Lionheart (44 page)

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.”