CHAPTER 17
MAY 1191
Limassol, Cyprus
Berengaria was astonished by how much Joanna had been able to accomplish in so little time.She’d had the inspired idea to seek the assistance of the wives of the Italian merchants, who were delighted by the prospect of a royal wedding and eagerly volunteered the services of their cooks and household servants. After their shipboard ordeal, the women took particular pleasure in appropriating the Cypriot emperor’s personal effects. Isaac’s reputation for luxurious living was borne out by the contents of coffers and cupboards: finely woven linen tablecloths, gold and silver plate, gem-encrusted cups, ivory salt cellars, Venetian glassware, a silk baldequin canopy, silver-gilt candlesticks, and costly, exotic spices, all of which would be put to good use. It had been decided that the wedding ceremony and coronation would be held in the chapel of St George, and the guests would then return to Isaac’s palace for the revelries. The floor of the great hall was now covered with fragrant rushes, and scarlet flowers were everywhere, garlanding the doors and windows, floating in the ewers of scented water that would be provided for guests to wash their hands between courses.
Berengaria had no false pride, well aware that her experience in Navarre could not compare to Joanna’s, for the lavish hospitality of the Sicilian court had been famed far beyond its borders. She was thankful, therefore, that the other woman had taken over the wedding preparations. She was touched, too, that Joanna took care to consult her on every decision. There would be three courses, each with five dishes; did Berengaria think that would be adequate? One of the Venetian cooks suggested a risotto of rice and chicken baked in pomegranate juice; did Berengaria agree? Did she want a Lombard stew of pork, onions, wine, and spices? What about a fruit pottage with strawberries and cherries? Berengaria gratefully approved the bountiful menu: oysters, roast venison, sturgeon eggs which Isaac had imported from the Black Sea, haunches of the native sheep called agrinon, egg custard, blancmange, fried eels, and salmon in jelly. She also approved Joanna’s selection of wines from Isaac’s buttery: an Italian vernage, a wine named after the city of Tyre, sweet wines from Greece, local red wines, and the costly spiced wine known as hippocras.
When she fretted, though, that Joanna might be undertaking too much in light of her recent illness, the Sicilian queen brushed her qualms aside, saying staunchly, “I am not going to let my sister-by-marriage be wed in a cursory manner. Now . . . how does this sound to you? In addition to our own minstrels, we will have harpists and other musicians who can play the rebec and the lute. Also tumblers and a man who can juggle torches—or so he says. I suppose we can have pails of water on hand, just in case. And one of the Genoese merchants will provide a trumpeter to introduce the courses.”
Glancing around, then, to make sure the other women were not within hearing, Joanna lowered her voice. “How are you bearing up? Are you nervous? Most brides are,” she said quickly, lest Berengaria take the question as an implied criticism.
“Yes . . . a little. But not as much as I expected to be,” Berengaria confided. She was about to thank Joanna again, this time for her counseling about the marriage bed, when they were informed that André de Chauvigny had just arrived.
“Have you noticed how often André has been stopping by?” Joanna asked as they made their way toward the great hall. “He’s been paying court to Hélène, who told him forthrightly that he is very charming and very married. Apparently he is also very stubborn.”
But as soon as they reached the hall, they discovered that Joanna’s cousin had more on his mind than a casual dalliance. “Three sails were sighted on the horizon,” André reported even before greetings had been exchanged. “As these galleys were coming from the east, we thought they might be bringing word of the siege of Acre. The king, bless him, was not willing to wait patiently on shore, and went out to meet them in a small boat. He was soon back, sending me to tell you there will be highborn guests for dinner—Guy de Lusignan, his brother Joffroi, Humphrey de Toron, whose wife was stolen so shamefully by Conrad of Montferrat, the Prince of Antioch, the Count of Tripoli, and the brother of the Prince of Armenia.”
Joanna stared at him, and then looked at Berengaria, the same dismayed thought in both their minds: As if they did not have enough to do, with the wedding scheduled for the morrow! “The de Lusignans,” Joanna said wearily, “have always had a deplorable sense of timing.”
GUY DE LUSIGNAN was quite handsome, tall and well formed, with curly brown hair and hazel eyes, clean-shaven in the fashion of Outremer. And he was young to have gained and lost a kingdom and a queen, not that much older than Richard. He was very attentive to Joanna and Berengaria, flirtatious and lavish with the practiced charm that had served him so well in the past. Neither woman liked him at all.
They both felt some sympathy for Humphrey de Toron, Queen Isabella’s discarded husband. He, too, was very handsome, but without Guy’s swagger, his dark eyes filled with intelligence and sadness, a poet in a land that venerated soldiers. They felt even more sympathy for his young wife, though, pulled from his gentle embrace and thrust against her will into the arms of Conrad of Montferrat, a man as unlike Humphrey as a sword blade was unlike a lute. How alone and abandoned she must have felt, a young girl of eighteen confronted with Conrad’s iron will, with an ally in her own mother. But Humphrey had failed her, too. A husband unwilling or unable to fight for his wife was not a husband either of them would want. The world was too dangerous a place to depend upon the protection of poets.
After the meal was done, the conversation turned to politics. Richard was infuriated to learn that Philippe had arbitrarily recognized Conrad as King of Jerusalem, and he agreed to aid Guy in reclaiming the crown, giving the destitute king without a kingdom the sum of two thousand silver marks, for Guy had expended the last of his resources upon the siege of Acre. Watching as Guy, his brother, Humphrey, and one hundred sixty of their knights knelt and did homage to Richard, Joanna was grimly amused by the irony inherent in that dramatic scene, for the de Lusignans had long been a burr under the Angevin saddle.
Berengaria was shocked by Joanna’s sotto voce account of de Lusignan sins; not only had they rebelled repeatedly against Richard’s father and against Richard himself when he was Count of Poitou, they’d even dared to ambush Queen Eleanor, who’d been saved from capture by the courage of the young Will Marshal. By an absurd twist of fate, Joanna revealed, it was his family’s perfidy that had gotten Guy a crown. His older brother Amaury had fled to the Holy Land to evade the king’s wrath, and eventually summoned Guy to join him. The de Lusignans were as surprised as everyone else when Guy snared the Leper King’s sister. Lowering her voice even further, Joanna said, “When his brother Joffroi learned of Guy’s good fortune, he is said to have commented, ‘If they’d make Guy a king, they’d have made me a god.’ Joffroi later joined his brothers when Richard forced him to take the cross after one rebellion too many, and he and Amaury won respect for their military skills. But Guy was the feckless little brother, not taken seriously by anyone until Sybilla took him as her husband.”
Joanna smiled. “The lords of Outremer would not recognize her as queen after her brother’s death unless she first divorced Guy. But as soon as she was crowned, she announced that she had the right to pick her own consort and put the crown herself upon Guy’s handsome head. She was clever, was Sybilla. A poor judge of men, though, for Guy’s flawed leadership would result in the disaster at Ḥaṭṭīn. Richard says that was one of the most inept and inexcusable military blunders since the dawn of time. He gets angry every time he talks about it. He grudgingly gives Guy credit for courage, but says he has not the sense God gave a goat!”
“Then how can he be so friendly to Guy?” Berengaria said, looking across the hall where Richard was engaged in amiable conversation with the de Lusignans.
Joanna blinked in surprise. “Because he is a king, dearest. Because the de Lusignans, whatever their manifest failings, are still his vassals and he owe
s them his protection.” Honesty then compelling her to add, “And because Philippe has chosen to back Conrad.”
To Berengaria, Outremer was beginning to sound more and more like a labyrinth. Once Richard got in, could he ever get out? She did not understand how Christians could feud so fiercely with their fellow Christians whilst the Saracens laid claim to the Holy City. No one’s motives seemed utterly pure or untainted by political considerations. Even Richard was influenced by his rivalry with the French king, and she feared that Philippe saw Richard as the enemy, not Saladin. But then she banished these disquieting thoughts, determined not to let forebodings cast a shadow over the most important day of her life. On the morrow she would become Richard’s wife, would be crowned as his queen. Nothing mattered more than that.
FROM THE TWELFTH-CENTURY chronicle Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi: “On the following day, a Sunday, on the Feast of St Pancras, King Richard and Berengaria, daughter of the King of Navarre, were married at Limassol. The young woman was very wise and of good character. She was there crowned queen. The Archbishop of Bordeaux was present at the ceremony, as was the Bishop of Evreux, and the Bishop of Bayonne, and many other magnates and nobles. The king was merry and full of delight, pleasant and agreeable to everyone.”
RICHARD COULD NOT even remember the last time he’d bedded a virgin, for he’d long ago concluded that coy or skittish maidens were more trouble than they were worth. He’d always taken a very matter-of-fact, pragmatic approach to his body’s needs. When he was tired, he slept. When he was hungry, he ate. And when he felt lustful, he looked around for a bedmate, with convenience and proximity being important considerations. He was amused when his friends became besotted with concubines or light o’ loves, knowing it would not last; fevers of the flesh never did. A flame fed by lust was bound to burn out once the craving was satisfied, and for that, one woman would usually do as well as another. Although he enjoyed writing courtly poetry, he had no great interest in the workings of the female brain, for women were too often lacking in logic or backbone, either overly headstrong or weak-willed and timid. Like Sybilla, who’d well nigh doomed her kingdom because she’d wanted Guy de Lusignan in her bed. Or her sister Isabella, who’d let herself be bullied into marrying Conrad.
Thankfully, the women in his own family were not like most of their sex. His mother could think like a man, and rule better than most kings. And his sisters had been blessed with courage and common sense, especially Joanna, Marie, and Tilda, may God assoil her sweet soul. He had hopes for her daughter, too, as Richenza did not seem prone to feminine whims or foolishness. And so far, what he’d seen of Berenguela was encouraging. She might look as fragile and unsubstantial as a feather floating on the wind, but she’d showed fortitude and bravery when faced with hardships and outright danger.
Nor was she a casual bedmate, to be forgotten come dawn. She was his queen, his wife, and he owed it to her to make her first time as easy as he could. Moreover, he liked the lass, he truly did. So he’d limited his wine during the evening, wanting to be clear-headed, for he was not accustomed to pacing himself, to hold back when his every urge was to plunge ahead. He’d also told his squires to sleep elsewhere that night, in deference to his bride’s modesty, and had done what he could to keep the bedside revelries brief, knowing this would be her first exposure to bawdy male humor. So by the time he slid into bed beside her, he was feeling rather proud of himself for being more sensitive to her needs than most men would have been.
He’d occasionally heard stories of brides who’d gone to the marriage bed as if to a sacrificial altar, so convinced they were committing a mortal sin that they were trembling with fear or rigid with disgust. He had no such concerns about Berenguela, though, and she justified his faith by smiling shyly when he drew her into his arms. Reminding himself of her inexperience, he kept his kisses gentle at first, murmuring endearments and reassurances in lenga romana as his caresses grew more intimate. She did not reciprocate, but she did not protest as he explored her body. Her breath quickening, she closed her eyes, letting him do what he wanted, and he decided that bedding a virgin was not so burdensome after all.
Despite his good intentions, he realized that he’d risk spilling his seed too soon if he waited much longer, and reached for a pillow, sliding it under her hips before he mounted her. “I will try not to hurt you, Berenguela,” he promised, parting her thighs. Her arms were tightly wrapped around his neck, and he barely heard her response, soft as a breath against his ear. “I know the first time will hurt,” she whispered. “But . . . but will it fit?” He gave a sputter of surprised laughter, delighted by her unexpected spark of humor, and then stopped listening to his brain, let his body take control. She stiffened at his first thrust, but she did not cry out, not until after he’d found satisfaction and collapsed on top of her.
“Richard, I cannot breathe,” she gasped, sounding panicky, and he supported himself on his elbows until he was ready to withdraw, joking that she was too delicate a filly to bear a rider’s full weight. Her eyes were tightly shut, but he could see tears trickling through her lashes. Had it been that painful for her, then? He had no experience in comforting tearful bedmates, and no interest in acquiring any. But this was his wife, and she had the right to expect soothing words, an affectionate embrace. Shifting onto his side, he reached over to stroke her wet cheek. It was then that he saw all the blood. “Christ Jesus!”
Her eyes flew open. “What? Did I . . . did I do something wrong, Richard?”
“Good God, woman, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig!” He started to swing his legs over the side of the bed, trying to decide if a doctor or a midwife should be summoned. Better a midwife, since they were accustomed to dealing with female ailments.
Before he could rise, though, she reached out and caught his arm. “I think this is natural, Richard,” she said, sounding remarkably calm to him for a woman who might well be bleeding to death. “Because I knew so little about carnal matters, I spoke to Joanna beforehand. She said that the first time is different for each woman. It can be quite painful or hardly hurt at all, and bleeding can be very meager or a flood. Yes, it hurt when my maidenhead was breached, but no more than it was supposed to, I’m sure. Otherwise, I’d still be bleeding and I am not.”
Richard exhaled an audible, uneven breath, so great was his relief. “For a moment, I was afraid I’d ruptured you,” he admitted. “You are such a little bit of a lass. . . .”
He still looked dubious as he glanced down at the blood-soaked sheet, and she said quickly, “I would rather I bled a lot than not at all. At least now I have provided you with indisputable proof that I came to my marriage bed a maiden.”
Richard was beginning to see the humor in it, that she should be the one reassuring him. “I harbored no misgivings whatsoever about your virtue,” he said, hiding a smile as he attempted to match her serious tone. “Even had you not bled a drop, I would never have doubted you.”
“Thank you,” she said, sounding as if he’d paid her a great compliment.
“You’re very welcome.” Getting to his feet, he stood by the bed, frowning at what he saw. The women had done their best to transform the chamber into a bridal bower. It was aglow with white wax candles. The floor rushes were fresh and fragrant with the sweet scent of myrtle, its bright green leaves and delicate white flowers scattered about with a lavish hand. Cinnamon and cloves had been burned to perfume the air. A gleaming gold wine flagon and two crystal cups had been set upon a linen-draped table, next to a platter of wafers, figs, and candied orange peels. There was even a silver bowl filled with ripe pomegranates and hazelnuts, both of which were thought to be aphrodisiacs; Richard saw his sister’s fine hand in that playful touch. But they’d forgotten to set out one of a bedchamber’s basic needs; there was no washing basin or any towels.
When he finally came back to the bed, he was carrying the wine flagon, a napkin, and a richly embroidered silk mantle that he’d found in one of the coffers. Setting th
em down, he slipped his arms under Berengaria’s shoulders and knees and picked her up before she’d realized what he meant to do. “Hold on to me,” he directed, and when she did, he shifted her weight to one arm and with his free hand spread the mantle over the wet, stained sheet. “I hope this is Isaac’s favorite cloak,” he said, and deposited her back onto the bed while she was still marveling that he’d been able to lift her with such obvious ease. “This is the best I can do,” he explained, pouring wine onto the napkin. “I suppose we can consider it a baptism of sorts.”
She blushed when he began to wipe the blood from her thighs, but when he joined her in bed, she slid over until their bodies touched. It was only then that he realized how tired he was and he laughed softly; who knew that deflowering virgins was such hard work? When she gave him an inquiring look, he kissed her on the forehead. “Sleep well, little dove.”
“You, too, my lord husband,” she whispered. He was soon asleep, but she lay awake beside him, watching the candles twinkle in the shadows like indoor stars as she thought about their love-making. It had hurt more than she’d expected and she’d derived no pleasure from it. The intimacy of the act would take getting used to; she’d been shocked when he’d touched her in places she’d never even touched herself. And what he’d taken as a jest had been a genuine concern, for she’d never seen a naked man until tonight. But she was very grateful that he’d tried to be gentle with her, and she would never forget that this man who’d seen so much blood had been so dismayed at the sight of hers. Richard had placed her crown on the table, joking that she could wear it to bed if she wished. She could see it now, catching the candlelight in a glimmer of gold and silver. But it was her wedding band that held her gaze. She was Richard’s queen. Tonight, though, it mattered more that she was his wife.