Yet there was no way they could have refused to receive him; he was Richard’s most trusted general. Berengaria and Joanna rose to their feet, waiting for him to be ushered out into the garden, wondering how he’d even known they were at Le Mans, and wondering, too, what he wanted. Morgan was of no help; all he could tell them was that Richard had sent Mercadier into Berry last month to deal with a troublesome lord. Not all of them were disconcerted by Mercadier’s unexpected arrival. Fernando was intrigued, for the routier’s notoriety had reached as far as Navarre, and Anna was excited to finally meet a man so often spoken of as the Antichrist.
As Mercadier sauntered toward them, Joanna took the lead in making him welcome, knowing she’d be more convincing than her sister-in-law. She’d met him at Lisieux, so she knew what to expect. The other women did not and stared with morbid fascination at the livid, satanic scar and eerie, colorless eyes as opaque as stone. He bowed correctly, for he’d been in Richard’s service long enough to have any rough edges smoothed away, but Joanna thought he was a wolf masquerading as a domestic dog. “I apologize for intruding upon you, Madames,” he told the queens, “but the king’s messenger who found me in Berry said that Sir Morgan was with you in Le Mans, and I was instructed to bring him back with me.”
“Of course,” Morgan said promptly, pleased that Richard wanted him to take part in the second attack upon the French. “Are we to meet the king at Aumale?”
“You have not heard then? The king was wounded at the siege of Gaillon Castle.”
There were gasps from the women and they were not reassured when Mercadier told them what little he knew—that Richard had been struck in the knee by a crossbow bolt shot from the battlements by Philippe’s routier captain, Cadoc. If infection set in, even a minor injury could quickly become life-threatening, and the wound had apparently been serious enough for Richard to summon Mercadier back from his chevauchée in Berry.
As Joanna continued to pelt the routier with questions he could not answer, a shaken Berengaria sat down on the closest bench. She’d long feared that she’d be a young widow, yet in the past, she’d not expected to be one of the last to know. She did not hesitate, though, when Joanna said she would accompany Mercadier and Morgan on the morrow, for she knew a wife’s duty. Her place was with her husband in his time of need—whether he wanted her there or not.
AS THEY RODE INTO the inner bailey of Vaudreuil Castle, Eleanor was standing in the doorway of the great hall, waiting to welcome them. Berengaria felt no surprise, just a weary prickle of resentment. She said nothing, but Joanna read her face easily and leaned over to murmur that Richard would not have sent for his mother. “He loathes being fussed over when he is ailing.” Berengaria knew this was true. That did not change the reality, though, that once again Eleanor had been with Richard whilst Berengaria had remained in ignorance of his injury.
“He will be so glad to see you!” Eleanor exclaimed, and for a moment, Berengaria actually thought those words were meant for her. Then she saw that Eleanor was looking at Mercadier, and she thought bitterly that this was as good a commentary on her marriage as any, that her husband would summon his cutthroat routier to his sickbed, not his queen.
HIS DOCTOR HAD TOLD Richard that he’d been lucky, for the crossbow bolt had embedded itself in the muscle, not the bone, which could have been crippling. He did not feel lucky, though. He was in considerable pain, as much as he tried to hide it. He was still fuming over his defeat at Aumale, and now that he was bedridden, he had too much time to brood about it. He was very worried about the fate of the castle and the garrison, and he was finding his powerlessness to be intolerable, calling up memories of his German captivity. He’d not been pleased by his mother’s arrival, and he was vexed beyond measure at having to submit to his doctor’s prodding and poking, even more frustrated by his body’s betrayal; his first attempt to leave the bed and put weight on his injured knee had sent him sprawling to the floor. But the worst was still to come. On this humid, hot August afternoon, he’d gotten word that the garrison at Aumale had been forced to surrender to the French king.
He did not blame them; he blamed himself. He dictated a letter to Baldwin de Bethune, for he had the right to know his wife’s castle had been lost. He dispatched another messenger in search of Mercadier, who’d yet to answer his summons. And he sent a tersely worded letter to the French king, declaring that he would pay whatever ransom would be demanded for the Aumale garrison. After that, he finally fell into a shallow, troubled sleep.
He awoke to find his doctor bending over him. “Sire, how are you feeling?”
“Wonderful,” he said through gritted teeth, thinking that all physicians had sawdust where their brains ought to be.
With a rustle of silken skirts, his mother approached the bed. “You have visitors.”
“Who?” he asked warily, for he felt about as sociable as a baited bear.
“Joanna and your wife.”
He said nothing, for what was there to say? Why did women not understand that a man in pain wanted only to be left alone? But then Eleanor told him that Mercadier had also arrived, which was the first good news he’d gotten since he’d been wounded. While he realized Berenguela would not like it any, his need to discuss military matters with Mercadier was urgent, and he hesitated only briefly before telling her to send the routier up first.