Richard had never expected to feel such a sense of solidarity with Philip, for they’d been rivals for as long as he could remember. Now he found himself looking at his cousin through new eyes. “No, it is not such a bad fate at all,” he agreed, although he did not share the older man’s fatalism. He was confident that he would return safely from Outremer, for surely it was not God’s Will that he die in a failed quest.
THE COUNT OF FLANDERS gave Philippe another reason to despise him by hammering out an agreement that handed Richard virtually all that he sought, for the French king’s bargaining position had been crippled by the exposure of his double-dealing, the disapproval of his own vassals, and the Church’s rigid code governing sexual relations. Richard was released from his promise to wed Alys in return for a face-saving payment of ten thousand silver marks to Philippe. He was to retain the great stronghold of Gisors and the Vexin; it would revert to the French king only if he died without a male heir. The other lands in dispute were disposed of according to which king held them at the present time. And Alys was to be returned to Philippe’s custody upon the conclusion of the crusade.
ELEANOR AND BERENGARIA reached the ancient seacoast city of Reggio on the twenty-ninth of March, where they were welcomed by its archbishop and installed in the royal castle. Berengaria was anxious now that she could see Messina from the window of her bedchamber, and she had a restless night. As a result, she slept past dawn, and when she was awakened later that morning, she was startled to see a blaze of sunlight filling the room. “Why did you not wake me, Uracca?” she said reproachfully, for she could not remember the last time she’d missed Morrow Mass.
“My lady, you must get up! The English king is here!”
Berengaria sat bolt upright in the bed. “Are you sure? We were not expecting him till late this afternoon!”
“He is with the queen, and they have requested that you join them in the solar.” The girl’s eyes were round. “I see why they call him Coeur de Lion, my lady, for he is as golden as a lion and just as large!”
She continued to burble on, but Berengaria was no longer listening. Fumbling for her bedrobe, she flung the coverlets back. “Fetch my clothes!” Her ladies obeyed, pulling her linen chemise over her head and then helping with her gown, lacing it up with fingers made clumsy by their haste, and then fastening a braided silk belt around her hips. She sat on the bed as they gartered her stockings at the knees, while Uracca undid her night plait and tried to brush out the tangles. When they brought over a polished metal mirror, Berengaria felt a pang of disappointment, for she’d planned to wear her best gown for her first meeting with Richard, not this rather plain one of blue wool. She was debating with herself whether she had time to change into the green silk with the violet sleeves when a knock sounded on the door.
As one of the women hurried over to open it, Berengaria reached for a wimple and veil. “Tell the servant that I will be ready soon, Loretta.” This was not how it was supposed to be, she thought, a flicker of resentment beginning to smolder. But at that moment, Loretta cried out that the queen herself was at the door. Berengaria gasped, forewarned by a sudden premonition. There was no time for the wimple, but she managed to cover her hair decently with a veil before Loretta opened the door and Eleanor entered, with Richard right behind her.
“You must forgive my son’s bad manners, child. If I did not know better, I’d think he had been raised by wolves.”
Eleanor’s reprimand was nullified by her indulgent tone. Later, Berengaria would remember and realize that Richard could do no wrong in his mother’s eyes. Now she had no thoughts for anyone but the man striding toward her. She quickly sank down in a deep curtsy, lowering her gaze modestly, for well-bred young women were expected to be demure and self-effacing in the company of men. But then that rebellious glimmer sparked again, and, as Richard raised her up, she lifted her chin and looked him full in the face.
If he thought her boldness displeasing, as men in her country would have done, he hid it well, for he was smiling. “My mother is right,” he said lightly, “but for once I have an excuse for my bad manners. What man would not be eager to see his bride?” He kissed her fingers with a courtly flourish, and then pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand.
His breath was warm on her skin and Berengaria felt an odd frisson go up her back. He was as handsome as she remembered, but she did not remember being as intensely aware of his physical presence as she was now. How tall he was! She had to tilt her head to look up into his face, and as their eyes met, she found she could not tear her gaze away. His beard was closely trimmed, his teeth even, his lips thin but well shaped, his eyes the color of smoke. But a crescent-shaped scar slanted from one eyebrow into his hairline, and the hand still clasping hers bore another scar, this one zigzagging along his thumb and disappearing into the tight cuff of his sleeve. She wondered how many other battle scars were hidden underneath his tunic, and then blushed hotly, shocked by her own unseemly thoughts.
“I’d forgotten what a little bit of a lass you were,” Richard said, and she gave him a quick sidelong glance. He did not seem disappointed, though, for he was still smiling.
“And I’d forgotten how tall you were,” she said, returning his smile shyly. “Not as tall as my brother, of course, but then no men are . . .” Worrying that she was babbling like Uracca, she let the rest of her sentence trail off. Richard had turned toward his mother, saying that he’d never seen another man as tall as Sancho, and she took advantage of his distraction to take a backward step, for she was finding his close physical proximity to be rather unsettling. It seemed safer to concentrate upon his conversation with his mother instead of her own wayward thoughts, and she glanced toward Eleanor. What she heard was disappointing, for Richard wanted them to leave Reggio as quickly as possible, and she’d hoped to have time to change her gown. But it would never have occurred to her to object, and she murmured her assent when Richard asked if she’d soon be ready to depart.
Eleanor had reassured Richard that little unpacking had been done because of their late arrival in Reggio the night before, and a glance around the chamber confirmed that for him. “Good,” he said. “Why don’t you let the others know we’re leaving, Maman? I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve had a private word with my bride.” He was both amused and annoyed by the reaction of Berengaria’s duennas, for they looked as horrified as if he’d just announced that he planned to drag the girl off to a bawdy house. But he left the matter in his mother’s capable hands, watching with a grin as she ushered the women out. Like so many clucking hens, he thought, and turned back to Berengaria as soon as the door closed behind them.
To his surprise, she looked as flustered as her duennas. So it was true that Spanish women were kept almost as sequestered as Saracen wives. Well, the lass would just have to adapt to Angevin ways, for Navarre was part of her past now. “You need to explain to your women, little dove, that I do not always have ravishment in mind when I seek some privacy with you.”
Berengaria blushed again, her lashes fluttering downward as she explained softly that she’d never been alone with a man before, for that would cause a great scandal. “Other than family, of course,” she added and then her breath quickened, for Richard had reached for the long, dangling ends of her silk belt and was playfully pulling her toward him.
“So . . .” he said, and there was a low, intimate tone to his voice now that she found both mesmerizing and disquieting. “Sancho’s little sister is all grown up. . . .” There was no longer space between them, and she could feel the heat of his hands through the thin wool of her gown as he slid them down to her waist. “I am going to take a wild guess and venture that you’ve never been kissed?”
“Not yet,” she whispered, shivering when his fingers moved caressingly along her throat. But she did not protest when he tilted her chin up and then brought his head down, his mouth covering hers. The kisses were gentle at first, awakening sensations that were unfamiliar but not unpleasant. When his arms tighten
ed around her, she followed his lead, dimly aware that this was surely sinful but paying more heed to the messages her body was sending to her brain—that she liked what he was doing to her. When he at last ended the embrace, she felt lightheaded and out of breath, relieved that he meant to take it no further, and understanding for the first time why men and women put their immortal souls at risk for the carnal pleasures of the flesh.
“Well,” he said, “now you’ve been kissed, Berenguela. But I promised irlanda that we’d get to Bagnara by noon, and if we do not, she’ll put some vile Sicilian curses on my head.”
Berengaria did not find it as easy as Richard to return to the real world. She could still taste his mouth, feel his hands on her waist, and she had no idea who Irlanda was or where Bagnara was, either. But when he took her hand and propelled her toward the door, she followed obediently for several steps. Stopping abruptly then, she looked up at him in delighted surprise. “You called me Berenguela!”
“Why not? It is your name, after all.”
“Yes, but for the past five months, I’ve heard only Berengaria, the French version, for I was told it was more fitting for your queen. Berenguela is my real name, what I am called in Navarre. And you remembered!”
“I like the musical sound of it,” he said, reminding her that he was a poet, too. “I find it more pleasing to the ear than Berengaria. But it does make sense for you to have a French name when the majority of my subjects speak French. So we’ll compromise. You can be Berengaria at court, Berenguela in bed.”
Not waiting for her response, he opened the door and started swiftly down the stairs, towing Berengaria behind him. Feeling as if she had been caught up in a whirlwind, she let herself be swept along, for what else could she do?
JOANNA HAD MANAGED to lay out an impressive dinner, given that it was Lent and she’d had only one day’s notice. The priory guest hall was filled with linen-draped trestle tables for all the people accompanying Eleanor, Berengaria, and Richard. But she’d reserved the high table for her family, not willing to share her mother with any others, however briefly.
Berengaria found herself forgotten in the jubilation of the Angevin family reunion, but she didn’t mind. She’d been deeply touched by Joanna’s joy, and slightly envious, too, for she’d have given almost anything to see her own mother again. They’d been talking nonstop during the meal and she was content to listen and to learn, although she did not catch all of their words. She’d spoken the lenga romana with Eleanor and Richard, but apparently Joanna’s grasp of that language had waned during her years in Sicily, and they were conversing in French, at times too rapidly for Berengaria, whose own French was adequate but not yet fully fluent. There was no mistaking their pleasure, though, and after all the stories she’d heard of the Devil’s Brood, it was reassuring to see such obvious family affection. She did not understand how Richard could have hated his own father and brothers, but there could be no doubt that he loved his mother and sister, and she took heart from that.
Richard remembered her from time to time; occasionally he smiled and once he winked. But for most of the meal, he was focused upon his mother, for he and Joanna were competing for Eleanor’s attention. Joanna wanted to talk of family, the one she’d left behind and the one she’d found in Sicily. But Richard was intent upon political matters, and as soon as the last course was done, he shoved his chair back and rose to his feet.
“I need to borrow Maman for a while, irlanda, but I promise to have her back at Bagnara tonight.”
“Richard, no!” Joanna flung her napkin down and jumped to her feet, too. “It has only been nine months since you’ve last seen Maman, but we’ve been separated for nigh on fifteen years!”
Berengaria was astonished that Joanna should dare to challenge Richard like that. She enjoyed a free and easy relationship with her own brother, but Richard seemed much more formidable than Sancho; moreover, she’d not have disputed Sancho in public. Richard showed no signs of anger, though. Leaning down, he kissed his sister on the cheek, saying with a coaxing smile, “I know how much you’ve missed Maman. However, it cannot be helped. We’ve got to talk about the news from Rome.”
Joanna was not won over and continued to argue until Eleanor intervened, saying she’d make sure that Richard brought her back from Messina by Vespers. Watching wide-eyed, Berengaria found herself hoping that Richard would not forget to bid her farewell, for it was obvious to her that his mind was very much on that “news from Rome.” Her worry was needless, for he took the time to kiss her hand and to tell Joanna to look after her before he escorted his mother from the hall.
Berengaria had assumed that she and Richard would spend their first day together. Glancing toward Joanna, she saw that the other woman was frowning and she wondered if Richard’s sister found this as awkward as she did. While Joanna had welcomed her warmly, they were still strangers, after all. Richard had mentioned casually that Joanna would be accompanying them to the Holy Land, and Berengaria wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She found Joanna somewhat intimidating, for she was extremely beautiful and worldly and self-confident, all the things that Berengaria knew she herself was not.
“Did you ever want to throttle your brother, Berengaria?” Joanna made a wry face. “I ought to have known he’d pull a sneaky trick like this, for he has not enough patience to fill a thimble.”
“Is he always so . . . so sudden?” Berengaria asked, and Joanna grinned.
“All the males in my family are like that. My father was the worst of the lot, unable to be still even during Mass. At least Richard can get through Prime or Vespers without squirming. But once he gets an idea into his head, he wants to act upon it straightaway.”
Berengaria was disarmed by Joanna’s easy bantering and ventured to confide, “Things seem to happen so fast with him. That will take getting used to, I think.”
“You’ll have to,” Joanna said, “for he’s not likely to slow down. I’d say the secret of marriage to Richard is just to hold on tight and enjoy the ride!”
Berengaria flushed, for as innocent as she was, she still could recognize a double entendre when she heard one. As she met Joanna’s eyes, she saw in them amusement and a glint of mischief. But she saw, too, genuine friendliness and, in that moment, she decided she was glad that Joanna would be coming with them. As she entered this new and alien Angevin world, what better guide could she have than Richard’s favorite sister?
CHAPTER 14
MARCH 1191
Messina, Sicily
Eleanor leaned back in her chair, regarding her son with affectionate, faintly suspicious hazel eyes. Richard had explained why he’d—as he put it—switched horses in midgallop, designating his little nephew Arthur as his heir instead of his brother John. He’d been candid about his troubles with the recalcitrant citizens of Messina, and he’d surprised her by speaking well of Tancred, insisting that he’d made sufficient restitution for his ill treatment of Joanna. But so far he’d not said a word about the “news from Rome,” and she was wondering why. Before she could ask him, though, he launched into a scathing account of the French king’s duplicity, and she listened with interest, marveling that Philippe could have been a son of the mild-mannered Louis’s loins.
“So Philippe is the one responsible for making me miss your wedding. I owe him a debt for that, and will look forward to repaying it.”
Richard smiled, thinking that he’d have loved to witness his mother’s retribution. “Alas, it will have to wait, for Philippe is no longer in Messina. He sailed for Outremer this morning at dawn, in such haste I could almost believe he did not want to meet you and my bride, Maman.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Eleanor said truthfully; she’d wanted to judge for herself the danger that the French king posed to her son. “Meeting Heinrich was quite interesting, for I now know that if he were cut, he’d bleed pure ice. I was hoping to have an opportunity to take Philippe’s measure, too.”
“Philippe is more of an annoyance than a threat,
” Richard said derisively. “If he were cut, he’d most likely faint, since I doubt that he’s ever seen blood up close, for certes not on the battlefield.”
“You still have not told me why we must confer in private like this. If I were not the trusting sort, Richard, I’d think that you have something to tell me that I’ll not want to hear.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a fond smile. “You know me far too well, Maman.” Rising, he busied himself in fetching her a cup of wine, such an obvious delaying tactic that she did not bother to point it out. “Last night a messenger arrived from Rome,” he said after he’d resumed his seat. “The Pope has been called home to God—or the Devil, depending upon which master he served. Clement died on March twentieth.”
“And . . . ?” Eleanor prompted. “Have they chosen his successor yet?”
“Not officially, but I have it on good authority that they’ll select one of the Orsini family, Cardinal Giacinto of Santa Maria in Scola Greca. I believe you’ve met him, Maman?”
“I did,” she confirmed, “many years ago. An odd choice, for he must be well into his eighties by now.”
“Eighty-five, I’m told.” Richard leaned forward, his eyes probing hers. “As little as I liked Clement, at least I knew whom I was dealing with. And he was receptive to English needs as long as I made it worth his while. So his death is inconvenient, for I’d recently put several requests before the papal curia, one of them to confirm Longchamp again as his papal legate.”
She raised an eyebrow, for she’d heard in Rome of the growing complaints about Longchamp’s heavy-handed rule. “Is that wise, Richard?”
“I know,” he conceded, “I know. . . . He has been collecting enemies as hungrily as a squirrel hoarding acorns. I’m not happy about it, but his loyalty is not in question. He needs to be reined in ere he goes too far, though, so I am sending the Archbishop of Rouen back to England to do just that. Between the two of you, you ought to be able to keep Longchamp from getting too besotted with his own importance.”