, listening as they sought to persuade me that I ought to marry Raimond de St Gilles.”

  “Joanna!” Mariam sprang to her feet, and once again Joanna found herself enveloped in an exuberant embrace, this one easier on her ribs. As giddy as young girls, they laughed and hugged, and settled then onto the bed, where Mariam demanded to know all.

  Joanna was eager to share the events of the past hour, hoping that saying it aloud would make it seem real. Richard and her mother were delighted with the match. By agreeing to wed Raimond, she’d be in high favor with her brother for some time to come, she said, with a mischievous smile. Raimond had agreed to marry her as soon as the suggestion had been broached, not even waiting to learn what marriage portion Richard would provide. This time her smile was downright dazzling. Fortunately, Richard was giving her a very generous dowry: the rich county of the Agen. Richard meant to send word to Raimond that very day, and they would be wed here in Rouen as quickly as the arrangements could be made.

  “So,” she concluded, “by this time next month, I will be the Countess of Toulouse.”