Richard’s knights watched him warily, waiting for the explosion. He surprised them all by laughing—a soured laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “Come on,” he said to André, “let’s get some air.” The other men took that for what it was, an invitation meant only for his cousin, and none followed as Richard and André left the tent and began to walk through the camp. Richard paused often to banter with soldiers, to offer praise that they valued almost as much as the plunder they knew he’d be sharing with them. He paid a visit to the tent that was serving as a makeshift hospital, jesting with the wounded, pleased to see that there were not very many; most of the casualties that day were French. After that, he wanted to make sure that Fauvel had been cooled down, rubbed, and fed. Getting a dried apple from the groom, he fed the treat to the dun stallion, assuring Fauvel that he was much faster than Scirocco, joking to André that he did not want jealousy to fester amongst his horses.
André was surprised by his good mood, for he’d been certain Richard would be furious to learn he’d come so close to capturing the French king. When he said that, Richard shrugged. “It was not a total loss. When that story of Philippe cowering in a church gets around, he’ll be a laughingstock with his own troops. I’ll have other chances to run that fox to earth, for I am going to make it my life’s mission from now on.”
Richard hesitated, giving the other man a sidelong glance. “The truth is that I had something else to do this day, something that mattered almost as much as capturing King Cravenheart. I needed to prove to myself that I am still the same man I was, that my imprisonment left no lasting scars.”
André frowned as he thought that over. “But surely you proved that already at the siege of Nottingham and then again at Loches. If you feared death during those assaults, you hid it very well.”
Richard was regretting his impulse, for it was not easy to bare his soul, even to André, who was likely to understand if anyone could. “There are worse fates than death,” he said at last, and André cursed himself for not having seen it sooner. When Richard had charged into those besieged castles, he’d risked a fatal wound. But by racing into the very midst of the French army, he was risking capture.
“Well,” he said, “you need not fret, Cousin. To judge by what I saw today, it is clear that you are the same crazed lunatic on the battlefield that you always were.”
Richard grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.” They looked at each other and then began to laugh, sounding so triumphant that soldiers passing by smiled, glad that their king was so pleased with their victory over the French.
WHEN THE WALLS OF Poitiers came into view, Richard could feel himself tense, for he was not looking forward to this reunion with his wife. He’d lashed out at his sister in part because he could not explain to her why he was loath to see Berenguela, why he so often felt distant and detached from his former life. Even with Joanna, there was a constraint between them that had not been there before. Women could not understand the humiliation of being utterly powerless, for few of them ever exercised power. Even his mother did not comprehend why he felt such shame for submitting to Heinrich’s demands. That was especially true for the innocent he’d wed. He’d realized early on that Berenguela saw him through a golden glow, not as he really was. He’d liked her adulation, though, liked her bedrock faith that he was so much more capable than other men, that he would always prevail. Now he did not want to see her brown eyes reflect his own deep-rooted disappointment.
Her father’s death had cast a new shadow over his marriage, for he’d begun to feel guilty for staying away. No matter how often he told himself that he’d done what he had to do, he knew he’d not been there when she’d most needed him. That awareness made him even more reluctant to face her and angry with himself for feeling this way, so he was in an edgy mood as they approached the Pont de Rochereuil. As the gate swung open, he saw crowds gathered in the streets, already beginning to cheer. Summoning up a smile, he urged his stallion forward into Poitiers.
THEY WERE AWAITING HIM in the palace courtyard. His wife wore the mourning black of the Spanish kingdoms and Sicily, a stark shade that accentuated her pallor, making her seem fragile and even more petite and delicate than he remembered. Dismounting, he handed the reins to Arne and crossed to Berengaria. Kissing her hand, he said, “I was grieved to learn of your father’s death. He was a good man, a good king.”