Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,81

attributes. “Richard is a lucky man,” he said and snatched her up in his arms, whirling her around while she protested this was not seemly, but laughing, too.

Neither one had heard the footsteps on the path or realized that their father was watching with a fond smile. As always he was amused by the contrast they presented. Berengaria was barely five feet and Sancho towered above her like a vast oak, for he was said to be the tallest man in all of Navarre, more than seven feet in height, one reason why he’d become known as Sancho el Fuerte—Sancho the Strong. Sancho senior had been given an accolade of his own, Sancho el Sabio—Sancho the Wise—a tribute to his shrewdness in dealing with his powerful, predatory neighbors in Castile and Aragon. Berengaria’s marriage had further enhanced his reputation in the eyes of his subjects, for what better ally could Navarre have than the redoubtable Lionheart?

But on this moonlit October night in the Bishop of Pamplona’s garden, the king found himself beset with a father’s misgivings. He loved all five of his children, even more fiercely since the tragic loss of his wife, but Berengaria had always been his secret favorite. He knew he was being foolish, for she was nigh on twenty-one, well past the age when princesses were wed. It was time for her to try her wings. Yet how empty the nest would be without her.

“Papa!” Berengaria blushed at being caught in such tomfoolery and made Sancho put her down. Coming toward him, she turned her cheek for his kiss. “The revelries were truly spectacular. People will be talking of it for weeks to come.”

“I daresay even the most illustrious Queen of England was duly impressed,” Sancho said with a grin, for their father’s admiration of Eleanor of Aquitaine had long been a family joke. He’d met her in Limoges nigh on twenty years ago, and had returned to Navarre singing her praises so enthusiastically that his own queen had feigned jealousy. He’d even interceded on Eleanor’s behalf after her ill-fated rebellion, asking Henry to show her mercy, a gallant gesture that had pleased Sancho’s wife and irked the English king. In welcoming Richard’s mother to Pamplona, he was also entertaining a glamorous ghost from his past, and the obvious pleasure he’d taken in the reunion gave his children pleasure, too.

“Yes, it did go well,” he agreed modestly, as if he’d not fretted over every detail beforehand. “Our esteemed bishop is claiming full credit, of course. But at least he is no longer grumbling about being a member of your escort, Berenguela. He is finally seeing it as the honor it is.” He glanced questioningly then at Sancho. “Have you told her yet, lad?”

Sancho shook his head, for he’d known their father would want to do it. He watched, still smiling, as their sire took Berengaria’s hands in his. “Your brother and I have been discussing it, sweetheart, and we’ve decided that he will accompany you on your bridal journey.”

Berengaria’s delight was revealing, showing how much she was dreading that final farewell. For once utterly oblivious to her dignity, she embraced her father with a squeal of joy, and then pulled her brother’s head down so she could scatter haphazard kisses into his beard. Laughing, Sancho warned that he could not escort her all the way to Messina, not daring to spare so much time away from Navarre. But he would see her safely across France and through the alpine passes into Italy, he promised, and saw that he could not have given her a more welcome wedding gift.

Berengaria soon retired for the evening, but before returning to the great hall to collect her duennas, she bade them good night with a smile radiant enough to rival the silvered Spanish moonlight. They watched her go in silence, and as soon as she was out of earshot, Sancho’s father said softly, almost as if to himself, “Am I doing right by her?”

Sancho looked at him in surprise. “Papa, you’ve arranged a brilliant future for her!”

“Yes . . . but will she be happy?”

Sancho doubted that there was another king under God’s sky who’d have asked a question like that. But his parents’ marriage had been that rarest of rarities, a political union that had evolved into a genuine love match. He was sure that his father had never been unfaithful to his mother, and he was still faithful to her memory. In the eleven years since her death,