“Already?” He sounded incredulous and then euphoric, kissing her exuberantly, laughing, and kissing her again. “It must have happened on our wedding night, and what better proof can we have of God’s favor than that?”
She laughed, too. “I am not sure if that was the night, although it must have been soon afterward,” she said, explaining that she’d had her last flux the week ere their wedding day. “I remember, for I was relieved that I need not worry about it coming at an inopportune time. When I missed November’s flux, I tried to rein in my hopes, knowing it was too early. Now I’ve missed December’s, too, for it should have come a fortnight ago. I resolved to wait until the third month to tell you. But tonight in the cathedral, I felt this sense of peace, this utter certainty, as if the Blessed Mother herself was smiling upon me, upon us. When we return to Toulouse, I’ll seek out a midwife. I have no doubts, though, none at all. I am bearing your child.”
“It has been sixteen years since my daughter was born,” he said softly, “sixteen years. I did not lie when I told you I did not believe our marriage would be barren. I just never imagined it would be so soon. . . .” Reaching under her mantle again, he laid his hand gently, almost reverently, upon her abdomen. “When?”
“I will have to see what the midwife says, but I think he will come in the summer.” Joanna put her own hand over his, as if they were cradling their baby, protecting him from the dangers waiting outside the safety of her womb. She was sure it would be a boy, as sure as if God had whispered it in her ear, and she resolutely refused to think of all that could go wrong, of that small tomb in Monreale Cathedral. Giving Raimond a smile he would remember for the rest of his life, she said, “Soon enough to have people counting on their fingers—July.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FEBRUARY 1197
Castle Gaillard, Normandy
Richard’s new stronghold was recorded in the Pipe rolls as the Castle of the Rock, although he and others called it by the playful name he’d given it soon after construction began—Castle Gaillard, French for “saucy” or “bold.” But Richard had in mind far more than the strategic placement of a river fortress. He was building a new walled town, Petit Andely, below the castle, and had dammed two streams to form a protective lake between it and the town claimed by the Archbishop of Rouen, now renamed Grand Andely. The ?le d’Andely, an island in the Seine, was to be the site of a fortified royal palace, and a fort was to be constructed upon a smaller island, Boutavant. In an even more ambitious undertaking, a double stockade would block the river traffic. And on the steep white cliff three hundred feet above the River Seine would rise the towering walls of Castle Gaillard, the beneficiary of all that Richard had learned in twenty-five years of constant warfare, the citadel he fondly called his “fair daughter,” meant to be as impregnable as Heaven’s own gates.
André was very familiar with his cousin’s audacious vision of what Les Andelys would become. He admired Richard for daring to dream so big, although he did wonder if the king’s white-hot enthusiasm would burn so brightly as the years passed; he expected it to take at least a decade for Richard’s grand design to be transformed into reality. He was stunned, therefore, on this blustery February afternoon to see how much had been done since his last visit.
A village of wooden buildings and barracks had been erected to house the workers, guards, and supplies, and everywhere André looked, he saw frantic activity. Men were hacking away with pickaxes, chisels, and hammers, carving deep moats out of solid rock. Others climbed up scaffolding to scramble onto walls covered with tarps to protect against the winter frosts. Smiths were busy forging tools, carpenters supervising the cutting of logs, hodmen staggering under heavy loads, barrowmen carrying away soil and stones, youths hastening over in response to thirsty shouts for “Water, lad!” It was, André, thought, like watching an anthill that had been knocked over, with ants scurrying in all directions.
“We cannot mix mortar again until the weather warms up,” Richard said, sounding as if he bore a personal grudge against nature for interfering with his plans. “But we can still excavate the ditches. The moat around the outer bailey is going to be thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep. Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”