Lionheart (70 page)

He was soon to learn otherwise. After they’d consumed the final dish of dates, almonds, and honey, his wife and sister steered him toward the relative privacy of a window-seat. “We were deeply sorry to hear of Jacques d’Avesnes’s death,” Joanna said somberly. “It is almost as if his Flemish hounds know that he is not coming back, for they have been very subdued and eating poorly.” She hesitated, exchanged glances with Berengaria, and then plunged ahead. “Had you been slain at Arsuf, too, Richard, it would have been a grief almost beyond bearing for us. But how much worse it would have been if you’d died in that Michaelmas battle; then we’d have been tormented with ‘what if ’ and ‘if only,’ even the guilt of blaming the dead, for how could we not be angry with you for taking such needless risks?”

Richard was at a rare loss for words. “Anyone who thinks women do not speak their minds has never met you, Joanna,” he said ruefully. “I am sorry Guy told you about that, for I know you both worry enough about my safety as it is. What Guy did not know is that Henri and André and others have already taken me to task for it. They reminded me that my death could guarantee victory for Saladin, and I promised them that I would try to remember that in the future.”

“Will you promise us, too, Richard?”

“I will, Berenguela,” he said, and she took comfort from the fact that he sounded utterly serious for once.

“Just remember,” Joanna warned, “that if you do not mend your ways, Richard, I will have no choice but to write to Maman about your rash behavior.”

“Jesu forfend!” he exclaimed, and when they grinned at each other, Berengaria felt a pang, for their easy camaraderie stirred memories of her brother Sancho, so far away in Navarre.

Joanna’s expression soon sobered, for they’d not yet spoken of Guilhem de Préaux. Her gratitude to the Norman knight was magnified by grief; she’d liked Guilhem, remembering how kind he’d been in Cyprus, quickly concocting a lie to shield Berengaria from Richard’s neglect. “Guy did not think there was much hope of ransoming Guilhem de Préaux. Is Guy right about that, Richard?”

“I am beginning to wonder if Guy de Lusignan has been right about anything in his life,” he said, with an exasperated grimace. “He is most definitely wrong about Guilhem. He has not been executed, nor harmed in any way. But Saladin is refusing to ransom him because he knows how much I want his freedom. That makes him a very valuable bargaining counter, so Saladin means to hold on to him for now.”

“But the Saracens must have been sorely disappointed to find out that they did not capture you, after all. Would they make Guilhem suffer for his deception?”

“No, al-’Ᾱdil assured me that he is being treated with respect, Berenguela. The Saracens value courage and loyalty as much as we do.”

Joanna’s relief was so great that she leaned back in the window-seat, closing her eyes. Berengaria smiled and squeezed Richard’s arm. “Al-’Ᾱdil is Saladin’s brother, no? But are you sure you can trust him?”

“Yes,” he said, “I am. I resumed talks with him not long after Arsuf, and I think he is a man of honor. Of course, Burgundy and that bastard Beauvais would swallow their tongues if they ever heard me say that! To hear them tell it, I came to Outremer for the sole purpose of betraying the kingdom to the Saracens. Meanwhile, their ally, Conrad of Montferrat, is said to be trying to strike a deal with Saladin that would enable him to hold on to Tyre and Sidon.”

Both women were so indignant that it was a while before Joanna remembered she had a surprise for Richard. “I almost forgot! A troubadour from Aquitaine arrived in Acre last month. Whilst he may not be as celebrated as Gaucelm Faidit, he is very good, and I arranged for him to entertain us tonight.”

“Mayhap tomorrow,
irlanda
. Tonight I think I’ll let Berenguela entertain me,” Richard said, giving his wife a sidelong smile. As he expected, her creamy skin took on a deep-rose tint and her lashes fluttered downward. But the corners of her mouth were curving as she murmured demurely that it would be her pleasure. “I hope it will not entirely be yours, little dove,” he said and pulled her to her feet.

Joanna stayed in the window-seat. Across the hall, Morgan and Mariam were playing chess, but there was an intimacy in their laughter that told Joanna their ongoing flirtation was becoming something more. Her gaze shifted to her brother and his bride, who were exiting the hall with unseemly haste, and she leaned back against the cushions again with a soft sigh. She was happy whenever Richard paid Berengaria the attention she deserved, and she was pleased, too, that Mariam seemed to have found a man she could care for, but she could not suppress a twinge or two of envy. She would soon be twenty-six, too young to be sleeping alone.

“IS THIS THE CROSSBOW WOUND?” Getting a drowsy confirmation from Richard, Berengaria asked then about a scar on his hip and traced its path with her fingers when he said it was an injury from his early years as Count of Poitou. “What of this scar on your wrist?”

“I do not even remember how I got that one,” he yawned. “What are you doing, taking inventory of all my wounds?”

“Not all of them,” she said softly, for she’d kept her eyes averted from the ugly yellowing bruises on his shoulder and chest, still very visible eight days after the Michaelmas ambush. Seeking a safer topic of conversation, she said, “You seem so different with such short hair, Richard!” She thought his scalp looked like a hedgehog’s bristle, assuming there were red-gold hedgehogs, but she wasn’t sure he’d take that as a compliment and kept it to herself.

“It just seemed easier to cut it off and let it all grow back at the same time.” He yawned again, but she refused to take the hint, determined to make the most of this unexpected reunion, for she had no way of knowing how long it would be until she’d see him again.

“I was so glad to hear that Guilhem is safe. I owe him a debt that can never be repaid.”

“So do I,” he said, so low that she barely heard him. “I’d give half of all I own if only I could relive that day. . . .”

She was deeply touched that he trusted her enough to make such an admission. “I do not know war as you do, Richard, but I am sure Henri and André and your friends would tell you what I am about to say now, that those deaths were not your fault. If you had not followed the Saracens, they would likely have still attacked since you were so outnumbered.”

“But I ought not to have gone out with such a small escort. I knew better, Berenguela. It is just that scouting is so important. . . .”

She did not dispute that, but she suspected that he went out scouting himself because he enjoyed it, too. “I shall hold you to your promise,” she said, and offered up a silent, fervent prayer that these Michaelmas memories would curb some of his recklessness in the future. “How long can you stay, Richard? Joanna would be greatly pleased if you could remain for her birthday.”

“I cannot spare that much time, little dove. I will have to go back to Jaffa as soon as I drag those sluggards out of Acre’s bordels and hellholes. Guy’s leadership leaves much to be desired if he cannot even get a bunch of lazy drunkards to obey him. At least he is not secretly conspiring with the Saracens like that Judas in Tyre. It is pitiful, though, that the best to be said of Guy is that he is not a traitor.”

She was only half listening to his complaints, so great was her disappointment that he’d be returning to Jaffa so soon, for she didn’t doubt that he’d round up all of his fugitive soldiers in a matter of days. “I will miss you,” she said, and he propped himself up on his elbow to look down into her face.

“Well . . . I was thinking of taking you and Joanna back to Jaffa with me. I will understand, though, if you’d rather remain in Acre, for Jaffa would not be as comfortable as the palace here—”

“Richard, of course I want to come with you! How could you ever doubt it?”

He hadn’t, for by now he knew the mettle of the woman he’d married. “Actually, I was just being polite and giving you a choice,” he said with a grin. “I took it for granted that you’d want to come, one of the many reasons why I consider myself a lucky man.”

Berengaria blushed again, this time with pure pleasure, and was emboldened to flirt a little. “May I hear these reasons, my lord husband?”

“The first one is that you are not Alys Capet,” he said, so promptly that she realized he’d given this some thought. “Alys could never have coped with the storms at sea and Isaac Comnenus as you did. I doubt that she could even have adapted to life in an army camp, much less in the midst of a siege.” He shifted so she could cradle her head in the crook of his shoulder. “You want more reasons? Women are never satisfied, are they?” He gave a loud put-upon sigh, but she knew he was teasing, and after a moment, he said, “Well, I am grateful that you are so sweet-natured. And undemanding; men like that. You have never complained about my snoring, you smile whenever you see me, and you let me have that last helping of dates and almonds tonight.”

This playful litany of her virtues was hardly a passionate declaration of love, but she’d not expected one. It was enough for her that he seemed so content with their marriage, that he could offer affection and respect, for she knew not all wives were so fortunate. And when he continued, saying that she had more courage than the vast majority of her sex, with an admirable measure of steel in her spine, she felt such a surge of happiness that she could not speak, knowing that, for Richard, this was the ultimate accolade.

She’d not dared to hope that Richard would bring her to Jaffa, and she felt like a child again, given a wonderful gift when she’d least expected it. In four days, they’d have been wed for five months, and every time her flux came, it was a wound to her heart. Joanna had reminded her that a crop could not be harvested unless seed was planted first. But she could take no solace from her sister-in-law’s commonsense admonition, so eager was she to give Richard the son and heir a king so needed. Now, though, she’d be able to share his bed again. The Almighty had often shown His Favor to Richard, sparing his life time after time. Why should He not show His Favor, too, by letting her conceive and bear his child here in the Holy Land? Richard was already sleeping. That was such a comforting thought that she soon slept, too.

JOANNA WAS ELATED when Richard and Berengaria broke the news the next morning. Anna and Alicia were so excited that they forgot they were supposed to act like well-behaved, modest maidens of thirteen and fourteen, shrieking with glee instead, and while Mariam said nothing, she glanced toward Morgan with a secret smile. But most of the women reacted with dismay or horror, for none wanted to trade the luxuries of the royal palace for a tent in another army encampment. Richard had said they were rebuilding Jaffa’s walls; it would be months, though, before the city would revive, and it was unlikely ever to offer the markets, diversions, and security of life in Acre.

Sophia and Beatrix were too resilient and too realistic to share the consternation of the younger ladies-in-waiting, and they merely exchanged looks of resignation. Taking their breakfast wine, fruit, and bread to a corner table, they watched with detachment as the other royal attendants struggled to hide their unhappiness. “Only two kinds of women would want to follow men off to war,” Beatrix grumbled, “one too adventuresome for her own good or one determined to be a dutiful wife come what may. It is just our bad luck that Joanna is the first kind and Berengaria the second, so we can expect no voice of reason from either of them.”

Sophia was wryly amused and chuckled between bites of melon. “That is certainly true for your lady and for my Anna, too, but it is not duty that is drawing Berengaria to Jaffa. Heaven help the lass, she practically glows whenever she looks at him. I suppose it is only to be expected; a man acclaimed as the savior of Christendom is bound to turn female heads. It would be better for her, though, if she were not so smitten. The happiest marriages are those uncomplicated by passion or, God forbid, love.”

Beatrix had been a widow for many years, but most of her memories of that long-ago marriage were pleasant ones. “You do not think that is a harsh assessment? Of course, your husband . . .” She stopped, for there was no tactful way to suggest that Isaac Comnenus was one of Satan’s minions.