If he’d shut down whenever mention was made of Heinrich, now it was as if she were looking at a castle under siege, drawbridge pulled up, portcullis in place, doors barred. “You assured me she was well,” he said, making that simple statement somehow sound accusatory. “Were you lying about that?”
“No, of course not!” She was flustered by his hostility, but it was too late to retreat. More convinced than ever that something was wrong, she leaned over and touched his arm. “She is not ailing, Richard. She is bewildered, though, that you seem to be deliberately delaying a reunion. She does not understand why you did not want her to join you in England, and neither do I—”
She could feel the muscles in his arm tense even before he pulled away and got abruptly to his feet. “I’ve warned you before, Joanna, about meddling in my marriage!”
“I am not meddling. I just want to help—”
“Did I ask for your help? Did Berenguela? You have a bad habit of interfering in matters that are not your concern and I am bone-weary of it!”
Joanna rose, too, staring at him in dismay. This was not the first time she’d taken him to task for neglecting his wife, for she’d become very protective of Berengaria during their time together in the Holy Land. Usually he’d been amused, occasionally annoyed, but only once had he become angry with her, and that was when he’d been in the initial stages of Arnaldia. She’d never seen him as furious as he was now. Instead of snapping back, as she would ordinarily have done, she found herself trying to pacify him. “I am sorry. I did not mean to meddle. . . .”
He was not appeased, continuing to glare at her. “See that it does not happen again,” he said, sounding like such a stranger that she could only nod, at a rare loss for words. She was greatly relieved when Arne returned then with the wine, for the silence was becoming suffocating. Accepting a cup from the boy, she managed to make stilted small talk while she drank it, but when she offered an excuse for leaving, Richard did not object. To the contrary, she thought that he seemed glad to see her gone.
“SIT HERE, and I will brush out your hair,” Eleanor suggested. They were alone, for Joanna had requested that they go up to their bedchamber before their women joined them for the night. She sat upon the bench as directed, and enjoyed this brief, blessed regression back into childhood, relaxing as her mother tended to her needs. Eleanor drew the brush through her daughter’s long, curly hair, establishing a lulling rhythm before saying, “What is wrong, Joanna?”
“I had a dreadful quarrel with Richard this afternoon, Maman. I was trying to learn why he seems set upon keeping Berengaria at arm’s length, and he accused me angrily of meddling in his marriage.”
Eleanor continued to wield the brush. “Well, you were meddling, dearest.”
“I know,” Joanna conceded. “But I always meddle, Maman! I love Richard dearly, and when we were in the Holy Land, I am sure he did not mean to neglect Berengaria. It is just that he is utterly single-minded, and he tended to forget he had a wife unless I reminded him of it.”
“I can see how he might have been distracted,” Eleanor said wryly, “what with fighting a holy war at the time.”
Joanna looked over her shoulder and grinned. “I’m sure that crossed his mind when I scolded him for not paying more attention to his bride.” Her smile faded then. “But this is different, Maman. It has been two months since his return to England. Berengaria is very hurt that he has not sent for her.”
Twisting around on the bench, she looked up searchingly into her mother’s face. “They seemed to get along well enough in the Holy Land. She was bedazzled, of course, but he appeared to be pleased, too, for she was sweet and loyal and quietly courageous. I know they did not quarrel ere they parted at Acre. So what has happened to make him so loath to have her with him? Have you spoken to him about it?”
“No, I have not.” Anticipating the question forming on Joanna’s lips, Eleanor said, “Nor do I intend to, dearest, for what would be the point? You ought to know by now that men cannot be talked into doing what they do not want to do.”
Joanna sighed, thinking that was certainly true for a man as stubborn as her brother. She had no intention of trying again to pry answers from Richard; as reluctant as she was to admit it, she’d been perturbed by his rage, not having seen it burn so hot before. But she could not be as philosophical as her mother seemed to be, for she knew how much Berengaria was hurting. “Is there nothing we can do, Maman?”
Eleanor paused, for even with Joanna, her instinct was to protect Richard at all costs. “Yes . . . we can give him time.”