“Why are your hands so cold, love? They are like ice.”
Joanna did not know; her constant coldness was only one of her mysterious symptoms. In addition to the extreme nausea—as dreadful and debilitating as her worst bouts of seasickness on their journey to the Holy Land—she was light-headed and dizzy, often short of breath, had trouble sleeping despite her constant fatigue, and there were times when her heart beat so rapidly that it seemed about to burst from her chest. She’d not given much thought to these symptoms, though, for they were a minor matter when compared to the persistent vomiting and her inability to keep food down. She’d been existing on water and a few mouthfuls of bread, and sometimes she could not even manage that much.
Raimond had leaned over and when he kissed her on the forehead, she felt her stomach lurch. Like most men, he smelled of sweat and wine and horses, and she’d loved to breathe in his scent, finding it more of an aphrodisiac than the cinnamon, figs, and pine nuts commonly believed to stir lust. Now, though, she found herself fighting back queasiness. “Raimond . . . Can you fetch me something to drink?”
The queasiness eased as he moved away from the bed, much to her relief; she did not want to vomit in front of him again like a sick dog. When he asked if she wanted wine, she hastily asked for water. Just the odor of wine was enough to make her gag.
Raimond held the cup to her lips, watching as she took a few small sips. His original intent had been to bring her home to Toulouse once she felt strong enough, but it was painfully obvious by now that she was in no condition to make a three-hundred-mile journey. Even after the worst of her nausea abated, he was not sure she’d be up to it, as weak as she was. She was going to have to deliver their baby here at Fontevrault.
She proved, then, that she’d not lost her knack for reading his mind. “Raimond, you cannot stay with me until the baby is born. That will not be until November. Think how rebel lords like that wretch St Felix would take advantage if you were gone from Toulouse that long.”
“I am dealing with some disgruntled vassals, Joanna, not an all-out rebellion.”
“How long would it take to become an all-out rebellion if you gave them such an opportunity by your absence? And what of our children? Think how confusing it would be for Raimondet and Joanna if we both were gone from their lives for months? Yes, they would still be well cared for, but they would not understand, especially Raimondet.”
He knew that was true. She’d been gone two and a half months and their son had not stopped asking for “Mama.” “Well, what would you have me do, Joanna?”
She’d had plenty of time to think about that during long, sleepless nights. She definitely did not want him here until the vomiting and nausea finally eased up. It was hard enough to let Mariam see her in such a pitiful, helpless state; it would have been intolerable to have Raimond witness those awful, endless waves of nausea that left her as weak as a newborn kitten. “I want you to go home to Toulouse, to take care of our children and keep the peace. And then you can come back to visit me in August, once I . . .” She’d been about to say “once I can eat again,” but the very thought of food made her queasy and she said hastily, “. . . once I am feeling more like myself.”
He could not argue with her, for he knew what she said was true. He could not afford to be gone from Toulouse until she gave birth to their child. But even if he’d disagreed with her, he could not have balked, for the last thing she needed was more worries, more cares. Their midwife in Toulouse, Dame Esquiva, had once made him laugh by saying tartly that husbands were as much use during a woman’s pregnancy and lying-in as wings on a fish. “We’ll do it your way, love—as we always do. I ought to have been warned when I saw how well behaved your dogs were. A woman who could train those stubborn Sicilian hounds would have no trouble at all bringing a husband to heel.” And when he coaxed a smile, he felt as if he’d been given a gift.