When she finally saw Raimond, she frowned, for he was still dressed. The men would be here all night at this pace. Someone made a toast to “storming the castle” and someone else expressed the hope that Raimond would “plant his seed in fertile soil.” She’d given up trying to identify the voices by now, so she did not know who cried out that they ought to drink to the “conquest of Sicily.” She could hear wine cups being clanked together and sighed with relief when she saw Raimond sit down so he could remove his shoes and chausses, thinking this would soon be over. They began teasing him about taking so long to undress, laughing uproariously when he said good-humoredly that the only person he was interested in getting naked with that night was his wife. But it all changed for Joanna when she heard an unfamiliar voice say with a sneer that there was no need to strip since he’d be praying over his bride, not swiving her.
Most of the men seemed to assume that the speaker meant Raimond would be heeding the bishop’s plea for contemplation, not consummation, and there was some halfhearted laughter, for few thought the joke all that funny. Joanna knew better and from the look on Raimond’s face, she could tell that he did, too. This was not a jest aimed at a bridegroom, it was a jeer aimed at a Cathar. Clearly the Norman speaker—and she could tell from his accent that he was Norman—believed that Raimond was a heretic at heart and would shrink from sins of the flesh even on his wedding night.
“So you are saying that I’ve just been wed to one of the most beautiful, desirable women in all of Christendom and I am going to abstain like a monk? Now, why is that?”
Joanna was proud of Raimond for taking up the challenge so boldly, but she was furious, too, that some drunken Norman lout would dare to bring his biases into her bedchamber, casting a shadow over her wedding night. She tucked the sheet carefully around her and before the man could respond, she pulled the bed hangings back.
That at once drew all eyes toward her and men began to jockey closer, hoping for a chance to see some skin. Joanna ignored them. “My lord brother, may I have a word with you?”
It was highly unusual for a bride to participate in the bedding-down revelries, and there were murmurings of astonishment. Even Raimond looked startled. Only Richard took it in stride. Approaching the bed, he leaned over, his expression quizzical. But by the time Joanna was done whispering in his ear, he was grinning. “I’ll do my best,” he promised. Turning back to the gaping men, he declared, “My sister is greatly troubled, for she fears that strange men have invaded her bedchamber.” He paused then, for dramatic effect. “Even worse, she suspects that they might be French!”
That evoked laughter, as he’d known it would. Looking around the chamber, he pretended to be shocked, exclaiming, “By God, she is right! Well, we’ll have none of that. This is Rouen, not Paris. Out, the lot of you!”
They didn’t like that, for it was looking as if there would be a confrontation between the count and the Norman knight, and they were not happy with either Joanna or Richard for spoiling their fun. But then Richard seized Raimond by the arm and when they realized he was going to be ejected, too, they were immediately enthusiastic. That would be a great joke, holding the groom hostage down in the hall whilst his bride slept alone on her wedding night. Laughing, they started toward the door.
Richard had to laugh, too, at the expression on his sister’s face. He wasn’t sure if it was dismayed indignation or indignant dismay, but he thought if looks could kill, he’d be writhing in the floor rushes. Raimond was balking, and Richard winked, hoping he’d take the hint. He apparently did, for he no longer resisted as Richard ushered him toward the door. The others were already trooping into the stairwell and André helped to get the stragglers moving by telling them to clear a path, for he thought he was going to puke. Just as Richard reached the door, though, he came to a sudden halt.
“Wait, what if they come back? We know the French are not to be trusted. Best to leave a bodyguard. My lord count, are you up to guarding my sister’s body against all intruders?”
“I am sure I can rise to the occasion, my liege,” Raimond assured him and before the men milling about in the stairwell could object, Richard pushed Raimond aside and plunged into the stairwell himself.
Raimond at once slammed the door and slid the bolt into place, cutting off the protests as the men realized they’d been hoodwinked. “Alone at last,” he said, as Joanna shook her head, torn between amusement and exasperation.
“For a moment or so, I could cheerfully have throttled Richard,” she admitted. “I thought he was serious!”
“It would not have mattered, love. I was not going to be removed from this chamber, not even if I had a knife at my throat.” Raimond glanced around the room, pointing to a gilt flagon on the table. “Do you want some wine?” When she declined, he crossed to the bed. “I was hoping you’d refuse. Now I shall demonstrate how quickly a man can shed his clothes if he is properly motivated.”