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