He remembered his own gift then, and went into the stairwell to call for his squire. Joanna took advantage of his brief absence to close her eyes and engage in some deep breathing, for that sometimes could keep the queasiness at bay. When a knock sounded, Raimond crossed to the door and opened it wide enough to take a small hemp sack. Bringing it back to the bed, he put it in Joanna’s hand.
Within the sack was a small ivory box, delicately carved. “Raimond, it is beautiful.” She was curious as to the contents, for it was not big enough to hold much; mayhap a ring? He liked to give her jewelry. But when she lifted the lid, tears filled her eyes, for she understood at once what she was looking at—two locks of hair neatly tied with ribbons. The silky ebony curl was Raimondet’s and the smaller chestnut wisp had come from their daughter’s head. Pressing her son’s ringlet to her lips, she said huskily, “Not many men would have thought of this. You have a sentimental streak, Raimond de St Gilles, but your secret will be safe with me.”
“I hope so. If word got about, I’d be a laughingstock,” he said, with such mock horror that she smiled again. She started to return Raimondet’s lock to the box, but noticed a third ribbon, this one tied around a clump of hair that was red and coarse to the touch. When she held it up questioningly, Raimond grinned. “After I explained to Raimondet why I wanted to cut off a strand of his hair, he insisted that I include some of Ahmer’s fur for you.”
Joanna laughed—for the first time in many weeks. But then she felt the sickness surging back. Raimond was quick to snatch up the basin by the bed, and she endured the humiliation of vomiting into it while her husband held her upright. Once it was done, he brought her water so she could wash out her mouth, and when she asked for Mariam and Beatrix, he was wise enough not to argue. As soon as he left the chamber to fetch them, she sagged back against the pillow. Her mouth still tasted foul and the sheet was wet, for she’d spilled some of the water. Tears welled in her eyes again, but this time they were tears of shame and frustration and utter misery.
MARIAM AND BEATRIX HAD cleaned Joanna up and changed her bed linen. She was so grateful that Beatrix was here, for the older woman had been her anchor since her journey to Sicily as a child-bride more than twenty years ago. She was not as glad that Raimond had brought Anna and Alicia, for they were so distraught that Beatrix had finally given them a sharp talking-to, warning them that they were there to help their lady and if they could not do so, she’d send them back with Count Raimond when he returned to Toulouse. Both Beatrix and Mariam were relieved that Joanna had prevailed, knowing that Raimond could offer no comfort, not yet, not until she was no longer throwing up day and night.
Joanna had slept for a while and felt well enough to spend an hour with Raimond that evening. Talking took too much of her energy, but she listened as he told her stories about their son’s mischief-making and growing vocabulary. She was losing months of her children’s lives, time that could never be recovered. She was too sick to dwell upon that now, though. Her world had shrunk to the confines of this bedchamber, and for much of her waking hours, she could concentrate only upon what her body was doing to her. It was even worse than her shipboard suffering.
Once Raimond had gently kissed her good night and departed, she closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, for that was the only respite she got. But sleep eluded her. Instead, she found herself in the throes of nausea again—the twentieth time it had happened that day. Fortunately Mariam and Beatrix had returned to the chamber as soon as Raimond had gone, and they kept her from vomiting all over herself and the bed. Afterward, she began to sob, clinging to Beatrix’s hand so tightly that her nails dug into the other woman’s flesh. “I cannot endure any more,” she wept. “I cannot . . . Merciful God, what have I done to deserve this? Please make it stop, please. . . .”
Beatrix was not sure if Joanna was talking to her or to God. She did what she could, cradling the younger woman as she’d done when Joanna was a little girl, stroking her hair as her own eyes burned with tears. When Joanna at last fell into an exhausted sleep, she rose carefully from the bed and drew Mariam toward the far corner of the chamber.
“I need to know,” she said, her voice low but fierce. “Did the midwife truly tell you that Joanna’s nausea is likely to abate after the fifth month?” She was not reassured when Mariam nodded, for she’d averted her eyes. “What are you keeping from me?”
Mariam hesitated, but she desperately needed to confide in someone. “The midwife did indeed tell us that she’d treated two cases like Joanna’s, saying both of the women found relief in the fifth month, later delivering healthy babies. But she also told me in confidence that she’d lied. Only one of the women gave birth to a live baby. The other one continued to grow weaker even after she was able to eat again. She died in the sixth month of the pregnancy.”