Lionheart (33 page)

He glanced up at the sound of footsteps. Not everyone had left, for the Count of Flanders was several feet away. Sauntering toward the altar, Philip ran his hand admiringly over the reliquary. “It was clever to confront Philippe here. Does this truly contain a sliver of the True Cross?”

“Of course it does. I borrowed it from the Archbishop of Messina.” Richard had been surprised when Philip had indicated his willingness to speak honestly about their meeting at Mantes. Now that the count had proven true to his word, he was grateful. But he was also puzzled by the other man’s motivation, for selfinterest had been the guiding force of Philip’s life, and he did not see how his cousin had benefited from his candor. To the contrary, he’d just made a mortal enemy of the French king.

“I’d be hard put to decide which one of us Philippe hates more at the moment,” he said, and Philip laughed softly.

“If it were a horse race, I’d wager that I win by a nose,” he said, “for he felt the prick of my blade at his throat. But then I unexpectedly showed mercy and he’ll never forgive me for that.”

Richard laughed, too, for he thought that was an astute assessment of the French king’s character. “By not revealing that Philippe was the one who’d told you about the seduction rumors? No, that is something Philippe would not have wanted known. I’ve often wondered about that. Think you that he invented the story out of whole cloth?”

“I’ve thought about that, too. It is true that he feared you’d reconcile again with your father, as you’d done so often in the past, and that would be far less likely if you believed your father had been swiving your betrothed. But I doubt that he was the source of the story, for Philippe is too protective of his own honor. I think he probably heard it from one of his spies, who’d picked it up from any of your father’s legion of enemies. To hear some of them tell it, Harry was like a stag in rut, always on the prowl. I remember a similar accusation made against him some years earlier, that he’d deflowered the daughter of a rebellious baron in Brittany, so it might be the Alys tale had its roots in that charge. Any truth to that Breton story, you think?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Richard said with a shrug. “From what I’ve heard, he preferred knowing bedmates, not skittish virgins.” He thought that showed his father’s common sense, for he’d never understood why so many men prided themselves upon luring coy or chaste women into their beds. Why bother with smiles and songs when it was so much easier and quicker to buy a bedmate with coins?

While Richard had little interest in discussing his father’s carnal conquests, he did want to know why Philip had taken such a risk. “You’re going to pay a price for your honesty, as you well know. Not many men would have dared to defy Philippe like that, for he’s one to nurse a grudge to the end of his earthly days. Yet that does not seem to trouble you.”

“And you want to know why.” Philip leaned back against the altar and was silent for a moment. “Ah, hellfire, Cousin, I’d think the answer would be obvious. I am nigh on fifty and there are mornings when I feel every one of those fifty years, thanks to aging and the joint-evil. I can no longer ride from dawn till dusk without aching bones, find the pleasures of the flesh are losing their allure, and I’ve had to face the fact that I’ll not be siring a son to follow after me. At this point in my life, I do not much care about disappointing Philippe Capet. What matters is not disappointing the Almighty. This is the second time I’ve taken the cross. The first time I had less worthy motives, for I had it in mind to meddle in Outremer’s politics, hoping to see the Leper King’s sisters wed to men of my choosing. As you know, that did not happen. Now I’ve been given another chance, and I mean to make the most of it. Most likely I’ll die in the Holy Land, but to die fighting for Jerusalem is not such a bad fate, is it?”

Richard had never expected to feel such a sense of solidarity with Philip, for they’d been rivals for as long as he could remember. Now he found himself looking at his cousin through new eyes. “No, it is not such a bad fate at all,” he agreed, although he did not share the older man’s fatalism. He was confident that he would return safely from Outremer, for surely it was not God’s Will that he die in a failed quest.

THE COUNT OF FLANDERS gave Philippe another reason to despise him by hammering out an agreement that handed Richard virtually all that he sought, for the French king’s bargaining position had been crippled by the exposure of his double-dealing, the disapproval of his own vassals, and the Church’s rigid code governing sexual relations. Richard was released from his promise to wed Alys in return for a face-saving payment of ten thousand silver marks to Philippe. He was to retain the great stronghold of Gisors and the Vexin; it would revert to the French king only if he died without a male heir. The other lands in dispute were disposed of according to which king held them at the present time. And Alys was to be returned to Philippe’s custody upon the conclusion of the crusade.

ELEANOR AND BERENGARIA reached the ancient seacoast city of Reggio on the twenty-ninth of March, where they were welcomed by its archbishop and installed in the royal castle. Berengaria was anxious now that she could see Messina from the window of her bedchamber, and she had a restless night. As a result, she slept past dawn, and when she was awakened later that morning, she was startled to see a blaze of sunlight filling the room. “Why did you not wake me, Uracca?” she said reproachfully, for she could not remember the last time she’d missed Morrow Mass.

“My lady, you must get up! The English king is here!”

Berengaria sat bolt upright in the bed. “Are you sure? We were not expecting him till late this afternoon!”

“He is with the queen, and they have requested that you join them in the solar.” The girl’s eyes were round. “I see why they call him Coeur de Lion, my lady, for he is as golden as a lion and just as large!”

She continued to burble on, but Berengaria was no longer listening. Fumbling for her bedrobe, she flung the coverlets back. “Fetch my clothes!” Her ladies obeyed, pulling her linen chemise over her head and then helping with her gown, lacing it up with fingers made clumsy by their haste, and then fastening a braided silk belt around her hips. She sat on the bed as they gartered her stockings at the knees, while Uracca undid her night plait and tried to brush out the tangles. When they brought over a polished metal mirror, Berengaria felt a pang of disappointment, for she’d planned to wear her best gown for her first meeting with Richard, not this rather plain one of blue wool. She was debating with herself whether she had time to change into the green silk with the violet sleeves when a knock sounded on the door.

As one of the women hurried over to open it, Berengaria reached for a wimple and veil. “Tell the servant that I will be ready soon, Loretta.” This was not how it was supposed to be, she thought, a flicker of resentment beginning to smolder. But at that moment, Loretta cried out that the queen herself was at the door. Berengaria gasped, forewarned by a sudden premonition. There was no time for the wimple, but she managed to cover her hair decently with a veil before Loretta opened the door and Eleanor entered, with Richard right behind her.

“You must forgive my son’s bad manners, child. If I did not know better, I’d think he had been raised by wolves.”

Eleanor’s reprimand was nullified by her indulgent tone. Later, Berengaria would remember and realize that Richard could do no wrong in his mother’s eyes. Now she had no thoughts for anyone but the man striding toward her. She quickly sank down in a deep curtsy, lowering her gaze modestly, for well-bred young women were expected to be demure and self-effacing in the company of men. But then that rebellious glimmer sparked again, and, as Richard raised her up, she lifted her chin and looked him full in the face.

If he thought her boldness displeasing, as men in her country would have done, he hid it well, for he was smiling. “My mother is right,” he said lightly, “but for once I have an excuse for my bad manners. What man would not be eager to see his bride?” He kissed her fingers with a courtly flourish, and then pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand.

His breath was warm on her skin and Berengaria felt an odd frisson go up her back. He was as handsome as she remembered, but she did not remember being as intensely aware of his physical presence as she was now. How tall he was! She had to tilt her head to look up into his face, and as their eyes met, she found she could not tear her gaze away. His beard was closely trimmed, his teeth even, his lips thin but well shaped, his eyes the color of smoke. But a crescent-shaped scar slanted from one eyebrow into his hairline, and the hand still clasping hers bore another scar, this one zigzagging along his thumb and disappearing into the tight cuff of his sleeve. She wondered how many other battle scars were hidden underneath his tunic, and then blushed hotly, shocked by her own unseemly thoughts.

“I’d forgotten what a little bit of a lass you were,” Richard said, and she gave him a quick sidelong glance. He did not seem disappointed, though, for he was still smiling.

“And I’d forgotten how tall you were,” she said, returning his smile shyly. “Not as tall as my brother, of course, but then no men are . . .” Worrying that she was babbling like Uracca, she let the rest of her sentence trail off. Richard had turned toward his mother, saying that he’d never seen another man as tall as Sancho, and she took advantage of his distraction to take a backward step, for she was finding his close physical proximity to be rather unsettling. It seemed safer to concentrate upon his conversation with his mother instead of her own wayward thoughts, and she glanced toward Eleanor. What she heard was disappointing, for Richard wanted them to leave Reggio as quickly as possible, and she’d hoped to have time to change her gown. But it would never have occurred to her to object, and she murmured her assent when Richard asked if she’d soon be ready to depart.

Eleanor had reassured Richard that little unpacking had been done because of their late arrival in Reggio the night before, and a glance around the chamber confirmed that for him. “Good,” he said. “Why don’t you let the others know we’re leaving, Maman? I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve had a private word with my bride.” He was both amused and annoyed by the reaction of Berengaria’s duennas, for they looked as horrified as if he’d just announced that he planned to drag the girl off to a bawdy house. But he left the matter in his mother’s capable hands, watching with a grin as she ushered the women out.
Like so many clucking hens,
he thought, and turned back to Berengaria as soon as the door closed behind them.

To his surprise, she looked as flustered as her duennas. So it was true that Spanish women were kept almost as sequestered as Saracen wives. Well, the lass would just have to adapt to Angevin ways, for Navarre was part of her past now. “You need to explain to your women, little dove, that I do not always have ravishment in mind when I seek some privacy with you.”

Berengaria blushed again, her lashes fluttering downward as she explained softly that she’d never been alone with a man before, for that would cause a great scandal. “Other than family, of course,” she added and then her breath quickened, for Richard had reached for the long, dangling ends of her silk belt and was playfully pulling her toward him.

“So . . .” he said, and there was a low, intimate tone to his voice now that she found both mesmerizing and disquieting. “Sancho’s little sister is all grown up. . . .” There was no longer space between them, and she could feel the heat of his hands through the thin wool of her gown as he slid them down to her waist. “I am going to take a wild guess and venture that you’ve never been kissed?”

“Not yet,” she whispered, shivering when his fingers moved caressingly along her throat. But she did not protest when he tilted her chin up and then brought his head down, his mouth covering hers. The kisses were gentle at first, awakening sensations that were unfamiliar but not unpleasant. When his arms tightened around her, she followed his lead, dimly aware that this was surely sinful but paying more heed to the messages her body was sending to her brain—that she liked what he was doing to her. When he at last ended the embrace, she felt lightheaded and out of breath, relieved that he meant to take it no further, and understanding for the first time why men and women put their immortal souls at risk for the carnal pleasures of the flesh.