The Queen's Daughter

by Susan Coventry

Joan waited in the Fountain Room while a man dressed in black with a long white beard escorted Marguerite inside. Joan embraced her. She was not as plump, but her flesh felt doughy. Still, she could walk and her skin was pink.

  “Lady mother, I am so pleased to see you. You look well.”

  “I feel better.” She waved her arm to indicate the man she’d brought, who stood a few feet behind her. “This is Genuold, my physician. He agreed to talk with you.”

  “With me?”

  Queen Marguerite nodded and gestured for him to step forward.

  Genuold approached Joan and stretched out his hand. When she extended her own, instead of bowing and kissing her fingertips, he took it, spread her fingers, examined her nails, and, to Joan’s horror, sniffed her palm.

  She pulled away. “What in God’s name…?”

  Genuold smiled, crinkling his eyes at her, before whirling to face Marguerite. “She looks sound. Thin, yes, but I believe that is constitutional. Her flesh is not wasted.”

  “And the other?”

  “The other?” Joan interrupted. Her face flushed with embarrassment, but anger lurked just behind. They had been discussing her health?

  The physician continued to talk as though she were not there. “Most likely she was merely too young.”

  “Perhaps,” Marguerite conceded, turning toward her, chin up and eyes slanted down. “William wants you back at the palace. You are no longer a child. You have responsibilities and cannot continue to hide.”

  “Hide?” Eleanor of Aquitaine’s daughter did not shirk her duty. Joan drew herself up tall. “I did not ask to be sent here.”

  Marguerite’s chest heaved. When she spoke, her voice bit like a dagger. “William said he felt like a monster when he tried to take you to bed. Constance says you complained of being a prisoner at the palace. You refused to eat—”

  “That is absurd!” She wanted to refute the charges but managed only to insist, “I never refused to eat.”

  Genuold chuckled, risking their wrath.

  “If she was a child,” he said gently, “it is clear that she is no longer. Look at her, a rose in bloom. I suggest simply putting the two of them together. Your concerns will soon disappear.”

  As the anger on Marguerite’s face slowly subsided, Joan noticed the wrinkling of the skin beneath the paint, the filminess of the queen mother’s eyes. She was old.

  Mama would be growing old also.

  “You must come back to the Royal Palace,” Marguerite said, the haughtiness gone. She sounded resigned, which was worse.

  JOAN WAS SEVENTEEN NOW. BY TACIT AGREEMENT, NO ONE would treat her as a child, and she would not use youth as an excuse.

  Throughout the winter, William came to her bedchamber every two weeks, except on feast days or during her flux. She learned that he would talk if she asked about the cathedral. With the structure finally complete, Pope Lucius signed a charter granting Monreale archiepiscopal status. Archbishop Walter could do nothing but admit defeat. William began commissioning the mosaics he had so long desired.

  Speaking of the cathedral animated his face in a way that made him doubly handsome, but after a few minutes he would always stop abruptly, as if remembering his purpose. He would glance absently around the room, then offer her wine and drink a cup whether she accepted or not. Wordlessly, he would undress. He never kissed her and never spent the night in her chamber. After the first reunion, her wicked dreams ceased altogether. At least she now knew wantonness was not one of her faults.

  She did her best to please him, but as soon as the winter rains ceased and spring’s sun dried the grounds, he began hunting again and all but abandoned her bed.

  EVERY MORNING AFTER PRAYERS, CONSTANCE AND MARGUERITE came to her apartments to stitch and talk—endless inconsequential prattle. In Marguerite’s company, Constance had become sour-tempered again. They were barely capable of civility to one another, disagreeing about everything from yesterday’s supper to which bird produced the song coming from the garden. Joan could not understand why they picked at each other over issues so petty, especially as it became clear that Marguerite’s health was failing again. Couldn’t Constance be more accommodating, for charity’s sake?

  The beginning of June’s new moon coincided with the arrival of visitors to Palermo from Ravenna, one of William’s fiefs on the mainland. Dancers performed at supper. From the corner of her eye, Joan watched the way they rolled their hips in front of William. He didn’t come to her chamber that night, but did the next.

  “How are the mosaics progressing?” she asked.

  “Well,” he said, unwrapping his girdle.

  “Have they finished the apse as you’d hoped?”

  “Not yet.” He sat heavily on the bed beside her. His face was drawn. “I know this is unpleasant for you, but we must—”

  Joan’s mouth dried, and her eyes moistened. Had he been staying away for her sake? “I know. I don’t mind, truly.”

  He grunted, flushing. Turning from her, he stood and pulled off his tunic.

  She reclined and waited for him to lie on top of her. He squeezed her breast, stopped, started again, and stopped. He rolled away from her and sat up. Elbows on his thighs, he pressed his head into his hands.

  She understood: He could not lie with her. The thought both offended and terrified her.

  “William?” she whispered.

  He looked at her, face empty of expression. “What is it?”

  “I want to please you, but I don’t know how.”

  He groaned. She had said the wrong thing.

  “You please me well enough.” He heaved to his feet. As he pulled his tunic back over his undergarment, he said, “I shouldn’t have come tonight. I have too much on my mind.”

  “Will you talk to me?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he sat back down. She leaned forward, watching his face.

  “What is troubling you?”

  “Do you know anything of Constantinople?”

  Aware she was being patronized, she said, “Andronicus Comnenus seized the throne. He slaughtered the ruling family and married the young French princess.”

  His eyebrows rose. “How was he able to succeed?”

  “The Greeks were tired of being ruled by emperors with Western sentiments. They saw Andronicus as one of their own.”

  “Yes,” William said, scratching his leg. “Yes. Who discusses these things with you? Not Constance?”

  “Constance?” She tried not to snicker. “No. My tutor, Master Eugenius.”

  “Ah, Eugenius.” A smile flitted across William’s face. “A clever Greek. Supercilious, though.”

  “Yes.” She smiled back. “Why are your thoughts turned to Constantinople this evening?”

  “A nephew of the late Emperor Manuel Comnenus has come to Sicily, named Alexius, like the murdered son. He’s in Naples now, trying to raise support for his bid for the throne. He will likely come to Palermo next.”

  During her history lessons, Eugenius had once said William regretted his father’s military losses in Tunis and hoped one day to return Sicily to the glory of his grandfather’s days. Had William even greater ambitions in the Mediterranean? Did William see a role for Sicily as far as Constantinople? Joan examined her husband, trying to see him differently.

  “Will you help him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do your advisers say?”

  Eugenius had explained how William governed with a heavy reliance on many advisers. The most important were his three familiares. Bishop Palmer spoke for the Church, but unlike Archbishop Walter, Richard Palmer understood that the interests of the Sicilian Church were best served by preserving a strong Sicilian kingdom. Matthew of Ajello was the chief notary and had been since the reign of William’s father. Eugenius grudgingly admitted that Matthew was a brilliant man. During a time of great unrest in the previous reign, all the land registers had been maliciously destroyed. It should have meant chaos, since all grants, charters, and taxes w
ere officially recorded in the registers. But Matthew reconstructed them all from memory. Caid Richard, the chamberlain, was the final member of the trio. He was a baptized Saracen. Although Eugenius did not hold him in high regard, Joan suspected this was because the previous chamberlain had absconded with part of the treasury, renounced his baptism, and gone to join an infidel army. Eugenius did not trust any baptized infidels.

  William shrugged off her question. “Different things. They know a hundred different ways to avoid saying yes or no.”

  He didn’t ask her opinion, but she gave it anyway. “The empire is divided. Alexius is asking out of weakness. You would be aiding him from strength. Who will have the power when Alexius sits the throne?”

  A shadow passed between them as his expression grew thoughtful. “But if we lose?”

  “Alexius loses. Not Sicily.”

  “Hmmm.” William rubbed the same spot on his leg. “That is an interesting way to look at it.” He stood and tossed his girdle over his shoulder.

  “Well?” she asked as he walked to the door, “Are you going to aid Alexius?”

  “I don’t know.” He opened it. “Good night, Joanna.”

  Faintheart, she thought. He would not take Constantinople.

  If God did grant her a son, she would not bring him up in Palermo among eunuchs, churchmen, and clerks, but send him to Richard to learn to be a true Norman king. She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. If she had a son.

  AT MIDSUMMER, SATI’S REPORT OF THE UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL of an English embassy filled Joan with misgivings. When she heard the name of the ambassador, Sir Robert of Chenowith, she fainted dead away from fear.

  It was a miserable experience, fainting, like being swallowed whole by a beast, too exhausted to fight. She woke with both elbows bruised and a knot on the back of her head. Charisse dabbed her face with a wet cloth. When Joan tried to push it away, her hand fell back on the pillow.

  “Steady, lady,” Charisse warned.

  “Someone is dead.”

  “Queen Joanna,” Sati said, resonating calm, “the king has summoned you. You must be strong.”

  Charisse and Sati escorted Joan to her husband. She had never been in the throne room before. Standing around the perimeter were a few noblemen she did not recognize, two scribes wearing ink pots in slings, several eunuch guards with sheathed swords, and Caid Richard. Mosaics covered the vault and upper walls, depicting gardens and orchards, exotic predators and prey, creatures of myth. The same skill that had gone into the Palatine Chapel had been applied here, but with its secular theme, the results were startlingly different. In her fear, she felt she’d stepped into a peculiarly beautiful nightmare.

  William took her by the arm and led her to side-by-side golden chairs. Despite its burnished glow, the seat felt hard and cold.

  He sat in the larger chair. To Joan’s surprise, he laid his hand over hers. “Bring in the messengers.”

  Sir Robert walked slowly into the room with two other men, who held back while Robert approached and bowed low. Joan stared at his clenched hands.

  “Sire, Queen Joan, I deeply regret bearing this news.”

  William nodded and said gruffly, “Say what needs to be said.”

  “Lady, the young king is dead.”

  “Henry?” Her eyes welled with tears. Her throat tightened. Yet she thought, Thank God. Not Richard. Not Mama or Papa. “How?”

  “A fever.”

  “Oh.” It was not so terrible. Innocent death was God’s will.

  “There is more. He had been at war with your father. The whole realm was at war. The young king threw in his lot with King Philip and the southern French rebels. They have devastated Aquitaine, desecrated churches. A great many good men perished.” He halted. “It was as if the devil possessed him.”

  “Where…where was Richard?”

  “With your father.”

  Her chest cramped. Even drawing breath hurt, yet she had known. “He was a fool to fight them together.”

  “He almost won,” Robert said bitterly. “It was a hard-fought war. The young king’s adherents nearly killed the king twice, once in ambush and once while peace negotiations were in progress. Your father was more aggrieved by their dishonor than—” Robert bit his thumbnail. “When Henry fell ill, the king could not believe but that it was another trick. Only too late did he realize…”

  Joan could not think of her father’s grief and be strong. “Tell me they reconciled,” she begged, tears spilling over.

  “The king sent his ring as token. Your brother knew what he had done. At the last, he tried to atone, dying in a hair shirt, curled on the floor. He gave his possessions to the priest who shrove him.” Robert’s voice broke. “Except your father’s ring.” I know the young king. He would carve a path through his own ranks to let you pass through. Poor Henry. People said he had the most generous spirit of all her brothers. Papa called him the weak one. “He died clutching it to his heart.”

  “Papa,” she moaned. Above all, he had loved his sons. He loved her, too, yet she had not kissed him when they parted. For Mama’s sake. “Did someone tell my mother?”

  “The king sent word.”

  Of course. As he had sent Robert to her.

  Her terrible brothers. Why couldn’t she hate them? Papa said hatred would ruin her, but love was no better.

  William dismissed him. “Thank you. I’ll speak with you again.” He stood and put his arm around Joan, drawing her to her feet. “Come, Joanna. We’ll bring your grief before God.”

  He took her to the Palatine Chapel, where they were met by the queen mother, Constance, and Bishop Palmer. The bishop took her hand and drew her to an altar bright with candlelight and sharply scented with burning wax. She had never thought him a godly man until that moment, when he knelt with her to pray. He asked the Lord’s forgiveness upon Henry, and asked Him to heal her father’s grieving heart. He prayed for her comfort, and peace for England and Aquitaine. When he finished, his cheeks were damp.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “War is a terrible thing. So much misery for so little purpose. Sicily is blessed with King William.”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding toward her husband, who seemed rattled by the mention of his name.

  “More blessed still when the succession is secure,” Marguerite said.

  Richard Palmer turned and said balefully, “In God’s time, lady. Not yours.”

  Joan felt glad to see Marguerite flinch at the rebuke and pitied William, whose eyes were cast down. He said, “Joanna, I’m sorry. I…I lost my brother also.”

  “Thank you.” It was awkward comfort, yet comfort nevertheless. She was not alone in Sicily. Though they did not brandish love as a sword, as her family did, perhaps it was better to love coldly rather than to burn so hot.

  “I’ll see you to your chamber, if you wish,” he offered hesitantly.

  Before she could accept, Constance said, “I’ll take her, poor child. My lord, you’ve got more important business to attend.”

  AS MUCH AS SHE WANTED TO SEE SIR ROBERT, JOAN COULD NOT go to supper. At daybreak, her grief was still too raw, and she remained in her room. But word came from William—he was going to Monreale. If mourning permitted, would she like to accompany him?

  During the journey, Charisse wept with her while Sati handed them handkerchiefs and poured sips of wine. By the time they reached Monreale, Joan felt calmer.

  William helped her climb from the litter. “I want you to see the mosaics in the apse. A wall of saints. The first panel is nearly complete.” He marched up the stairs of the north porch. She developed a stitch in her side keeping up with him and wished she had drunk a little less.

  It was darker in the cathedral than she remembered, but of course, the roof was now complete above their heads. William looked back at her and smiled, beckoning for her to hurry.

  She crossed the floor, crunching discarded bits of colored glass beneath her feet. Masons’ dust stung her nostrils. Ap
proaching the apse, she slowed. Figures of saints in various stages of completion dappled the walls. William gazed upon one in particular: a likeness of Archbishop Becket. Half smiling, William turned.

  “What does this mean?” she demanded.

  “It is Saint Thomas,” he said. His forehead crinkled.

  “I have eyes. I can see who it is.” She had watched her father flogged because of Becket’s treachery. If the physical resemblance were not insult enough, his name was emblazoned above the image. Her breath came fast. Too fast. And then she could not breathe at all.

  Charisse caught her as her knees buckled, and cupped her hands over Joan’s nose and mouth. Lights flashed and receded into darkness. But as she inhaled her own warm exhalations, her head slowly cleared. She glared up at William. “Why did you do this?”

  “I…I thought…Constance said—” He stopped. His skin looked gray. “Joanna, I must have misunderstood.”

  “What is there to misunderstand? He betrayed my father! He was a liar, a hypocrite—”

  “Joan!” Charisse put a hand on her shoulder. “Lady, shush. You are distraught.”

  William bent over her. “He has been canonized. You mustn’t profane his memory in my cathedral.”

  “You shouldn’t have put a devil in your cathedral. It will be cursed. I curse your damn cathedral!”

  William slapped her cheek, so gently she doubted he’d left a mark. Joan tucked her feet beneath her and stood. She couldn’t bear him another minute.

  “I’m going back to the palace.”

  “I think you should wait—”

  “You are the stupidest man who ever drew breath! Why should I care what you think?”

  She hated his wrinkled brow, the confusion in his eyes. The blackguard had hit her! And she hated him because even his blows were weak.

  WORD OF THEIR QUARREL SPREAD QUICKLY. OF COURSE, SHE was faulted. Sympathy for her grief was short-lived; Sicilian sentiment held that the English princes were the devil’s own sons and whatever ends they achieved they no doubt deserved.

  Although not strictly confined to her apartments, there was little cause for her to go elsewhere. William spoke no more than a formal greeting at supper. The ladies of the court, even Constance, treated her frostily. Queen Marguerite, who might have mediated, could not. Almost at once, she had taken ill and was bedridden.