Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 17

MAY 1191

Limassol, Cyprus





Berengaria was astonished by how much Joanna had been able to accomplish in so little time.She’d had the inspired idea to seek the assistance of the wives of the Italian merchants, who were delighted by the prospect of a royal wedding and eagerly volunteered the services of their cooks and household servants. After their shipboard ordeal, the women took particular pleasure in appropriating the Cypriot emperor’s personal effects. Isaac’s reputation for luxurious living was borne out by the contents of coffers and cupboards: finely woven linen tablecloths, gold and silver plate, gem-encrusted cups, ivory salt cellars, Venetian glassware, a silk baldequin canopy, silver-gilt candlesticks, and costly, exotic spices, all of which would be put to good use. It had been decided that the wedding ceremony and coronation would be held in the chapel of St George, and the guests would then return to Isaac’s palace for the revelries. The floor of the great hall was now covered with fragrant rushes, and scarlet flowers were everywhere, garlanding the doors and windows, floating in the ewers of scented water that would be provided for guests to wash their hands between courses.

Berengaria had no false pride, well aware that her experience in Navarre could not compare to Joanna’s, for the lavish hospitality of the Sicilian court had been famed far beyond its borders. She was thankful, therefore, that the other woman had taken over the wedding preparations. She was touched, too, that Joanna took care to consult her on every decision. There would be three courses, each with five dishes; did Berengaria think that would be adequate? One of the Venetian cooks suggested a risotto of rice and chicken baked in pomegranate juice; did Berengaria agree? Did she want a Lombard stew of pork, onions, wine, and spices? What about a fruit pottage with strawberries and cherries? Berengaria gratefully approved the bountiful menu: oysters, roast venison, sturgeon eggs which Isaac had imported from the Black Sea, haunches of the native sheep called agrinon, egg custard, blancmange, fried eels, and salmon in jelly. She also approved Joanna’s selection of wines from Isaac’s buttery: an Italian vernage, a wine named after the city of Tyre, sweet wines from Greece, local red wines, and the costly spiced wine known as hippocras.

When she fretted, though, that Joanna might be undertaking too much in light of her recent illness, the Sicilian queen brushed her qualms aside, saying staunchly, “I am not going to let my sister-by-marriage be wed in a cursory manner. Now . . . how does this sound to you? In addition to our own minstrels, we will have harpists and other musicians who can play the rebec and the lute. Also tumblers and a man who can juggle torches—or so he says. I suppose we can have pails of water on hand, just in case. And one of the Genoese merchants will provide a trumpeter to introduce the courses.”

Glancing around, then, to make sure the other women were not within hearing, Joanna lowered her voice. “How are you bearing up? Are you nervous? Most brides are,” she said quickly, lest Berengaria take the question as an implied criticism.

“Yes . . . a little. But not as much as I expected to be,” Berengaria confided. She was about to thank Joanna again, this time for her counseling about the marriage bed, when they were informed that André de Chauvigny had just arrived.

“Have you noticed how often André has been stopping by?” Joanna asked as they made their way toward the great hall. “He’s been paying court to Hélène, who told him forthrightly that he is very charming and very married. Apparently he is also very stubborn.”

But as soon as they reached the hall, they discovered that Joanna’s cousin had more on his mind than a casual dalliance. “Three sails were sighted on the horizon,” André reported even before greetings had been exchanged. “As these galleys were coming from the east, we thought they might be bringing word of the siege of Acre. The king, bless him, was not willing to wait patiently on shore, and went out to meet them in a small boat. He was soon back, sending me to tell you there will be highborn guests for dinner—Guy de Lusignan, his brother Joffroi, Humphrey de Toron, whose wife was stolen so shamefully by Conrad of Montferrat, the Prince of Antioch, the Count of Tripoli, and the brother of the Prince of Armenia.”

Joanna stared at him, and then looked at Berengaria, the same dismayed thought in both their minds: As if they did not have enough to do, with the wedding scheduled for the morrow! “The de Lusignans,” Joanna said wearily, “have always had a deplorable sense of timing.”



GUY DE LUSIGNAN was quite handsome, tall and well formed, with curly brown hair and hazel eyes, clean-shaven in the fashion of Outremer. And he was young to have gained and lost a kingdom and a queen, not that much older than Richard. He was very attentive to Joanna and Berengaria, flirtatious and lavish with the practiced charm that had served him so well in the past. Neither woman liked him at all.

They both felt some sympathy for Humphrey de Toron, Queen Isabella’s discarded husband. He, too, was very handsome, but without Guy’s swagger, his dark eyes filled with intelligence and sadness, a poet in a land that venerated soldiers. They felt even more sympathy for his young wife, though, pulled from his gentle embrace and thrust against her will into the arms of Conrad of Montferrat, a man as unlike Humphrey as a sword blade was unlike a lute. How alone and abandoned she must have felt, a young girl of eighteen confronted with Conrad’s iron will, with an ally in her own mother. But Humphrey had failed her, too. A husband unwilling or unable to fight for his wife was not a husband either of them would want. The world was too dangerous a place to depend upon the protection of poets.

After the meal was done, the conversation turned to politics. Richard was infuriated to learn that Philippe had arbitrarily recognized Conrad as King of Jerusalem, and he agreed to aid Guy in reclaiming the crown, giving the destitute king without a kingdom the sum of two thousand silver marks, for Guy had expended the last of his resources upon the siege of Acre. Watching as Guy, his brother, Humphrey, and one hundred sixty of their knights knelt and did homage to Richard, Joanna was grimly amused by the irony inherent in that dramatic scene, for the de Lusignans had long been a burr under the Angevin saddle.

Berengaria was shocked by Joanna’s sotto voce account of de Lusignan sins; not only had they rebelled repeatedly against Richard’s father and against Richard himself when he was Count of Poitou, they’d even dared to ambush Queen Eleanor, who’d been saved from capture by the courage of the young Will Marshal. By an absurd twist of fate, Joanna revealed, it was his family’s perfidy that had gotten Guy a crown. His older brother Amaury had fled to the Holy Land to evade the king’s wrath, and eventually summoned Guy to join him. The de Lusignans were as surprised as everyone else when Guy snared the Leper King’s sister. Lowering her voice even further, Joanna said, “When his brother Joffroi learned of Guy’s good fortune, he is said to have commented, ‘If they’d make Guy a king, they’d have made me a god.’ Joffroi later joined his brothers when Richard forced him to take the cross after one rebellion too many, and he and Amaury won respect for their military skills. But Guy was the feckless little brother, not taken seriously by anyone until Sybilla took him as her husband.”

Joanna smiled. “The lords of Outremer would not recognize her as queen after her brother’s death unless she first divorced Guy. But as soon as she was crowned, she announced that she had the right to pick her own consort and put the crown herself upon Guy’s handsome head. She was clever, was Sybilla. A poor judge of men, though, for Guy’s flawed leadership would result in the disaster at Ḥaṭṭīn. Richard says that was one of the most inept and inexcusable military blunders since the dawn of time. He gets angry every time he talks about it. He grudgingly gives Guy credit for courage, but says he has not the sense God gave a goat!”

“Then how can he be so friendly to Guy?” Berengaria said, looking across the hall where Richard was engaged in amiable conversation with the de Lusignans.

Joanna blinked in surprise. “Because he is a king, dearest. Because the de Lusignans, whatever their manifest failings, are still his vassals and he owes them his protection.” Honesty then compelling her to add, “And because Philippe has chosen to back Conrad.”

To Berengaria, Outremer was beginning to sound more and more like a labyrinth. Once Richard got in, could he ever get out? She did not understand how Christians could feud so fiercely with their fellow Christians whilst the Saracens laid claim to the Holy City. No one’s motives seemed utterly pure or untainted by political considerations. Even Richard was influenced by his rivalry with the French king, and she feared that Philippe saw Richard as the enemy, not Saladin. But then she banished these disquieting thoughts, determined not to let forebodings cast a shadow over the most important day of her life. On the morrow she would become Richard’s wife, would be crowned as his queen. Nothing mattered more than that.



FROM THE TWELFTH-CENTURY chronicle Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi: “On the following day, a Sunday, on the Feast of St Pancras, King Richard and Berengaria, daughter of the King of Navarre, were married at Limassol. The young woman was very wise and of good character. She was there crowned queen. The Archbishop of Bordeaux was present at the ceremony, as was the Bishop of Evreux, and the Bishop of Bayonne, and many other magnates and nobles. The king was merry and full of delight, pleasant and agreeable to everyone.”



RICHARD COULD NOT even remember the last time he’d bedded a virgin, for he’d long ago concluded that coy or skittish maidens were more trouble than they were worth. He’d always taken a very matter-of-fact, pragmatic approach to his body’s needs. When he was tired, he slept. When he was hungry, he ate. And when he felt lustful, he looked around for a bedmate, with convenience and proximity being important considerations. He was amused when his friends became besotted with concubines or light o’ loves, knowing it would not last; fevers of the flesh never did. A flame fed by lust was bound to burn out once the craving was satisfied, and for that, one woman would usually do as well as another. Although he enjoyed writing courtly poetry, he had no great interest in the workings of the female brain, for women were too often lacking in logic or backbone, either overly headstrong or weak-willed and timid. Like Sybilla, who’d well nigh doomed her kingdom because she’d wanted Guy de Lusignan in her bed. Or her sister Isabella, who’d let herself be bullied into marrying Conrad.

Thankfully, the women in his own family were not like most of their sex. His mother could think like a man, and rule better than most kings. And his sisters had been blessed with courage and common sense, especially Joanna, Marie, and Tilda, may God assoil her sweet soul. He had hopes for her daughter, too, as Richenza did not seem prone to feminine whims or foolishness. And so far, what he’d seen of Berenguela was encouraging. She might look as fragile and unsubstantial as a feather floating on the wind, but she’d showed fortitude and bravery when faced with hardships and outright danger.

Nor was she a casual bedmate, to be forgotten come dawn. She was his queen, his wife, and he owed it to her to make her first time as easy as he could. Moreover, he liked the lass, he truly did. So he’d limited his wine during the evening, wanting to be clear-headed, for he was not accustomed to pacing himself, to hold back when his every urge was to plunge ahead. He’d also told his squires to sleep elsewhere that night, in deference to his bride’s modesty, and had done what he could to keep the bedside revelries brief, knowing this would be her first exposure to bawdy male humor. So by the time he slid into bed beside her, he was feeling rather proud of himself for being more sensitive to her needs than most men would have been.

He’d occasionally heard stories of brides who’d gone to the marriage bed as if to a sacrificial altar, so convinced they were committing a mortal sin that they were trembling with fear or rigid with disgust. He had no such concerns about Berenguela, though, and she justified his faith by smiling shyly when he drew her into his arms. Reminding himself of her inexperience, he kept his kisses gentle at first, murmuring endearments and reassurances in lenga romana as his caresses grew more intimate. She did not reciprocate, but she did not protest as he explored her body. Her breath quickening, she closed her eyes, letting him do what he wanted, and he decided that bedding a virgin was not so burdensome after all.

Despite his good intentions, he realized that he’d risk spilling his seed too soon if he waited much longer, and reached for a pillow, sliding it under her hips before he mounted her. “I will try not to hurt you, Berenguela,” he promised, parting her thighs. Her arms were tightly wrapped around his neck, and he barely heard her response, soft as a breath against his ear. “I know the first time will hurt,” she whispered. “But . . . but will it fit?” He gave a sputter of surprised laughter, delighted by her unexpected spark of humor, and then stopped listening to his brain, let his body take control. She stiffened at his first thrust, but she did not cry out, not until after he’d found satisfaction and collapsed on top of her.

“Richard, I cannot breathe,” she gasped, sounding panicky, and he supported himself on his elbows until he was ready to withdraw, joking that she was too delicate a filly to bear a rider’s full weight. Her eyes were tightly shut, but he could see tears trickling through her lashes. Had it been that painful for her, then? He had no experience in comforting tearful bedmates, and no interest in acquiring any. But this was his wife, and she had the right to expect soothing words, an affectionate embrace. Shifting onto his side, he reached over to stroke her wet cheek. It was then that he saw all the blood. “Christ Jesus!”

Her eyes flew open. “What? Did I . . . did I do something wrong, Richard?”

“Good God, woman, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig!” He started to swing his legs over the side of the bed, trying to decide if a doctor or a midwife should be summoned. Better a midwife, since they were accustomed to dealing with female ailments.

Before he could rise, though, she reached out and caught his arm. “I think this is natural, Richard,” she said, sounding remarkably calm to him for a woman who might well be bleeding to death. “Because I knew so little about carnal matters, I spoke to Joanna beforehand. She said that the first time is different for each woman. It can be quite painful or hardly hurt at all, and bleeding can be very meager or a flood. Yes, it hurt when my maidenhead was breached, but no more than it was supposed to, I’m sure. Otherwise, I’d still be bleeding and I am not.”

Richard exhaled an audible, uneven breath, so great was his relief. “For a moment, I was afraid I’d ruptured you,” he admitted. “You are such a little bit of a lass. . . .”

He still looked dubious as he glanced down at the blood-soaked sheet, and she said quickly, “I would rather I bled a lot than not at all. At least now I have provided you with indisputable proof that I came to my marriage bed a maiden.”

Richard was beginning to see the humor in it, that she should be the one reassuring him. “I harbored no misgivings whatsoever about your virtue,” he said, hiding a smile as he attempted to match her serious tone. “Even had you not bled a drop, I would never have doubted you.”

“Thank you,” she said, sounding as if he’d paid her a great compliment.

“You’re very welcome.” Getting to his feet, he stood by the bed, frowning at what he saw. The women had done their best to transform the chamber into a bridal bower. It was aglow with white wax candles. The floor rushes were fresh and fragrant with the sweet scent of myrtle, its bright green leaves and delicate white flowers scattered about with a lavish hand. Cinnamon and cloves had been burned to perfume the air. A gleaming gold wine flagon and two crystal cups had been set upon a linen-draped table, next to a platter of wafers, figs, and candied orange peels. There was even a silver bowl filled with ripe pomegranates and hazelnuts, both of which were thought to be aphrodisiacs; Richard saw his sister’s fine hand in that playful touch. But they’d forgotten to set out one of a bedchamber’s basic needs; there was no washing basin or any towels.

When he finally came back to the bed, he was carrying the wine flagon, a napkin, and a richly embroidered silk mantle that he’d found in one of the coffers. Setting them down, he slipped his arms under Berengaria’s shoulders and knees and picked her up before she’d realized what he meant to do. “Hold on to me,” he directed, and when she did, he shifted her weight to one arm and with his free hand spread the mantle over the wet, stained sheet. “I hope this is Isaac’s favorite cloak,” he said, and deposited her back onto the bed while she was still marveling that he’d been able to lift her with such obvious ease. “This is the best I can do,” he explained, pouring wine onto the napkin. “I suppose we can consider it a baptism of sorts.”

She blushed when he began to wipe the blood from her thighs, but when he joined her in bed, she slid over until their bodies touched. It was only then that he realized how tired he was and he laughed softly; who knew that deflowering virgins was such hard work? When she gave him an inquiring look, he kissed her on the forehead. “Sleep well, little dove.”

“You, too, my lord husband,” she whispered. He was soon asleep, but she lay awake beside him, watching the candles twinkle in the shadows like indoor stars as she thought about their love-making. It had hurt more than she’d expected and she’d derived no pleasure from it. The intimacy of the act would take getting used to; she’d been shocked when he’d touched her in places she’d never even touched herself. And what he’d taken as a jest had been a genuine concern, for she’d never seen a naked man until tonight. But she was very grateful that he’d tried to be gentle with her, and she would never forget that this man who’d seen so much blood had been so dismayed at the sight of hers. Richard had placed her crown on the table, joking that she could wear it to bed if she wished. She could see it now, catching the candlelight in a glimmer of gold and silver. But it was her wedding band that held her gaze. She was Richard’s queen. Tonight, though, it mattered more that she was his wife.



TWO DAYS LATER, Richard met the Cypriot emperor in a fig orchard between the sea and the Limassol road. Determined to awe Isaac with the power of the English Crown, Richard was mounted on a white Spanish stallion as handsome and spirited as Isaac’s Fauvel, the cantle of his saddle decorated with snarling golden lions, his spurs and sword hilt gilded with gold, his scabbard indented with silver. He wore a tunic of rose samite, a mantle woven with silver half-moons and shining suns, and a scarlet cap embroidered in gold thread. A large crowd had gathered to witness the remarkable spectacle: Richard’s knights and men, the Italian merchants, and local people daring their emperor’s wrath for the rare pleasure of seeing him publicly humiliated. Richard’s appearance created quite a stir, dazzling the citizens and causing much amusement among his soldiers, who’d so often seen him soaked in blood, sweat, and mud. By the time the Cypriot emperor arrived, he was already at a disadvantage, just as Richard had hoped.

At a distance, he was very regal, astride Fauvel, his saddle and trappings just as gaudy as Richard’s. His purple silk mantle was studded with precious gems, and his long, fair hair was graced by a golden crown. The English were surprised by his youth, for he appeared to be about Richard’s age, in his early thirties. At closer range he was not quite so impressive, for he was sharp-featured, with darting pale eyes and a thin slash of a mouth unfamiliar with smiles. Richard’s knights had long ago learned how deceptive appearances could be, for sometimes the most ignoble souls were camouflaged by attractive exteriors. Staring at the Cypriot emperor, they exchanged knowing glances, agreeing that this was one pirate ship not flying false colors; Isaac Dukos Comnenus looked to be exactly what he was, a man doomed to burn for aye in Hell everlasting.

Garnier de Nablus, the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller of Jerusalem, had brokered the peace conference and he acted now as intermediary, making use of one of his Cypriot Hospitallers to translate French into Greek. They met in the center of the field, Richard’s Spanish destrier and the fiery Fauvel eyeing each other with as much suspicion as their riders. The spectators nudged one another and grinned, agreeing that it was fortunate the English king and the Cypriot emperor were both skilled horsemen or else their stallions might have taken it upon themselves to end this parley here and now.

Richard was willing to follow the protocol for such surrenders, but not to waste much time doing it. So while he greeted Isaac with cold courtesy, he soon laid out his terms for peace. When they were translated for Isaac’s benefit, the Greek speakers in the audience gasped, murmuring among themselves that this would be too bitter a brew for Isaac to swallow. Richard demanded that Isaac swear fealty to him, that he take the cross and accompany the English to the Holy Land, provide one hundred knights, five hundred horsemen, and five hundred foot soldiers for the service of God and the Holy City, and pay thirty-five hundred marks in compensation for the injuries inflicted upon Richard’s men. As a pledge of his good faith, he would be required to surrender all of his castles to the English king and to offer his only daughter and heir as a hostage. There was great astonishment, therefore, among those who knew Isaac when he indicated to Garnier de Nablus that he was willing to accept Richard’s terms.

Once agreement had been reached, Richard and Isaac dismounted, and after the emperor had sworn an oath of fealty, they exchanged the ritual kiss of peace. As a gesture of goodwill, Richard then offered to return Isaac’s tent and the silver plate plundered from it at the battle of Kolossi. Isaac at once ordered it set up in the open field, announcing he preferred to camp there rather than to enter Limassol, where there might not be adequate accommodations for his men. Since Richard had appropriated his palace and the fortress of St George, no objections were raised. Richard gave orders for wine and food to be sent out to the emperor’s encampment, and they agreed to meet on the morrow to arrange for the transfer of Isaac’s castles to castellans of Richard’s choosing, and to make plans for their joint departure for Acre. The conference ended with an exchange of courtesies that was impeccably correct and utterly unconvincing.

As they rode back toward Limassol, Jaufre spurred his horse to catch up with Richard and André. Richard seemed in good spirits, talking about the arrival that morning of the remainder of his galleys from Rhodes. He said nothing, though, about the peace he’d just concluded with the Cypriot emperor, not until Jaufre expressed his concern. “My liege, those are harsh terms you imposed upon him.”

“Yes, they are,” Richard agreed, tracking with his eyes the graceful flight of a hawk, soaring on the wind high above their heads.

“I think it was wise to demand sureties for his good faith. But will even that be enough? His entire history is one of deceit and betrayal. Do you truly expect him to honor the pact?”

Richard shrugged. “That is up to him. The choice is his.”

“I find it suspicious that he would agree so readily,” Jaufre confessed, but then he caught the look of amusement that passed between Richard and André and he understood. Reassured, he said no more and they rode on in silence.



AS RICHARD CROSSED the chamber, Berengaria watched him through her lashes. Few big men could move with such easy grace. She knew he was called Lionheart in tribute to his reckless courage, but she thought the name fit in more ways than one, for he was as quick as a cat, too, a very large, tawny cat. It was a revelation to her, this realization that the male body could be beautiful.

He handed her the wine cup before getting back into bed, saying, “How many women have a king at their beck and call?” She smiled, taking several swallows of Isaac’s sweet white wine. But when she passed it back, he didn’t drink himself. Settling against the pillows, he regarded her with an expression she could not read. “If you are still sore, Berenguela, I am sure the other women could advise you about herbs or ointments that would help the healing.”

So he’d noticed! She’d not expected that. She took another sip of wine to cover her confusion. “It is still new to me,” she admitted. “This is just our third night together. Based on my experience so far, I am sure I will not begrudge paying the marriage debt.” She gave him a smile, then, that belied the formal, stilted phrasing of her words. “But there is something we need to talk about, Richard. I am just not sure how to begin. . . .”

He reached over and took the wine cup, setting it down in the rushes. “Say it straight out. That saves a lot of time.”

He made it sound so easy. She sighed. “Very well. I would never want to offend or insult you, Richard, truly I would not. But your . . . your male member is so large that—” She got no further, for her husband was roaring with laughter. This was not the response she’d expected and she stared at him in bewilderment.

“I am not laughing at you, little dove,” he said, once he’d gotten his breath back. “But your innocence is downright endearing at times!” Leaning over, he gave her a quick kiss. “Trust me on this. There is not a man born of woman who’d ever take it as an insult to be told that his ‘male member’ was too large.”

She did not understand his hilarity, but then she was often puzzled by male humor. And despite his denial, she did think he was laughing at her. His amusement was far preferable, though, to the other reactions she’d imagined. She’d been unable to approach Joanna, for this was too intimate a topic to discuss with his sister. And so she’d nerved herself to confide in Mariam, greatly relieved to be told there was a simple solution to her problem. But as awkward as that conversation had been, this one with Richard was even worse. There was no going back now, though.

“It is the moment of entry that is painful,” she said, startling herself by her own bluntness. “After that, it does not hurt much at all. I am indeed an ‘innocent,’ as you’ve often reminded me, so I sought advice from someone more knowledgeable about such matters, one of Joanna’s ladies. She said there would be no discomfort if we used a scented oil first. . . .”

She paused, hoping there was no need to be more explicit. But his expression was quizzical, expectant. “Yes?” he prompted. “A scented oil. And then what?”

She blushed, acutely embarrassed. She was bracing herself to blurt it out when she noticed that the corner of his mouth was curving, ever so slightly. Suddenly suspicious, she sat up in bed, heedless of her nudity. “You know what I am talking about,” she accused. “You are just teasing me!”

That set him off again. But he sought to get his laughter under control once he saw that she was genuinely upset. “You are right,” he confessed. “I was teasing you. I am sorry, Berenguela. I have always teased my sisters—they’d say ‘tormented’—and I forget that you are not as accustomed to Angevin humor.”

He sounded contrite, but she was not entirely mollified. “You must remember, Richard,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster, “that I am still learning to be a wife, and Pamplona is a far different world than Poitiers.”

“You are right,” he said again, “absolutely right. I cannot promise to mend my wicked ways overnight, but I will try, Berenguela.”

There was still a teasing undertone to his apology, but she did not mind as much now, for he’d drawn her into his arms. She cradled her head against his chest, listening to the lulling beat of his heart against her ear. “So,” he said, “ask your confidante for some of that oil and we will try it tomorrow night.” When she smiled and nodded, he slid his fingers under her chin and tilted her face up to his. “Of course, if I am going to be basted with oil like a Michaelmas goose, it is only fair that my wife be the one to do the basting.”

As he expected, color surged into her face again, even giving her throat a rosecolored glow. But she surprised him by bravely agreeing that it was indeed only fair. Taking pity on her, he said, “We’ll see, little dove. You are just learning to . . . cook, after all.”

He retrieved the wine cup from the floor and they took turns drinking from it. When he yawned, she knew she’d have to make a decision soon. Joanna had warned her that it was not a good idea to have a serious conversation after love-making, for men usually wanted to roll over and go to sleep. But the only time she seemed to have Richard’s undivided attention was in bed. When he shifted his position, she knew it was now or never, for she’d observed that he liked to sleep on his side. “Richard . . . I need to talk to you.”

He propped himself up on his elbow, and she drew the sheet against her breasts, nervously twisting her wedding ring as she tried to think of a way to ease into it. Not finding any, she took his earlier advice to say it straight out. “Joanna told me that you have a young son.”

“Did she, now?” Richard’s voice was even, giving nothing away. But she was learning to read the subtle signs behind that guarded court mask, and she knew he was not pleased.

“Please do not be angry with her, Richard. She only told me because she did not want me to hear it through gossip. She did not see it as breaking a confidence since so many others know about him.”

Richard had to grudgingly concede the truth in that. “Yes,” he said, “I have a son. Philip is ten, and lives in Poitiers.”

“Does he live with his mother?”

“No. I assumed responsibility for him when he was very young.”

From the terseness of his answers, she knew that he was not happy having this conversation. If the boy was ten now, that would mean he’d been conceived when Richard was young himself, only about twenty-two or so. She thought it was to his credit that he’d acknowledged Philip as his, for she knew not all men of high birth bothered about the consequences of their carnal exploits. She was very proud of her brother Sancho for taking his own bastard sons under his care and making sure they wanted for nothing.

“Is there a reason why you are asking about the lad, Berenguela?”

“Yes, there is. I thought that when we return from Outremer, you might want him to live with us. I wanted to assure you that I would do all in my power to make him most welcome.”

“Indeed?” He did not try to hide his surprise. “You are not troubled that he was born out of wedlock?”

“Why would I blame him for a sin that was yours, Richard? That would be unjust.”

He did not consider it a sin at all, but he saw no point in arguing that with her. “By the time we get back, Philip will be old enough to begin his training as a squire, so he’d not be living in our household. But I will want him to visit, of course, and it gladdens me that you would welcome him, Berenguela.”

“My father is a man of deep faith, and he often spoke to us about the power of Divine Mercy, pointing out that if the Almighty is willing to forgive us our trespasses, how can mortal man do less? He is a great admirer of St Augustine, and one of his favorite quotations is ‘Cum dilectione hominum et odio vitiorum.’ I do not know Latin but I’ve heard him quote it so often that it took root in my memory. He said it meant ‘Love the sinner and hate the sin.’”

Like all of Henry and Eleanor’s sons, Richard had been well grounded in Latin. “The actual translation is ‘With love for mankind and hatred of sins,’ but I’d say that is close enough.” His own favorite quotation from St Augustine was a prayer to “Give me chastity and continence, but do not give it yet.” He suspected, though, that his wife would not find it as amusing as he did. Leaning over again, he gave her a lingering kiss before saying, “This has been a most interesting evening, little dove. But I am supposed to meet again with Isaac in the morn and if I do not get some sleep, I’ll be in no shape to fend off his excuses and lies. Whilst he claimed today that he was willing to accept my terms, I’ll not be surprised if he tries to weasel out of the more onerous ones.”

She thought that was a tactful way to let her know he was done talking for the night. The rhythm of his breathing soon told her that he slept. She was still wide awake, but she did not mind, for she had much to think about. She knew she’d pleased him tonight. That last kiss had been somehow different; in the past they’d either been casual or demanding and passionate. But this one had been tender. Their bed hangings were drawn back as he’d agreed to let his squires sleep elsewhere for a few more days, and the chamber was silvered with moonlight, for they’d left a window open to the mild May air. After such a frightening introduction to Cyprus, she’d never have expected to feel any affection for the island, but she was collecting memories that she’d cherish till the end of her earthly days.

Watching Richard as he slept, she remembered the uncertainty of her journey to Sicily, wondering what manner of man he was, wondering if he would prove kind. She thought she could answer that now; no, he was not. That was as it ought to be, though, for kindness would avail him naught in his battle to save the Holy Land. Yet he was kind to her, at least so far, and she felt grateful to see a side of his nature that no one else did. Her feelings about marrying Richard had been more ambivalent than she’d been willing to admit, even to herself. Refusal was out of the question, for she’d known how much her father and brother had wanted this alliance. Marriage to the King of England was a great honor for Navarre, some of Richard’s luster sure to spill over onto her father’s court. It was an honor for her, too, that he’d chosen her when he could have had any woman he wanted as his queen.

But she’d realized that her life would never be the same, that she would be surrendering to forces utterly beyond her control, and there had been times when she’d feared the unknown future awaiting her, times when she’d felt as if she’d been swept up in an Angevin riptide, carried far from all that was familiar and safe. She’d been determined to do her duty as queen, wife, and mother, determined not to disappoint Richard or shame her father. So far nothing had turned out as she’d expected, though. She’d not envisioned a friend like Joanna or an enemy like Isaac Comnenus. And nothing had prepared her for Richard Coeur de Lion.

Her long hair had caught under her hip and she tugged to free it, wishing she could put it in a night plait. But Richard liked it loose, had wrapped it around his throat during their love-making. In the morning she would ask Mariam for the scented oil. Mariam had hinted that there were other erotic uses for it, and she decided that she would ask about them, too. Innocence was an admirable attribute for a virgin maid, not so much for a wedded wife. She drifted off to sleep with a smile, wondering if she would dream of Michaelmas geese.



BERENGARIA JERKED UPRIGHT, torn from sleep so abruptly that she felt disoriented. It was not yet dawn, for the sky visible from the window still glimmered with a scattering of stars. Someone was pounding on the door and she could hear raised voices. Richard was already out of bed, sliding his sword from its scabbard. Striding to the door, he apparently heard enough to be satisfied there was no imminent danger, for he lifted the latch. Clutching the sheet modestly to her throat, Berengaria waited anxiously as he exchanged a few words with someone on the other side of the door, her imagination taking flight as she tried to guess what was wrong.

“Tell them I’ll be there straightaway,” Richard directed his unseen audience. “And send my squires in to help me arm myself.” Closing the door, he moved to a coffer and began to select clothes at random. “Isaac seems to have had a change of heart,” he said as he pulled his braies up over his hips. “He fled his camp in the middle of the night, leaving all of his belongings behind.”

“That wicked, deceitful man!” Berengaria was highly indignant, but alarmed, too. She’d thought that Isaac was part of their past, and suddenly here he was again, posing a new danger to Richard, threatening to disrupt their departure for Outremer. “Surely the Almighty will punish him as he deserves for this latest treachery!”

“From your lips to God’s ear, little dove,” Richard said, pulling a shirt over his head. “Have you seen my boots?”

“Over there, under the table.” Berengaria sat up, watching him in growing puzzlement. He did not seem surprised by Isaac’s flight. He did not even sound angry. “Were you expecting him to do this, Richard?”

“Well, I had hopes,” he said, sitting down to attach his chausses to his braies.

“But it was hard to believe that even Isaac could be so foolhardy. Of course,” he said with a sudden grin, “he may have been tempted by the ease of it. Had he been lodged in Limassol midst my men, it would have been more difficult to sneak away in the night like that.”

By now she was thoroughly confused. “I do not understand. You want to fight him? Why?”

“It is quite simple, Berenguela. With favorable winds, a ship can sail from the port at Famagusta to the Syrian coast in just a day.” He could see that she still did not comprehend, and said with rare patience, “It is not enough to retake Acre or even Jerusalem. Then we have to hold them in a land where we are vastly outnumbered, and we cannot do that unless we can keep the kingdom supplied with food, weapons, and soldiers. That means relying upon other Christian countries for such aid. As soon as I looked at a map, I saw that Cyprus would make an ideal supply base for the Holy Land. It would be an invaluable ally—if it were not ruled by a renegade, a man suspected of conniving with Saladin.”

She was staring at him. “Are you saying you planned to take Cyprus?”

“Well, the thought did cross my mind. How could it not? Its strategic importance was obvious to any man with eyes to see. And the more I heard about Isaac—a man so hated that he’d not be likely to have the support of the Cypriots—the more convinced I became that Cyprus would benefit as much as Outremer if he were deposed. Whilst I did not sail from Messina with the intent of taking Cyprus from him, I did mean to seize the opportunity if one presented itself.”

Berengaria was dumbfounded. “Is that why you chose Cyprus as a rendezvous point for the fleet? And why you asked Tancred for a Greek interpreter?”

“No to your first question, yes to your second. Cyprus was the logical choice, indeed the only choice, for there were no other islands beyond Rhodes. Of course I did not expect the fleet to be scattered and for certes I did not expect your ship to reach Limassol on its own.”

“But . . . but why did you agree to make peace with Isaac, then?”

“Because it seemed like I might get what I wanted without having to fight for it. He agreed to swear fealty to me and pledged his full support to recapture Jerusalem. If he honored the terms, we’d have gotten a thousand men, the promise of Cypriot harvests, and money I could put toward the cost of the campaign. Naturally, I trusted him about as much as I’d trust a viper, so I demanded his daughter as a hostage and the surrender of his castles. If he’d kept faith, I’d have been satisfied with that.”

“Did you think he would keep faith?”

He smiled without answering and went to the door to admit his squires. Jehan and Saer were so excited they could barely contain themselves, seeming so young and eager to Berengaria that she felt a pang. “I’ll wait to arm myself until after I meet with my commanders,” Richard decided, but when the boys objected, protesting that Isaac might well seek to win by treachery what he could not win on the field, he agreed to wear his hauberk. Berengaria had not even considered the dangers of a hidden crossbowman and she reached for the coverlets, pulling them up around her shoulders to combat a sudden chill.

His squires had assisted Richard with his hauberk and he was buckling his scabbard. She was still trying to come to terms with this new knowledge, that Richard had been two steps ahead of the Cypriot emperor from the very first. If Isaac were not such a monster, she might have felt a twinge of pity for him. But she did not doubt he deserved whatever Richard had in mind for him, and now that it had been explained to her, she could see that holding Cyprus would be very beneficial to the Holy Land. Yet how could Richard spare the time to defeat Isaac when they were awaiting him at the siege of Acre?

Coming back to the bed, Richard leaned over and kissed her. “Keep that oil handy,” he said. “I’ll send your women in so you can dress.”

“What of the men at Acre, Richard? Will they not be upset by this delay?”

“It will not take that long.”

“How long would it take to conquer an entire country?” She’d not realized she’d spoken the words aloud, not until Richard paused on his way to the door.

“Well,” he said, “I wagered André that we could do it in a fortnight.” And then he was gone, leaving her alone in their marriage bed, a bride of four days, staring at that closing door.