“But you and Philippe did sign a truce in November. Yet you held your Christmas Court without me. You humiliated me before all of Christendom—”
“That was not my intent, Berenguela!” Furious at being backed into a corner like this, he lashed out suddenly, clearing the table with a wild swipe of his arm. She flinched when the flagon and cups crashed into the floor rushes, but she would not capitulate.
“Do you know how long it has been since we’ve been together? I do—eight months and five days. I thought that would change when you met the Duchess of Brittany at Angers. Yet you did not visit me afterward. It was just fifteen miles to Beaufort-en-Vallée, but you could not take the time.” She’d been proud of her self-control, proud that she’d been able to face him dry-eyed and composed. But her voice was no longer so steady when she spoke now of the greatest grievance of all. “And then you summoned me to your Easter Court and I learned that you’d done so only because you had promised God to atone for your sins. It took the fear of eternal damnation for you to reclaim me as your wife!”
“I’ve had enough of this foolishness. I’ll not discuss this further, not as long as you are being so unreasonable and irrational,” he snapped, and strode toward the door.
“If you will not tell me how I have offended you, how can I make amends?”
He halted, his hand on the latch, for that was a cry of pure pain, one that not even his anger could deflect. Turning back to face her, he said hoarsely, “You’ve done nothing, I swear it!”
She’d never heard such emotion in his voice before, and she did not doubt it was raw and real. “If it is not me, what, then?” Crossing the space between them, she looked up imploringly into his face. “Please . . . tell me.”
He was silent for so long that she thought he’d refuse to answer. Just when she’d given up hope, he moved to the closest chair and slumped down in it. “It is this accursed war,” he said, so softly that she could barely hear him. “It haunts me day and night. People think I’m winning because I’ve had a few flashy victories, but they mean little in the long run. Philippe still holds fortresses like Gisors and Vaudreuil and Pacy and Nonancourt. He controls the Norman Vexin, most of Normandy east of the Seine. And for the first time, the French have greater resources to draw upon. The ransom . . . Christ Jesus, it bled the Exchequer dry. To fight this war, I’ll have to keep raising taxes and men will hate me for it. But if I do nothing, the Angevin empire will crumble; my father’s life’s work will be dust upon the wind. . . .”
She’d listened without interrupting as he lied to her, for she knew he was lying. She could believe that he was obsessed with defeating the French king. But she did not believe this was the reason for their estrangement. What could have been more important than recapturing Jerusalem from the infidels? She knew full well the burdens he’d shouldered during his campaign in the Holy Land, the impossible demands that had been placed upon him, the constant strain of dealing with French treachery. Yet he’d not turned away from her then. So why now? She had no answer to that question, knowing only that something had gone dreadfully wrong between them and she did not know how to remedy it. And as she studied his haggard face, etched with fatigue and evidence of his recent bout with Death, she did not think he knew how to remedy it, either.
“I am sorry,” she said, for she was, sorry for so much.
He ran his hand through his hair, pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. She’d sat on a nearby coffer as he’d begun to speak, her skirts spreading about her in a silken cascade. He thought she looked very fragile and very young, her pallor pronounced in the subdued candlelight. “They say Easter is a time for new beginnings, Berenguela. Let’s agree to begin anew, too.” When she nodded, he took her hand in his. “How would you like it if we bought a house together? A place just for us.”
The idea had come to him suddenly, and he saw that it had been an inspired one, for her face lit up. “I would love that, Richard!”
Getting to his feet, he reached down and helped her to rise, too. “So you and Joanna go house hunting, then, and when you find something you like, I’ll buy it for us.”
Her smile lost some of its light. “I thought . . . thought we’d look for a house together.”
How could he find the time for that? Reminding himself that he’d not only promised her this would be a new beginning, he’d promised God, too, he said, “Well, you find a house and then I’ll come to see it with you. Fair enough?”
She studied his face and then nodded again. “Yes,” she said, “fair enough.”