A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Another silence ensued. When Richard at last agreed to do so, Hubert suspected that it was a grudging courtesy, no more than that. But he was satisfied, feeling that he’d discharged the duty so unwillingly imposed upon him by the papal legate.

  Both men were relieved by the sudden knock at the door, wanting to put this uncomfortable conversation behind them. At Richard’s command, his squire entered the solar. Hubert had not seen Arne in several years, and was surprised by how much he’d changed; he was eighteen now, and had left the awkwardness of adolescence behind. He greeted the archbishop with the confidence gained during four years in the king’s service, and then smiled at Richard.

  “I know you were eager to hear from my lord marshal, sire.”

  AS SOON AS RICHARD returned to the hall, he knew that Will’s Flemish mission had been successful before a word was said, for the man at Will’s side was one Richard recognized, Simon de Haverets, the marshal of the Count of Flanders. Glancing toward Hubert, he said jubilantly, “First Toulouse and now Flanders. Philippe has just lost his last ally.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  JULY 1197

  Beaucaire Castle, Toulouse

  Raimond was standing in the inner bailey, gazing up at the window of the tower in which his wife was laboring to give birth to their child. The sun had set several hours ago, and the whitewashed castle walls glowed in the soft moonlight, but the day’s stifling heat still kept the cooler night air at bay and the window was open to any vagrant breezes. Several times he had heard Joanna cry out, stifled sounds of pain that caused him to flinch and pace restlessly. He hated feeling so helpless, hated being banished from her lying-in chamber, hated knowing so little about childbirth. Her pangs had begun that morning, more than twelve hours ago. Should she not have delivered the baby by now? Or was it natural to take so long? Women guarded the secrets of the birthing chamber well, the one realm in which the wishes of men did not matter and female instinct and intuition ruled.

  He’d long ago concluded that women had much in common with the Cathars, both forced to live in a world in which law and custom conspired to keep them silent and submissive, although that was not an idea he’d ever shared. He suspected that even Joanna would find his mental musings to be unsettling, for he’d known since boyhood that his brain was as determined as Luc to lead him astray. Inquisitive, whimsical, and irreverent, it balked at following the well-worn path set down by Church and society, constantly veering off into forbidden territory and getting him into trouble with his father, his tutors, his confessors—until he finally learned to control his tongue, if not his thoughts. So he had not blamed women for defending their only sanctum—until tonight, when he was exiled out in the bailey whilst Joanna was struggling to bring a new life into the world without losing her own. For that much he did understand about childbirth—how dangerous it could be.

  His pacing had taken him closer and closer to the tower doorway. He’d made several trips up the stairs to the upper story, and although he’d been denied entry, one of his sisters or Mariam would come out and reassure him that all was going as it ought. But would they tell him if it were not so? If the birthing was dragging on too long? If Joanna was weakening? If she’d begun to bleed?

  “MAMAN!”

  “I am here, dearest, right here.” Eleanor took a towel and wiped the perspiration from Joanna’s face. She was no stranger to the lying-in chamber, having given birth to ten children and attended numerous female friends over the years. But when she’d assisted in the birth of her grandson Wilhelm during Tilda’s English exile, she’d discovered that it was as difficult to watch a daughter’s travail as to endure it herself. And on this summer night at Beaucaire Castle, she was suffering Joanna’s pain as if it were her own.

  Esquiva, younger than most midwives but with a serene self-confidence that women in childbirth found soothing, knelt before the birthing stool and poured thyme oil into her hands so she could check the dilation of the cervix. “It ought not to be much longer, my lady.”

  Azalais brought over a cup of wine mixed with bark of cassia fistula, urging Joanna to take a few more swallows. “It is sure to be a boy,” she assured her sister-in-law, “for males like to tarry in order to make a grand entrance. Girls are more biddable than their brothers, even in the womb.”

  Joanna was drenched in sweat, her eyes smudged with dark circles, and her lips were cracked and bleeding. She mustered up a wan smile, for she remained convinced that her baby was a son. Why was it taking so long, though? Bohemond’s delivery had been quicker . . . or had it? She was so exhausted now that even her memories were becoming muddled.

  The opening door drew all eyes toward Mariam, who’d gone on another mission of mercy to Raimond. “You’re doing better than your husband,” she said, bending over to brush Joanna’s hair back from her forehead. “The man is as jumpy as a treed cat. He wanted you to have this.” She opened her hand to show Joanna a coral ring. “He remembered hearing that coral eases childbed pains and sent servants rummaging through every coffer in the castle until they found this.” It was too big even for Joanna’s thumb, but she closed her fist tightly around it, not because she believed it had magical powers, but because it was Raimond’s.

  “I was waylaid by Master Pons,” Mariam said, “and he insisted that I give you his advice, Dame Esquiva.” This caused some chuckling among the women, for none of them would have dreamed of trusting a male doctor over a midwife. “He says that it would be safe to bleed Joanna now since night has fallen, explaining at great length that all women are of a melancholic nature, unlike men, who can also be choleric, sanguine, and phlegmatic. I feared he was going to give me the entire history of bloodletting ere I could make my escape!”

  “If women are indeed melancholic by nature, then we have men to blame for that,” Eleanor said tartly. She had no intention of seeing her daughter bled, thinking women lost enough blood during childbirth as it was. But she need not have worried, for Esquiva was in full agreement, saying dismissively that Master Pons knew as much about delivering a baby as she did about the science of alchemy.

  The physician was forgotten then, when Joanna cried out again. Her contractions were coming much more frequently now and under the midwife’s direction, the women massaged her belly with warmed thyme oil, fed her spoonfuls of honey to keep her strength up, and closed the window when she began to shiver. Esquiva had probed the mouth of her womb, assuring herself the baby was in the right position, and urged Joanna to bear down until she saw the crowning.

  “Stop pushing, my lady! I see the head,” she announced triumphantly. Joanna had no breath to scream, writhing in pain when the baby’s shoulders came free. She clutched Raimond’s ring so tightly that the coral dug deep scratches into her palm as her son entered the world, his skin blotched and puckered, covered in mucus and her own blood. His sex was confirmed almost at once by Esquiva. “A man-child!”

  But instead of rejoicing, Joanna was suddenly overwhelmed by fear, remembering how vulnerable Bohemond had been from the moment he’d drawn his first feeble breath, small and frail and unresponsive, almost as if he’d known that he did not belong there, that God would soon call him home. Tears burning her eyes, she reached out weakly toward her baby, wanting to hold him before she saw upon Esquiva’s face the dismay that she’d seen upon the faces of the Sicilian midwives. It was then, though, that he let out a loud, piercing cry, sounding as if he was protesting the indignities he’d been subjected to, sounding robust and strong enough to banish the worst maternal fears.

  The women were cooing over the baby as Esquiva cleaned out his mouth, cut and tied the umbilical cord, and began to wipe the slimy coating from his squirming little body. Tears were not uncommon after birth, so only Mariam interpreted them correctly, Mariam who’d been in the birthing chamber as Joanna had been delivered of her dying baby. “He is perfect, Joanna,” she said, taking the other woman’s hand in her own. “Perfect from head to toe, I swear it.”

  Taking the baby from t
he midwife, Eleanor leaned over and placed him in his mother’s arms. And as Joanna cradled her son, gently stroking his surprisingly thick thatch of dark hair—his father’s hair—she would later remember it as the happiest moment of her life.

  WHEN JOANNA AWAKENED, morning sun was pouring into the chamber from the open windows, her baby was sleeping in his cradle under the wet nurse’s watchful eye, and her husband was dozing in a chair by her bed. He opened his eyes as soon as she stirred, leaning over to give her a quick kiss. He’d stayed with her late into the night, but she saw that he’d changed his clothing since she’d fallen asleep, and a cut on his chin showed he’d taken the trouble to shave before coming back. She had never been shy about admitting vanity as one of her besetting sins and she ran her hand now through her tangled hair, saying, “I must look dreadful, Raimond.”

  “You look,” he said, “like the mother of my son.” He turned then toward the wet nurse, but Gileta had anticipated him and was already approaching the bed with the infant. Joanna sat up and Raimond positioned pillows behind her back so she could hold their son. His eyes were puffy and he had a reddish splotch on his forehead, which Esquiva said would soon fade, but Joanna thought he was already the most beautiful baby she’d ever seen.

  “His eyes are so blue,” she marveled, “just like yours, Raimond.”

  “Let’s hope the poor lad does not take after me in any other way.” He reached out and smiled when the baby gripped his finger in a tiny fist. “You do not know it yet, Raimondet, but you are going to like this world even more than your mama’s comfortable womb. You will be spoiled and cosseted by your mother, who happens to be astonishingly beautiful, and your well-meaning, foolish father will make the obligatory speeches about discipline and duty, but he’ll be able to deny you nothing. And one day you will be the Count of Toulouse, a land of milk and honey that is even more blessed than Eden, since we have no talking serpents.”

  “Little Raimond,” Joanna echoed softly, smiling at her men. “I suppose it is lucky that we did not have a daughter, since we never did choose a name for a girl.”

  “Yes, we did, love. Do you not remember . . . Melusine.”

  “It is becoming obvious to me, my darling, that I’d best be the one to name our children. What do you have in mind for our next son—Lucifer?”

  “No, that one’s taken,” he said with a grin, and she pretended to be disapproving, but could not carry it off.

  “I shall miss Luc,” she murmured, for they’d have to abstain for the next forty days until she could be churched.

  Raimond could understand why a woman ought to forgo carnal intercourse for a time after childbirth, given how demanding and dangerous it could be to the female body. He’d been told by a former light-o’-love that one of every five women died in childbed, and while he did not know if that was actually true, the figure was so chilling that he’d never forgotten it. But he found the custom of churching itself to be both idiotic and offensive. According to priests, a new mother could not enter a church until she’d first undergone a rite of purification lest she desecrate its sacred space with the pollution of her female blood. When he’d questioned it, it had been explained to him that women were in a state of sin because of the blood they’d shed in giving birth, because of the male semen that had taken root in their wombs, and because of the carnal pleasure that they’d experienced during conception.

  Raimond had seen a number of fallacies in that logic. The Church taught that the Lord Christ’s blood led to salvation. So why, then, was women’s blood seen as polluting? And if a woman was polluted by a man’s seed, why not require her to submit to the ritual of churching every time she shared her husband’s bed? Why punish her for bringing another Christian soul into the world? And why did male semen not pollute the man, only the woman who received it? His attempts to debate these questions had done nothing to endear him to the local bishops, who’d accused him of mocking God and had been outraged when he’d injudiciously pointed out that they sounded rather like the Cathars, who saw all sexual intercourse as sinful. He’d also enraged his father, who thought he ought to keep such unorthodox views to himself. But he’d had to do that too often in his youth. Once he reached manhood, he’d gloried in the freedom to speak his mind, and if it vexed the pompous and the petty, so much the better.

  His objection to the churching ritual now was personal, as it would mean that Joanna would be denied the privilege of attending their son’s christening, for babies were baptized as soon as possible to make sure their little souls would be saved if they suddenly sickened and died. “I was thinking,” he said, “that if we held Raimondet’s christening in the castle chapel, you could be present, too.”

  Joanna was caught by surprise. By now she knew that her new husband thrived on such provocations, and there were times when she admitted to herself that his reckless, rakish charm was part of his appeal. But she’d also decided that it would be her role to protect him from his own rash impulses, and so she said composedly, “That is very sweet of you, Raimond, but I’d then have to fast on bread and water as penance for entering a House of God ere I was purified. Whilst I do want to lose the weight I put on during my pregnancy, that is not a diet I’d enjoy, so I’ll rely upon you to give me a detailed account of the ceremony.”

  He showed that he understood her fully as well as she understood him then, by saying wryly, “If you mean to keep me off that too-tempting road to Hell, love, it is likely to be a full-time occupation.”

  Joanna merely laughed, never doubting that she could do it. For on this July morning, the first day of her son’s life, she was serenely sure that nothing was impossible, that their future would be as blessed as their present.

  AS USUAL, Berengaria got little advance notice of her husband’s plans, a brief message that he was on his way back to Rouen from a campaign in Berry, suggesting she meet him at Le Mans. It was a fifty-mile, two-day journey from Beaufort-en-Vallée, and Berengaria reached that lovely riverside city a week after the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. She discovered she need not have hurried so, for Richard was not yet there. Three more days passed before the sudden, loud cheering in the town’s streets told her that he had finally arrived. She had no time to change into a fancier gown, to spare more than a hasty moment’s glance into her mirror, determined that when he and his men rode into the palace precincts, she’d be waiting in the courtyard to bid him a proper welcome.

  He was accompanied by his mesnie of household knights, by William Marshal and his own knights, and by Mercadier and a contingent of his routiers, so arrangements had to be made to billet most of them in the town. The next few hours were hectic ones for Berengaria as she dealt with the demands of hospitality and saw to it that a dinner was made ready for the more highborn of Richard’s companions. It troubled her that Mercadier was included, even if he was now Lord of Beynac; she was convinced that he was a man whose soul was already pledged to the Devil, but she knew better than to object.

  The meal was a lively one, for her household knights were eager to hear of Richard’s warfare in Berry and he was always willing to boast of his military feats. His brief foray south had been a highly successful one, for he’d taken the formidable stronghold of Vierzon and nine other castles from the French king, that story dominating the dinner conversation. It was only as servants began to collect the uneaten food to give to the poor and the guests broke up into smaller groups that Berengaria finally had a private moment with Richard.

  After they’d exchanged the courtesies that she thought so incongruous for a husband and wife, he asked politely about the renovations to their house at Thoree. It was coming along very well, she assured him, although she’d lost all enthusiasm for the project, knowing by now that they’d never live there together.

  “Good. You’ll have to show it to me again one of these days,” he said vaguely. “I imagine you know about Joanna’s son?” When she smiled and nodded, he gave her a curious glance. “I was surprised that you did
not accompany my mother to Beaucaire for Joanna’s lying-in.”

  His comment was not accusatory; he sounded faintly puzzled, his tone one that men often used when they were discussing the mysterious ways of women. But Berengaria’s face flamed, and she no longer met his eyes. “I . . . I was ailing,” she lied. It was a source of great shame to her that she’d not been there for the birth of Joanna’s child. It was not that she’d begrudged Joanna her good fortune and joy. She loved Joanna, wanted her to be happy. Yet she’d shrunk from traveling to Toulouse in the company of the woman who’d usurped her rightful place, then having to watch Joanna give her new husband a son or daughter, doing what she could not. Now, though, she could not forgive herself for that moment of very human weakness. She did penance the only way she could, instigating what she expected to be a very awkward conversation, saying that she needed to speak with Richard alone.

  She could tell that he was instantly on guard. When he offered his arm to escort her from the hall, she could feel the tension in the corded muscles. But she was still not prepared for what happened when they reached the gardens. The August sun was hot upon their faces, reminding her of Outremer, which often seemed as if it were part of another woman’s life. It was safe from eavesdroppers, though, and she pointed toward a trellis-shaded arbor, suggesting they sit there.

  Instead of following her, Richard came to a halt on the pathway. His eyes had narrowed, a storm-sky grey, and his very stance—legs apart, arms folded across his chest—was defiant. “If you mean to reproach me about maltreating a ‘man of God,’ Berengaria, you will be wasting your breath. I have no intention of setting Beauvais free.”

  For a moment, she could only stare at him mutely. He’d been angry with her before. But he’d never called her by her given name, had never looked at her as he did now, as if she were a stranger, one he did not like very much.