He was accompanied by his mesnie of household knights, by William Marshal and his own knights, and by Mercadier and a contingent of his routiers, so arrangements had to be made to billet most of them in the town. The next few hours were hectic ones for Berengaria as she dealt with the demands of hospitality and saw to it that a dinner was made ready for the more highborn of Richard’s companions. It troubled her that Mercadier was included, even if he was now Lord of Beynac; she was convinced that he was a man whose soul was already pledged to the Devil, but she knew better than to object.
The meal was a lively one, for her household knights were eager to hear of Richard’s warfare in Berry and he was always willing to boast of his military feats. His brief foray south had been a highly successful one, for he’d taken the formidable stronghold of Vierzon and nine other castles from the French king, that story dominating the dinner conversation. It was only as servants began to collect the uneaten food to give to the poor and the guests broke up into smaller groups that Berengaria finally had a private moment with Richard.
After they’d exchanged the courtesies that she thought so incongruous for a husband and wife, he asked politely about the renovations to their house at Thoree. It was coming along very well, she assured him, although she’d lost all enthusiasm for the project, knowing by now that they’d never live there together.
“Good. You’ll have to show it to me again one of these days,” he said vaguely. “I imagine you know about Joanna’s son?” When she smiled and nodded, he gave her a curious glance. “I was surprised that you did not accompany my mother to Beaucaire for Joanna’s lying-in.”
His comment was not accusatory; he sounded faintly puzzled, his tone one that men often used when they were discussing the mysterious ways of women. But Berengaria’s face flamed, and she no longer met his eyes. “I . . . I was ailing,” she lied. It was a source of great shame to her that she’d not been there for the birth of Joanna’s child. It was not that she’d begrudged Joanna her good fortune and joy. She loved Joanna, wanted her to be happy. Yet she’d shrunk from traveling to Toulouse in the company of the woman who’d usurped her rightful place, then having to watch Joanna give her new husband a son or daughter, doing what she could not. Now, though, she could not forgive herself for that moment of very human weakness. She did penance the only way she could, instigating what she expected to be a very awkward conversation, saying that she needed to speak with Richard alone.
She could tell that he was instantly on guard. When he offered his arm to escort her from the hall, she could feel the tension in the corded muscles. But she was still not prepared for what happened when they reached the gardens. The August sun was hot upon their faces, reminding her of Outremer, which often seemed as if it were part of another woman’s life. It was safe from eavesdroppers, though, and she pointed toward a trellis-shaded arbor, suggesting they sit there.
Instead of following her, Richard came to a halt on the pathway. His eyes had narrowed, a storm-sky grey, and his very stance—legs apart, arms folded across his chest—was defiant. “If you mean to reproach me about maltreating a ‘man of God,’ Berengaria, you will be wasting your breath. I have no intention of setting Beauvais free.”
For a moment, she could only stare at him mutely. He’d been angry with her before. But he’d never called her by her given name, had never looked at her as he did now, as if she were a stranger, one he did not like very much.
“I would never do that, Richard,” she said, as steadily as she could. “Why would I plead for him?”
“Because he is a bishop,” he said curtly, turning the words into weapons.
She shook her head so vehemently that the veil covering her wimple swirled in the breeze. “I would not do that,” she repeated. “He is a false priest, a wicked, ungodly man who did his best to bring about your destruction.”
Without knowing it, she’d echoed his own argument to Hubert Walter and some of his suspicion eased. “It is good that you understand that,” he said at last. “I was not sure you would, for too often you see only one side—the Church’s.”
She thought that was unfair, but she was not about to challenge him on it now. Tilting her head so she could look into his eyes, she said, “When I heard that Beauvais was your prisoner, I was delighted, Richard.” She thought he still seemed skeptical, and she insisted, “In Outremer, I saw how he sought to subvert you at every turn, even if it meant losing the Holy Land to the infidels. Then he slandered your good name, accused you of baseless crimes, and tried to have you cast into a French dungeon. I am sure the Almighty will punish him as he deserves when it is his turn to stand before the celestial throne. But I am glad he will pay a price here on earth, too, for his evil deeds.”