The Queen's Daughter

by Susan Coventry

  He sighed. “You are very intelligent, milady. I will give you your history lessons. But don’t blame me if you discover things you’d have rather not learned.”

  SICILIANS DID NOT WILT IN THE SUMMER. CONSTANCE, IN PAR ticular, seemed to have blossomed with the scarlet poppies that year, growing more pleasant and smiling more the hotter the weather.

  “Heat has not always made you so sullen. Did the summers feel milder at the Zisa?” she said, gently teasing. “Or perhaps you found them less stifling because you had greater freedom there?”

  It was true, though Joan had not appreciated it at the time—she’d been permitted free run of the Zisa and its gardens. Here she could not leave her apartments without her eunuch guards. Before she could consider how to respond, Constance continued, “Have a cool drink,” raising a hand to summon Sati. But when the maid brought the water pitcher forward, the princess shook her head. “No. That has been sitting out in this heat. Bring a new one.”

  Sati turned to Joan, one eyebrow arched in question. Water from the kitchens would be no cooler. Joan held back a huff of irritation. Constance often made unreasonable demands of the slaves. Yet the maid could not be permitted to give offense.

  “Go, Sati,” Joan said with a nod.

  The girl bowed, then bore the pitcher from the room.

  Constance smiled and took a bite of the honey cake Joan had offered. “This is delicious. Why aren’t you eating?”

  “It’s too hot for such heavy food.” It was too hot even to walk in the garden. They sat in the day chamber, curtains drawn against the sunlight. Fatima lazily swished a fan to stir the air.

  “Normans,” Constance laughed, with a toss of her head. “Are you still homesick?”

  “Sometimes.” And yet, where was home? Poitiers? Fontevrault Abbey? Sarum? She had been in Sicily for three and a half years. She had never lived in one place for so long before. Shouldn’t Sicily be home?

  “But…” Constance’s gaze shifted slightly. “You are not unhappy?”

  “Certainly not. What reason could I have to be unhappy?”

  In the nave of the Monreale cathedral Joan had almost been hurt by her husband; she had vowed it would not happen again.

  “You don’t find the king…neglectful?”

  “He’s busy, as a king should be.”

  “Yes, he is.” Constance smoothed her palms over her skirt. “Still, Queen Marguerite thinks he should make more time for you.”

  Marguerite had been hinting that Joan should make a greater effort to draw William’s attention. It had never occurred to her the woman might be putting similar pressure on her son. But she was not so naive as to discuss the queen mother’s maneuvering with the princess. One would have to be a fool to become entangled in their rivalry.

  “Although,” Constance continued, “if he neglected his other duties, she’d scold him for that too.” She settled back into her chair. “And you? Have you wearied yet of all Marguerite’s…advice?”

  Joan forced a smile. “I am always grateful for it.”

  Snickering, Constance said, “As am I.” Her brow puckered, and she leaned forward. “Dear, just remember that Marguerite has had a difficult life, and sometimes her own wishes are contradictory. If you try too hard to please her, you may find you’ve alienated her instead.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “A maiden shouldn’t speak of such things, but I worry…” Constance paused, stealing a glance over her shoulder, though they were alone but for Charisse and Fatima. “Joanna, who knows what Marguerite’s imagination might conjure? Especially if William were to begin spending more time with you. What if Marguerite were to think him too preoccupied with his pretty young wife?”

  “Hmph. That is hardly reason for concern.”

  Constance’s eyes narrowed. “Marguerite is jealous of her son’s time and attention. And please do not be offended, but…she is suspicious of your mother’s reputation.”

  “My mother—” Joan started to protest.

  “Bewitches men. Oh, I know it is all gossip and troubadours’ exaggeration, but Marguerite…well. Some days she complains you are too childish for William, but more often she moans that it was a mistake to marry her son to Eleanor’s daughter.”

  Joan fought to understand. A mistake to marry William to her because of Mama’s reputation? She knew her father had been unfaithful, but Mama?

  “Joanna.” Constance’s voice was gentle. “Don’t be frightened. You must simply demonstrate your youth and innocence when you are with William. Then he will have no cause to complain of you.”

  How much more innocent could he expect her to be? She knew she had not pleased him sufficiently. Was Constance saying that was a good thing? Clearly, Mama had not taught her enough about the politics of the bedchamber.

  “I…I don’t understand.”

  “It would set Marguerite’s mind at ease if you were more…reticent when William—”

  Sati walked into the room, her face smooth as a mask. Constance turned red, and her hands fluttered up from her lap. “No, of course you don’t understand. I’m speaking nonsense. And here is our water. It is cooler, I hope?”

  “Yes, lady,” Sati said huskily.

  Joan glanced from one to the other. Constance looked as though she’d been caught cheating at merels. What else had she intended to say before Sati returned? What would Sati report to Marguerite?

  JOAN ASKED HERSELF, HAD SHE EVER LOVED CHRISTMAS COURT?

  This year, fewer of the king’s subjects made the journey to Palermo, and William appeared even less interested in the festivities than usual. The court was distracted by a more momentous occasion than the anniversary of the Savior’s birth. William had decided—or had been informed by his familiares, the three head counselors of the realm (Bishop Palmer, Matthew of Ajello, the chief notary, and Caid Richard, the chamberlain)—that it was time he toured his domains. The king would leave following the feast of Epiphany, visiting Messina first and then the mainland. He was expected to be absent from Palermo for more than eight months.

  For Joan, remembering the constant movement of her father’s court, it didn’t seem strange William should make such a journey. Rather, it seemed strange that his leaving Palermo was deemed such an event.

  To her dismay, she learned she would not be permitted to accompany him but would instead be sent back to the Zisa for her own “restful retreat.” Marguerite said Sicilian women preferred the comforts of the palace to the rigors of travel. Politely, she had reminded Marguerite that she was quite accustomed to traveling and would not be discomforted. She wanted to see more of Sicily. Marguerite said she would be a distraction, and said it so coldly Joan saw she should have listened to Constance. Now the queen mother would be watching her even more suspiciously.

  How did they expect her to give him an heir?

  Once again, William caught her off guard. Four nights before his departure, he appeared at the door to her apartments. She had already changed from her gown into a nightdress, a shift of plain blue cotton.

  “My lord!” Joan gasped.

  Behind her, the women shuffled out of the way, tidying pillows and picking up strewn garments.

  “May I come in?” he asked, flushing slightly. “I should have sent word.”

  She stepped back to allow him entrance. Did a man need to send word to his wife? She couldn’t imagine her father sending a courier around to her mother when he wanted to lie with her. She must be one of the duties he needed to attend to before his tour began. Irritation put sap in her veins.

  “Come in, sire.” She turned on her heel and led him into her bedchamber, past the bowing handmaidens.

  When they stepped into her chamber, she took a deep breath and considered. She must make him desire her without appearing wanton. If only she had known he was coming. She hadn’t bathed or painted her face. She probably looked like an English shepherdess. Now what should she do? What did his slaves at the Cuba do to tempt him?

 
“Shall I help you with your tunic, sire?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your…” she gestured to his clothes. She’d have to unwind his girdle first, she supposed.

  “Oh. No.” He began undressing. She pictured herself sitting at his feet and yanking off his boots—the thought was so ridiculous she almost snorted. She had to look away.

  But what would he think? She forced herself to look at him again. He was staring at the wall, absently untying the laces of his leggings. Whatever he was thinking about, it wasn’t her embarrassment. His mind was not even in the room.

  “My lord? Shall I close the shutters? Are you chilled?”

  “Pardon?” He seemed almost to startle at the sound of her voice.

  “The shutters? Shall I close them?”

  “Are you cold?”

  “I asked if you were.”

  “No. No.” He pulled off his hose. “Lie down, Joanna. The bed will be warmer.”

  Again he wore his long undershirt and allowed her to keep her nightdress on. But when he lay down beside her and lifted their clothes, his skin felt clammy.

  He hadn’t asked for wine, but she smelled it on his breath; he was breathing through his mouth as if ill with catarrh. Then he grunted hard through his nose, and an efflux of blood spilled onto her shoulder and pillow.

  “Oh!” Joan grabbed the girdle draped across her footboard and pressed it to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as the nurse used to do when John suffered nosebleeds. William’s face was pale, with purplish crescents beneath his closed eyes. For a moment, with his head pressed against her breast, she felt a wave of tenderness.

  At last the hemorrhage ceased. Color came back to his face. William rose from the bed, arms and legs graceless. He wadded up the bloodied cloth and stuffed it into the hearth fire, sending a sickeningly sweet cloud of smoke into the air.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. His gruff voice now sounded far away. “I frightened you.”

  “No. I wasn’t…” She should have admitted to fright. What else was there? Disgust? Pity?

  They looked away from each other, half dressed, their business unfinished and neither about to suggest they start again.

  William cleared his throat. “I will be leaving soon. For Messina.”

  “Yes.” She wondered if she dare ask him for permission to accompany the tour.

  “When I return you will be…a little older.”

  Joan flushed. God help them. She was no temptress. And he could not exert himself without bleeding from the nose. She could imagine Mama and Papa throwing up their hands in disgust. She no longer wanted to go with him. She wanted him gone.

  T W E L V E

  JOAN SIGHED AND FLIPPED THE CLOTH SHE WAS EMBROIDERING to check the tension of the thread. Constance had spent many lengthy hours providing companionship. The princess’s deft fingers could create peacocks and lions, but Joan contented herself with simple repetitive patterns.

  She was having a hard time concentrating. For two lonely years she had been living at the Zisa as though in exile. Thoughts of William filled her head. He had eventually returned to the capital after his eight-month tour, but no one ever bothered to recall her to the palace. Nor had her husband seen fit to visit her. Banished from his company, how was she supposed to fulfill the duty of a queen?

  She drew a breath, feeling her face grow warm. For the past few months she had been dreaming of her husband. But sometimes it was not William. She did not know what rumors were whispered about her mother, yet it shamed her to think wantonness might truly run in her blood.

  She glanced at Charisse, hoping she had not attracted scrutiny with her sighing and blushing, but the maid’s nose was buried in her own needlework. They were otherwise alone, seated in the main hall on the second floor with its large windows where they might enjoy the view back toward the city. Luxury no longer overwhelmed her, and this was the best of the palace’s rooms.

  Fatima entered, smiling. “My lady,” she said in labored French, “Master Eugenius has come.”

  “God be praised!” Joan exclaimed, springing from her chair. Her tutor had been ill for a month—or claimed to be. More likely he had been ill-tempered.

  She hurried down the stairs and passed through the damp Fountain Room to the small antechamber Eugenius still preferred. Whatever brought him back, he was welcome.

  He rose as she entered.

  “My lady.” He bowed. His hair was thinning, yet as artificially black, sleek, and olive-scented as ever.

  “Master, I see you are better. I’m glad.”

  “Huh. You see what you wish to see. One does not recover from old age.”

  She smiled, knowing enough to flatter his vanity. “You’re not old. What have you brought?” She gestured at a leather satchel on the table. He stepped forward, blocking her from reaching it.

  “The archbishop received a letter from England. He allowed me to copy a portion.”

  “Oh! Oh, Eugenius!” Joan could hardly catch her breath. News of home! She rubbed her itchy palms against her skirt, then tried to step around him. He held up his hand.

  “In a moment, lady. That news is old; it will keep. I have other that is bitter.”

  “Bitter?” Not trusting her legs, she turned and sat in the closest chair.

  “Concerning Constantinople.”

  “Ah.” Only more about the Greek Empire. “Tell me.”

  “The young emperor and his mother have been overthrown. By a cousin of the late Emperor Manuel Comnenus, a man named Andronicus Comnenus. He killed them all—Emperor Alexius, his mother, even Princess Maria and her husband.”

  William might have been Maria’s husband.

  She murmured, “So, this Andronicus is now emperor? What does it mean?”

  “It means a cruel, craven man is in control. His first action was to incite the Greeks to massacre the Latins in the city. A shortsighted prejudice, and unfortunate for the empire. It has earned him the enmity of all of the West, especially the French king.”

  “Philip?” She searched her memory for anything she’d heard about Philip’s involvement with the East. Eugenius always told her she should be more conversant with the politics of the Eastern Empire, but he was a Greek. In truth, she cared less about Constantinople than Poitou.

  “His sister Agnes had been betrothed to Alexius.”

  Her stomach sank. “Did Andronicus kill her, too?”

  “Worse. He wedded her. She is only twelve years old and he more than sixty, but they say he made the marriage true.”

  Joan hid her face in her hands, sick with pity. “What will King Philip do?”

  “Do? Nothing. He is too busy with your father and your brothers. Read the letter. I will leave it with you.” Eugenius reached for his cloak, hung over one of the chairs.

  “You won’t stay?” she asked, rising to her feet. She would have welcomed more conversation.

  “I cannot, lady. The night air chills my chest. I had hoped to come earlier, but the roads were still muddy from last night’s rain, and it smells of more to come.”

  He draped himself in the heavy cloak. His face was craggier than she remembered, and his chest had grown thin. Rain never used to keep him from the Zisa.

  As he bowed to take his leave, Joan reached for his arm. “Thank you, Master. I appreciate you remembering me.”

  “Huh,” he said, hunching his shoulders. “You’re not forgotten here, though you like to complain it is so.”

  She withdrew her hand and pouted. Only Eugenius would scold her for trying to be kind—Eugenius and Mama. Kindness was weakness.

  As soon as the door closed, she snatched the letter from the bag. He had copied the portion he thought would be most interesting to her, but out of context it took a few starts before she got her bearings.

  Richard’s unruly vassals had taken up arms again. Two of the most quarrelsome, the Angoulême brothers, found a new grievance and rebelled, allying with Aimar of Limoges.

  Limoges. For a moment, memory t
ransported her back to the Limousin castle where John’s betrothal had been announced. She had once harbored such childish hopes—her parents’ reconciliation, her brothers’ more honorable behavior—all dashed by young Lord Raymond’s revelation. The same Lord Raymond who wanted Ermengarde but could not have her, the same lord who sometimes visited her dreams.

  Joan forced her concentration to the page.

  Richard drove the disloyal brothers from the Angoulême; but they had powerful friends in the region, all of whom disliked him. The Angoulême brothers, seeing they could not defeat Richard, fell back on a more devious plan. They appealed to King Philip, calling him the rightful overlord of the French lands. And Philip, the snake, accepted their homage.

  Joan drew her arms tight across her chest and read on, knowing what was to come. Papa would not accept France’s interference. Sure enough, in May, the king brought his own forces to join Richard’s and ordered Henry to help his brother as well.

  Joan skimmed the rest to be sure those she loved had not been hurt. Richard and Papa would win, but it left her uneasy. Henry had been friendly with King Philip and many of the disloyal barons. How did he feel about being ordered to fight against his overlord and allies? She knew him. He would be disgruntled. And how would it affect Richard to discover how much he still relied upon his father’s strength? She knew this answer, also.

  Papa would lord it over him, and Richard would not be grateful. He would be enraged.

  DURING WHAT JOAN HAD COME TO CONSIDER HER EXILE, Constance was a regular companion, but the queen mother had visited infrequently. When she did, Joan noticed how little she could walk without resting, how short of breath she became when she talked. Marguerite had not been to the Zisa at all for the last several months.

  Constance assured Joan the illness was not serious but admitted that, in the summer past, William had summoned a consultant from Salerno, where the best physicians learned their skills.

  Throughout autumn, Constance said little about Marguerite. Joan grew even more anxious. Then, on the first of December, the queen mother arrived in a litter, followed by two empty wains.