“I am not asking you to do this for me or for John. You do not even have to do it for Joanna. Do it for your father. Harry loved Joanna dearly, as you well know. Do not let his daughter go to her death fearing that she is damned.”
He looked startled, but not defensive, and she took hope from that. Knowing he was not a man to be prodded, she kept silent as he considered this most personal of appeals. “If you are truly sure that the Count of Toulouse would give his permission,” he finally said, “then I see no harm in granting Lady Joanna’s wishes. But I doubt that the Archbishop of Rouen will see it in that light. Do you want me to speak with him?”
“That is very kind of you, but not necessary,” Eleanor said quickly, for he had never been noted for his powers of persuasion; his impatience and lack of tact inevitably irked those he was trying to convince. She agreed that Archbishop Gautier must be won over, but she had a more eloquent advocate in mind than Geoff.
“IT IS TRULY PROVIDENTIAL that you should be in Rouen now, when Richard’s sister has such need of you, my lord archbishop.”
Hubert Walter nodded gravely, while silently saluting her for that adroit “Richard’s sister.” Not that he needed reminding of all he owed Richard, but he did not blame her for using every weapon at her disposal on her daughter’s behalf. “This grieves me more than I can say, Madame. I hold your daughter in high esteem.” And while that was the response demanded by courtesy, it was also true; he’d become quite fond of Richard’s spirited sister during their time in the Holy Land.
“If I may speak candidly, my lord Hubert, my daughter needs more than your grief. She desperately needs your help.”
“And she shall have it,” he said, so readily that she closed her eyes for a moment, blessing Richard for making this man Canterbury’s archbishop. “I do not see how the Church would be threatened by granting a woman’s deathbed wish, one that does honor to the Almighty and the sisters of Fontevrault. But some of my brethren embrace canon law the way soldiers embrace whores—with great enthusiasm. We will need a cogent, compelling argument to overcome Archbishop Gautier’s qualms.”
Eleanor had one. “Tell them,” she said, “that Joanna’s desire to take holy vows is the result of a vision. The Blessed Mother Mary came to her in a dream and told her what she must do. She is but seeking to honor that divine command.”
Hubert nodded again and then he smiled faintly. “Yes, that ought to do it.”
AS ELEANOR ENTERED THE stairwell leading up to Joanna’s bedchamber, she came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the couple cloaked in shadows. For a moment, she felt rage spark through her exhaustion, anger that one of Joanna’s ladies would have arranged a tryst as her mistress lay dying. But then she realized that Morgan was holding Mariam as she wept against his shoulder and she was suddenly very frightened, fearing she was too late.
They’d turned at the sound of her footsteps. Although it was too dark to see her face clearly, they sensed her distress and Morgan said quickly, “No, Madame, no. Your daughter still lives.”
Mariam moved out of Morgan’s embrace. “It was the letters,” she said in a choked voice. “You know about them, Madame? She dictated one to her husband and one to Queen Berengaria. Today she wanted to write two more . . . to her son and daughter, for when they are old enough to read them, to understand. . . .” She fought back a sob. “I thought of her children never knowing their mother, not knowing how much she loved them, and I . . . I could not bear it.” And there was so much emotion in her voice that Eleanor knew she, too, had lost her mother at a young age.
Eleanor reached out, letting her hand rest for a moment upon Mariam’s arm. “Come with me,” she said. “I have news for my daughter, and you both will want to hear it, too.”
JOANNA DRIFTED IN AND out of sleep more and more as her days dwindled. Sometimes her dreams offered respite. She rode through the streets of Toulouse at Raimond’s side, chased after Raimondet when he fled, giggling, from his bath, stood again on that ship’s deck as Messina came into view and she saw the fleet in the harbor, saw her brother’s red-and-gold banners flying from every mast. At other times, her dreams brought only terror, offering her a foretaste of what awaited her after death—lakes of flame, rivers of boiling blood, visions of fire and brimstone made familiar by the priests who preached incessantly of the horrors of Hell, in which suffering was eternal and there was neither hope nor mercy, for there was no God.
Her latest dream had been kinder, wafting her back to her own childhood, to Poitiers and Sicily. She was still glad to awaken, though, when she opened her eyes and saw Eleanor leaning over the bed. She knew she clung to a precipice and only her mother could keep her from falling into the abyss. “Maman . . . ?”
“The council has met, Joanna. They have agreed to disregard canon law and permit you to take vows as a sister of Fontevrault.”