Joanna was looking forward to presiding over her own court again, a privilege that had been denied her since William’s death. She felt a little guilty, though, that her Christmas would be so perfect and Berengaria’s so miserable. As he’d threatened, the Archbishop of Rouen had laid all of Normandy under Interdict in November and then departed for Rome to present his grievances before the papal curia. If he’d hoped his drastic action would compel Richard to yield, he was to be disappointed, for Richard at once dispatched Longchamp, the Bishop of Lisieux, and Fulk, the Bishop-elect of Durham, to Rome, while he continued to spend most of his time at Andely, personally supervising the construction of Castle Gaillard. Eleanor had written that he was defiantly holding his Christmas Court in Normandy, at his hunting lodge at Bur-le-Roi near Bayeux, determined to show the archbishop that in his duchy, his writ overrode the prelate’s Interdict.
Eleanor was not attending, preferring not to make so long a journey again in the worst of winter, and she’d said that she did not know if Berengaria would be present or not. Joanna doubted it, for her sister-in-law would be incapable of defying the archbishop as Richard was doing. Her heart ached for her friend, torn between her husband and her God. But even Berengaria’s sad plight could not cast a shadow for long. Joanna was so happy that nothing could tarnish the joy she took in her new life as the Countess of Toulouse.
On the morrow they would depart for Toulouse, but that evening a special Votive Mass was being said for the recovery of the ailing Bishop of Carcassonne. Raimond was unenthusiastic about attending, telling Joanna privately that the ineffective, elderly prelate’s boring, rambling sermons were the best recruiting tool the Cathars had. But Joanna felt it would only give Raimond’s enemies in the Church a new cause for complaint if they stayed away, and because he could refuse his new wife nothing, they emerged from the castle as twilight fell. The cathedral of St Nazaire was easily within walking distance, but their every public appearance had been drawing crowds and so Raimond was astride a favorite black palfrey and Joanna was riding his bride’s gift, a fine-boned chestnut mare. Raimond’s young nephew had at first balked, influenced—Joanna feared—by his tutor, Bertrand, the Lord of Saissac, who’d proudly proclaimed himself a Cathar upon meeting her. But Raimond-Roger changed his mind at the last moment and Azalais decided she would attend if her son did. So Carcassonne was treated to a royal procession through the narrow, cobbled streets to the cathedral.
The Mass was said by Berenger, the archdeacon, who also happened to be Bishop Othon’s nephew, and it was soon obvious to Joanna that he was even less popular with the townspeople than his uncle. She was troubled by such open animosity toward the Church, for while she was prepared to tolerate the Cathars, she still considered herself a good Catholic, and she was relieved when Raimond reassured her that Toulouse was not like Carcassonne, where the appeal of the Cathar theology seemed deeply entrenched in its civic life.
When they departed the cathedral, they found that the street was still thronged with people, who cheered enthusiastically for their young viscount and for the Count of Toulouse and his bride. Joanna enjoyed the brief ride back to the castle, for she relished these demonstrations of her husband’s popularity. She and Raimond were still in the honeymoon phase of their marriage, and she wanted the rest of the world to find him as irresistible as she did.
Once they’d crossed through the barbican into the bailey, Raimond lifted Joanna from her sidesaddle, giving her a quick kiss as he set her upon the ground. As the others continued on into the castle, Joanna caught her husband’s arm, asking if they could take a walk in the garden. He agreed readily, welcoming any opportunity to have some time alone with her, not always easy for two who lived so much of their lives on the public stage.
The air was chill but clear, and the sky above their heads looked like a wine-dark sea adrift in sailing stars. They sat on a bench and gazed upward, taking pleasure in the austere beauty of the night. Joanna was warmly dressed in a fur-lined pelisse and soft wool mantle, but Raimond used the cold as an excuse to pull her onto his lap. “Thank you again, love, for not objecting to have my son at our court. Unlike my daughters, he is not yet old enough to be sent off to a great household for educating. But you’ll like him, for he is a good lad, if somewhat shy.”
“I love children, Raimond. He is more than welcome to live with us.”
He slid his hand under her mantle, fondling her thigh, and when she turned toward him, he was struck by how lovely she looked in the winter moonlight. “My God, but you’re beautiful,” he murmured, leaning in to claim her mouth with his own.
“I wanted you to kiss me like that,” she confided, “on the day we sat here in the garden and, for the first time, truly talked. Do you remember?”
“I remember. I was amazed that I was able to exercise so much restraint, wanting to pounce upon you like a dog on a bone,” he teased, and laughed when she chided him for being so romantic.
They sat in a comfortable silence for a time, not needing words. But she kept giving him glances from the corner of her eye, and at last, he said, “What is it, love? Is there something you would say to me?”
She nodded. “I was not going to tell you, not yet, not until I was sure. But I cannot wait any longer. Raimond . . . I am with child.”