Berengaria’s parents had been very happy together. It had been a marriage of state, of course, but they’d come to love each other and after Sancha died giving birth to Berengaria’s youngest sister, Blanca, Sancho had not wed again. Berengaria had been only nine when she lost her mother but her father and elder brother had kept Sancha alive for her by sharing their own memories. She’d realized that theirs was not a typical royal marriage, and she felt she’d entered her own marriage with realistic expectations. She’d have been content with mutual respect, while hoping, too, that affection would grow in her marital garden. But nothing had turned out as she’d imagined it would.
She’d been nervous about wedding Richard, knowing how drastically her world would change once she was his queen. And from their first meeting in Sicily, she’d been caught up in an Angevin riptide. Hers had been a sheltered upbringing and at first she’d been troubled that she enjoyed her betrothed’s kisses and caresses, fearing that she was being tempted by the serious sin of lust. But Joanna had proved to be a much better marriage counselor than Padre Domingo, her confessor, assuring her that what she felt was desire, not lust, and desire was part of the Almighty’s plan, for many believed that a woman could not conceive if she did not experience pleasure. And once they were wed, she’d discovered that she liked paying the marital debt, liked the intimacy and the closeness, liked having Richard’s undivided attention, which only seemed to happen in bed.
In these past weeks, she’d deliberately called up every memory of her marriage, trying desperately to discover a clue, something that would explain why things had suddenly gone so wrong. But she found no answers. Despite the dangers of their journey and the hardships of life in an army camp, she’d been happy most of the time. It was exciting being married to Richard. He dominated every gathering, always the center of attention. He was all that their world most admired—a man of prowess—and she was proud to be married to such a renowned battle commander, very honored to be wed to the savior of the Holy City. She’d believed he was content, too, with the bride he’d chosen for himself, and she was sure that they would have a more normal life once they returned to his domains, once she no longer had to fear that she’d become a widow ere she could truly become a wife. After they went home, she would be able to entertain his guests, dispense alms to those in need, hear petitions, manage the royal household, and fulfill a queen’s primary duty, which was to bear his children.
That had been the only snake in her Eden: her failure to conceive. With her usual candor, Joanna had reminded her that she’d not had many opportunities to share Richard’s bed in the midst of a war, and she knew that was true. Nor had Richard reproached her for it. In fact, the one time her flux had been so late that her hopes had soared, he’d even said that it might be safer if she did not become pregnant until they’d left the Holy Land, pointing out that it was not a kind country for infants, for women and children, for any man not born and bred there.
Even if she’d not become pregnant as quickly as she’d wanted, she’d remained confident that it would happen in God’s time. Her contentment with her new life and her new marriage had been shaken, though, toward the end of their stay in Outremer. She’d been shocked by Richard’s failure to retake Jerusalem. She did not think to question his military expertise and when he said it could not be done, she accepted that. Yet she grieved for the failure no less than his soldiers had, and she’d been bitterly disappointed that he refused to accept Saladin’s offer and visit Jerusalem’s sacred sites. When he finally admitted to her that he felt he did not deserve to see them, having failed to keep his vow, she’d been proud that he would not accept from the infidels what he could not win through God’s grace. But she’d still wept in secret for the Holy City that neither of them would see.
Was it possible that he’d sensed her disappointment? That he’d felt she was blaming him for his failure to liberate Jerusalem? But if that were so, surely he’d have said something? Or would he? She was beginning to wonder just how well she really knew him. When he’d been so close to dying at Jaffa, he’d not sent for her, and that had raised doubts she’d been unwilling to confront, even to acknowledge. She’d been able to convince herself that he’d kept her away because of the danger. Now, though, his decision took on more sinister significance. How often had he confided in her? Had he ever offered any intimacy that was not carnal? Yes, they were bound by the sacred vows of holy wedlock. But they were often two strangers sharing a bed.