that you are not madly in love. So that means you want an heir straightaway. That is certainly reasonable, for Johnny’s past record does not inspire great confidence. But Berengaria cannot conceive unless you do your part, Richard.”
“What happens between my wife and me does not concern you, Joanna.”
“Oh, yes, it does! You were the one who asked me to accompany her, Richard, remember? I did as you bade, have gotten to know her well in these past weeks. She has shown courage in the face of very real dangers and great hardships, and never once has she complained. Even now I daresay she is taking upon herself the blame for your bad manners—”
“That is enough.” Even though he kept his voice low, his words resonated with fury. “I’ve heard you out, but I have no more time for nonsense like this. Stop meddling, Joanna. Do you understand?”
They glared at each other and then she dropped down in a deep, mocking curtsy. “Yes, my lord king, I understand. Have I your leave to withdraw?” He gestured impatiently; waving her away, she thought, as he would brush aside a pesky fly. Raising her chin, she stalked out of the tent without a backward glance.
Her women were gone, but some of her household knights had remained to escort her safely back to her own pavilion. Morgan had stayed behind, too, although after a quick glance at her face, he made no attempt at conversation and they walked on in silence.
Joanna was still furious. It was so unfair. Why did men have so much control and women so little when it came to carnal matters? For all the Church’s preaching about the marriage debt, it was a joke, not a claim wives could make, as Berengaria had learned tonight. With each passing month, people would measure her waist with their eyes, and they’d soon be bandying around the one word that every queen dreaded to hear—barren. Joanna knew her mother had been slurred by that accusation for most of her marriage to the French king, even though Eleanor herself had pointed out that she could hardly cultivate soil without seed. Joanna knew, too, that many of her Sicilian subjects had blamed her for failing to give William another son and heir. She’d sometimes wondered what she was supposed to do—hire men to waylay him as he headed for his harim? At least Berengaria was spared that humiliation. She was being neglected for a war, not for seductive Saracen slave girls.
Joanna stopped so abruptly that Morgan bumped into her, causing her to stumble. He quickly apologized, but she never heard him. Dear God. Was this about William, not Richard? Yes, he’d been churlish to Berengaria, had hurt her, unwittingly or not. But did his rudeness justify such rage? As soon as she asked the question, she knew the answer. She had overreacted, her anger fueled by memories of a young girl’s humiliation years ago, bewildered and resentful and compelled to bury that anger so deep that it only surfaced after William’s death.
Morgan was puzzled by her immobility, the distant, inward look in her eyes. Wisely he said nothing, waiting to see what she would do. So did the other knights. Joanna had forgotten their presence entirely. Turning on her heel, she headed back toward her brother’s pavilion. She was relieved to find Richard was still alone, although surprised that he’d not summoned his men back after her departure. He was leaning against the cushions, his eyes closed, and for the first time she realized how exhausted he looked, which exacerbated her sense of remorse. With all he had to deal with, he’d not needed to deal with her ghosts, too.
“Richard,” she said, and his eyes snapped open, his mouth drawn into a taut line at the sight of her. Before he could order her away, she said quickly, “I come in peace. I still think you were in the wrong. But the greater wrong was mine. I was indeed meddling, just as you charged, and I am very sorry.”
She was half expecting him to resume berating her, for she’d given him good reason to be vexed with her. Or else he would react with feigned disbelief, joking that this humble, meek female could not possibly be his willful, sharp-tongued sister. To her dismay, he merely nodded, accepting her apology with an indifferent twitch of his shoulders. She did not want to have to confide in him, to tell him about William’s Saracen slave girls.