Eleanor thought the Archbishop of Rouen was a good choice. “I still do not see why we could not have discussed this at Bagnara.”
“Because I need you to be in Rome for the new Pope’s consecration, and Joanna will not be happy about that.”
“Neither am I, Richard. I’ve been here less than a day!”
“I know how much I ask of you, Maman. But we must make sure that the new Pope is friendly to English interests, and to do that, we need to get to him ere Philippe and Heinrich do.” Seeing her frown, he said before she could refuse, “There is no one better than you at such diplomacy. Moreover, you already know the man and none would doubt your authority to speak for me.”
Eleanor’s eyes searched his face intently. After a silence that he found ominous, she said with a sigh, “Very well. But it will be up to you to reconcile Joanna to our abrupt departure. I am sure she’d expected to have some time to get to know Berengaria.”
Richard looked uncomfortable. “Joanna will not be returning with you, Maman. I want her to accompany us to Outremer. It will not be easy for Berenguela in the Holy Land, and I thought she’d feel less homesick if she had Joanna for company. That is even more true now that we cannot wed until the end of Lent, for her reputation will suffer if she does not have a woman of high rank to act as her . . . duenna, as the Spanish call it.”
Eleanor bit her lip to keep from protesting. As little as she liked it, his reasoning made sense. “I will not be rushing off on the morrow,” she warned. “I’ll act as your envoy at the papal court, but I want some time with my daughter first.”
“Of course,” he agreed hastily and leaned over to graze her cheek with a grateful kiss before holding out his hand to assist her to her feet. “I am truly sorry that we cannot wed whilst you’re here, Maman. You missed so many family events during those years of confinement. It does not seem fair that you’ll be deprived of my wedding, too.”
Eleanor was both surprised and touched that he understood how much it had meant to her. “So . . .” she said with a warm smile, “what do you think of your bride?”
“She seems quite suitable,” he said with an easy smile of his own. “From all you’ve told me, she acquitted herself well during the hardships of your journey. I think she’ll make a good queen.”
Eleanor thought so, too. But for a moment, she felt an unexpected pang of regret, for she was in her twilight while Berengaria’s sun was just rising. Almost at once, she rejected that twinge of envy, for she’d not have traded her past for her daughter-in-law’s youth. She’d experienced so much that Berengaria never would, that few women had, and she smiled, thinking that no man would ever have dismissed her with Richard’s casual “quite suitable.” She’d wanted more, and if her memories were bittersweet now, they still testified to a life lived to the fullest, a life that had not lacked for passion or adventure or the élan of her beloved Aquitaine.
Richard was looking at her curiously. “You’ve an odd expression, Maman. If you were a cat, you’d be licking cream from your whiskers. What were you thinking?”
She gave him a half-truth. “Of my marriage and yours. Have you given any thought to how awkward it will be for Philippe, having to bear witness as you wed the woman who replaced his sister?”
“Why? You think I ought to ask Philippe to give the bride away?” He laughed down at her, stirring memories of the mischievous boy he’d once been, and she stilled the voice whispering that he took his enemies too lightly, for she knew he’d not have heeded her words of warning.
ELEANOR DID NOT DEPART for another four days, despite Richard’s coaxing. It was not until the afternoon of April 4 that her ship’s oarsmen began to maneuver their way out into the harbor. Richard, Joanna, and Berengaria stood on the quay, and Eleanor continued to return their farewell waves until Messina began to recede into the distance. A northwest wind had robbed the sun of much of its warmth, but Hawisa stayed loyally beside the queen instead of withdrawing to the shelter of their canvas tent. She knew that this parting was painful for Eleanor, so she’d done her best to hide her own elation, her joy that she’d not have to lay eyes again upon her husband for many months, if ever. Men died so easily in the Holy Land, after all.
Eleanor remained on deck, indifferent to the spray splashing over the gunwale. “I knew Richard would be facing daily danger in Outremer,” she said at last. “But I’d not expected to have to fear for my daughter’s safety, too.”
Hawisa glanced at the queen’s profile, wishing she could say there was no cause for anxiety. She couldn’t, of course, for the deadly miasmas and maladies of those eastern climes did not discriminate between men and women. But she wanted to offer some comfort, for she greatly admired the aging queen. “I understand your concern, Madame. I feel confident, though, that the Lady Joanna will come to no harm, not with the king to protect her. I’d wager that even Death himself would think twice ere he took Richard on,” she said lightly, “for I’ve never met a man who was so invincible.”
Her attempt at humor failed. “Richard is not invincible,” Eleanor said sharply. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she added, so softly Hawisa barely heard her, “He just thinks he is. . . .”
MORGAN WAS VERY PLEASED to be one of the knights chosen to accompany Richard to Bagnara. Life had gotten hectic in Messina now that their departure date was so close, and he welcomed this brief respite from his supervisory duties at the waterfront. He welcomed, too, the chance to renew his flirtation with the Lady Mariam and to visit with his cousin Joanna. After Richard went off to see Berengaria, Morgan strolled over to the guest hall with Warin Fitz Gerald, Baldwin de Bethune, and the Préaux brothers, Pierre, Guilhem, and Jean.
They were in high spirits, anticipating a pleasant supper with Joanna and her ladies, joking that they might even get to spend the night, for plight-troths were almost as binding as actual marriage vows and they all knew Richard was not one for waiting. While they were excited to be leaving Sicily at long last and eager to reach the siege of Acre, they were also uneasy, dreading the dangerous sea voyage that lay ahead of them, and so their laughter was loud and their badinage caustic. They mocked Pierre, whose recent run of bad luck carried over into several dice games, they threatened to tell Mariam of Morgan’s frequent visits to a dockside tavern and a buxom, black-eyed servingmaid, and they tormented Guilhem, who’d unwisely confessed to a fear of the sea, with tales of shipwrecks and savage storms. But when Richard suddenly strode into the hall and tersely announced that they were returning to Messina, they got hastily to their feet, keeping their faces carefully blank and their tongues bridled. They nodded dutifully when he told them to fetch their ship’s crew from the town tavern, and it was only after he’d gone to find Joanna that they dared to exchange knowing grins.
Joanna was in the priory gardens, teaching Alicia how to play chess. She was taken by surprise when Richard appeared without warning, announced he was going back to Messina, and turned on his heel before she could respond. She caught up with him in a few strides, though, grasping his arm while she looked up into his face. “Why are you leaving so soon? You just got here—” Comprehension dawning, she tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. “Oh . . . she turned you down?”
It was one of the few times she’d seen her brother off balance. He stared at her in open astonishment. “What are you, a witch?”
“It hardly took second sight to figure that out.” She glanced around to make sure Alicia was out of earshot, pleased to see the girl was already making a discreet exit. “You are obviously in a temper, and you have not been here long enough to quarrel with anyone but Berengaria. I’m surprised, though, that she was bold enough to tell you no.”
Richard had been surprised, too. “I had no idea she could be so stubborn. The plight-troth is binding upon us, the marriage but a formality—”
“Not to Berengaria.”
“Even if we’d not been plight-trothed, it is no great sin, venial at most.”
Joanna was not going to be sidetracked
by a discussion of fornication. She didn’t doubt that most men shared Richard’s view, and many women, too. What mattered, though, was that Richard’s betrothed did not. “This is an argument you do not need—or even want—to win, Brother. I’m sure you’ve not been living like a monk whilst waiting for her arrival. If you’ve an itch, you can get it easily scratched in Messina. But if you coax or coerce Berengaria into doing something she sees as a grievous sin, you could make her skittish of the marriage bed. And Morgan and André say you never commit your troops to battle without first weighing the consequences and assessing the risks.”
Richard wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or amused. “Well, this I can say for certes, that I never expected to be lectured on carnal matters by my little sister.”
“Your ‘little sister’ is a woman grown, in case you’ve not noticed. For a number of years, I presided over a court as worldly as any in Christendom, and that includes Maman’s court at Poitiers.” There was an edge to her smile. Yes, Maman had been forced to overlook Papa’s infidelities, but at least he’d not kept a harim of Saracen slave girls. She was not about to discuss that with her brother, though. Instead she linked her arm through his and then gave him a playful push, telling him to go back to Messina whilst she comforted his bashful bride.
Joanna was as good as her word, and soon thereafter, she knocked upon the door of Berengaria’s guest cottage. It opened so quickly she knew the other woman must have been expecting Richard to return, an inference confirmed by the conflicted emotions that chased across Berengaria’s face: hope, disappointment, and relief. She stepped aside, politely opening the door wider when Joanna asked to enter.
Joanna was glad to see she was still alone, not having called her duennas back yet, for a delicate discussion like this required privacy. She was glad, too, that Berengaria did not seem overly distraught; she’d half expected to find her in hysterics, weeping and apprehensive. But her pallor was the only sign of distress; Berengaria’s brown eyes were dry. Joanna suddenly wished she’d thought out what she wanted to say beforehand. Too late to retreat now, though. “I thought you might feel like talking, Berengaria. I remember my first argument with William—”
Berengaria gasped. “Richard told you?”
“No, he did not,” Joanna said hastily. “I guessed, which was easy enough to do, since he looked like a storm cloud. Also, I know how eager men are to plant their flags and claim their territory.”
Berengaria raised her chin. “If you’ve come to counsel me to yield—”
“Indeed not! You must follow the dictates of your conscience, not Richard’s. Assuming he has one,” Joanna added with a grin. “Actually, I think it was good that you stood up to him. It never hurts to remind a man that he cannot always have his own way. I wanted to make sure that you were not overly troubled by the quarrel. You need not fear that he’ll nurse a grudge or that he is well and truly wroth with you, for he is not.”
Berengaria surprised her then by saying, “I know. I could see that he was more vexed than outraged.” Sitting down on a coffer chest, she studied the other woman, trying to make up her mind. It would be wonderful to have a confidante, to be able to talk about the confusing feelings and urges that were preying on her peace. But did she dare to confide in Richard’s sister? When Joanna moved to the table and poured wine for them both, she said before she could repent of it, “I wish Richard and I had not quarreled. But I am not so sheltered that I do not know husbands and wives will disagree. It is something else that is troubling me, a serious sin. . . .”
Joanna did not like the sound of that. Summoning up what she hoped was a reassuring smile, she seated herself beside Berengaria on the coffer. “Can you tell me about it?”
Berengaria wavered before saying in a low voice, no longer meeting Joanna’s eyes. “Padre Domingo, my confessor, cautioned me that I must be vigilant in protecting my virtue. He said . . . said Richard might want to lie with me ere we were wed, but I must not permit it. So I was prepared when he . . .” She let her words trail off, but then she stiffened her spine and said resolutely, “I did not expect, though, to like it so much when Richard kisses me. I was too prideful, Joanna, sure that I could not be tempted by the sin of lust. . . .”
“I see,” Joanna murmured, trying to conceal her relief. She’d feared Berengaria was going to confess that she believed sexual intercourse was always a sin, even in the marriage bed, for she knew some women took to heart the Church’s teaching that no fruitfulness of the flesh could be compared to holy virginity, the highest form of spiritual purity. She watched color stain Berengaria’s cheeks and she suddenly realized that Padre Domingo was probably her only source of information about carnal desires. Her mother had died when she was just nine, and her sisters were younger than she. Joanna was convinced that there was not a father ever born willing to discuss lust with his daughter, and she doubted that Berengaria’s brother would have been willing, either. She doubted, too, that Berengaria, reserved and proud, would have turned for advice to her attendants, for they were all flighty young girls, and if one was not a virgin, she’d never have admitted it.
Joanna felt a surge of sympathy for her brother’s young bride, thinking how lucky she herself had been. Her mother had always been candid and comfortable about sexual matters, and Joanna had concluded at an early age that the marriage bed must be a place of great pleasure since her parents spent so much time in theirs. Wed at eleven, she’d had years to get to know her husband before she was old enough to consummate their marriage, and she’d had trusted female confidantes in Beatrix, Mariam, and Constance. Poor Berengaria, with only Padre Domingo to show her the way, the blind leading the blind! Well, it was not too late, thankfully.
“When Padre Domingo was warning you of the dangers of lust, did he happen to mention that marital sex is not a sin?”
“Yes . . . but only if it is done for procreation.”
“Not so,” Joanna said triumphantly. “The Church teaches that there are four reasons for a husband to have carnal knowledge of his wife, and only one is a sin. As you said, it is never sinful when it is done in hopes of having a child. But it is not sinful either if it is to pay the marital debt.”
Berengaria looked puzzled, but interested. “What is the marital debt?”
“Padre Domingo forgot to tell you about that, did he? According to St Paul’s teaching, the husband must render the conjugal debt to the wife and the wife to the husband, for he has power over her body and she over his. The Church position on this is so uncompromising that even if a husband or wife contracts leprosy, the partner still owes the marital debt.”
Berengaria’s eyes were wide with amazement. “You mean that I could demand this ‘debt’ from Richard and he’d have to oblige me?” And when Joanna confirmed that he would, that idea was so improbable to Berengaria that she began to giggle. Joanna joined in her merriment, and their shared laughter did much to diffuse any awkwardness between them.
“The third permissible reason for having marital sex,” Joanna resumed, “is one of the reasons for getting married, to avoid the sin of fornication.” She almost added that most people parted company with the Church on that, agreeing with Richard that fornication was harmless as long as the participants weren’t married or had not taken holy vows, but she thought better of it. “The only time that a married couple sin is if they are so driven by lust that satisfying their carnal needs is all that matters to them.”
“Oh. . . .” Berengaria was quiet for a moment, considering what she’d just been told, and then she smiled. “Joanna, thank you! You see . . . I told Richard that we could not lie together until we were properly wed. Yet I did not dare remind him that even married couples are supposed to abstain during Lent. After he left, I realized that this would pose a problem in our marriage, for there are so many days when the Church prohibits carnal union—Sundays and Wednesdays and Fridays and during Pentecost and Advent or when the wife is with child.... Somehow I could not envision Richard taking all these restrict
ions in good grace. And as his wife, I could not refuse him, which would mean that I’d be sharing his sin. But now I see that I would not be sinning, that I’d merely be satisfying the marital debt!”
She laughed, almost giddy with relief. But then her face shadowed again. “You said it was still a sin to be ‘driven by lust.’ I feel reasonably sure that I feel lust when Richard kisses me, Joanna, or touches me . . .” She was blushing hotly now, and Joanna felt a protective urge that was almost maternal.
“You feel desire,” she corrected, “the natural desire that a woman is supposed to feel for her husband. And that is not a sin. It is part of the Almighty’s Plan, for many doctors believe that a woman cannot conceive unless she experiences pleasure.”
This was a day of surprises for Berengaria. “Is that truly so?”
Joanna hesitated, but Berengaria had been very candid. It seemed only fair to be candid in return. “Richard told you that my son died soon after birth.” She had to blink rapidly, for there were some wounds that never fully healed. “I was unable to conceive again after that. Eventually, I had William take me to Salerno, which has some of the best doctors in Christendom, and a few of them are female. I consulted several of these women physicians, hoping they could help. They told me when a woman was most fertile and gave me herbs and assured me that I was more fortunate than many wives, for I enjoyed making love with William. That would improve my chances of getting pregnant, they said. . . .” She managed a flickering smile, a slight shrug.
Berengaria found herself blinking back tears, too, for the pain on Joanna’s face was so naked that she felt as if it struck at her own heart. “I cannot even imagine what it would be like to lose a baby,” she confessed. “But it must be of some comfort to know that he is in God’s Keeping, blessed and safe for all eternity.” When Joanna nodded, Berengaria overcame her natural reticence and squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand. “I am very glad that you are coming with us,” she confided. After a few moments of companionable silence, though, she said, “But what of a woman who is raped and then gets with child? That happened to a milkmaid at our palace in Olite. She was forced by a drunken lout, so I am sure she got no pleasure from it. Yet she became pregnant.”