Joanna was outraged; she’d had no idea that Mariam felt like such an outsider in the Angevin domains. “Why did you not tell me? The mean-spirited louts! You’re a better Christian than the lot of them!”
Mariam was warmed by Joanna’s indignation and reached over to hug her before saying, “I do not care what they say of me, for my life with you shelters me from the worst of their suspicions and ill will. But my children would care. In Sicily, their Saracen blood would not matter. But I could not ask Morgan to abandon his world for mine. Even if he would have considered it, now that Heinrich has been crowned the King of Sicily, a life there is impossible. Morgan would never be willing to live under Heinrich’s rule, and in truth, neither would I.”
Joanna knew Mariam well enough not to argue further, but she had no intention of giving up. She was ashamed that she’d felt a brief flicker of relief as Mariam had explained why a return to Sicily was out of the question, for losing Mariam would be like losing part of herself. Yet she loved Mariam too much to be selfish, and as they walked back toward the castle, she was privately vowing to find a way for her friend and Morgan to have a life together.
When they entered the great hall, Joanna started toward Berengaria, who was standing by the open hearth. But her step quickened as soon as she got a glimpse of the younger woman’s face. “Berengaria? Is something amiss?”
Berengaria’s eyes looked very dark against the whiteness of her skin. She was holding a letter that looked as if it had been crumpled in her fist and then smoothed out. “It is from Richard,” she said. “He wants me to join him at his Easter Court in Le Mans.”
“Dearest, that is wonderful!” Joanna exclaimed, delighted that her stubborn brother was finally reaching out to his neglected wife.
“Yes, wonderful,” Berengaria echoed after a long pause, saying, as always, what was expected of her. But she shared none of Joanna’s pleasure, feeling only unease, confusion, and even a touch of apprehension.
IT WAS DUSK TWO days later when the walls of Le Mans came into view. Berengaria had not seen Richard since that past July, at the beginning and end of his lightning campaign into Poitou, and in the eight months since then, she could do little but mourn her ailing marriage. Her bruised and battered pride had suffered a serious wound when Richard celebrated Christmas in Rouen without her, for her absence proclaimed to all of Christendom that she’d failed as a queen, as a wife. How else explain why Richard would not have wanted her with him on one of the most sacred days on the Church calendar? Her hurt was already well salted with resentment when he met the Duchess of Brittany in March and did not visit her, even though Beaufort-en-Vallée was just fifteen miles from Angers. On the road to Le Mans, she’d tried to banish her grievances to the back of her brain, telling herself that what mattered now was showing Richard and the world that she knew how to behave as a queen ought, serene and benevolent and regal, never giving a hint of her inner agitation, her anger, or her pain. But with each passing mile, she became more and more nervous, not sure that she had her wayward emotions under proper control.
She received a surprise as they approached the Vieux Pont, for the town gate opened and Richard rode out to meet her once they crossed the bridge. He was accompanied by an impressive entourage of barons and bishops, few of whom she knew, since she’d never been formally presented to his vassals. When he reined his stallion in beside her, she thought he looked tired and tense. He smiled, though, reaching over to kiss her hand with a flourish before introducing her to Hamelin, the Bishop of Le Mans, a portly, affable man who seemed very pleased to see her, for he kept talking about what an honor it was to have her visiting his city.
Richard rode beside Berengaria as they entered Le Mans, telling her that the town had both a castle and a royal palace and pointing out the city’s ancient Roman walls. He made a brief detour to show her the magnificent cathedral of St Julien, saying that this was where his grandfather Count Geoffrey of Anjou had been buried and where his father had been christened. The narrow streets were thronged with people eager to get their first glimpse of the Lionheart’s bride, and they cheered as she and Richard passed, turning their ride into a torch-lit triumphant procession. Berengaria smiled and waved, thinking how much she would have enjoyed this if only it had happened months ago.