Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,161

He explained now that he also wanted to oversee Isaac’s departure for the Syrian castle at Margat, where he’d be turned over to the Knights Hospitaller for safe-keeping.

As they walked, Richard told them about Isaac’s surprisingly touching reunion with Anna and that the erstwhile emperor had not even raised the question of ransom, asking only that he not be placed in iron chains or fetters. This caused protests from the local people, Richard said, for they’d wanted him to suffer the punishment that would have been meted out in Constantinople—blinding or maiming. “So I ordered chains to be made for Isaac of solid silver.”

“You are jesting . . . no?” Berengaria asked uncertainly. But Joanna laughed, assuring her new sister-in-law that he was quite serious, saying the men in her family could teach the Devil a trick or two about slyness. Berengaria was not sure she approved of this; it seemed somewhat guileful to her. She kept her opinion to herself, though, for she did not think it was a wife’s place to meddle in such matters.

“Ah, here we are,” Richard said, and they saw he’d led them to an enclosure next to the archbishop’s stables. As they approached, the stallion came over to the fence, curious but wary. Both women exclaimed admiringly, for he was a beautiful animal, high-shouldered, with a long neck and broad chest, a coat that gleamed like pale gold.

Richard was beaming. “This is Fauvel,” he said proudly.

JOANNA HAD TRIED to hide her anxiety with jests, joking that Richard had not come to see them off, that he really wanted to make sure Fauvel had enough esparto grass for bedding and secure ringbolts for his underbelly sling. But as soon as their buss hoisted its sails and left the harbor behind, she’d gone ashen and hastily retreated to their tent, followed by most of the other women.

Berengaria remained on deck, committing to memory her last view of Richard, waving from the dock. She told herself she was being foolish, that they’d soon be reunited at Acre. But she was beginning to realize that her husband was as elusive as quicksilver, his eyes always on the horizon, inhabiting a world she would find difficult to share. None of the usual rules of marriage seemed to apply to Richard. How many royal wives had to live like camp followers? What sort of home life could they establish for themselves in the midst of a holy war?

“Ah, Papa,” she whispered, “did you truly think this through?” But watching the sea change color as they headed into deep water, she knew she had no regrets. At least not yet. Becoming aware then that she was no longer alone, she turned and was surprised to find her companion was the girl they were calling the Damsel of Cyprus, Anna Comnena. She smiled to let Anna know her company was welcome, for she had enormous sympathy for the girl. How could a flower uprooted so rudely flourish in foreign soil?

Anna seemed to want to ask a question. Her French was very tentative, strongly accented, and Berengaria was not sure she understood. “My . . . my husband?” she asked, and Anna smiled and nodded. She soon frowned, though, fumbling in vain for the phrase she wanted. She repeated “mari,” pointing toward Berengaria, back toward Famagusta, and then placed her hand upon her own heart. Her frustration was obvious when Berengaria still did not understand. She did the pantomime again, and then gave a lilting, triumphant laugh, saying “aimer,” so pleased she’d remembered the right word that she did not even notice the older woman’s recoil.

Berengaria was so nonplused because she’d never expected to be asked this question. A marriage was a legal union, recognized by the Church and the Crown as a means of begetting children and transferring property in an orderly fashion from one generation to the next. Love was not a component of marriage, especially royal marriages. It was true there had been love in her parents’ marriage, but that had been an unexpected blessing, a mutual devotion that had developed over time. She had harbored no such expectations once she’d agreed to wed Richard, would have been content if they could forge a bond of respect and consideration and possibly affection. But with this innocent question, Anna had forced her to look into her heart.

“So you, too, are bedazzled by Richard, child,” she said, with a rueful smile. “He does seem to have that effect upon people. . .