FOUR DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS, Berengaria fulfilled a promise she’d made to the Almighty in gratitude for the divine justice He’d passed upon the German emperor. She had carts loaded with woolen blankets, sacks of grain and flour, firewood, candles, bolts of cloth, and jars of honey, and she and her escort then set off for the priory of Salle-aux-Puelles just southwest of the city. Only one of her ladies was brave enough to volunteer for the mission, as they would be visiting a lazar house, a hospital for highborn women stricken with the most dreaded of all diseases, leprosy.
She was met at the gateway by the prioress and several of the sisters, who thanked her profusely for her generosity. She did not, of course, enter to mingle with the unfortunate inhabitants. Lepers were kept strictly segregated because their malady was thought to be highly contagious; some even feared it could be passed by breathing the same infected air. Berengaria could only marvel at the courage of the nuns and she resolved to add them to the list of those for whom she offered up prayers to the Almighty.
Promising the prioress that she’d return again soon, she rode back to the city, where she had her knights take her to the great cathedral. There she lit candles for her parents, a childhood nurse, and those courageous nuns. She then prayed for the souls of all afflicted with leprosy. After that, she prayed for the Bishop of Poitiers, who’d died that past spring. Already there were reports of miracles performed at his tomb, and she hoped that he would eventually be canonized; it was very humbling to think that she’d been on such friendly terms with one so holy. She ended her prayers with one for her husband’s father. Today was the anniversary of the death of the martyred Archbishop of Canterbury, and she made it a habit to pray for Henry on this day, feeling that he was likely in need of as many prayers as he could get.
Upon their return to the castle, she knew that something was wrong as soon as she stepped across the threshold into the great hall. All of the Christmas joy was gone. There was little conversation, just a subdued silence. The few men in the hall were staring vacantly into space and the servants went about their tasks with the caution of people not wanting to draw attention to themselves. Richard was not present, nor was his mother or most of their highborn guests. Struggling with a growing sense of unease, Berengaria was looking around for a familiar face when the Countess of Aumale entered the hall and at once headed in her direction.
“It is so tragic,” she said before Berengaria could speak. “I’ve just been with the queen. She is devastated, not only for his death but for the grief it will give his mother. And the king . . . well, he looked as if he’d been struck in the chest by a crossbow bolt. He—”
“What is it?” Berengaria interrupted, caught up in the worst of fears, that of the unknown. “What has happened?”
“You do not know? The king received a letter from the Archbishop of Tyre. His nephew Henri, the Count of Champagne, is dead.”
Berengaria clasped her hand to her mouth. She was very fond of Henri, who’d been a Godsend to the women during their time in the Holy Land. Handsome, clever, courageous, rarely without a smile on his face, and utterly loyal to her husband, Henri had been one of the few French barons who’d refused to pay any heed to the conniving of the Bishop of Beauvais and the Duke of Burgundy. Suddenly shaky, Berengaria let Hawisa lead her toward the closest seat. Henri had been only thirty-one. How could such a vibrant, vital life be quenched like a candle’s flame?
“What . . . what happened? Was he slain by the Saracens?”
“No, it was an accident, a bizarre mishap that no one could have foreseen. He was killed in a fall from a balcony of the palace at Acre. Apparently it gave way without warning. . . .”
“Jesu . . .” Now that the initial shock was over, she could think of others. Of Henri’s young wife, Isabella, Queen of Jerusalem. Of their little daughters. Of the Christians of Outremer, doubtless panicked by Henri’s death. Henri had not wanted to marry Conrad of Montferrat’s widow, for it would mean lifelong exile from his beloved Champagne. But he’d agreed to do so because the kingdom’s need was so desperate. And God had rewarded him by letting him fall in love with his new wife. Berengaria’s throat closed up as she remembered how happy Henri and Isabella had been. Five years . . . That was all the time they’d had together. Why would God let that happen? She knew it was not for her to question the will of the Almighty, but it was hard to understand, so very hard.
“Joanna will be heartbroken. She loved Henri. We all did. . . .” Her husband, above all. Henri had been more like a brother than a nephew, only nine years younger than Richard, his comrade in arms during those difficult, dangerous months in the Holy Land. Wiping her tears away, she tried to put her own grief aside. She could mourn for Henri later. Now, Richard’s need was greater.
“Where is my husband? In his bedchamber?” When Hawisa shook her head, her shoulders slumped. Of course. Who else would he have turned to but his mother? “He is with Queen Eleanor?”