The Loves of the Lionheart Page 16

  Her third child was a son, but like her first son, was dead before he drew breath. Perhaps God did not think her good enough to bear a healthy son, but there would be no more. The signs of aging that only a woman could know had begun to attack her body and she knew she was passed bearing any more children.

  And she watched her mirror obsessively, always afraid when she looked at her handsome husband that he might see in her a maternal figure instead of a seductive one. As though he had read her thoughts, he appeared in the mirror behind her.

  “I love you, Alys,” he said. “Have I ever told you that?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Reconciliation

  IN MAINE, BERENGARIA did her best to keep busy, whilst selling everything she had of value to raise funds for the ransom. She was a Queen, but that high office did not prevent her from begging for sheep clippings from the shearers thereabouts. The most important thing was to bring Richard back to her.

  The money she had raised was sent to Queen Eleanor, who had raised the remainder and paid it, Richard had been released and had returned to England for a short time. He was only there long enough to berate his brother and get himself crowned for a second time, in case his subjects were in any doubt which brother was their sovereign.

  But he had not asked his wife to join him and now he was back in France, trying to regain his lands there that his brother had lost during his brief regency of England. Still he made no attempt to see his Queen.

  The months dragged into years; she visited her sister, Blanche, a lot as well as Joanna, who had given birth to a child, an heir to Toulouse. Both seemed settled in happy marriages and all Berengaria wanted was a chance to build the same. She had loved Richard from the moment she first set eyes on him and despite her suspicion of his infidelity in Palestine, she loved him still.

  The news brought to her of her husband by travellers did not bode well for a future. It seemed that when he was not looking for wars to fight, he was looking for women to bed. She even heard a rumour that he had been approached by a wise man, a hermit who berated him for his debauchery and told him to return to his lawful Queen.

  Berengaria was a proud and reserved woman, and although hurt, she kept her heartache to herself. She did this so well, rumours began to spread that she was unconcerned about her husband’s behaviour, that she was even thankful that he had found other interests.

  While she heard whispers of this gossip, she did nothing to correct it. It was none of anyone’s concern but hers and Richard’s.

  Joanna had yet another reason to be angry with her favourite brother, that he was betraying the woman whom she had come to love as a sister. She knew Berengaria was hurt, and she hated to see her unhappy.

  “You should write to him, Berengaria,” she said. “You should demand that he return to you, to his marriage. How does he expect to get an heir if he is not with you?”

  “I doubt it has even crossed his mind to wonder,” she replied.

  “I don’t understand why my mother has not intervened. It is not as though she would have any qualms about interfering.”

  “Odd,” Berengaria replied. “She seemed to like me when we met and we got on well enough during the journey to Sicily. I have to say I could barely tolerate her domineering manner, but I thought I had kept my feelings to myself. I must have done something to change her mind.”

  “It is not what you did, my friend. It is what you did not do.”

  “How so? I could not have done more to show your brother that I wanted to be a good wife to him.”

  “You did not conceive a child,” Joanna replied. “She was sure you would give Richard an heir.”

  “She reckoned without Richard’s disinterest then, didn’t she? He has spent little time with me.”

  “His first love is war,” Joanna replied. “And he must try to reclaim the lands and titles my feckless brother, John, has lost. But if he is listening to the gossip, who knows what he is thinking? He may well believe that you are indifferent to him.”

  “You could be right. I may write to him, but if I receive no reply, I’ll not try a second time.”

  She wrote that evening, asking her husband when he will return to her, but with no real idea of where to send such a letter, she held out little hope. All she could do was to pray and after a little while, it seemed her prayers were answered.

  She woke one morning to find her errant husband seated in a comfortable chair beside her bed. He looked much as he had that day in Palestine, when he returned from the battle to spend Christmas with her and his sister, grimy and dusty, his face covered in mud, his boots the same.

  But still he was a welcome sight. She sat up in bed, smiled at him, her stomach fluttering, her heart racing, but he failed to smile back.

  “You received my letter?” She asked.

  He shook his head.

  “No. Did you write?”

  Her smile faded. So he had not returned at her request.

  “I did. I wrote to ask when you planned to return to me.”

  He stood and took one long stride across the room to stand beside her bed. He sat, took her hand and held it to his lips, but still he did not smile.

  “Will you forgive me?” He asked.

  “For what? For being a warrior King and trying to reclaim your lands instead of spending time with your wife? Or for debauching every female from Poitiers to London?”

  Her tone had grown hard, much harder than she had intended. When she saw him, all she had wanted to do was fall into his arms, hold him close and love him. But pride and anger got in the way.

  He pulled her into his arms, held her face against the rough surface of his chain mail and left a smear of dirt on her cheek.

  “It is true,” he said quietly. “I have not been faithful to you and I regret it more than I ever regretted anything in my life.”

  “You loved me once. At least, I thought you did.”

  “I did and I still do. I don’t know what demon possessed me to leave you, a most virtuous and loving wife, for easy release with a bunch of whores. When Bishop Hugh came to me, told me that the whole Christian world was disgusted with my treatment of you...”

  “Bishop Hugh? Of Lincoln?” She pulled away from him, sat up straight. Her eyes met his and in them he saw blazing anger. “So, you have not come for my sake then, but for your own.”

  “No, you are wrong. It is true the Pope sent him to me, to instruct me of the right way.”

  “You needed to be ordered back to your wife? How touching.”

  “Yes, I did. I needed to be told, to have my eyes opened to what I was losing. I have thrown away the most perfect love. Please forgive me, sweetheart. Give me a chance to show you that I can be constant to you.”

  She stared at him for a few moments, her thoughts busy with the decision she must make. A few days ago, she was longing for a moment like this, but now to know that he returned because the Pope ordered it? It was insulting.

  But she loved him. She wanted to keep him with her and if there was a chance that he would stay and love her, it was a chance she would have to take.

  “Do you swear to me that you will be forever faithful to me?”

  “I do. I swear it. I am a fool. I won the heart of the most virtuous woman in Christendom and I couldn’t see it. I cannot erase my sins, but I can be sure to commit no more. At least, not where you are concerned.”

  She reached up and kissed him, once more that harsh surface of his chain mail rubbing against her shift.

  “Then so be it. With God’s help, we will work together to a brighter future.”

  THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED his return, were the happiest of her marriage. She had not felt this content since the day she said goodbye to her beloved father and Navarre.

  They built a house, despite the lands and properties he already owned. They built a small house in Maine, a house with some acres of land and a vineyard, a house where they could live as a family, should a family ever arrive. As to that, they tried
their best. Almost every night he made love to her, just as she had always dreamed he would, and her love for him grew into a need which would consume her in the days to come.

  Once again, her happiness was to be short lived. Had Berengaria known for one moment the devastation to her world the messenger brought, she would have rushed to stop him from ever handing his scroll to the King. But she did not know, could not know, and the sight of Richard, unrolling that parchment and reading it, was the sight which would stay with her for the rest of her life.

  “Traitor!” Richard yelled as he marched into the house, clutching the unrolled scroll in his hand.

  The tone of his voice was well known to Berengaria and her heart sank. She knew well that it was the voice of a man who would be compelled to seek revenge in whatever form it presented itself.

  “Who is a traitor?” She asked.

  “The Viscount of Limoges has betrayed me. He has formed an alliance with my enemy, Philip Augustus. I must leave at once.”

  “Oh, Richard,” she sighed. “Just as I thought we would have some peace at last.”

  She made no attempt to change his mind, to keep him with her. She knew he had no choice other than to fight for what was his, the homage of this treacherous Viscount. If he did nothing, others would think it acceptable to betray him and he would lose what he had so recently regained. She wanted him to stay, but it could not be. Such was the duty of a Queen.

  He stuffed his belongings into a travelling bag, donned the same armour and chain mail he had been wearing when he returned to his wife. His pages had cleaned it, removed all the mud and polished it till it shone in the sunlight and oh, he looked so appealing with his kingly crown over his hood of mail. It was a small, golden crown he wore in battle, so that all who saw him would know he was their King.

  She held him close, kissed him with passion, felt him stir and breathed a soft, seductive sigh that almost made him change his mind.

  “Come back to me,” she said. “Soon and in once piece.”

  Alas, her wish was not to be granted.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Queen of Nowhere

  KING RICHARD’S SIEGE of the Viscount’s castle at Chalus lasted but three days, during which his army assaulted the walls with fire and arrows. The King set up camp with his men and, having won yet another battle, he was feeling pleased with himself. Another estate to add to his vast empire was always welcome and he decided to go on foot to inspect the castle walls.

  For this battle, he brought with him his son, Philip of Cognac, a young man now in his early twenties. It was he who tried to persuade the King that showing himself so blatantly was not a wise move.

  “You should not go alone, Father, and without armour,” Philip told him.

  Richard turned and held his son in his arms. Hearing that word ‘Father’ cast a cloud of gloom hovering over him, because the only man who would ever call him that, was entitled to nothing. He could not make him his heir, he could not give him England nor any of the lands that went with it. The King had given up on the idea of a legitimate heir and this son was the only one who mattered.

  Philip ruled Cognac only because Richard had acquired it for him in marriage. There was no denying he had done little to deserve a legitimate son. He had failed to win back the Holy City, he had drained England of every mark he could get from it, he had even declared that he would sell London if he could find a buyer. He suspected those were the words for which he would be forever remembered.

  He had been unfaithful to his lovely wife, he had broken her heart when it would have been so easy to make her happy. No, he did not deserve to hear that word ‘Father’ from a legitimate son.

  “The battle is over, Philip,” Richard finally replied. “I will be safe, but the walls may not. After such a battering, they could well be unstable and dangerous.”

  “Then I will go with you.”

  “No. There is no need; I shall be back shortly.”

  And he was, but with an arrow embedded in his shoulder.

  IN APRIL, 1199, WHILE Berengaria awaited the return of her husband, a despatch arrived from Chalus in France from the Queen Mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, informing her son’s wife, that Richard was no more.

  Some of the ink had smudged and Berengaria had difficulty in reading words obscured by Eleanor’s tears and her own. He had laid siege to the castle and was shot in the shoulder with an arrow, which proved difficult to remove. An infection set in and his flesh rotted away, spreading throughout his body and killing him.

  He had sent for his mother on his deathbed. His wife wondered if he had also sent for her and if Eleanor had decided she wanted the last few minutes of her son’s life to herself. She would never know, but what she did know was that once again Eleanor was usurping her place as the rightful Queen of England and the first lady in Richard’s life.

  After the few months of harmony the royal couple had spent together in their little house in Maine, Berengaria was sure he would have sent for her, that if he was to die, he would want to die in the arms of his wife. It was what she would always believe, anyway.

  Eleanor could say whatever she liked now that the King was dead, and she declared that with his last words he had named his brother, John, as his heir. After the mess he had so recently made as Richard’s regent, losing most of their lands in France, it seemed unlikely that he would have named Prince John as his heir. And Berengaria knew of his earlier declaration, while in Sicily, when he named his nephew, Arthur.

  That young man was the rightful heir, being the only son of Richard’s brother Geoffrey, but it was clear to Berengaria that Eleanor had lied and it was equally clear why. If John were King, she could keep control of England; if Arthur was King, it would be his mother, Constance who ruled and Eleanor would have no say in anything. She could not tolerate that, not being in control of everything, not being able to dominate. Those sixteen years Eleanor had spent imprisoned must have been torture for a woman of her temperament.

  Berengaria decided to keep quiet about her suspicions. What did it matter to her, anyway? She had no love for Constance and without Richard, there was no point to anything. They had only just come together again and now they were torn apart forever.

  She needed to see Joanna, needed to share her grief with her, but even that comfort was to be torn from her.

  IN TOULOUSE, A HEAVILY pregnant Countess Joanna was becoming more and more concerned with the rumours of a rebellion in her husband’s absence. She decided she could wait no longer for him to return, that she must raise an army of her own to defend his territories or this child she carried, along with its brother and sister, would be orphans.

  She had no idea when Raymond was likely to return, but it was her duty to act on his behalf and that she intended to do. She was a Plantagenet after all, and Plantagenets did not sit idly by while their lands were stolen from them.

  Since the rebels would think her a valuable hostage, she left her children in the care of their nurses and loyal guards and fled, gathering an army as she went. They made camp to wait overnight and plan their strategy.

  Joanna would send word to her brother. She was well aware that her only chance to win against the rebel was to have his support, and she had written to him that very evening. She planned to send a messenger at first light.

  It was almost impossible for her to find sleep on the hard floor and with her hefty bulk, but that insomnia was to save her life. In the early hours of morning, she gave up on the attempt and thought to plan a strategy instead. She was the sister of the Lionheart; she would not be defeated by a gang of rabble.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard whispers and the sound of footfalls outside the tent. Then she smelled smoke, saw a bright flash through the canvas of the tent and got to her feet as fast as she could manage. But it was not fast enough, for as she made her way to the tent flap, the fabric burst into flame.

  Joanna screamed as the flames made their way through the flimsy walls, forcing her into a
corner and following her there. She pulled out the knife she always carried for protection and stabbed it into the fabric of the tent just as the flames touched her gown and began to make their way up her legs. Terrified and in excruciating pain, she sliced through the tent and pushed her way outside, then lay down on the damp grass and rolled over to smother the flames.

  The child within her kicked and punched at the wall of her womb, obviously as frightened as its mother. She studied her arms for a moment, saw the blisters that were starting to erupt from her flesh and pulled up her sleeves. She did not want them to stick. Her legs were also burning, but she had no time to soothe them.

  As she looked around, she saw the inferno all around her. The air was hot, the tents were ablaze and if she stayed here, she would soon be ablaze with them.

  She ran through the hedge to where the horses were tied and released them all except her own, which she mounted and rode away, toward Chalus, where her brother was laying siege to the castle. He would leave that battle to come to her aid; of that she had not the slightest doubt.

  JOANNA, QUEEN OF SICILY and Countess of Toulouse, felt the relief wash over her as she arrived in Chalus. The castle looked deserted and she could only hope that Richard was still here, ready to return with her to Toulouse and quell the rebellion which she could not.

  It was clear from the silence which hung over the whole town that the siege was over and she had no doubt at all that Richard would have prevailed. She was weary and in pain and very scared that her burnt limbs would become infected if they did not soon receive treatment. But finding Richard was more important if she was to save Toulouse for its Count and her children.

  The sight which greeted her as she drew rein was not one she had either expected or wished to see. What was her mother doing here? There could be but one reason for Queen Eleanor to be here, where King Richard had so recently been fighting a battle.