“He is constantly on the move, Joanna,” Eleanor said, just as quietly, “rarely spending two nights under the same roof. Like Harry, he pushes himself mercilessly, making demands upon his body that flesh and blood cannot always meet. Harry was not always at war; there were periods of peace during his reign. But Richard has lived under a state of siege since regaining his freedom.”
“I would be hard-pressed to say which of those despicable demon spawn I loathe the most, Maman—Heinrich or Philippe. Raimond says that is like choosing between an adder and a viper, and I daresay he’s right.”
“I would choose Heinrich,” Eleanor said, her eyes taking on the cold glitter of emerald ice, “for if not for his treachery, Philippe would never have been able to pose such a threat to Normandy. Richard has won back almost all that was lost during his captivity, but it has not been easy. Four years of constant warfare can wear a man down, even Richard.”
They were interrupted then by a servant offering wine. Watching her mother, Joanna realized that motherhood stretched from the cradle to the grave, that fear for a grown son was just as sharp as concern for a toddler. Upon their arrival last night, they’d been greeted with news of death. The elderly Pope had finally gone to face his own Judgment Day, and the new Holy Father, Innocent III, was more than fifty years younger, far bolder and more energetic, making them wonder what might have happened had he been on the papal throne at the time of Richard’s capture. But the other death was personal. Eleanor’s daughter by the French king, Marie, the Countess of Champagne, had died on March 11, at age fifty-three. Her sister Alix, the Countess of Blois, had died the year before, but it was Marie’s death that brought grief to the Angevin court, for she’d been quite close to Richard, who’d dedicated his prison lament to her during his German captivity. Joanna had hoped that she’d one day get to meet Marie and she knew her mother had also hoped for a reunion with the daughter she’d not seen since her marriage to Louis had ended.
“I am so sorry, Maman,” she said; no more than that, but Eleanor understood.
“Marie sorrowed greatly for Henri, just as I mourn for her. It is a hard thing to lose a child, as you well know, dearest. I did not expect to outlive six of my children. I can only be thankful that I still have you and Richard and Leonora. . . .” She paused then, her gaze resting for a long moment upon her youngest before saying, “. . . and John.”
Even though she’d made John’s name sound like an afterthought, Joanna did not doubt she’d fight to gain the crown for him should Richard die without a legitimate heir, as now seemed more and more likely. She understood why her mother would prefer Johnny over Arthur, still residing at the French court, but she wondered if she’d prefer him to her other grandson. Otto was like Richard in many ways—courageous in battle, reckless at times, impulsive, sharing a love of troubadours and music and poetry. But Joanna thought he lacked the political shrewdness Richard had inherited from their father. Johnny was cleverer than Otto. Yet he was also less trustworthy, caring naught for honor or moral boundaries. Which were the greater flaws in a king? She was about to raise that question with Eleanor when a servant entered the solar and murmured a few words in Richard’s ear.
“We have a surprise guest soon to arrive,” he announced, deflecting their curiosity with an enigmatic smile and a shrug. He’d gotten to his feet and the others did the same, seeing that he intended to return to the great hall.
Joanna had risen, too, but before she could follow after Eleanor, she was intercepted by her sister-in-law. Drawing her back into the window-seat, Berengaria said softly, “I must ask your forgiveness for not being with you during your lying-in.”
Joanna knew full well why Berengaria had not attended Raimondet’s birth, and she said swiftly, not wanting the younger woman to have to offer an excuse that would salvage her pride but prick her conscience, “There is no need to say more, and for certes, no need to make apologies. You are as dear to me as any sister could be, Berengaria. Do you not know that by now?”
“You are no less dear to me,” Berengaria said, grateful beyond measure that Joanna had not been hurt or offended by her absence. “And this I promise you, Joanna . . . that I will be present for the birth of your next child.”
Joanna smiled. “In that case, sweet sister, I would suggest you keep August free.”
Berengaria’s brown eyes widened. “So soon?” she exclaimed, and then, fearing that Joanna might take her words amiss, she hastily embraced the other woman, kissing her on both cheeks and declaring, “I am so very happy for you!”