“Why does she object? Does she think that Joanna disliked Raimond?”
“Not exactly. She said sometimes they seemed very friendly and, at other times, quite cool with each other. But she feels he would not be a suitable husband for Joanna because he is out of favor with the Church. She says she does not think he is a heretic, just too sympathetic to the Cathars, too ‘tolerant of those who have strayed from God’s path,’ as she put it.”
“That would not bother Joanna,” Eleanor said shrewdly, “for she grew to womanhood in Sicily. And when I discussed the count with her, I did not get the sense that she found him objectionable. As I remember, she said he was the sort of man mothers warned their daughters about, and I do not think she meant that as an insult.”
“I am glad to hear that,” he admitted, showing her he was not as confident of Joanna’s reaction as he’d have her believe. “Whilst this marriage would be very beneficial to our family, I also believe it would be good for Joanna. So will you help me to make her see that?”
“Yes, I will, Richard. But she is no longer a child being sent off to wed a man chosen for her by her parents. She is a queen, a widow, a woman grown, one with a mind of her own. If she refuses, we cannot compel her, nor would I try.”
“Trust me, Maman, no one is going to compel Joanna to do anything she does not want to do!” he said with a laugh, remembering her volcanic rage when he’d confided his scheme to offer her in marriage to Saladin’s brother.
She studied him intently for a moment, and then nodded. “We are in agreement, then, that this marriage is worth pursuing. So . . . let’s see if Joanna agrees with us.”
JOANNA WOULD NORMALLY HAVE been pleased by Richard’s summons to Rouen, but it came so unexpectedly that it stirred up misgivings she’d not even realized she’d been harboring. Was Richard planning to end his marriage, wanting her there to comfort Berengaria afterward? Her concern was based in part on the recent upheavals in the south. In April, the region had been thrown into turmoil by the sudden death of King Alfonso of Aragon at age thirty-nine, leaving an untested eighteen-year-old son as his heir. Berengaria’s brother Sancho had embroiled himself in a war with the King of Castile, Richard’s brother-in-law, and even more troubling, he was showing signs of chafing under the Angevin-Navarrese alliance. Richard had confided to Joanna that Sancho had seized Berengaria’s dower castles and he’d appealed to the Pope to pressure Sancho for their return. Joanna did not know if Berengaria realized her increasing vulnerability, but a queen who could provide neither an heir nor a valuable alliance might not be a queen for very long.
Upon their arrival at Rouen, Joanna was relieved when Richard said nothing to her about ending his marriage. The next day she could sense tension in her sister-in-law, but she decided Berengaria had probably had another quarrel with Richard about his appropriation of Andely, for she’d been distressed by the Archbishop of Rouen’s threat to lay Normandy under Interdict. Her foreboding came rushing back, though, as soon as Richard revealed that their mother was on the way. Joanna knew he’d not have asked her to make such a long journey unless something urgent was at stake. And so when she was called to the solar, she was already bracing for bad news.
As soon as she was seated, she could not help herself, blurting out nervously, “Richard, do you mean to disavow your marriage and put Berengaria aside?”
Her brother looked surprised. “No, I do not. Why would you think that, Joanna?”
Feeling foolish, she shrugged. “Well, I know that Sancho is becoming troublesome.” Leaving unsaid the real problem, Berengaria’s failure to conceive.
“He is,” Richard agreed, rising and moving to the table to pour wine for them all. “But Berenguela is not to blame for his erratic behavior of late.” Passing around cups, he sat down again. “Actually, I do want to talk with you about marriage. Not mine, though—yours. I’ve made a brilliant match for you, irlanda.”
Joanna caught her breath, momentarily overwhelmed by emotion—excitement so intertwined with alarm that it was impossible to separate one from the other. She did want to marry again, for she did not like sleeping alone and she desperately wanted children. But marriage was the ultimate gamble for women; even a queen was subject to a husband’s will. She was loath to surrender the rare freedom she’d enjoyed in the six years since Richard had pried open the door of her gilded cage at Palermo. Nor was she eager to leave those she loved for life with a stranger in an alien land. Yet she had no choice, not unless she wanted to take holy vows. For women, it was either marriage or a nunnery. For her, marriage was the better road, albeit one fraught with risk. Discovering that her mouth had suddenly gone dry, she said huskily, “Who?”
“He is not a king, and I did promise you one,” he said, with a quick smile, “but he is of noble birth and—”