Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 7

JUNE 1190

Chinon, Touraine





The Count of Perche’s son had escorted his young wife to Chinon Castle so that she might spend time with her grandmother and bid her uncle farewell before Richard departed for the Holy Land. Jaufre and Richenza reached Chinon in midmonth. Three days later, Richard arrived with a large entourage of barons, knights, and bishops, after a successful mission into his southern domains to punish the Lord of Chis, a lawless vassal who’d been robbing pilgrims on their way to the Spanish shrine at Santiago de Compostela.

The next morning Jaufre found the English king holding informal court in the great hall. The men seemed in high spirits, their laughter wafting toward him even as he crossed the threshold. Richard was engaging in a good-natured argument with a young man who looked vaguely familiar to Jaufre; as he drew closer, he recognized the king’s Welsh cousin, Morgan ap Ranulf. Edging inconspicuously into the circle of men, he murmured a discreet query to another of Richard’s cousins, the Poitevin lord, André de Chauvigny. Morgan was boasting of the prowess of Welsh archers, André replied, sounding as skeptical as Richard looked.

“So you are saying that the arrows penetrated an oaken door that was four fingers thick?” Richard shook his head, grinning. “Why do I doubt that, Morgan?”

“Because you’re not Welsh,” Morgan shot back cheekily. “If you doubt me, my liege, you need only consult some of your Marcher barons. Ask the Lord of Brecon, William de Braose, to tell you what happened to one of his knights in a skirmish with the Welsh. He was struck with an arrow that pierced his hauberk and thigh, pinning him to his saddle. And when he swung his stallion around, a second arrow impaled him on the other leg!”

That evoked another wave of incredulous laughter. “And the reason why Welsh arrows have such magical power? Are they blessed by Merlin?”

Morgan took the teasing in stride. “No, my lord king. Welsh archers have no need for Merlin’s blessings as long as they are shooting Welsh bows, which are more deadly than crossbows, God’s Truth.”

“And why is that, Cousin?” Richard asked, no longer joking, for few subjects interested him more than weaponry. “The crossbows are baneful enough for the Pope to ban their use against all but infidels. What makes your Welsh bows so dangerous?”

“Welsh bows are nigh on a foot longer than the bows known in England or France.”

Some of the other men continued to joke about the “magical Welsh bows.” Richard was not one of them. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “that makes sense. The greater the length of the stave, the greater the force of the bow. So they have more power than the crossbows. What other advantages, Morgan?”

“An archer can shoot four or five arrows in the time that it will take a crossbowman to reset his weapon to shoot again. But they do have one great disadvantage, my lord. It does not take much skill to learn to shoot a crossbow, nor does it take much strength. That is not so for the Welsh bow, which needs much time and effort to master it.”

“A pity,” Richard said, for he had neither the time to hire some of those elite Welsh archers nor to teach other men their lethal skill. He’d have to make do with his contingent of crossbowmen. His gaze happened to alight then upon Jaufre of Perche. “I hope you’ve brought my niece with you?” Getting a confirmation, he welcomed the younger man with an easy smile. “So . . . are you planning to sail with us to the Holy Land?”

Jaufre hesitated, wishing he could do so. It ought to have been acceptable, for Richard was his uncle by marriage, after all. He knew better, though, knew that the French king would have seen it as an act of disloyalty, and while Richard was his kinsman by marriage, Philippe was his liege lord. “King Philippe requested that I accompany him, my lord,” he said, relieved when Richard did not seem offended. He’d leaped at the chance to wed the English monarch’s niece and blessed his luck from the moment he first laid eyes upon his bride-to-be, but he’d not anticipated how challenging it would be to keep both kings contented. Eager to change the subject, he said quickly, “What happened with the Lord of Chis? I’d wager he soon repented his crimes, no?”

“I daresay he did,” Richard agreed, “up until the moment when I hanged him.”

Jaufre blinked, not sure if the English king were jesting or not, for lords were rarely if ever held to the same standard of justice as those of lesser birth. But as he met Richard’s eyes, he saw that Richenza’s uncle was serious—dead serious—and he wondered if Saladin knew the mettle of the foe he’d soon be facing. He wondered, too, if Philippe knew.



THERE WERE FEW DAYS more perfect than a summer afternoon in the Loire Valley, and after their noontime dinner, Richard had chosen to savor its pleasures out in the castle gardens. He’d ordered chairs to be fetched for Eleanor, Richenza, and the Countess of Aumale, but he and Jaufre made themselves comfortable on the grassy mead, tossing a wineskin back and forth. The women were more decorous and sipped from silver-gilt wine cups, so ornate that Richard joked he ought to sell them, for when it came to financing his campaign, every denier counted. He had been surprised to find the Countess of Aumale in his mother’s household, but he bore her no grudge now that Hawisa had yielded to his will and wed William de Forz, and to show that bygones were bygones, he favored her with a smile, saying, “I have some good news for you, my lady. I am naming your husband as one of my fleet commanders.”

“An honor, indeed,” Hawisa said, for such a response was expected of a wife, even one who fervently hoped that her new husband would never return from the Holy Land. She was too shrewd to continue fighting a battle already lost, though, and shared such heretical thoughts with no one. “My liege . . . I recently received a troubling letter from my steward at Skipton-in-Craven, regarding the unrest in Yorkshire since the slaughter of the Jews in the city of York. Men are concerned that violence will break out again once you have left for Outremer. Can you assure me that measures have been taken to keep the King’s Peace?”

Her bluntness raised a royal eyebrow, but did not kindle the royal temper, for Richard was in a good mood now that the time for his crusade was finally nigh. Reminding himself that this irksome female was also a great landholder and she therefore had a legitimate concern, he said, “You may rest easy, my lady countess. As soon as I got word of the York massacre, I dispatched my chancellor to England to restore order and punish the guilty. Bishop Longchamp led an armed force to York, where he discovered that the culprits had fled into Scotland. He took strong measures, though, to make sure such an outrage will never happen again in my domains, dismissing the Yorkshire sheriff and the castellan, imposing heavy fines, and taking one hundred hostages from the city.”

“I am gladdened to hear that, my lord.” Hawisa still feared for England’s peace in Richard’s absence, but she knew better than to raise these doubts with the king. She could only hope that Longchamp’s swift action would put the fear of God into Yorkshire’s lawless and masterless men.

Jaufre glanced uneasily toward his wife, for he knew she’d not heard of the York massacre and he preferred to keep it that way, believing that a pregnant woman needed to be sheltered from strong emotions. Moreover, he did not trust Richard to give Richenza a suitably censored account of the York atrocity, for no son of Eleanor of Aquitaine could fully understand the fragility of the female sex. And as he feared, Richenza was quick to ask, “What happened in York, Uncle? Was the Jewry attacked?”

“That was the least of it, lass.” Richard sat up, scowling. “There are times when I think most men have less brains than God gave to sheep. I thought we’d quenched the fires after the London rioting, but apparently some embers still smoldered.”

“When was there rioting in London?”

“On my coronation day. You did not hear of that?”

“On your coronation day,” Richenza reminded him with a smile, “Jaufre and I were being married in Rouen.”

“Ah, yes, so you were.” Richard returned her smile, but it soon faded as he called up memories of the ugly incident that had marred what should have been a sacred event, the day when he’d been consecrated with the holy chrism, crowned as England’s king and God’s Anointed. “In the past when campaigns were proclaimed against the Saracens, they often stirred up hatred against the Jews, the ‘infidels in our midst,’ as I’ve heard them called. I’d hoped to avoid any such outbursts by forbidding Jews to attend my coronation. But two affluent Jews, Benedict and Josce of York made the journey anyway. They came bearing gifts in hopes of winning royal favor. Instead they unwittingly caused a riot. A crowd had gathered outside the palace gates, and some of them fell upon the Jews, began to beat and curse them. Josce was able to escape, but Benedict was grievously wounded and then terrorized into accepting baptism. The mob was now drunk with blood lust and they surged back into London, where they attacked any Jews they found, killing at least thirty, and setting the Jewry afire.”

Richenza was frowning. “It is shameful when men commit murder in God’s Name. Scriptures say plainly that Jews are not to be killed, ordering us to ‘Slay them not,’ for it is ordained that they will one day come to salvation through Our Lord Christ and bring about the Second Coming. Were you able to punish the guilty ones, Uncle?”

“We arrested some, hanged three, but it is almost impossible to identify members of a mob. The Archbishop of Canterbury and I interviewed the Jew Benedict, who recanted his conversion. The archbishop was wroth with him for that, unable to understand why he’d rather be ‘the Devil’s man instead of God’s,’ but a baptism done at knifepoint surely cannot please the Almighty. My main concern was making sure this did not happen elsewhere, and I sent writs throughout the realm, commanding my subjects to leave the Jews in peace. And indeed they did . . . as long as I remained in England. But after I crossed over to Normandy in December, trouble was not long in breaking out again.”

“Was that when the York Jews were attacked?”

“No, it began in East Anglia, at Lynn and Norwich, and then spread like the pox to Stamford, St Edmundsbury, and Lincoln. Men who’d taken the cross were eager to fight infidels, and the Jews were closer at hand than the Saracens. Drunken mobs were soon pillaging the Jewish quarters in those towns, forcing the Jews to take refuge in the royal castles.”

The echoes of anger in Richard’s voice did not surprise his audience, for the rioters had dared to disobey his royal writ and to threaten the King’s Peace. No king could tolerate such lawless defiance, especially one about to depart on crusade. “Eventually, the madness reached York.” By now Richard was on his feet, heedlessly trampling daisies underfoot as he paced. “But there it was different. At York, the mob was urged on by men of rank, men who owed money to the Jews. First they set a fire to distract the Watch, then broke into Benedict’s house, killed his family, and stripped it bare. Most of the city’s Jews fled to the royal castle for safety, but the mob continued to roam the streets. They attacked the house of the other moneylender, Josce, beat any Jews they found, and forced them to accept baptism. York had become a place without law, a city in my realm!” Richard’s voice cracked like a whip, sending several nesting birds fluttering from trees up into the sky.

By now Jaufre was squirming, unable to think of a way to spare his wife a ghastly story sure to trouble her soft heart, for he knew most women hated to hear of the deaths of children, even if they were infidels. Unaware of his husband’s discomfort, Richenza was regarding Richard with a puzzled expression. “But if the York Jews took shelter in the castle, why were they not safe from the mob?”

“Because the castellan left the castle and whilst he was gone, the fools panicked and decided they could not trust him. So when he returned, they overpowered the garrison and refused to let him back in.”

Jaufre was trying to catch the other man’s eye in hopes of sending a mute message, but Richard never noticed. “That was the first mistake. The second was made by the idiot castellan, who then panicked in his turn and summoned the sheriff of the shire. He was the one who made the third, fatal mistake, deciding to assault the castle and drive the Jews out.” Richard paused, using an extremely vivid obscenity to describe the sheriff, but since he habitually swore in lenga romana, only Eleanor understood. “The drunken louts happily joined in, of course, and by the time the sheriff realized how grievously he’d erred and tried to call the attack off, it was too late. By then the mob was utterly in control, spurred on by a demented hermit who’d convinced them they were doing God’s Work. The Jews managed to defend themselves for two days, but when siege engines were brought out, they realized they were doomed.”

Richard paused again, reliving the rage he’d felt upon hearing of the massacre in York. “Rather than be butchered by the mob, the Jews chose to die by their own hands. Husbands slit the throats of their wives and children, Josce being the first to slay his family. The men were then slain by Josce and their rabbi, what they call their priests. I’ve been told nigh on a hundred and fifty Jews took refuge in the castle, and most of them chose to die. By morning—the eve of Palm Sunday, it was, too—there were only a score or so still alive.”

Richenza was staring at him in horror. “God in Heaven,” she whispered, as Jaufre got hastily to his feet and crossed to her side. She ignored his attempt at consolation, keeping her eyes upon her uncle, almost as if she sensed the worst was still to come. “What happened to those Jews?”

“The survivors appealed for mercy, offering to accept Christian baptism, and they were promised that their lives would be spared. But when they emerged from the castle with their families, the mob seized them and murdered them all.”

Richenza shuddered, instinctively bringing her hands up as if to shelter her unborn baby from such a world. “Even the children, Uncle Richard?”

“Yes, lass, even the children.” To Richard, this was the cruelest twist of all, that the mob had treacherously slain people seeking God’s Grace. He’d been taught that the Almighty held His Breath over every Jew, waiting to see if he would choose Christ as his Saviour. He understood that the surviving Jews most likely sought baptism out of fear, but what if their ordeal had awakened them to the Divine Truth? Not only had they been shamefully betrayed, they’d been denied salvation.

“What happened next revealed the real reason for the rioting,” he said. And now his anger was that of a king, not a man of faith. “The leaders of the mob forced their way into York Minster, where the Jews had kept their debt bonds. They terrified the monks into giving up the bonds, and then burned them right there in the nave of the church.”

Richard had begun to pace again. In destroying the bonds, the rioters had struck a blow at the Crown itself, for the debts of Jews were also the debts of the king. The Jews were an important source of royal revenue and they were under royal protection. So this had been an act of political defiance as well as an outrage against the Church and the laws of the realm. And justice would not be done. The citizens of York had sworn that they’d played no part in the assault on the castle, blaming strangers and soldiers who’d taken the cross, and the few men identified—those who’d burned the bonds—had long since fled the city by the time Longchamp arrived. His action in punishing the sheriff and castellan would strike fear into others of rank, men unaccustomed to being held to account for their sins or their blunders. Their fall from favor ought to be enough to prevent another York. But Richard could take little satisfaction from that. When men defied the Crown, they deserved to hang.

“The stupidity of men never fails to amaze me,” he said. “How does killing defenseless Jews aid in the rescue of the Holy City? Only in Winchester did reason prevail. Some fools accused the local Jews of ritual murder when a Christian child died, a charge dismissed by the royal justices as being without merit. A pity they could not have shown such sense in the other towns.”

“The poor and the uneducated are most likely to believe such tales,” Eleanor observed, reaching out to squeeze her granddaughter’s hand. “They think the Jews practice the Black Arts, fear what they do not understand. Fortunately, men of rank are not as susceptible to such superstitions, nor are the princes of the Church. You all know I was no friend to the sainted Bernard of Clairvaux,” she said with a thin smile, remembering the abbot’s oft-quoted declaration that the Angevins came from the Devil and to the Devil they would go. “But when a Cistercian monk began preaching that German Jews must be slain ere war could be made upon the Saracens, Bernard hastened to Germany and single-handedly kept violence from breaking out.”

Richard demurred at that, saying, “Not all men of rank are so rational, though. The French king once told me about a Christian child supposedly killed by the Jews in Pontoise. Even though this took place ere Philippe was born, he harbored no doubts whatsoever that the boy had been sacrificed in some vile Jewish ritual. When I reminded Philippe that his lord father had never believed such tales, he bristled like a hedgehog, claiming that Louis had been easily led astray, and then babbled some nonsense about the Jews meeting secretly in caves beneath Paris to sacrifice Christian children. Philippe Capet,” he said, in a voice dripping with scorn, “may be the greatest fool ever to sit on the French throne, and considering that they once had a king known as Charles the Simple, that is saying quite a lot.”

Jaufre now found himself in an extremely awkward position, not wanting to offend his wife’s uncle, but feeling obligated to defend his liege lord. “King Philippe is not the only one to give credence to those accusations against the Jews. I was just a lad when it happened, but I remember my father telling me that the Count of Blois once executed a number of Jews for killing a Christian child.”

“When was this?” Richard demanded, and when Jaufre said he thought it had occured nigh on twenty years ago, he gave a dismissive shrug. “I was only about thirteen then, know nothing of this.”

“But I do,” Eleanor interjected. “I remember the incident well, and the guilt lay with Count Thibault, not the unhappy Jews. Thibault is the uncle of your cousin Henri of Champagne,” she added for Richenza’s sake, knowing the girl was not yet familiar with the bloodlines of the French nobility. “I hear he has gone to the Holy Land to expiate his sins, as well he should, for he has the blood of innocents upon his hands.”

“I do not understand, Madame,” Jaufre objected, feeling compelled to continue his half-hearted defense of the French king. “How can the count be responsible for a crime committed by Jews?”

“There was no crime, Jaufre. The charge was particularly outrageous, for there was no body, either, nor even any reports of a missing child. A servingman claimed he saw a Jewish peddler throw a child’s body into the River Loire, and the story grew from there, until it was being said the boy had been crucified. Mind you, there was no evidence whatsoever to back up this charge, but Thibault ordered the arrest of all the Jews in Blois, some forty souls. Thirty-one men and women were burned at the stake, the others imprisoned, and their children forced to undergo baptism.”

Richard spoke for them all when he asked, “Why? From what you’ve just told us, Maman, Thibault could not possibly have believed the story. So why did he do it?”

“For the meanest, most unworthy of reasons, Richard—to quell a scandal. You see, Thibault had been imprudent enough to take a local Jewess as his concubine. He was careless, too, and it eventually became known. When it did, he found himself facing the wrath of the Church, the outrage of his fellow Christians, and the fury of his wife—my daughter Alix, from my marriage to the French king,” she explained in another aside to Richenza. “So when this charge was made, Thibault seized upon it to prove that he was no longer ensorcelled by his Jewess mistress, sacrificing those thirty-one men and women to regain the goodwill of his subjects and to appease the bishops of Blois.”

Richenza had a vivid imagination and could envision all too well the horror the Jews had endured, for surely death by fire was the worst of fates. She shivered and Jaufre slid his arm around her waist, angry with Richard and Eleanor for telling his pregnant wife stories sure to disturb her sleep that night. After a somber silence, Richenza thought to ask about the rest of the Jews, those who’d been imprisoned rather than sent to the stake.

“The other French Jews were horrified at what had befallen their brethren in Blois. They were understandably terrified, too, that the anger against Jews would spread to their cities, and they appealed to the French king. Louis too often showed as much backbone as a hempen rope, but he was always steadfast in his protection of the French Jews, never believing those stories of ritual murder. He at once issued a charter to be published throughout his domains, warning his subjects that the Jews were not to be molested or threatened, and they were not. The Jews also turned to Thibault’s brother, the Count of Champagne, for aid. He had already dismissed a similar accusation against the Jews in Epernay, and like Louis, he took measures to see to their safety. Meanwhile, the Jews sought help from the third brother, the Bishop of Sens, and through his mediation, Thibault agreed to release the imprisoned Jews and to return the children who’d been forcibly baptized. Harry heard that Thibault had extorted a hundred pounds from the Jews for that concession, and I cannot say it would surprise me if so. And no,” Eleanor said, anticipating their next questions, “I do not know the fate of his Jewess once she was freed from prison. Nor do I know how Thibault managed to placate his wife.”

Now it was Eleanor’s turn to fall silent, thinking of Alix, the daughter she’d not seen in nigh on forty years, for once their marriage had ended, Louis had banished her from their daughters’ lives, had done all he could to blacken her memory. At least Harry had not entirely forbidden her to see their children during her long confinement, and she had to admit he had far more reason than Louis for doing so.

Looking back at the woman she’d once been, Louis’s unhappy, bored wife and Harry’s reckless, rebel queen, she sometimes felt as if that younger Eleanor was a stranger, one often in need of the guidance she could now have provided. Why was it that wisdom seemed to come only with age, when it no longer mattered as much? No, that was not so. It did matter, and she was determined that her children should benefit from the lessons she’d learned at such great cost in the course of her long and eventful life. Glancing from Richard to Richenza, she tempered her silent vow with a prudent God willing, for she finally understood that the race was not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but time and chance happened to them all.



JAUFRE HAD SOON CONCOCTED an excuse to take Richenza back to their chamber, treating his wife with the exaggerated care of one handling a rare and exotic flower that could be bruised by a breath. Hawisa watched them wistfully, but then tossed her head, summoning up a brittle smile. “Men are so solicitous, so awestruck over the first child. Alas, Richenza will find that by her third or fourth pregnancy, he’ll be wondering why she must take a full nine months when his favorite greyhound bitch can whelp in two.”

Eleanor laughed. Richard was not as amused, but he held his tongue until Hawisa had tactfully excused herself and moved out of earshot. “Passing strange that she’d make such a jest when her first marriage was barren. Nor do I understand why you seem to like the woman’s company, Maman. She is as strong-willed as any man, with a tongue sharp enough to slice bread.”

“She jests about childbirth, Richard, for the same reason that men use humor to hide their unease ere a battle begins. And yes, I do enjoy her company. She was courageous enough to resist a marriage she did not want, but sensible enough to yield once she saw defeat was inevitable. And in case you’ve not noticed, I have a mind of my own, too.”

He chuckled. “That would be like not noticing the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.”

Eleanor emptied her wine cup, setting it down in the grass at her feet. “If my memory serves, Will Marshal’s elder brother John was the sheriff of Yorkshire. I thought I saw him in your entourage, and that explains it. He came to beg for his post back?”

Richard nodded. “He can grovel from now till Martinmas, for all the good it will do him. Gross incompetence is the least of his sins. Longchamp suspects him of being hand in glove with the instigators of the rioting, although he admits he has not been able to prove it. That is why he acted so swiftly, dismissing Marshal and appointing his brother, Osbert, as sheriff in his stead.”

Eleanor had no problems with the dismissal of John Marshal, who’d shown appallingly poor judgment. But by replacing Marshal with his own brother, Longchamp was playing into his enemies’ hands, giving them a means of impugning his motives. “You told me that the Pope agreed to name Longchamp as a papal legate—”

“‘Agreed’?” Richard interrupted. “He sold the office plain and simple, extorting fifteen hundred marks from me ere he’d even consider it.”

“Be that as it may, Longchamp is now the papal legate, chancellor, justiciar, and Bishop of Ely. You are entrusting great authority to one man, Richard. Do you think that is wise? History shows us that peace is more likely when you have two rivals of equal power. Should the balance tip too far in one direction, war becomes inevitable, as with Athens and Sparta or Rome and Carthage.”

Richard claimed one of the vacant seats. “And who are you nominating to play Sparta to Longchamp’s Athens? Might it be Johnny, by chance?”

“Yes, John did approach me about that vow you demanded of him. He thinks it would be dangerous if you and he both were absent from England for the next few years. And after giving it some thought, I agree with him. His very presence will reassure those barons who are suspicious of Longchamp’s intentions. And Longchamp might well temper his dealings with those same discontented barons if he knows they can turn to your brother with their grievances. As it is, you’ve denied them any outlet for their complaints.”

“There is truth in what you say, Maman. Longchamp would have done better not to thrust his brother into Marshal’s place. But if I overruled him, I’d be subverting his authority when he most needs it. I know he is not without flaws. I can trust him, though, with no misgivings whatsoever. Can I say as much for Johnny?”

“I raised this very question last summer at Winchester. I was somewhat surprised by your lavish generosity to John since you’d shown no favor to the other men who’d abandoned Harry, whilst rewarding men who’d stayed loyal to him. Do you remember what you told me? You said John deserves a chance to show he can be trusted. Has he given you any reason to exile him from England?”

“No,” Richard admitted, “he has not.” Picking up the cup Richenza had left behind, he drained the last of the wine before saying, “Who am I to argue with myself? Or with you, Maman. Tell Johnny I free him from his oath.”

Eleanor smiled, but she was not as confident as she’d have Richard believe, for her youngest was still a mystery to her. She could only hope John would prove her right.

“If I am releasing Johnny, I suppose I’ll have to open the door of Geoff’s cage, too,” Richard said, rolling his eyes. “Actually I’d been giving that some thought, for had he been in York, he might have been able to keep Marshal from panicking. Say what you will about Geoff, he does not lack for courage and would have thought nothing of plunging into the midst of that mob, swinging his crozier like a battle-axe!”

That image amused them both. Eleanor was becoming puzzled, though, that he’d not yet brought up the subject of his bride-to-be. He’d told her last night that while he was in Bayonne, he’d been able to slip across the border for a secret meeting with the King of Navarre, settling the last issues of the marriage contract. Now that they were alone, why was he not sharing with her what had been decided? Surely Sancho could not have been dissatisfied with the generous dower Richard was offering? Berengaria was to receive Gascony and, after Eleanor’s death, lands in Normandy and Anjou as well. So why was Richard suddenly so tight-lipped about the deal he’d struck with Sancho?

At last losing patience, Eleanor said, “So . . . tell me of the meeting with Sancho and his son. I assume he was contented with the dower?”

“Indeed he was. No, there was but one obstacle to overcome. Sancho was unwilling to delay the marriage until my return from the Holy Land. Quite understandable,” Richard said with a sudden grin, “since neither he nor his daughter would benefit if I were inconveniently slain in Outremer. Nor did I want to delay the marriage, either. My wife’s father would make a more reliable ally than the father of my betrothed. And if it is my destiny to die in the Holy Land, I’d rather not entrust my empire to either Johnny or Arthur, so the quicker Berengaria can give me a son, the better.”

Eleanor frowned, for she did not like him to discuss his death so nonchalantly. She already knew the odds were not in his favor for a safe return, did not need to be reminded of that in casual conversation. “But you cannot wed the girl ere you leave or you’ll be leaving without Philippe. So how did you resolve it?”

“We could think of only one way—have Berengaria join me in Sicily and marry me there or, if she arrives during Lent, then once we reach Outremer.”

“And you actually got her father to agree to this?” Eleanor was incredulous. “I know you can be convincing when you put your mind to it, Richard, but with a tongue as agile as that, you could lick honey off thorns!”

“Well, Sancho did impose one condition. To show my good faith and to safeguard his daughter’s honor, I told him that you would travel to Navarre and bring Berengaria to me in Sicily.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Did you now? Richard, you do remember that this will be my sixty-sixth summer on God’s Earth? Most women of that age do not stir from their hearths, but you want me to traverse the Pyrenees and then make a winter crossing of the Alps? Would you like me to make a side trip to Cathay, too?”

Richard could not hide his dismay, for he’d taken his mother’s consent for granted, and if she balked now, the marriage itself might be put at risk. “Maman . . . I ought to have consulted with you first. I just assumed you’d agree, but if you do not want to—” He stopped then, for Eleanor had begun to laugh. Letting out a sigh of relief, he confessed, “Jesu, but you gave me a bad moment there! I thought you truly did not want to go.”

“Not want to go? Do you know me as little as that, Richard? I’ve always loved to travel, have always been eager to see new places and sights, one of the reasons why I found Harry’s confinement so hard to bear. I never expected to visit a Spanish kingdom, nor to see Sicily again. You are offering me a rare gift, a chance to see my son wed and to have one last adventure.”

“I knew I could rely upon you, Maman, be it to bring me a bride or keep England at peace whilst I am gone.” It had been disconcerting to be reminded that she was only four years removed from her biblical three-score and ten, a great age for a woman who’d always seemed ageless to him. It was an unwelcome thought and he was quick to push it away, for midst the turmoil and chaos that had roiled their family life as long as he could remember, his mother had been the one constant, the only island in a turbulent sea. Leaning over, he kissed her exuberantly on both cheeks, calling her his lodestar and his luck.

He would have escorted her back into the castle then, but she chose to remain in the gardens, for the sun had begun its slow slide toward the horizon and the sky had taken on a golden glow. Agreeing to let him send her ladies out to her, Eleanor leaned back in her chair, watching as he strode off. He could no more amble than he could fly, was always rushing from one moment to the next, eager to seize the day. “Just like you, Harry,” she murmured, wondering what he’d have thought of her latest quest.

It would never have occurred to her to tell Richard no. She had sixteen years’ worth of energy stored up. What better way to expend it than to bring her favorite son a wife? It was true that she was facing a journey that would have daunted a woman half her age. But Richard needed her. And it would indeed be an adventure, ending where she most wanted to be—in Sicily, reunited with her daughter. They’d learned by now that a bastard cousin of William de Hauteville had seized the crown, and Heinrich was said to be planning a military response. But they still knew nothing of Joanna, not even her whereabouts. Richard had promised that he would find her, though, and whatever had gone wrong for her, he would make right. If she had been forced into marriage with one of Tancred’s lords, as was too often the case with young widows and heiresses, he would free her from it, he vowed. He sounded so sure of himself that it was easy for Eleanor to believe, too. Only death could defeat his resolve, and Eleanor refused even to acknowledge the possibility that her daughter’s silence could have such a simple and sinister explanation. Richard would restore Joanna to them. He would not fail.