Lionheart (43 page)

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
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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.