curious, too, to meet the woman who’d been the subject of so much gossip for more than half a century.
ELEANOR’S WELCOME had been lavish enough to please all concerned: a princely feast meant to show her that Pamplona could match the splendors of Poitiers and Paris. The guests had not departed to their lodgings in the bishop’s palace or within the city until long after darkness had descended upon the Arga River valley. But not all were ready for their beds, and Sancho’s eldest son and namesake was walking in the gardens with his sister.
“So . . . what did you think of your future mother-in-law, little one?”
“I found her to be gracious, charming, and rather formidable,” Berengaria said and then paused. “As long as she lives, there will be two Queens of England.”
“For some brides, that would be one queen too many. But not you?” Sancho asked, even though he was sure he already knew the answer.
“She is Richard’s mother. I will be Richard’s wife. I do not see why we must be rivals, much less adversaries. I am sure we can both carve out our own domains, hers in the council chamber and mine in the bedchamber. Besides,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would be foolish, indeed, to begin a war I could not hope to win.”
Sancho smiled, too. “How did one so young become so wise?” he teased before saying, on a more serious note, “You’ll need to keep your wits about you in that family, for they are not like us, little one.”
“The Devil’s Brood?”
“Ah, so you heard that, did you? You know I count Richard as a friend, but he and his brothers could have taught Cain and Abel about brotherly strife. And his war with his sire was proof to many that St Bernard was right when he said the Angevins came from the Devil and to the Devil they’d go. It will not be easy for you to understand them, coming from a family as tightly knit as ours.”
“But their family is not utterly lacking in love, Sancho. Richard is fond of his sisters, and all know he and his mother are like spokes on the same wheel.”
Sancho knew how deeply Berengaria missed their own mother, who’d died in childbirth when she was nine, and he was not surprised that she sounded wistful of Richard’s close bond with Eleanor. He hoped she had no illusions about Eleanor filling that void for her. Fortunately, his sister had always been sensible, for he suspected that a starry-eyed romantic would not have fared well as Richard’s wife. He knew Berengaria’s delicate appearance and serene demeanor belied an inner will as strong as his own. He was protective of her, nonetheless, and found himself asking now, even though it was too late, “You are content with this match . . . truly?”
“Of course I am, Sancho,” she said at once, wanting to put his mind at ease. She was scrupulously honest, though, and felt compelled to confide, “I confess it is not the destiny I’d expected for myself. I have always yearned for tranquility and I suspect life with Richard will be anything but tranquil.”
Coming from anyone else, he’d have taken that for a droll understatement. But his sister lacked any sense of the absurd and would not see the irony in it—that a young woman who’d once thought of becoming a nun, craving neither attention nor influence and comfortable in the shadows, was about to wed the most renowned king in Christendom, a man who gloried in his fame and wielded power as zestfully as he handled a sword.
Berengaria read faces well and saw the shadow that crossed his. “But it is the destiny that the Almighty and our father chose for me, Sancho, and I do not question it. It is flattering, too, that Richard should have picked me, for he has seen me and knows that I am no great beauty.” When he would have protested, she stopped him with a smile. “Bless you, dearest, but I possess a mirror. Mind you, I am not saying I am plain or drab. I think my eyes are my best feature, and I’ve been told I have a pleasing smile. But I am not a beauty as Richard’s mother was, or as his sisters are said to be. So it is good that we’ve already met and I need not worry that he might be disappointed.”
Sancho was touched by her matter-of-fact appraisal of her