Those of you who have read "Nobody Rests in Peace" will remember that Joanna’s labor was just beginning when she had her encounter with Mercardier.

History tells us that she produced a daughter (some say a son) who also died at once. Some stories have a surviving daughter, and a future history is described for her, marriage and all. Which are the facts and which the fiction may never be firmly established.

One fact which remains is that Raymond VII, Joanna’s son, had a daughter whom he named Joanna. It is in this Raymond’s time that France finally added Toulouse to its possessions; part of the terms in this negotiation was the offer of marriage for Raymond’s daughter with the son of the regent, Queen Blanche. The annals may contain more than one outcome for that idea also.

And what became of Richeold? The following is my idea of that. Was it likely to have been this way? What do you think?

Richeold speaks:

My lady Joanna’s death in Rouen in the middle of a family conference caused a great deal of commotion in the palace. Not only had she labored all day, in spite of her failing strength, but just as her final effort succeeded in bringing her child into the world, she turned her eyes to me and whispered, "Richeold, you have been my greatest love in life. Be that for this child for my sake."

Before I could answer she stopped breathing and her body sagged in my arms. I gave no thought to her baby at that moment, I must admit. They had brought in a midwife halfway through the day, and she was occupied with the child, and raising a great to-do about it, for what reason I could not say.

I could only sit there, holding my lady’s body, with tears coursing down my cheeks. If what she had said to me was true for her, it was doubly true for me. Her life and mine had been entwined for more than twenty of her thirty-five years, good times and difficult, happy and desperate. I had lived most of my life for her, in her service, her friendship, her love. If she was dead, what was left for me?

Then I heard my name spoken in a clear, firm voice. As I raised my head my eyes met those of her mother, who had called to me. I saw the question in her eyes and I nodded my head numbly.

"Let us be silent here," she said, in that same tone of voice, and the room stilled.

"God has taken both my daughter and her child. Though we weep for our loss, let us give thanks that they are together and at peace."

Murmurs of assent sounded in several parts of the room. The queen then turned to me and held out her arms. I had a fleeting thought of my own mother coming to me at such a moment. Then I was clasped in those arms and we sobbed together.

It could not have been for long before I realized my presumption and backed away, or tried to, but she would not release me entirely. Taking my arm in a friendly way she said softly, "My dear, your work here is done. Let us allow the others to do theirs. Will you walk with me a while?"

All I could do was nod again, and let her lead me out into the palace. We made our way slowly down the winding stair and toward the "lady’s door." There were people standing about in the great hall as we passed, and one fine gentleman bowed to the queen and asked gently, "Is it over?"

"Yes," the queen said, pausing and turning as though to address all of the throng. "It is over. The child was a girl, but they are both gone, together for eternity." She did not wait for their response but turned toward the door, took my hand again, and led me out into the fading afternoon.

"Did the nuns who came from Font’Evraud bring any news of your husband?" the queen inquired gently.

"Nothing positive, your Majesty," I answered, " but neither did they say that he had died." I choked on that last word and felt the queen’s arm again around my shoulders.

"My dear, I did not mean to probe another tender spot in your heart," she said. "I only asked about John because I am concerned about him for your sake and about your future plans. Let us sit here in the sun and talk about it for a while."

The "lady’s door " we had used led to the little garden maintained for her use. We sat together on the bench beneath the pear tree.

"I would doubt that you have had time or occasion to make a plan for the coming weeks, but some ideas have occurred to me. Let’s pretend you have put yourself and your future in my hands, and I will tell you what my ideas are.

"I see you returning to Font’Evraud with me, in my party, where your first and only concern will be supporting your husband’s spirit while the monks continue to care for him. His illness is quite grave, I understand, and this should be all you think of for a while. Either he will begin to recover, buoyed by your presence, or he will proceed toward a return to his Maker."

She straightened her back and took both of my hands in hers. I could not take my eyes from her face, which seemed to be illumined from within. "When you feel you can leave him to be restored further by the monks, I would like to have you become my personal maid, to render to me the same tender care you always offered to the Princess Joanna. My dear Amaria, who has been with me since our girlhood in Poitou, is now an old lady, just as I am. God has spared my mind, but he seems to be taking hers from her, bit by bit. She seems extremely addled now, and content to be among the older nuns at the convent. Will you do me the great favor of taking her place in my household?"

Somewhere in its depths my mind was telling me what an honor she was extending, the sort of thing I had dreamed of long ago and felt I had attained to some degree with my Princess, but the words about my husband were ringing even louder in my heart, and I blurted "My lady, I would be honored to serve you in any way you might desire, with all my heart, but do you really think John might recover?"

She waited just a second or two before she answered. "With God all things are possible. I know that you and I and the residents of Font’Evraud will never cease to pray for healing, even though it might require a miracle. And I am mindful that the injuries he suffered occurred because he chose to rescue my daughter from her blazing tent. I will always praise him for that. I trust the monks at the abbey more than any physician in a city. They rely on gentle, healthful care as well as their prayers for healing. But some day, I fear, drawing one more breath will be too difficult for him to do, and he will slip away from us, into heavenly hands."