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