THE OCTOBER DAY OF Joanna’s wedding dawned with harvest blue skies and sun so unseasonably warm that it reminded Berengaria of her own wedding day on the isle of Cyprus. It had rained heavily that night, so she was glad the storm had passed. She hoped it would be a good omen for her sister-in-law’s future happiness. She’d been dismayed by the Archbishop of Rouen’s refusal to attend the ceremony and distressed that she seemed to be the only one troubled by his absence. But the Bishop of évreux, one of Archbishop Gautier’s own suffragans, seemed comfortable stepping into the archbishop’s shoes, and as Joanna and Raimond knelt on the porch of the cathedral of Notre-Dame to receive the bishop’s blessing, Berengaria did her best to put her misgivings aside.
She thought Joanna was a lovely bride, her gown a rich shade of emerald, her coppery-gold hair set off by a gossamer veil fretted with seed pearls, tumbling down her back in the style worn only by queens and virgin brides. Raimond wore a deep red tunic that enhanced his dark coloring, and as he bowed his head, Berengaria thought the sun made his hair gleam like polished ebony. Hundreds of people had gathered to watch them exchange holy vows before entering the cathedral for the Marriage Mass, but the bride and groom seemed oblivious to their large audience, never taking their eyes off each other as they were joined as man and wife.
Beside her, Berengaria’s husband gave a soft chuckle. “I think I’ve been had, little dove. My sweet sister seems to have played me like a lute.”
Berengaria glanced up sharply, but Richard had gone back to watching the bridal couple. His playful comment struck her like a blow, for it reminded her of the easy intimacy they’d shared in the Holy Land, reminded her of all she’d lost. Like Richard, she, too, returned her attention to the ceremony. The scene had blurred, but she did not try to hide her tears, for women were supposed to cry at weddings, were they not?
JOANNA HAD ALWAYS ENJOYED social occasions like weddings, for they provided opportunities for music and rich fare, for flirting, dancing, and basking in the flattering attention that she inevitably attracted during such festivities. But she was eager for her own wedding celebration to be over, wanting only to be alone with her new husband. Raimond did not make it any easier for her to be patient, murmuring in her ear that she looked beautiful in her bridal gown, but he was sure she’d look more beautiful out of it, telling her that her blazing bright hair made her look like a woman on fire, adding that he was on fire, too, only his flames were burning in his nether regions, and pretending to be shocked when she laughed. While Joanna was doing her best to be circumspect under constant public scrutiny, she’d begun to wonder if the revelries would ever end.
Eventually, of course, they did, and she and Raimond were escorted up to their bedchamber by the raucous wedding guests, where they knelt for the traditional blessing. Garin de Cierrey, the Bishop of évreux, was a courtier as well as prelate and he showed a realistic assessment of his audience by keeping his remarks brief, praying that their marriage would be fruitful and that they would find favor in the eyes of the Lord. Nor did he make a serious attempt to convince the bridal couple that they ought to refrain from consummating their marriage at once, spending their first night in meditation and contemplation of the holy state of wedlock; he was worldly enough to know that very few ever heeded that particular Church admonition.
Once the male guests had been chased out, the women helped Joanna to remove her wedding finery. Clad only in her chemise, she sat on a stool as her long hair was brushed until it glowed in the candlelight with a burnished bronze sheen. A jar was handed to her so she could perfume herself again, and another jar was passed so she could reapply her lip rouge. Once she took off her chemise, she was dusted with a fragrant powder before being tucked into bed. The other women tactfully drew back then, so she could have a few private words with her mother.
This was the first time Eleanor had been present for a daughter’s bedding-down ceremony. Joanna and her older sisters, Leonora and Tilda, had been sent off at early ages to wed foreign princes, and once her marriage to the French king had ended, Louis had cut her out of the lives of their two daughters. She sat for a moment on the bed, reaching out to arrange Joanna’s hair on the pillow; she knew from experience how erotic men found long hair, for a woman let it down only in the privacy of the bedchamber.
“You are such a beautiful bride,” she said fondly, “and I am very pleased to see that you are such a willing one. Mayhap your brother does not owe you as great a debt as he first thought.”