The Queen's Daughter

by Susan Coventry

  “I won’t trouble you any more than necessary, Joanna,” he said, his voice high, almost whining. “But you understand, we must make an heir.”

  There was no answer she could make, except to nod and watch from the bed as he walked to the door in the dark. He fumbled with the handle. Relief that it was over mingled with the cold realization that she had somehow failed. They had exchanged no more than a dozen words.

  “My lord?” she said, her heart beating fast, amazed at her own boldness. He turned. She could barely discern his face. Was he frowning? “Will you be going to Monreale again soon?”

  “Monreale?” He said it as though he did not recognize the word. She felt an urge to slap him.

  “Will you?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course, I will. Barisanus has just completed his brass door. They’ll be installing it.…” His voice trailed off. She wished it hadn’t. For the briefest moment, he’d sounded impassioned.

  “Would you take me to see it?”

  “The cathedral?”

  She could almost envision the wrinkling of his forehead, his confusion. She wondered if it was her accent that made him seem lost when she spoke.

  “No, the mosque,” she said sarcastically, in the careful Arabic Eugenius had taught her.

  William laughed, but it was forced. He said, “I didn’t think it would interest you. Of course, you must see it.” She heard his hesitation and half expected him to say, “We can arrange that.”

  “Soon?” she pressed.

  “Yes, soon. Good night, Joanna.”

  Pale light flooded the room for a moment and then the door shut.

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, WILLIAM’S MOTHER AND AUNT brought the lady of Devizes to the queen’s apartments. Ermengarde sprang forward to wrap Joan in a warm embrace.

  “Princess! It is so wonderful to see you again.” Joan felt the small swell of her friend’s belly pressing against her own body. Over Ermengarde’s head, Joan saw Constance smirk; Queen Marguerite’s eyes widened with horror. Joan stiffened. Her friend’s careless tongue had just disadvantaged them both before William’s mother and aunt.

  Ermengarde drew back. “I beg your pardon. I meant, my lady queen.”

  “You gave no offense. I’m delighted you’re here. Please, sit.” She gestured to the benches against the wall, plumped with pillows. A fire in the hearth staved off the light chill from the windows—the shutters had been left open to allow in the sun.

  The women sat, Joan beside Ermengarde. She beckoned one of her handmaidens to bring a tray of sweets and an infusion flavored with carob.

  Blanching, Ermengarde said, “No, thank you. My stomach is too easily turned these days. All these delicacies—I will forever regret that I did not sample any while I had the chance.”

  “Come to Sicily often,” Joan said, “and you will have no cause for regret.”

  Ermengarde rubbed her middle. “Anfusus wanted to leave me in Devizes. If I were not carrying his child, he might have annulled the marriage for the ruckus I raised.” The smile on her face showed she did not mean it. She actually seemed happy. Perhaps it was the baby. Joan’s hand went to her own belly. Last night would be worth it, if William’s seed took root.

  “Why is your husband here? Did my father send him?”

  “His chancellor did. Trade issues, my lady. Wheat and wine. Anfusus tried to explain but I…” Ermengarde shut her eyes and let her head loll sideways, then giggled.

  “How did you come to be the lady of Devizes?” Joan asked, knowing once started, Ermengarde would need little coaxing to talk—little coaxing but abundant guidance. Ermengarde could not distinguish what was important from what was not.

  “Just after Lady Anne passed, Anfusus’s son died in a tournament. He is not fond of his daughter’s husband, so he needed a wife.” Blushing, she looked at her hands. “Someone young. He didn’t care whether she had property or not. Your father spoke to Count Raymond. The count spoke to my father. They thought it a good match.”

  “So, my father and the count of Toulouse are on better terms?”

  Ermengarde laughed. “My lord and I are not so important as that. Count Raymond saw no better use for me.”

  Joan detected a note of sadness in her laughter. “Is Lord Anfusus good to you?”

  “He’s very good,” she said, raising her head and voice to include the other ladies. She would not say otherwise in front of strangers. Ermengarde, too, had matured.

  “How is your brother?”

  “Wonderful. Count Raymond knighted him. He’s very proud. He is going to be married to a cousin of the duchess of Narbonne. She’s sweet. She has hair the color of—”

  “And what of his friend? Count Raymond’s son?”

  Charisse coughed. Joan ignored her.

  “Lord Raymond?” Ermengarde’s smile faltered, then reappeared even more bright. “He is well. But I think not so happy. He remarried, you know.”

  “Remarried? But what about the heiress of Melgueil?”

  “They were married only ten months when his father declared her barren and arranged an annulment.”

  “After ten months?”

  Her expression grew thoughtful. “He never wanted to wed her in the first place. Yet everyone said he was kind to her.”

  “Not kind enough. Why did the count want the marriage ended?”

  “Oh, Count Raymond and the viscount of Carcassonne had been warring over some border territory. Someone suggested Lord Raymond marry the viscount’s daughter to seal a truce. He could hardly be married to both of them.”

  “What happened to the girl?”

  “She went to Fontevrault. What else could she do?”

  Joan noticed Ermengarde rubbing the swell of her belly and made a quick prayer: God grant them a son.

  “So, why isn’t he happy with the daughter of Carcassonne?”

  Charisse’s embroidery scissors clattered to the floor and all heads turned.

  “I beg your pardon,” she murmured, retrieving them. Joan did not misunderstand the interruption. Charisse thought her too interested in the heir of Toulouse.

  “Tell me about my brothers,” Joan said as they all settled again. “I confess I am frightened to ask.”

  “They are well. Queen Margaret gave birth to a boy—did you hear? But it died in three days.”

  Joan crossed herself. “When?”

  “Two years ago. No, almost three. They say your father took the news harder than the young king.”

  “I pray they will have another. What about Richard?”

  “Duke Richard is quite the warrior. In Toulouse, we try not to mention his name.” Ermengarde blinked as she smiled. It was a jest, yet not a jest. “Oh, but your older brothers were all together at the coronation of the new king of France.”

  “King Louis is dead?” Her thoughts churned. What did she know of the heir, Prince Philip, except that her mother once considered him a potential husband for her? Papa called the French king’s son a monkey-faced boy with brains to match. And Richard had said he was an untrustworthy friend but a worse enemy.

  She should have been told. Mama would be so disappointed in her. Monarchs died, heirs died, and she did not even know.

  “No, no,” Ermengarde said. “But he will be soon. Prince Philip was crowned king in November, just before my husband and I set sail to come here. The young king is seneschal, of course, so he had to attend. And Duke Richard and Count Geoffrey went to pay homage.”

  “Did my father attend?”

  “No. Nor Prince John. Your father plans to make John king of Ireland. If the Irish allow it.” She added hastily, “Of course, they will do as the king wishes.”

  Joan laughed to set Ermengarde at ease. “Who can say what the Irish will do?” Still, the room grew silent, and Ermengarde fidgeted. “I’m glad my brothers are not still bickering,” she mused aloud. “But I do wish they would find common cause with my father, instead of standing beside the king of France.”

  “He is their overlord,” Cons
tance reminded her, her lips curling.

  Joan was not in the mood for Constance’s ill temper and answered with equal petulance. “Yes. But the king of England is their father.”

  “My dears,” the queen mother said, getting to her feet, “we cannot let morning prayers begin without us. Joanna, we’ll see you in the chapel.”

  Reluctantly, Joan rose. “Please come again, Ermengarde. I’ll show you my garden.”

  “Oc, Queen Jeanne,” Ermengarde said, using her native Occitan. Joan thought she put stress on the pronunciation of her name and wanted to embrace her again.

  “We’ll bring her,” Queen Marguerite promised. She patted Joan’s hair. “I know our Joanna misses England still. But when she becomes a mother, she will feel more at home.”

  Joan blushed. Everyone must know her marriage had finally been consummated—there was no such thing as privacy at court. Her eyes flitted to Constance, who still glowered. No matter. Constance could be as ill-tempered as she pleased. William had promised to take her on a journey. An old friend had come to tell her all the news of home, and perhaps by the time Ermengarde left they would both be with child.

  T E N

  WITH THE ENGLISH DELEGATION IN PALERMO, JOAN HAD expected her routine to change. She was disappointed. When William took Anfusus to Monreale, Ermengarde felt poorly and did not accompany her husband. No one thought to invite Joan.

  She did not attend supper with the court again until Christmas Day. Though the meal was sumptuously presented, the mood in the hall was subdued. Constance whispered that the guests needed time to recover from the previous night’s feast. Joan wondered if Constance had presided in the queen’s place on Christmas Eve.

  Ermengarde visited frequently, escorted each time by both Constance and Marguerite. It was as if they trusted neither Joan’s visitor nor each other. Ermengarde had not lost her talent for filling a room with chatter, but Joan learned no more about her family except that Eleanor was still her husband’s prisoner. Ermengarde provided that information with obvious discomfort, and the other women tactfully stared at their handiwork while Joan wiped her eyes.

  February arrived and, with it, favorable tides for setting sail from the island. Ermengarde came to say good-bye, accompanied by Queen Marguerite.

  “Where is Constance?” Joan asked, surprised.

  “She sends her regrets,” the queen mother said. “William asked her to accompany Lord Anfusus while he visits the silk workshop.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay long,” Ermengarde said, sallow from fatigue, her eyes red-rimmed. “There is much to do before we board. I feel so queasy, and Anfusus says it’s my own fault for insisting on coming.” She forced a smile. “I’d do it again though, lady.”

  Joan took her hand and squeezed it. She knew how awful sea travel could be when one felt ill. “Come into the garden. Have one last walk about in peace, on solid ground.” She glanced at Queen Marguerite, who appeared tired also. “Charisse,” she said, gesturing toward the queen, “lend your arm to my lady mother so we might all enjoy the garden.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll await you here.” Queen Marguerite moved to one of Joan’s cushioned benches. “My legs have swelled again. I can barely walk.”

  Joan quickly pulled a stool over to prop her mother-in-law’s feet, noting the grayness of her skin. “Are you feeling well, lady? If you like, we’ll stay inside.”

  “I’m fine. Go, walk.” She smiled weakly.

  Joan regarded her doubtfully. Was the queen more ill than she appeared? It was unlike Marguerite to yield to infirmity. Or was she wrong to believe Marguerite determined to listen to her every exchange with Ermengarde?

  “We will not be gone long. If you need anything—” Joan started to indicate Sati, but Marguerite interrupted.

  “Sati will attend you.” Marguerite spoke with the firmness of a command.

  Joan watched the girl lower her eyes and nod. Marguerite leaned back in her chair, a satisfied curve to her lips. It occurred to Joan that Sati was privy to everything that happened in her innermost chamber. And that the queen mother was uncannily well informed.

  Sati turned to follow her mistress but did not lift her chin or meet Joan’s gaze. It was impossible to read her expression.

  With a tilt of her head toward the doorway, Joan returned her attention to the open, uncomplicated Ermengarde. “Shall we?”

  Ermengarde smiled her assent. They descended the stairs, the maid in tow.

  “It’s so good to have a word alone with you,” Ermengarde murmured.

  Joan put her arm around Ermengarde’s waist, drawing her closer. She led her friend toward the fountain. It was plain, compared to others she’d seen in Sicily, but the water fed into a pool containing fish of all different colors. She liked to pretend the fish had been William’s idea.

  “Shall we sit?” she asked, pointing to the bench beside the fountain.

  “No. I want to walk. It’s only that I have an ache in my side. Queen Marguerite assures me it is nothing, just the baby growing.” She continued pacing.

  “What did you wish to talk about?” Joan asked. If this was nothing more than Ermengarde’s usual chatter, the queen mother would find no reason to criticize. Still, there might be something important in it. Had one of her brothers sent a message?

  Ermengarde’s face crumpled. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything. I wouldn’t dare, except I’ve lived with the shame for so long. I thought I could tell you, because you knew him. You’d understand. Besides, I can confess to you and not have to see it in your eyes every day.”

  Joan stared. What had she done? “Good heavens. Whatever it is, it can’t possibly be as terrible as you think.”

  “You…you asked about Lord Raymond.”

  Joan nodded.

  “I…I kissed him.”

  “You kissed him?”

  “He kissed me. Oh, Joan, it happened two years ago. Lord Raymond was in St. Gilles, and I…I cornered him in the garden. My father was giving me to a man I had never even seen. And I knew Raymond’s father would force him to marry another woman against his wishes.” Her voice softened. “Raymond looked so surprised and concerned to see me there without my maids. I don’t know how I ever found the courage to do it.”

  “No,” Joan breathed. “Nor do I.” She felt a knot in her stomach, admiration mixed with disapproval. And something else she couldn’t name.

  “I told him I didn’t want to marry Anfusus. And that if he took me—”

  “Ermengarde!” Her knees almost buckled. She remembered young Walter grabbing her in the stairwell with a similar plan. “Ermengarde, you didn’t!”

  “As soon as I said it, I wanted to die. All my life I’ve loved him. I never dared hope he might love me.”

  Joan didn’t know what to say. She turned her head, unable to look at her friend.

  “That’s when he kissed me. I’ll never forget it. I would have done anything…but he moved away. He looked anguished, or—oh, I don’t know. He said my brother is one of his closest friends. And we were betrothed to other people. He said he was sorry, but we shouldn’t be in the garden alone. He does love me; I am sure of it. But I’ll never see him again.”

  “It is better that you don’t,” Joan said, nauseated with confusion.

  “I know. His father would never let us marry. I’m fortunate to have Anfusus. And with this baby…oh, but, Joan. I’ll never forget how he kissed me. The look on his face. It’s so unfair.”

  “Life isn’t fair,” Joan mumbled, echoing her mother. It was the wrong thing to say. She hadn’t intended to sound so insensitive, but she felt angry with Ermengarde. She had a husband who doted on her, a station above what she might have expected. She had a baby in her womb. And she had been kissed with passion by a man who loved her. By Lord Raymond. Life wasn’t fair.

  Ermengarde wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand but made no answer. Ermengarde was speechless.

  Joan tried again. “I’m sorry. It must cause you gr
eat sorrow. I don’t know Lord Raymond well, but he seemed very kind. At least you can draw comfort from the fact that he loves you—too much to dishonor you.”

  “Anfusus must never know. They say he was always faithful to his previous wife, even after she fell so ill.” Ermengarde sighed raggedly. “And I think it would be hard to be wed to Lord Raymond. I doubt he could be faithful, even to a woman he loved.”

  “Is he truly so…wicked?”

  In a low voice, Ermengarde said, “He fathered two daughters after he remarried, with different women, neither his wife.”

  It was true what Mama said about men. And true that women were fools to love them.

  “You’ll be more content with Lord Anfusus.”

  “I’m glad I told you. It has weighed so heavily on my heart, but I could not confess to the priest.”

  “You were young and confused. It was a mistake, not a sin.” Joan doubted the words were convincing, though Ermengarde nodded and tried to smile. “Come, we should go back.”

  Arm in arm, they returned to Joan’s chamber and embraced one final time, bringing tears to Joan’s eyes. Ermengarde left with the queen mother.

  Sati’s deep voice sliced through the quiet. “You were kind to her, my lady.”

  Joan felt a slash of fear. Sati had heard her excuse Ermengarde for trying to give herself to a man she could never marry.

  Defensively, she snapped, “I don’t suppose the queen mother would approve.”

  Picking up a cup Marguerite had left beside her chair, Sati said, “It is your good fortune she does not know.”

  FIVE DAYS AFTER ERMENGARDE’S DEPARTURE, JOAN’S FLOW came a third time. So many weeks had passed she thought she might be with child, but Charisse said it was always so the first year. Until a girl’s body adjusted to womanhood, the intervals would be erratic.

  This time she ached deep in her belly and experienced a headache so severe she was forced to take to her bed for the better part of two days. Finally, she recovered, but did not return to lessons with Master Eugenius until her flux had ceased. As soon as she arrived, he began grumbling and set her to reading geography, knowing she hated it.