Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,42

surprised that the question even needed to be asked. “Richard is all that Philippe is not,” he said candidly. “He overshadows most men without even trying. But kings do not expect to be overshadowed and take it rather badly. Philippe does not seem to me like one given to self-doubts. I think it grievously wounds his pride, though, that he will always be the moon to Richard’s sun. And now they are going off together to the Holy Land, where he must look forward to being eclipsed by Richard at every opportunity, knowing he cannot hope to compete with Richard’s battlefield heroics.” John flashed a sudden, sardonic smile. “I could almost pity poor Philippe, if only he did not have a stone where his heart ought to be.”

“I suspect there is much truth in what you say,” Eleanor said thoughtfully, although she could not help wondering if John could discern Philippe’s envy so easily because he shared it. But when she smiled, John decided that if this had indeed been a test, he’d passed it.

Just then there was a stir at the end of the hall and Henri of Champagne and his men entered. Eleanor was instantly alert, for Henri would not have ridden back after dark unless he’d found out something of importance. Richard had the same thought, for he was already moving to intercept the young count.

Henri offered a graceful obeisance. “My liege, Madame. I bring sad news from Dreux. Queen Isabelle died in childbed yesterday in Paris, after giving birth to stillborn twin sons.”

His revelation was met with an unnatural silence. For an uneasy moment, every woman of childbearing age found herself identifying with the young French queen, and every husband was reminded how dangerous childbirth could be. People began to make the sign of the cross, to murmur conventional expressions of piety and sympathy for the bereaved French king; some of them even meant it. A pall had settled over the hall, for Isabelle’s death was an unwelcome proof of their own mortality, of the Church’s insistent teachings that flesh was corrupt, the body but an empty husk for the soul, and death came for them all, even the highborn.

Richard joined Eleanor and John on the dais, and after a few moments, so did Richenza. Seeing how pale she was, Eleanor rose and slipped her arm around the girl’s slender waist. “That is so sad,” Richenza said, “so very sad. . . .”

“Yes, it is,” Eleanor agreed. “But you must not take Isabelle’s tragic death too much to heart, Richenza. There are some women who are more suited for the cloisters than the marriage bed, and Isabelle was one of them. Within five years, she had at least five pregnancies, only one of which produced a live baby, and Louis is said to be a sickly little lad. Another son died within hours, and she suffered several miscarriages, too. Most women do not have such difficulty in the birthing chamber. I had ten healthy children myself, after all. We have no reason to think that your pregnancy will not be as easy as mine were.”

Richard looked from his mother to his niece. “Are you with child, lass?”

Richenza blushed and nodded, marveling that her grandmother had somehow divined her secret, for she’d told no one but her husband so far. She found herself enfolded then in her uncle Richard’s arms as he offered her his hearty congratulations. John kissed her, too, and their pleasure helped to dispel the chill cast by the French queen’s death. Henri was waiting patiently to speak with Richard, but the king detoured to slap Richenza’s husband jovially on the back before joining his nephew. Richenza then hastened over to explain to Jaufre how the king knew of her pregnancy, for they’d agreed to keep it private until she’d passed the risky first months.

Glancing at her youngest son, Eleanor found herself thinking that she’d not been entirely honest with Richenza, for John’s birth had been a very difficult and dangerous one. He’d come early, on a snowy December night, soon after she’d confirmed Henry’s affair with Rosamund Clifford, a girl young enough to have been her daughter, and the bitter circumstances of his birth had kept her from bonding with him as she had with her other children. Years later, this would come to be one of her greatest regrets, but by then it was too late. Looking pensively at John now, she wondered if she’d been wrong about that. The mistakes she