JOHN DID NOT HAVE many warm memories of his siblings. He did not remember his sisters Tilda and Leonora, who’d been sent off to wed foreign princes when he was very young. He’d not often seen his older brothers, and when he had, they’d either ignored him or teased him as mercilessly as older brothers had done since the dawn of time. It had been different with Joanna, his companion during their time at Fontevrault, and he’d missed her after her departure for Sicily. When they’d been reunited eighteen years later, though, he’d discovered that she was one for bearing grudges. She’d never forgiven him for conniving against Richard with the French king, and he’d come to resent her for it.
But he’d been genuinely shocked to be told that she was gravely ill, not expected to live. She was only a year older than he was, too young to die, and he suddenly found himself recalling the lively, mischievous girl who’d once been fond of her little brother. “There is no hope, then?”
Eleanor shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “My physician has examined her, as have the two best midwives in the city. All three reached the same conclusion—that she is in God’s hands.”
John knew that there was no love lost between doctors and midwives, so their unusual unanimity did not bode well for his stricken sister. He knew, too, that whenever some poor soul was consigned to God’s mercy, that one was not long for the world. “I am sorry,” he said, vaguely surprised by how much he meant it. Leaning back in his seat, he regarded his mother admiringly. She was the strong one in their family, not his father, nor his brothers. Her spine, like the finest swords, had been forged in fire. She kept her head high even as her heart bled. But then a dark thought intruded; did she blame God for taking Richard whilst sparing the son she did not love? He reached for the wine cup at his elbow, draining most of it in several deep swallows. Was he still yearning after a mother’s love, like a mewling babe in need of a teat? She’d done what mattered, traveling more than a thousand miles to win over her Poitevin vassals to his cause. And he was honest enough to admit that if not for her efforts, he might not have prevailed over that Breton brat.
“I shall pray for Joanna,” he said, because it was expected of him, not because he believed it would help his sister.
“There is more you can do for her, John. She is in need of money.”
Now that he was king, John was learning to dislike any sentence that mentioned money, for like as not, he’d be the one asked to pay it out. “She has a husband who is rich and indulges her every whim, Mother,” he reminded Eleanor, with a thin smile.
“When she left Toulouse in April to seek Richard’s aid for Raimond, she did not expect to be gone more than a month or so. Her lack of money did not matter much, though, for few merchants would deny credit to the king’s sister.”
That was a song John could sing in his sleep; he’d lived for years on credit and expectations and the foolishness of men eager to curry favor with one who might be a future king. “Of course,” he said. “I will be pleased to give Joanna a hundred marks of rent, to dispose of any way she chooses.”
“That is generous of you, John. But I had something else in mind. When Richard landed in Sicily, he did more than gain Joanna’s freedom. He insisted that Tancred compensate her in gold for the loss of her dower lands, which he then used to pay for his army’s expenses in the Holy Land.”
“And he never repaid her.” John’s smile was sour, for when did Brother Richard ever repay a debt? He’d bled his kingdom white to finance his wars, and had gotten away with it because he was the Lionheart, because men admired and respected and feared him as they did not admire, respect, or fear his brother. John lied to many others, not to himself, and he knew he was going to find it much harder than Richard to raise money. “So what do you have in mind?” he asked warily, already sure he knew the answer.
“Joanna never bothered to ask Richard for repayment since she had no need of it. Now she does. She must make her will, for the Church holds that dying intestate is like dying unconfessed. She wants to settle her own debts and to make bequests to those in her household. Above all, she wants to have enough money to bequeath to churches, to feed the poor, and to have prayers said for her soul.”
“And how much is ‘enough’?”
“Three thousand marks will do. If you agree, that will release you of all liability for the debt that Richard owed to Joanna.”
Three thousand marks! That would buy food to fill all the hungry bellies in Rouen, would keep candles lit for her soul until the Second Coming, would enrich a veritable host of greedy churchmen at his expense. John scowled, feeling as if Richard had gulled him from the grave. His mother remained silent. Why bother with words when she could deliver her message with her eyes? Eyes as piercing as any arrow, aiming for the very depths of his soul. He picked up his wine cup, tasting the dregs before saying with as much grace as he could muster, “Of course I agree, Mother. How could I refuse?”