She came to a sudden halt, staring at Philip, for his appearance revealed his identity without a word being said. André started to rise; he’d become very protective of the boy and did not want to see him diminished or made to feel shame for a sin that was not his. Joanna knew her sister-in-law better than he did, and she patted his hand reassuringly, watching serenely as Berengaria approached Richard’s son.
“You are Philip.” It was not a question, but he nodded, looking both defiant and dismayed. He was already as tall as she was, so Berengaria had to rise up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “I am so happy to meet you,” she said, and, as Joanna watched her nephew flush with astonishment, delight, and relief, she smiled, thinking that Raimond had been right. Richard had a pearl beyond price in his Spanish bride.
BERENGARIA HAD EXPRESSED her gratitude for all Raimond had done and assured him earnestly that she would continue to pray for him. Next it was Mariam and Beatrix’s turn to bid him a safe return to his own lands, and then Anna gave him a highly inappropriate hug that would earn her a lecture afterward; Alicia contented herself with a shy smile and blush. Only after he’d exchanged terse farewells with André did Raimond turn toward Joanna.
“I hope that your lord brother is soon free, my lady,” he said, and as he bent to kiss her hand, she murmured a polite “Go with God, my lord count.” But then he leaned closer and said softly, “Farewell, my beautiful coward.” Even though she knew no one else could have heard, Joanna still felt her face burn with heat. She stayed in the doorway of the great hall, watching as Raimond mounted his stallion and signaled to his men to ride out. Just before he rode through the gateway, he glanced over his shoulder, waved jauntily, and smiled. And Joanna could not help herself; she smiled back.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AUGUST 1193
Amiens, France
John and the French king had little in common other than a shared desire to keep Richard in a German dungeon until he drew his last mortal breath. John privately considered Philippe to be as much fun as an Anchorite recluse, so he was not enjoying himself at the French king’s wedding. Watching the royal couple seated at the high table, he studied the bride admiringly, for she was not only highborn—the sister of the King of Denmark—she was just eighteen, and lovely, a tall, slender, blue-eyed blonde. She was not John’s type, for he did not like his women to be taller than he was and he preferred more voluptuous paramours, but he still thought Philippe was luckier than he deserved. He would not even have to talk to the girl after taking her maidenhead, for she spoke no French and he spoke no Danish. Of course, she’d eventually learn French, but until she did, Philippe would have the ideal bedmate, young and pretty and mute.
John laughed aloud at that, attracting a few curious looks from the other guests. He was already tipsy, and he could think of no reason not to get thoroughly drunk. Mayhap then he could forget for a little while that The Devil is loosed. Not yet, but soon. Unless he and Philippe could find a way to outwit that double-dealing spider on the German throne. He felt indignation flicker as he thought how Heinrich had used them to squeeze outrageous concessions from Richard. Of course, they were using him, too, so he supposed he was really vexed because Heinrich had been better at it. He laughed again, for he’d long ago learned to employ mockery as a shield; with a family like his, that had been a survival skill. And as long as he could see some humor in his plight, he’d not have to think about facing Richard’s fiery rage or their mother’s icy anger. Wine helped, too, a very effective way to blur the hard edges of reality.
He was disappointed by the entertainment offered, although not surprised, for Philippe’s lack of interest in music was well known, and by the time the feast ended and the newlyweds were escorted to their bridal chamber, he’d drained so many wine cups that he was unsteady on his feet. So were many of the wedding guests and it was a raucous bedding-down ceremony. Ingeborg, now renamed Isambour, had been put to bed by the women and she watched, wide-eyed, clutching the sheet up to her chin as the men trooped into the chamber, laughing loudly at their own jokes and leering at the bride. John had discovered earlier in the evening that Ingeborg spoke a little Latin, so when he happened to catch her eye, he winked and wished her, “Bona fortuna,” adding, because she seemed so nervous, “Omnia vincit amor.” Of course he did not believe that love conquers all, any more than Virgil had, and he doubted that she’d find love in her marriage to Philippe. But the women he knew would much rather have a crown than a man’s heart.
The bedding revelries showed no signs of winding down, and he was already growing bored. He’d left Ursula behind in Paris and regretted it now, for this was a night when he wanted a warm female body in his bed. Fortunately, that was an easy need to satisfy; a king’s son never went hungry. Thinking that Ingeborg was a delightful little morsel compared to his own wife, a great heiress whom he tended to forget unless she was standing right in front of him, he pushed his way toward the door. The night was young and he was not yet drunk enough to exorcise his ghosts.