Her ladies sensed her mood and remained subdued. She was sure she would not be able to sleep. Not knowing what else to do, she let them get her ready for bed. But as she feared, once the candles had been snuffed out and the bed hangings drawn, her control began to crumble and hot tears stung her eyes. She’d been living with fear for so long, from the day that Richard sailed from Sicily for the Holy Land. Many of his subjects had doubted that he’d ever come back, and there were dark nights when she’d shared their doubts. He’d somehow survived it all, though—the savage storms in the Greek Sea, the pestilent fevers, the bloody battles, even his own reckless need to be in the thick of the fighting—only to discover that he faced greater dangers on his way home than any in Outremer. Once again she’d found herself holding a death vigil. Learning that he was a prisoner had kindled enough rage to keep the fear at bay—except at night. But then Hubert Walter had brought her news of Richard’s triumph at Speyer and the fear finally retreated, shrinking away from this blazing, bright infusion of hope. She’d let herself believe that the worst was over, that her son would soon be home. So her defenses were down when she most needed them, blown apart by the mere mention of Trifels Castle.
No matter how she sought to summon sleep, she was at the mercy of her own memories. Her fears for her grown son were hopelessly entwined with mental images of the boy he’d once been. As she tossed and turned, she could see him at age twelve, coaxing his older brother, Hal, into letting him try the quintain and being knocked from his horse into the mud, only to bounce back up laughing, eager to try it again. She smiled through tears as she remembered the time he and Geoffrey had smuggled a snake into her bed. Closing her eyes, she could hear his voice, asking her to listen as he performed the first song he’d composed, insisting that she tell him the brutal truth, adding with a grin, Unless you do not like it, Maman, then lie to me!
She’d sometimes thought this was a curse peculiar to mothers, being condemned to grieve twice over—until Harry had confided that whenever he dreamed of their dead son Hal, he was always heartbreakingly young. They’d buried too many of their children, she and Harry. The loss of their firstborn had been the hardest to endure, for she’d had to watch helplessly as the little boy cried in pain and fought for breath, dying after a week of suffering, just two months from his third birthday. She’d not known when Hal was stricken with the bloody flux, not until he was dead. Geoffrey’s tournament death had come as a shock, too. In the morning, she’d awakened thinking he was alive and well; by nightfall, he was gone, erased from her life if not her heart. She’d had no warning when a fever had claimed Tilda, either, not learning of her loss until six weeks after her daughter had breathed her last. Time had not blurred the sharp edges of that memory, nor the memory of having to tell Tilda’s children. Richenza, newly wed to Jaufre of Perche, had been able to cry in her husband’s arms, but it had been left to her to comfort Otto and little Wilhelm, too young to comprehend the awful finality of death.
Her mourning for Hal and Geoffrey had been steeped in guilt, too, for she was tormented by harrowing regrets for past mistakes and missed opportunities. She and Harry had often failed as parents, but she would not—could not—fail Richard now. She must not give in to despair, must remember that the endearing, youthful ghost haunting her tonight was a man of thirty-five, so fearless on the battlefield that she’d heard it said his men would wade through blood to the Pillars of Hercules if he asked it of them. A man capable of inspiring such loyalty was capable of surviving any ordeal that the German emperor could devise. But at what cost? She knew firsthand the wounds that captivity could inflict upon the soul.
No, she could not dwell upon these fears, for she’d drive herself mad if she did. She must somehow put from her mind those images of her son shackled and feverish and defenseless, must not think of the even greater horrors that might await him in a French dungeon. She would gain his freedom, and then she would help him take his vengeance upon the unworthy, cowardly men who’d dared to imprison a king. “I swear it, Richard,” she said softly, “I swear it upon the life of your wretched, faithless brother.”
She thought this night would never end; eventually her aging body yielded to exhaustion, though, and she slept. She awoke just before dawn, not able to recall her dreams, but knowing she’d found no peace in them, for her pillow was wet with tears.