He no longer doubted her sincerity; she had no gift for subterfuge, was honest to a fault. He was surprised by how pleased he was to see this glimpse of the loyal, devoted wife he’d left behind in Outremer. Thinking it had been a long time since they were in such accord, he reached for her hand, drawing her toward the arbor bench. “Well, if you did not want to scold me for my impiety, little dove, what did you want to talk about?”
She felt a quiver of resentment, feeling that he owed her an apology for such an unjust accusation. But then she realized that his change in tone and his use of “little dove” was his way of making amends, the most she could expect from him. She was sorely tempted to let it be; why risk this rare moment of peace between them? But she knew it had to be said.
“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Richard.”
“Sorry? For what, Berenguela?”
“For what my brother has done, seizing my dower castles.” Looking up then, she caught his flicker of surprise. “I was probably the last one to know. I wish you’d told me.”
“I did not see what good it would do, aside from causing you distress.”
As she searched his face, she realized she believed him. He truly had been trying to protect her. Did that mean he was not as indifferent as he so often seemed? That he did not intend to use the loss of her dower castles and the Navarrese alliance as an excuse for ending their marriage? Not that he needed an excuse. She’d failed him. She’d not given him an heir in six years of marriage. That they’d been apart for much of that time, that their separations in the past three years were his doing more often than not, mattered little in the eyes of their world.
She lowered her head, but continued to study him from the corner of her eye. How little she knew this man. How little she understood him. Could it be that he truly did not blame her for her barrenness? But that was a question she dared not ask. She was not naturally given to irony, but even she could see the irony inherent in her current predicament. Her brother’s bad behavior had undermined her position as Richard’s queen, yet Sancho had acted out of love, angry that her husband neglected her so blatantly. Whilst Richard, the cause of much of her misery, had not reproached her as so many husbands would have done. Did that mean he had no intention of putting her aside? As unsatisfactory as her life was as his sometimes wife, she did not want to end the marriage. How shamed she would be if she were sent back to Navarre in disgrace, having failed in a queen’s first duty. No, better to endure the hurt here than the humiliation there. And . . . mayhap the Almighty would take pity upon His wretched daughter, answer a prayer as heartfelt as it was humble.
She became aware then that Richard was watching her. “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about, Berenguela?” he asked, and she thought she could detect a hint of relief in his voice. “Do not let yourself be troubled by the dower castles. Sancho and I will sort it out.”
She gave him a grateful smile, but then they both turned at the sound of footsteps on the gravel path. One of his knights was hurrying toward them, followed by a man instantly recognizable as a courier. “Sire, an urgent message has arrived for you!”
Berengaria saw Richard stiffen and she felt a touch of sympathy, thinking it must be wearisome and stressful, always having to be braced for bad news. Rising, Richard reached for the letter as the messenger knelt. “It is from the Count of Flanders,” he said, looking down at the unbroken seal. She was close enough to hear him mutter, “Now what?” His unease was contagious, and she watched anxiously as he scanned the contents, hoping his new alliance with the Flemish count was not unraveling already. But then he let out a triumphant shout.
“God bless Baldwin!”
It took a while for Berengaria to learn what had given him such delight, for he pulled her to her feet and hugged her so exuberantly that he lifted her off the ground. Laughing as she’d not heard him laugh in a long time, he slapped his knight on the back and told the courier to rise, saying he deserved a dukedom for such news.
Eventually his jubilant celebration eased enough for him to share his news. Philippe had sought to take advantage of his absence in Berry to punish Baldwin for what the French king saw as his disloyalty. When he approached Arras, then under siege by Baldwin, with a large army, the count retreated. Philippe pursued him until he suddenly realized that the hunter had become the hunted. The Flemish count had skillfully outmaneuvered him, burning the bridges behind the French army and cutting off their supply lines. Forced to live off the land, the French foraging parties were ambushed by the Flemings, who knew the terrain far better than the invaders. When Baldwin then burned the bridges ahead of him, too, Philippe finally had to admit he was trapped, unable to advance or retreat.