Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,329

plausible. It was ludicrous to think that the man who’d ridden out alone to challenge the entire Saracen line to combat would of a sudden be so concerned for his own safety. She’d reluctantly concluded that a pilgrimage to Jerusalem was simply not that important to him, and her resentment began to fester, for in denying himself that privilege, he was denying her, too. She was Richard’s queen; how could she go without him?

But she had been given a glimpse into his heart earlier that evening, and she was now sure it was not lack of interest. “Richard?” When he turned toward her, she shifted so she could look into his eyes. “I need to talk with you. It is important.”

He propped himself up on his elbow. “Why do women always want to have these talks when a man is half asleep?” he grumbled, but she saw the smile hovering in the corner of his mouth. “All right, little dove. You have my full attention.”

“Why did you not go to Jerusalem?”

He was quiet for so long that she was not sure he was going to answer. “I did not deserve to go, Berenguela. I had not earned that right. When I took the cross, I pledged to free the Holy City from the Saracens, and in that, I failed.”

Her throat tightened, for beneath her tranquil surface, her emotions were surging at flood tide. Guilt that she’d so misjudged him. Pride that he would not accept from the infidels what he could not get through God’s Grace. Frustration that he confided so little in her, that after sixteen months of wedlock, they were still strangers sharing a bed, that the only intimacy he seemed able to offer was carnal. Unspoken anger that he’d kept her away from Jaffa when he could have been dying. Fear that was with her every moment of every day, the dread that she would become a widow ere she could truly become a wife. She’d been telling herself for months that their life would be different once they returned to his domains, that their real marriage would begin then. But she’d been badly shaken to learn he’d been so desperately ill and had chosen to keep her in ignorance. It had raised doubts she was unwilling to confront, even to acknowledge.

“I think the Almighty will honor your sacrifice,” she said softly, and he leaned over, brushing his lips against her cheek. But she lay awake long after he fell asleep, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes as she wept silently for Richard, for herself, and for the Holy City that neither of them would get to see.

SEPTEMBER 29 WAS THE DAY chosen for the departure of Richard’s wife, sister, and most of the fleet, which Richard had placed under André’s command. Once they reached Sicily, the women would continue their journey overland to avoid the winter storms. André and Leicester would then sail on to Marseille, the same route Richard planned to take once he was able to leave Acre. Berengaria and Joanna had bidden farewell to Isabella at the palace, for her pregnancy was so far advanced that even the short trip to the harbor was beyond her. Escorted by Richard and Henri, they arrived at the wharfs to find a large crowd had assembled to see them off. The women were glad to be going home, although they were uneasy about the long sea voyage ahead of them, none more so than Joanna. She was putting up a brave front, but it was belied by her pallor and the brittle edge to her laughter. Richard was watching his sister with troubled eyes, and as soon as she moved away, he leaned over to murmur in Berengaria’s ear. “Irlanda is no sailor, suffers more grievously from seasickness than anyone I’ve ever known. I’m relying upon you to take care of her, little dove.”

“I will do my best,” she promised, tilting her head so she could look up into his face. She knew why he was not sailing with them; he’d explained that he had important debts still to settle. But she wished so very much that he was not remaining behind. Like his soldiers, she felt safer in his company, and she knew Joanna did, too. And it would be months before they’d be reunited, months in which she could do naught but worry about him. Their departure was dangerously close to the end of the sailing season; it would be even more