The queen stayed a long time in conference, and when she finally rejoined Joan in the small bedchamber, she stood a moment in the doorway, brows knit. Joan’s smile faded.
“Do you understand what that was, Joan?”
She did. It meant she had to go to Sicily. She tried to remember the words the bishop of Norwich had used. “It means there is no…no impediment to the marriage.”
Her mother walked over to where she sat and looked down at her. “There never was. You’re a pretty girl—I don’t mean to say you are not—but they would have praised you even if you had been a toad. They had no wish to insult your father.”
The room seemed to shrink even smaller. “Then I don’t understand.”
“This farce was King William’s way of showing strength. By imposing a last-minute condition on the marriage, he meant to downplay the importance of the alliance. By agreeing to it, your father showed the match is more important to us than it is to William.”
“Why did Papa agree to it?”
“Your father is a practical man. He wanted the alliance.”
Joan took a deep breath. “Why do I have to marry King William, Mama?”
Her mother looked away. “Charisse, bring me a chair.” When she was settled beside Joan, she took her hand. “Sweetling, the right alliances are good, but wrong alliances are disastrous. Emperor Barbarossa has offered his daughter to William. If the Holy Roman Empire allied itself with the Sicilian kingdom, Rome’s independence would vanish. The city would be swallowed whole.”
Joan considered this. She knew all the Germanic kingdoms were loosely united under one great ruler, the emperor. They called their confederation the Holy Roman Empire, claiming it was the true heir to the Roman Empire; Mama had once told her that Barbarossa imagined he would conquer all of Italy one day also.
“Joan? The empire would be far too strong for anyone to oppose. By marrying William, you make many very powerful men happy: your father, the king of France, and the lord pope.”
“What about King William? Did he want to marry the emperor’s daughter?”
“I doubt it. Sicily would become part of the empire. He has fought against Barbarossa already to prevent that. On the other hand, it could mean William’s son would eventually become emperor. I don’t know where William’s ambitions lie. But his counselors prefer you.”
“I feel like a chess piece.”
“That is what princesses are. But come now. You do have some choices. They will allow you to bring a maid and six knights as guards. William will likely snatch away the knights for his own use, but I thought…we could send for Agnes, if you like, but she doesn’t travel well. Would you prefer Charisse?”
“Oh, Mama!” The gift delighted her, but seeing Charisse’s lowered eyes, Joan sobered. “Charisse should have a choice, too.”
“Charisse’s alternatives are Sicily or continued imprisonment with me.”
“I’ll go to Sicily, lady,” Charisse said.
The queen didn’t bother to look at her. “Yes, I thought you might.”
THEY SPENT A MONTH IN WINCHESTER WHILE JOAN’S trousseau was prepared.
In early August, Henry came to say good-bye to his daughter. Guards escorted Joan to a dark round room high in the west tower, and she understood Papa would enter through the west gate so there would be no possibility of a chance meeting between the king and the queen.
She’d been sitting on a thin cushion on a stone bench for what seemed an hour before he entered. A servant hurried in behind him and set down two large bright candles, then scuttled out. Papa gazed upon her a long while. His cheeks were hidden by his beard, now streaked with gray. His lids drooped until he cocked his brow and smiled. “Joan, girl. You’ve grown.”
“Did you expect otherwise? Did our jailers do wrong to feed us?”
The smile faded. He turned from her, but not before she saw him rub his eyes.
Joan felt a burning in her throat and fought the desire to run and press her cheek against his chest. She might never see him again.
“William is a fine man,” he said. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this if he wasn’t.”
“Mama says it is a good match.”
“Aye, then. Listen to your mother.” He sounded tired. His gaze wandered about the room. “Are you pleased with your trousseau?”
“Mama says it is adequate. I am to thank you for your generosity.”
“God’s eyes, girl. You’re my daughter. I’d not send you off a pauper.” He hooked his thumbs into the girdle at his waist. “What will it take for you to give me a smile?”
Joan sat very still. If she asked him to release Mama, they would fight. She murmured, “You haven’t given Mama any money for clothes.”
“She lacks clothes?”
Joan scowled.
“Fine. I’ll tell the exchequer to give her an allowance. I’m not mean. I didn’t think of it.”
“Will you let her see Richard?”
“No.”
“John?”
“No. It’s taken me this long to purge them of her poison. Come, Joan, I don’t want to argue.” When she said nothing, he sighed. Then he spread wide his arms. “Come and embrace me. I know you are not truly angry at me for sending you to your mother. And Lord Walter said you were lively enough.”
“You asked of me?”
“Of course.” His jaw slackened—his injured look.
Slowly, she rose from her bench and let him wrap his arms around her.
“Be good, Joan, girl. Make me proud.” Then he kissed her cheek, but she would not kiss him in return.
Later, when she saw her mother again, she was glad she had not kissed him. The king sent word he would release Eleanor from prison provided she took the veil. She could be abbess at Fontevrault.
“He could have our marriage annulled, but then your brothers might be declared illegitimate. And Aquitaine and Poitiers would revert to my control. Henry cannot repudiate me. He’d have to set me free.” Eleanor laughed. “I might remarry poor Louis.”
“Oh, Mama, don’t go to Fontevrault!”
“Of course I won’t, Joan. I am not a nun. Good Lord. What is your father thinking? Could he have gotten a child on Alice? He probably thinks he’ll marry the tart.”
Mama knew about Alice? Joan swallowed and held her tongue. Of course. A queen had to be aware of all the undercurrents at court. A queen had to know everything about the realm’s enemies. A queen must be familiar with the resources and workings of her domain. A queen must make her husband welcome in her bed, give him heirs, but not be fool enough to love him.
The only thing Mama had failed to explain was why any woman would want to be queen.
S E V E N
IT WAS A GENTLE MID-AUGUST CHANNEL CROSSING, BLESSED with sunshine and favorable winds. Joan pushed away a tide of memories of other crossings, other journeys, pleasant and unpleasant, as they sailed from Southampton to Barfleur.
She ate little on board so, in Barfleur, she was hungry enough to eat a piece of fish that did not smell right. Then, for the first time in her life, she felt sick enough to die.
Her escorts bore her to the infirmary of a Cistercian abbey outside the city. The bishop of Troia prayed over her so vehemently it frightened her. The bishop of Norwich ordered her knights to take the rich trousseau to Chinon for safeguarding, and that frightened her more. At last, her stomach calmed, and she was able to keep food down, but barely. Ten days behind schedule, they put her into a wain and moved slowly southward.
Five days later, in Normandy near the city of Mortain, Sir Robert joined their party, though when she first heard his voice she could not believe it was him. He swore at everyone, even the bishops, as she had never heard him swear. The cortege halted.
“Princess?” he called at the curtain.
Charisse laid her hand on Joan’s brow, but she pushed it away.
“Sir Robert?”
The curtain parted. She saw him and forced a smile.
“Princess, you
are as green as a toad. Come here.”
She crawled out to him over Charisse’s protests. He lifted her onto his horse and mounted behind her.
“You’ve grown again.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose.”
He laughed. “No, but you are making a liar of your father. He said you travel as well as he does, and now we hear you’ve been vomiting a path from Winchester to Sicily.”
“I feel better now.”
Joan breathed deeply and rested against him. Though the air was oppressively humid, the familiar scent of horse and leather comforted her. Robert’s low, steady voice made her feel safe. He said he would accompany her to St. Gilles, where she would depart for Messina with Sicilian attendants. But first he was taking her to Poitiers to see Richard.
“Richard? But…doesn’t Papa think I will tell him we were in Sarum?”
“It doesn’t matter. The queen is not in Sarum anymore.”
The cortege plodded along a crest that bisected vast fields pungent with rye. In the distance, a cluster of bare-chested serfs bent and straightened, swinging large scythes. Two men pushed at an ox as if they expected something from the animal. Heat rose in waves from the earth, and the bright sun made Joan’s head hurt.
Robert spoke of her brothers. Henry was still discontent—the king had not yet given him any authority or any armies to command. He spent all his time in tournaments, running up outrageous debts. Richard had made great gains in Aquitaine. The local nobility feared him, and most paid him homage as their duke.
“Is Richard content?”
“It’s hard to know. He tells the king repeatedly that the nobles of Aquitaine will not cease agitating for the release of their duchess. As long as the queen is imprisoned, Duke Richard will not have peace in Aquitaine. Of course, he wants her freed as much as his vassals do.”
So, Richard was still battling with Papa. “What of Geoffrey and John?”
“Count Geoffrey divides his time between serving in Duke Richard’s wars and playing in tournaments with the young king. It is as if he cannot decide what kind of man he will be. He’s very clever. A little unnerving. He watches everyone but doesn’t say much. And John is with your father again. Your father spoils him.”
Of course he did. John was the only one who had never betrayed him. The news did not make her happy or sad, only hollow inside. After so much had happened, nothing had changed.
JOAN STAYED TWO WEEKS IN POITIERS. SHE HAD MISSED HER mother’s home—the capital city of the county of Poitou and seat of the duchy of Aquitaine. The court had revived under the auspices of its duke, who filled it with handsome knights, beautiful ladies, musicians, and troubadours, just as Eleanor had done. In the baileys, the dazzling blue of the heavens and green of the grass seemed unreal after the dull sameness of Sarum’s gray sky and chalky earth. Inside, bright reds and golds decorated the walls and furnishings; the noise swirling the air was music and laughter, not Sarum’s incessant wind.
The night before she was to leave, Richard threw a feast for her. He teased her into drinking unwatered wine. When she was nearly asleep at the table, he put his hand on her hair.
“Henry told me what happened. You’ll be a fine queen, sister mine, a courageous one. I never meant for you to be a prisoner, too.”
“I was in Sarum,” she said, lifting her head. He had never asked.
“There was nothing I could do. Not yet. I’m sorry, Jeanne.”
“Don’t be sorry for my sake. I was with Mama. But Robert says she isn’t in Sarum now.”
“Don’t worry. If Father doesn’t free her soon, I will.”
“Please don’t fight again, Richard,” she said. His lips tightened. “Richard?”
“If he frees our mother, I won’t. I have no other quarrel with Father. I certainly won’t be stupid enough to take Henry’s part again.”
“Henry’s part? What do you mean?”
He ruffled her hair. “Nothing, Jeanne. Nothing. Old quarrels. Go to Sicily and forget about us. Go make William happy. The world could use more happy men.”
THE EASTWARD JOURNEY THROUGH AQUITAINE AND PROVENCE to St. Gilles was over before Joan wished it to be. Southern France was as beautiful as her mother had said. Lavender painted the hills purple and blue, the sweet fragrance mingling with that of grapes. In each castle where they rested, they were welcomed by lyrical Occitan voices. But when they arrived in St. Gilles, Joan was disappointed. The buildings were squat and unadorned. Sailors infested the narrow streets, and even with the escort of knights from the castle, they made slow progress. Worse, she could not escape the fishy sea odor that still made her queasy.
St. Gilles belonged to the count of Toulouse, but in his absence, the castle was maintained by a local nobleman. Joan was surprised to find a pretty castle in such an ugly place. It was small, but with uncommonly large windows and square-hewn stone walls. Inside, the woodwork was ornamented and polished. Embroidered panels depicting bright, happy tournaments and hunts decorated the walls.
The castellan’s wife was pretty too, and they had a daughter who looked to be twelve or thirteen. She smiled with teeth so crooked Joan wondered that she had not learned to smile with her mouth closed. Her name was Ermengarde, which suited her. She was friendly, with such a lively laugh that Joan forgot about her teeth.
Ermengarde said she would move to her mother’s chamber so Joan could have her bed.
“Oh, no,” Joan said, in a burst of goodwill. “Please stay with me. I haven’t had a girl to talk to in…well…” In truth, she could not name a friend.
“I’ll stay tonight if you like. But they tell me I talk in my sleep. You may be glad to be rid of me tomorrow.” Then she proceeded to talk so much Joan wondered how she could have anything left to say when she slept.
The castle was crowded because of its distinguished visitor—everyone in Provence had come to pay respects. That afternoon, Joan spent two solid hours being bowed to and fussed over. She nodded so many times she thought she’d shake her head loose. Her stomach began growling loudly. Then, just when the end of the receiving line was in sight, a commotion sounded at the door, and the line grew again.
Ermengarde’s eyes lit. “They are back from the hunt. My brother Aimery and his friend Lord Raymond.”
“Lord Raymond?” Her pulse bounded. There were a hundred young Raymonds in southern France, and the only one she knew would be in Toulouse. Still, her eyes darted over the newly swelled crowd until she saw him, impossible to overlook in brilliant scarlet and blue. His hair was wind-tousled and longer than the fashion. Several young knights formed a circle around him, as if each wanted to be as close as he could, but they parted to let him take a place in line. He looked at her, squinting in question. Did he imagine she would not recognize him?
Joan forced her attention to the lady curtsying before her. She repeated the woman’s name and thanked her for her kind wishes. The next knight, a minor southern baron, kissed her fingers. He told her how much he loved Papa and Richard. She barely listened. They all said the same things, to no purpose. She would not even remember their names.
Finally, Lord Raymond stood before her. With exquisite poise, he slipped to one knee. When he rose, she held out her hand. He took her fingertips, but she twisted her hand and let him kiss her palm as if he were her equal in rank or had the privilege of her particular friendship. His eyes bound her more firmly than his hand.
He said, “I had not hoped you would remember me.”
“My memory is poor, but not so poor as that. You saved me—”
“From a mouse,” he interrupted, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Not a dragon.”
She smiled, flustered by a memory that was not exactly flattering, yet flattered he remembered all the same.
“How is Tessie?” he asked, letting go of her hand.
Growing so warm she thought she would melt to the floor, she murmured, “Your memory is astounding. I cannot remember bishops. You remember poppets.”
He shr
ugged. “I have a facility with names. I would prefer a more useful skill, but sometimes it serves.”
She wanted him to stay, to say more, but there were other courtiers to greet before supper and it was already late. Worse, she felt tongue-tied. How could it be that Eleanor’s daughter had not learned to banter with men?
Lord Raymond glanced over his shoulder at those still waiting to pay their respects and grimaced. Then he bowed. “Lady. It’s a great pleasure to see you again and to see you so well.” He abandoned her to the rest of the court.
Ermengarde jiggled her arm. “You know Lord Raymond?” she whispered, eyes wide.
“We’ve met before.”
The next baron stepped before her. Joan drew a deep breath, nodded, and smiled.
Not until supper did she have a chance to talk to Ermengarde. In a warm hall of yellowed gray stone, they ate a rich feast of mutton and gravy over bread. The dark red wine of the Rhône Valley was prized throughout southern France, and the steward did not stint in the serving. Joan sat at the table of honor, but since the room was crowded with important people talking to anyone who would listen, she and Ermengarde could whisper back and forth without fear of chastisement.
“Why is the lord of Toulouse here?” she asked. He had not come all the way for her sake.
“Oh, Princess! Then you don’t know him well?”
“No. We only met once.”
Ermengarde lowered her voice. “I’ll tell you the story, but you mustn’t tell anyone who told you. It isn’t fit for your ears.” She giggled. “Or for mine. He got a babe on a girl in his father’s court.”
Joan’s face fell. She was disappointed in the story. And in him.
“Princess, that isn’t all. She’s a lady, not a servant, but her father hasn’t anything, and Lord Raymond insisted he would marry her.”
“Marry her?” He couldn’t be more than twenty. He was heir to Toulouse. Yet he imagined he could marry for love?
“They say it was a terrible scene. The count flew into a rage and called the girl any number of things.” Ermengarde’s voice rose with excitement, but she lowered it again. “They say Lord Raymond struck his father. And his father threw him out.”
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