did. He knew what they feared and were murmuring among themselves: What would happen to their kingdom if Isabella’s child was stillborn and she did not survive? It was a realistic fear, for the birthing chamber could be as dangerous for a woman as the battlefield was for a man. And although Henri had wed their queen, he was not an anointed king, for he’d not yet been crowned. Isabella had not, either, but she had a bloodright to the throne; Henri did not.
Richard found that their anxiety was contagious, and after a cursory supper that went largely uneaten, he slipped out of the hall. Twilight had yielded to night and the air was cool against his skin. The waning moon had not yet risen but the courtyard was bathed in starlight. He sat down upon a marble bench, frustrated by his lingering fatigue; when would he feel like himself again? Not wanting to think of Isabella’s ongoing ordeal, nor of his fleet, now at the mercy of the unforgiving Greek Sea, he welcomed a diversion, the appearance of one of Jacques d’Avesnes’s Flemish hounds. Joanna had taken her cirnecos with her; Jacques’s big dogs had been spared the sea voyage when Isabella and Henri offered to adopt them. Richard fondled the hound’s drooping ears, but the dog’s presence was stirring hurtful memories of Jacques and all the men who’d died in Christ’s Name, gallant ghosts hovering in the shadows, reminding him how many would not be coming home.
He raised his head at the sound of footsteps. Henri was coming toward him, holding a lantern. He did not need it, though, for his smile alone could have illuminated the entire courtyard. “Isabella is resting,” he said, “after giving birth to a beautiful baby girl.”
Richard’s relief momentarily rendered him speechless. “I am so glad, Henri, so glad for you both!”
“I wanted you to be the first to know, but as soon as the others in the hall saw my face, there was no need of words.” Henri set the lantern down on the bench, but he was too wrought up to sit. “We’re going to name her Maria after both our mothers. I always thought newborn babies were red and wrinkled and bald. Yet Maria looks like a little flower, with a feathery cap of dark hair like Isabella’s.”
“Our time in the Holy Land has been very different from what we expected it to be. But surely the greatest surprise is that you’ve become a father,” Richard said, smiling, and Henri laughed aloud.
“If any soothsayer had predicted that in Outremer, I’d wed a widowed, pregnant queen, I’d have thought him madder than a woodhound!” Henri laughed again, before saying, “I have a confession, Uncle. I’d been praying that Isabella would give birth to a daughter, not a son.”
“You ought not to feel guilty about that, Henri, for it is only natural that you’d want to see a son of your own as king one day.”
“I think I could have loved Conrad’s son, for I’d be the only father he’d ever know. But what if I were wrong, if I came to resent him for taking precedence over my blood sons? It just seemed so much easier—and safer—if only she’d have a girl. Of course I did not let Isabella know I had these doubts.” Henri perched on the end of the bench, still so energized that he seemed like a golden hawk about to take flight at any moment. “But when the midwives finally let me in to see her, she confided that she’d been praying for a daughter, too!”
Richard decided that his cousin Isabella was either deeply in love with his nephew or a very clever young woman; either way, he thought their chances for a good marriage were excellent. “As you say, lad, easier and safer. And I’ll wager that by the time I come back to Outremer, you’ll have a son of your own to show me.”
“ ‘Come back’? You mean that, Uncle?”
“Of course I do.” Richard was surprised by Henri’s surprise. “I did not fulfill my vow to retake Jerusalem. Nor did we make peace. We agreed to a truce that will last for only three years and eight months. Did you truly think I’d leave you on your own to fend off the Saracens when war resumes?”
Henri was overwhelmed. “You have no idea how much that means to me! I thought that when you sailed for home, our farewell would be final. You believe Jerusalem could