Her mother said a queen must know everything about her realm. Would Eugenius teach her? He had gone back to the shelves but did not scold her for the noise she made. It occurred to Joan suddenly and with some surprise that Eugenius did not despise her.
N I N E
HER MOTHER ALWAYS SAID A WOMAN’S HANDS SHOULD never be idle, much less the hands of a queen.
Yet surely Mama had not intended that a queen be required to sew silk. The cloth puckered under the slightest tension, but if she left the threads too loose, they matted and frayed. Her rosebud looked like a splatter of blood.
“It’s not as if I’ll wear it,” Joan grumbled, laying the veil on the arm of her chair.
In Palermo, noblewomen followed the ridiculous Saracen practice of covering their faces when they went out in public. But aside from the chapel and library, she despaired of ever being allowed even to venture outside her apartments.
Charisse held a torn sleeve up for scrutiny, silk cascading over her legs and onto the floor. Without looking at Joan, she chastened her: “The queen mother will expect to see some progress.”
Sighing, Joan picked up the fancywork. William’s mother had given her the veil, along with silk floss and a few threads of spun gold. Yet seeing the disastrous consequence, Marguerite probably regretted the gift.
Still, it was not the embroidery causing her ill humor. Joan was angry, to no purpose, with William, who had been absent from morning prayers the past three days. According to Marguerite, he had taken a group of noblemen from the mainland to see his cathedral. Joan was angry he had never taken her to Monreale, angry he misled her by staring at her earlier, angry that he apparently had no interest in her at all.
Sati entered the anteroom with a tray of oranges and cheese.
“Finally,” Joan sighed, rising and leaving the veil on her seat cushion. She plucked a slice of fruit from the tray.
“Your pardon, Queen Joanna. The queen mother delayed me with a message for you.”
Joan raised an eyebrow, sucking the sour juice from her orange.
“Queen Marguerite asks you, in King William’s name, to attend supper tonight. An embassy has come from the king of England.”
Joan gasped, almost coughing. She had not dined with Sicily’s nobles since her wedding feast. “Who? Who has come?” The news must be good. She refused to let fear intrude on this moment of liberation.
Sati shrugged. “Englishmen.”
“You must send word to Master Eugenius if you will not be at lessons,” Charisse said.
Sati said, “The queen mother has spoken with your tutor.”
“Of course she has,” Joan said, a little wildly. Surely, William would no longer ignore her after seeing how her countrymen regarded her, how Papa’s vassals treated the beloved daughter of the king of England. And the Englishmen would carry tales back home. Papa would hear of the splendor of Palermo’s court, the health and happiness of his daughter. Joan trembled with excitement. What did she want Papa, perhaps even Mama, to know?
“Charisse,” she murmured, “do I want to impress my husband or my father’s embassy?”
“My lady?” Charisse frowned.
Sati asked quietly, “What impression do you wish to make?”
“I want them to know I am queen.” Her words hung in the air. She wanted William to remember she was his queen. She wanted her father to be proud.
Pinching her lower lip, Sati answered, “They will know,” then regarded Joan appraisingly.
Joan delivered herself into the hands of the Saracen. First, she was bathed. The tub was large enough to submerge her whole body at once. As soon as the water began to cool, Sati commanded two handmaidens to lift her out and dry her with rough linen towels. Then they soothed her chafed skin by rubbing scented oil on her arms and chest. She smelled roses, the sweetness cut by a hint of saffron.
Sati chose the gown—a deep blue silk covered with Greek patterning in silver and yellow embroidery. The bodice was padded in the bosom and tight through the waist. After Charisse pinned her hair under a veil, Sati teased out a few strands to lie at the nape of her neck. Then she applied ash-based color to her eyebrows and lashes and painted her lips the dark color of wine, an unnatural shade for a mouth. Joan resisted the urge to lick the stinging paint from her lips, certain the bitter taste would linger on her tongue.
“There,” Sati said, pushing her before a long, narrow mirror. The woman staring back was unfamiliar: Queen Joanna, not Princess Joan.
Already it was dusk; the eunuchs of the Queen’s Guard escorted her. She expected to stand in a receiving line and greet her husband’s courtiers as she’d seen her mother do so many times. Instead, she was directed to wait in a small room off the dining hall until someone came to claim her. Finally, a young page fetched her to join her husband outside the door to the hall.
“My lord.” She curtsied deeply, praying the trembling of her legs would not be noticeable.
William acknowledged her with a half smile, looking over her head. He crooked his arm for her to hold.
“Lady Joanna,” he said, his voice surprisingly gruff. So ordinary a voice should not emerge from so exquisite a face. She understood how his father’s enemies forgot their grievances at the mere sight of him. Curious and eager, she laid her hand on his arm and let him lead her into the room.
The courtiers were already seated around the massive tables, too numerous to count at a glance. The entire roomful rose, then bent their knees and bowed their heads. So, she and William were not expected to greet the guests before supper? How strange Sicily was. How inaccessible its king, like an emperor or god.
William’s place was obvious, a wide chair at the center of the head table. The empty seat beside him must be hers. She stole a quick look around the table. It accommodated twenty or so: Bishop Palmer and Archbishop Walter of Palermo representing the Church; the queen mother and Constance; the duke of Apulia and Tancred of Lecce. With a start, she recognized Lord Anfusus of Devizes in the seat to the right of William. Devizes—the ancient castle where she had betrayed her father’s trust so long ago.
She sat beside her husband, thrilled with the way the courtiers followed in little rippling waves. At the other tables, men and women sat intermingled. Only at the head table did the men sit to the right and women to the left. She was tucked in between William and Constance, but William immediately focused on the lord of Devizes. Disappointed, Joan turned to Constance.
“Who painted your face, child?” Constance said. “And that gown! You’re trussed up like an odalisque.”
Joan’s hand flew to her mouth to hide the lips she knew were too bold. It hardly mattered that Constance was equally painted. On the Sicilian princess, Sicilian fashion did not appear out of place.
“Oh!” Constance said hurriedly, patting her shoulder. “I’m sorry, dear. You look beautiful. Truly, you do.”
Joan blinked back tears, too embarrassed to be grateful for Constance’s attempt to be kind. Had William also found her paint and dress garish?
The woman beside Constance, Tancred’s pinch-faced wife, added, “Queen Joanna, you are a great beauty. A jewel in our lord king’s crown.”
Humiliated by their condescension, Joan tried to blame Sati. But why would Sati want to make her look foolish?
Servants began serving food: thinly shaved roasted duck drizzled with sweet, tangy sauce accompanied by slices of melon. Joan pretended fascination with her plate to avoid talking with Constance. She wished she could sink into the floor.
“Joanna.” Her name sounded voluptuous when William mispronounced it. She turned, her cheeks hot and stomach fluttering. “Lord Anfusus says you and his wife are acquainted.”
“Yes, my lord,” she murmured. The lady of Devizes would not remember her fondly. Her spirits spiraled downward. She hated Sicily.
“Princess Constance will bring her to see you. Tomorrow, if you like?” He wore a smile as benevolent as an elderly priest’s.
Miserable, Joan asked, “Whe
re is she?” Why wasn’t she at the table?
Lord Anfusus said, “Traveling tired her. We deeply regret she could not attend supper.”
William leaned his head closer to hers. “The lady is with child.”
Joan nearly choked. The lady of Devizes was fully forty, perhaps older. Before Joan could speak, Lord Anfusus laughed. William looked from one to the other.
“She doesn’t know I’ve remarried,” Anfusus said. “I’d forgotten how long the queen has been away from England.”
“Three years,” Joan said. Not so long for a man to lose a wife, remarry, and laugh about it. She decided she did not like this English lord.
“You remember Ermengarde? Of St. Gilles?” Anfusus asked.
“Ermengarde! Ermengarde is here?” The old lecher nodded. In a moment, her world had changed. Ermengarde would tell her everything and more.
Constance touched her arm. “Who is here, my lady?”
“A friend of mine from France.”
William was smiling. The beauty of his mouth entranced her. He said, “Constance, tomorrow you must bring the lady to visit Joanna.”
Joan beamed as she turned to the princess.
“Of course, my lord king,” Constance said. “I live to serve.”
Something flashed in the princess’s eyes before she blinked and looked away. Joan jerked to see if William noticed. His eyes had dulled. He looked hurt, like a scolded boy.
Confused, Joan waited for someone to speak, but the next moment, a servant reached between her and William to ladle stewed meat into their bowls. William shifted to lean toward Anfusus, almost putting his back to her—she could barely hear what they said. William promised to take the visitors to Monreale. Lord Anfusus said something about the Pantocrator, a mosaic of Jesus on his heavenly throne, at the cathedral in Cefalù.
“You must see the foundation of Palermo’s new cathedral,” Archbishop Walter bellowed.
The men directed their discussion farther down the table to include the archbishop. It hurt her head to try to listen. Why was the archbishop building a new cathedral? She’d been married in the old one, and it had seemed splendid enough. Were there not enough churches in Sicily?
Three more courses followed, accompanied by drink; it grew terribly loud in the hall. Joan picked at her food and tried to think of visiting with Ermengarde. Then she would have conversation enough to last a year of suppers. But that didn’t allay her current anxiety or loneliness. Why was Constance angry that she would see an old friend? It made no sense.
Unless…a dark thought snaked into her consciousness. The princess’s anger might have a different basis. Who usually sat in the queen’s chair? William had not seemed shocked or displeased when he greeted his elaborately decorated wife. So why had Constance accused her of dressing like an…an odalisque?
A horn blew, and the doors opened at the far end of the chamber. Servants swept in to clear away the last course, and more followed with trays of sweets and heavy wine. A space opened up in the middle of the hall as diners at the lower tables moved toward the walls. Joan roused from her torpor to watch the entertainments.
Half a dozen musicians entered the hall, blowing horns and banging drums with tinkling bells, accompanied by dancing girls. Twelve Saracen slave girls skittered across the floor barefoot, wearing strange robes of gauzy white cloth. The music was unfamiliar and eerie. At first, Joan could but stare, fascinated. As the girls twirled and writhed, the fabric shifted, lifting and falling with the breezes created by the movement. It embarrassed her to watch.
The other women at her table returned to their conversations after the merest glance at the entertainers. William, too, continued his discussion with Bishop Palmer over the heads of the Norman embassy, who were rapt. The dancers undulated closer. When they stood directly in front of the table, the Normans leaned forward in their chairs.
William turned from the bishop to attend to the dance. He wore the same detached half smile Joan was learning to recognize. Yet his eyes glittered with amusement as he leaned toward Lord Anfusus. He murmured something. Anfusus’s head bobbed up and down, but his stare didn’t falter. William’s smile broadened for just a moment.
At the conclusion of the dance, William signaled to a servant behind him, who pulled back his chair. When the king stood, the entire assemblage followed. He waited for their obeisance, then held out his bent arm for Joan. He escorted her from the hall, her ladies falling in step behind, accompanying her as far as the stairway that led to her apartments. His own private chambers were near the front of the Royal Palace, up a different set of stairs.
“Did you enjoy supper?” he asked when she released his arm.
“I did.” Taking a chance, she said, “I’d like to attend more often.”
“You would?” Wrinkles appeared on his forehead.
Joan nodded, wondering how such a simple request had flummoxed him.
“We can arrange that.” He sounded unconvinced. Joan wanted to ask who “we” was. Was he not king? Was she not queen? He opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. “I…I thought I would come to your apartments later. If you would have your maids make you ready.”
Now? Feeling cold and hot at once, she managed to murmur, “Of…of course.”
“Good.” He let out his breath, sounding relieved. Joan dared not look at the faces of his guards or her own maids as the two entourages separated to ascend different flights of stairs.
Her handmaidens crowded after her into the bedchamber, murmuring irritatingly in Arabic as they scurried to obey Sati’s harsh-voiced commands.
This was her chance. She must please William. This was her chance. The words rolled around and around in her head.
As Charisse unlaced Joan’s gown and helped her wiggle from it, another handmaiden brought forth a pale yellow dress, little more than a shift, to cover her chemise. Joan stood still while she tied the single row of laces loosely up the back. Glancing down at the bodice’s simple needlework, Joan realized there was no padding in the bosom. She shivered. How could she please him? She wasn’t ready, not really a woman at all.
“You needn’t worry,” Sati said, approaching with paint to refresh Joan’s face. “They say the king is a gentle lover.”
Joan froze. “They say?”
Poised with a red-pigment stylus before Joan’s mouth, Sati’s hand wobbled. She drew back. Slowly, her taut frown relaxed, and she continued with a subtle shrug, “Rumor, my lady.”
“Has he a mistress?” It was a foolish question. He was a powerful man with a child for a wife. Of course he had not been chaste.
“He keeps slaves,” Sati said. “At the Cuba. They are of no consequence.”
“Enough consequence to cause gossip,” Joan protested.
“Of course.” Now Sati sounded impatient. “Do you imagine women would not whisper about such a king? You are very much envied, my lady. Even his slave women are envied.”
Before Joan could ask anything else, Sati brought the stylus to her mouth and began darkening her lips. The slave dancers had all been painted. Were the harem girls? Was this what William liked?
A knock on the door to the anteroom announced the king’s arrival before they had time to unbind her hair. Sati herded the handmaidens from the bedchamber. Joan stared at Charisse.
“What do I do?” she whispered.
“Oh, Joan. Whatever he wishes. It will be all right.” Looking as if she might cry, Charisse ran her hand down Joan’s arm. It did nothing to alleviate her panic.
William entered; the distressed maid flushed, curtsied, and fled. Joan wished she could flee also.
“Joanna?” he asked, blinking. He seemed befuddled, as though unsure he had come to the right place.
“My lord,” she said. Her voice was so low and deep it sounded as if she had a catarrh.
Red came to his cheeks. “You needn’t be frightened.” He slid past her, unwinding his girdle, then tossed it onto a high-backed chair near the balcony door.
Jo
an’s face had never felt so heated. Her arms and legs would not move. Mute, she watched him sit and raise his tunic to his knees to unlace his boots.
She had to say something. The first thing she could think of popped from her mouth. “Do you always wear such tunics?”
William looked up at her quizzically.
“How do you ride?” Her father had shunned long tunics except on the highest of state occasions, claiming a man could not sit a horse dressed like a priest.
He stood and pulled out the sides of the tunic. “The cut is fuller than it appears.” For a moment, he stared at the rich brocade, as if reassuring himself the answer was correct. He let go and faced her. “Will you need assistance?”
“W-with my laces.” She turned around, trembling as his fingers touched her back. He pulled the gown open and helped peel it from her shoulders. It slid to the floor. She couldn’t turn around; he would see how thin she was.
Behind her, she heard the rustling of clothing. The long tunic sailed by and landed on the chair with his girdle. “You needn’t remove your chemise,” he said. “Come. Lie down.”
She shuffled past, trying to conceal herself, and climbed quickly onto the bed. He sat beside her, wearing a silken undershirt that reached his thighs. He smelled of soap. His legs were the color of cream, sparsely covered with light hair, and spindly. No wonder he hid them.
“Lie down,” he said again. He lay on top and began sliding against her. She thought his mouth brushed her hair, but then, with a click of his tongue that sounded irritated, he raised his hips and began pulling at her chemise. “Pull this up or you will have to remove it.”
After she complied, William fell heavily against her and she cried out.
“Don’t,” he said. Joan bit her lip and willed herself not to sob as he made her his wife. His whole body tensed and then slackened. He sat up. Paint from her face had smeared across his undershirt. Without looking at her, he rose to find his tunic. She watched him pull it on, then sit to put on his stockings and boots. Still silent, he stood again and picked up his girdle, but laid it over his shoulder. She suspected he could not drape it properly alone.
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