In late September, when Joan thought things could get no worse, a messenger appeared at her door.
“You must come at once. The queen mother is dying.”
She took in Marguerite’s chamber at a glance, its walls and furnishings gray in the semidarkness. Dust swirled in the faint shaft of light seeping through a gap in the curtains. The air stank of illness. In a vase next to the door, flowers crumbled.
Marguerite lay in bed. Her face was bloated, her hair dull, her eyes closed. William, pale and red-eyed, sat in a chair by her bedside, holding her hand. Constance stood near the window, clutching a handkerchief.
“Joanna,” William said. “Mother, Joanna is here.”
Marguerite’s eyelids opened. “Good,” she whispered. “Good.”
Joan drew closer. Marguerite pulled her hand from that of her son.
“Remember your promise.”
He swallowed convulsively. “Yes, Mother.”
“I’ll speak with Joanna.”
“Yes, but I’ll come back.”
He beckoned to Constance, who followed him slowly. Joan knelt beside Marguerite.
“Lady?”
“End your quarrel.”
“The quarrel is over, if William will pardon me.”
“You are good.”
Joan’s lashes fluttered down. No, she was not. She’d been filled with resentment and plots of revenge.
“Constance said…Becket…you admired—”
“Oh, Lady Mother, it doesn’t matter. Truly it doesn’t.”
“It does.” Her eyes opened wide. She wheezed, “I should…before…but he promised.”
“What promise?”
“She must marry…far away…” Marguerite shut her eyes. Her chest rose and fell.
Joan’s heart ached. How terrible it was to be a royal woman. No doubt Constance would rather have been wed long ago than be kept in reserve as insurance against the young queen’s failure. And poor Marguerite. She had likely married the monstrous old king against her will.
She pressed her cheek to Marguerite’s cold hand; the queen mother’s chest had stopped moving. Joan knew she should summon William but could not. As her tears wet Marguerite’s sleeve, she thought: Who will hold Mama’s hand?
Who would hold her own, when her time came?
T H I R T E E N
KING WILLIAM WITHDREW TO HIS APARTMENTS, SEEING NO one but the familiares and then only to discuss funeral preparations. Constance was no better, escaping to the Zisa with her maids.
It was left to Joan to preside over the mourners who came to pay their respects, a more difficult task than she had imagined. As Eugenius cynically commented, if they must make the trip, they would bring their grievances along. Despite his prejudices, Joan relied heavily on her tutor for insight into the requests of the petitioners as well to what motivated the familiares’ responses.
Then Tancred of Lecce asked for an audience. The bald, overdressed man kissed her fingertips with clammy lips and held on longer than he should. He said the count of Acerra had asked him to intercede in gaining Princess Constance’s hand in marriage for his heir, a boy of eighteen. Making eyes at her, he said he was sure the king would look favorably upon the request.
Joan intended to refuse; but to her surprise, all three familiares and Eugenius also ardently opposed the match. Perversely, perhaps because it was the first time all four had taken an identical stand, she wavered. The loyalty of Acerra was questionable, but wasn’t that why such matches were made? The only thing that mattered to Joan was that Acerra was in Sicily. They wouldn’t have to send Constance away. Couldn’t the others consider Constance’s best interests?
She decided to take the question to William herself and discover exactly what his promise to Marguerite had been.
He agreed to see her—his mother must have also told him to mend their rift. A page opened the door, leaving as soon as she entered. The curtains were drawn, and it was hard to see by the light of the single oil lamp.
William rose from his chair to greet her but did not seem to be standing fully upright. His tunic was a dull brown and rumpled as if he had been wearing it a long time.
“Joanna, thank you for coming.”
Thank you? This was not a comfort call. Had he expected her sooner?
“My lord, how are you faring?”
William sighed, turning up his palms. “I owed her everything. I didn’t do nearly enough.”
“I suspect every son would say the same. That is the nature of mothers and sons.”
“Perhaps. But I always fell short of her expectations.”
Shaking her head, she said, “I doubt that, William.”
“It would have been nice,” he said wistfully, “if she had seen a grandchild born.”
“Oh!” Joan fell back a step, as if he had stabbed her.
“No, Joanna, no. I didn’t mean…” He lifted a hand toward her, then dropped it, the helpless gesture magnified in the elongated shadow on the wall. “I never say the right thing to you.”
She let her breath out slowly. No, he never did, but her words had been equally thoughtless at times. “I…I’m sorry for what I said…in the cathedral.”
“The error was mine.” He sighed so heavily he seemed to be taking blame for more than the inappropriate mosaic.
Joan walked closer. Thomas Becket was revered throughout Christendom. How could William have known she yet bore a grudge when even her father had forgiven his foe? “We should put it behind us. Your mother would want—”
He made a noise deep in his throat. “What did she say?”
“She hadn’t time to say much except that we should end our quarrel. And that you promised to see Constance married.”
“I will.”
“But must you banish her?”
His mouth fell open.
Joan continued in a rush. “Couldn’t she marry a Sicilian baron? Forgive me, but your mother was too influenced by the past. Surely you see no threat from Constance.”
“No,” he murmured, shaking his head, looking at the floor.
“The count of Acerra has asked for her for his son.”
“Acerra? No. That won’t do.”
“Acerra seems far enough away to me.”
He raised his head. “Would you have me break an oath sworn to my mother on her deathbed?”
The lamp flickered, and they both glanced toward it.
Letting out a long breath, she answered, “Of course not.”
The curtains shifted with a breeze that became trapped in the folds. For the first time since she had entered his chamber, William straightened.
“I promised my mother I would send Constance from Sicily.”
He would not accept Acerra. But perhaps she could still keep Constance close awhile longer.
“You will not exile her immediately, will you?”
Averting his eyes once more, he said, “There is no hurry. But she must be wed.”
TWICE, JOAN WENT TO THE ZISA AND WAS TURNED AWAY by Constance’s maids. The third time, she demanded they admit her. Constance was sullen at first, but Joan talked gently of nothing until, worn down, the princess dissolved into tears.
“Joanna, forgive me. I thought you…she said you wanted to be rid of me. I should have known.” She wept harder, while Joan stared in disbelief. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been able to think. William does not respond to my messages. All I know is you will banish me.”
“It is not my will.” Joan thought she would break apart with pity. When Constance’s tears subsided, she said, “Come. Let’s take a walk in the garden.”
They exited through the side door into the vast pleasure garden. They walked along winding paths and passed several tucked-away benches but did not stop to sit. Perhaps the garden was not such a good idea. It was November, and most of the plants were dormant, with leaves spotted or brown.
Joan broached the topic with caution. “Have you never thought of marriage?”
“Of course I’ve though
t of it.”
“Is there no one who interests you?” She felt certain William would take Constance’s wishes into account.
Turning half toward her, Constance said, “The duke of Aquitaine.”
“Richard?” Her voice was a high, wavering thread. “He is already betrothed.”
“I’m joking. He sounds barbaric. Yet I can see you’re none too anxious to share him.”
It was not a question of sharing Richard—he would always love his sister best. Lifting her chin, Joan said, “He is the most courteous man alive.”
“I didn’t mean to offend. I’m merely demonstrating that my wishes count for nothing.”
Whose did? After discussing several possibilities with William and his advisers, Joan had decided the fault did not lie with the suitors. Richard Palmer seemed to block his ears whenever any of the others spoke. Matthew of Ajello and Archbishop Walter disagreed about everything on principle. Caid Richard thought the princess should return to the convent, a position he reiterated each time anyone suggested a match. She’d even solicited Eugenius’s opinion, but he’d stared at her with the flat, uninterested eyes of a fish and said he wasn’t a matchmaker.
Constance’s husband would never be chosen by committee. The only way to see her married would be for William to make a decision and stand firm.
“Constance, you needn’t be so glum,” she said, with too much irritation to be comforting. “You won’t be banished anytime soon.”
OVER TIME, THE KING PUT ASIDE HIS GRIEF, RETURNING TO THE chapel, the counsel chamber, hunting, and finally, the conjugal bed. He spoke to Joan more often now, a consequence, she supposed, of the death of his mother and absence of the princess. Whether he listened to her, she couldn’t say.
“William?” She had come up with the perfect solution to Constance’s quandary and was impatient to discuss it.
Two weeks ago, in early March, the long-awaited Alexius Comnenus had arrived at court. A handsome man a few years younger than William, he had fierce eyes and a curled mustache that Joan thought made him look wicked. Yet his voice had been soft, even tremulous, as he presented his case before the throne: Andronicus did not deserve to be emperor. He tortured opponents before killing them. Until marrying the child princess, he had lived in open sin with his own niece.
Alexius reminded them sternly that King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem was a boy and a leper, and that in the Christian states that had been established in the Holy Land internal dissension was rife despite the constant threat of infidel aggression. It was rumored that Andronicus had made overtures to the Saracen war chief, Saladin, and it was feared he might betray his Christian neighbors.
“What if Constance married Alexius?”
William rose to dress without replying, his face peevish. Perhaps she should have given him a moment, but if she waited too long he would be hurrying to leave, and she would lose her chance to make him talk.
“Think of it, William!” Alexius had no army of his own. If Sicily’s army conquered Andronicus, William might name his choice of emperor. Sicily’s king would be the true power behind Alexius and Constance. Moreover, William, a Roman Christian, would unify the peoples in the neighboring crusader states in a way the Greek Andronicus could not. “Sicily would not only gain control over the Greek empire, but prominence over all of Jerusalem and the Holy Land.” She had been thinking of it for a fortnight. It was a plan worthy of Queen Eleanor.
Pulling his silk tunic over his undershirt, William said, “I am considering aiding Alexius. How could I not give it every consideration? But he is not the right man for Constance.”
“Then no one is right,” she grumbled, slapping her hands against the sheet. “What is wrong with Alexius? She will be an empress!”
“No.”
“Why don’t you at least ask Constance? Bring her here to see him.”
“Joanna! I have said no.”
The vehemence of his voice startled her into silence. He sat to pull on his stockings, avoiding her stare.
“But you haven’t said why.”
He sighed, one hand on his thigh, then stood. The tunic brushed his stockinged feet as he cast about for his slippers.
“There,” Joan said, pointing beside her bed table. “William, I’m willing to accept your judgment. I simply wish you would explain to me why.”
He plucked up his slippers and faced her. “Alexius has nothing but promise.”
“But if Sicily commits to aiding—”
“It will come to naught if we lose.”
Joan fumed. “Had your grandfather prefaced his engagements with ‘but if we lose,’ Sicily would still be in the hands of the Saracens. My father never began a war in his life, trembling to think ‘if we lose…’”
William’s face slackened. Joan could not tell if he was wounded, considering her words, or merely wondering where his girdle had fallen. It was exasperating being married to a man who would not fight.
“Make the betrothal conditional.” This seemed an even better plan. “If we win—”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said, shaking his head. “The familiares will never consent to Alexius.”
“Why?” The question died in her throat. Her blood turned to ice. Because the queen is barren. Sicily must not be given to the Eastern Empire.
“What are they saying?” she demanded. Infuriated by his startled expression, she grabbed the cup at her bedside and threw it. Wine splotched his tunic; he stared at the stain, crestfallen. “Have they told you to put me aside?”
He clutched his slippers close to his chest, eyes rolling upward with resignation. “They cannot even find a husband for Constance. Do you think they could agree upon a new wife for me?”
“Send me home to my father. They’ll find you a new wife quick enough. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Of course not.”
“Why?” She felt perched on the edge of a precipice, as though her very life hinged upon his response.
He answered without irony. “A different marriage could be worse.”
If he had spoken maliciously she might have borne it, but William was not a man who ever teased, for cruelty or for fun. Tilting her head back to look down her nose at him, Joan spoke with cold anger laced with her mother’s mordacity. “I suppose it might, though I can’t see how.”
His vacant expression would remain forever etched in her memory. If only she had thrown the lamp rather than the cup. Then she might have set him afire.
THOUGH IT WAS THE CAPITAL OF A MEDITERRANEAN KINGDOM, Palermo could not lay claim to being Sicily’s busiest port. Messina boasted a harbor protected from the sea’s tempests by a long curved spit and waters so deep even the largest merchant ships sailed right up to the docks to unload their wares. Seven years earlier, Joan’s first sight of the island had been Messina. She remembered gaping at vessels lined up like horses in a stable, while salt breezes and tar cleansed the air of the rotten sourness of fishing boats. Though she had begged a few moments simply to watch the ships bob up and down, the bishop of Troia hurried her along, promising that Palermo’s harbor outshone Messina’s for beauty.
Yet in all this time, she had never visited Palermo’s port. Sicilian kings did not greet disembarking dignitaries. No matter how important the embassy or highborn the guest, it was as if travelers did not deserve notice until they reached the Royal Palace.
Not even ambassadors from the Holy Roman emperor.
Joan had been nursing her newest grudge against William for two days when word flashed through the palace: A ship had put into harbor carrying messengers from the Holy Roman emperor Barbarossa. She and William received a fat bishop with white hair, yellow fingernails, and the smoothest tongue she’d ever heard, who dared pretend that the man once known as “the scourge of Italy” was now Sicily’s dearest friend. At last he came to the point: Barbarossa’s eldest son and heir, Prince Henry, needed a wife. Advisers had suggested the Sicilian princess. How soon could negotiations begin?
Words poure
d from his mouth like water from a fountain, and Joan nearly laughed at the corked expressions of the familiares, who could not object until the king spoke. But William would not interrupt. By his glazed eyes, she knew he had stopped listening.
When the bishop finally gave up speaking, William seemed to startle awake at the silence. He said a mere “thank you” before the whole room began speaking at once.
Raising his hand for quiet, he announced in a mild tone, “As you can see, you’ve given us much to discuss.”
With a benign smile, he dismissed the bishop and his men.
The bishop refused to be disappointed; he just smiled falsely and said he would talk with the emperor and return. Before going, Barbarossa’s ambassadors met with Alexius. He openly admitted their purpose had been to suggest that a combined effort against Constantinople would more likely succeed. Alexius now pressed for a Sicilian alliance with the Holy Roman Empire.
After the bustle subsided, William could no longer find excuse to absent himself from Joan’s chamber. His voice, when he spoke, was even gruffer than usual. Coming from deep in his chest, it sounded as if he could not breathe through his nose. “What did you think of Barbarossa’s ambassadors?”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “The bishop was as oily as tunny fish.”
“Heh?” he said, squinting. “Oh, how he talked.”
Joan huffed. It was like speaking to a wall.
He said, “If the Holy Roman emperor’s forces join us in Constantinople, we will defeat Andronicus.”
“And Barbarossa will be lord over all.”
William’s forehead creased.
Joan scoffed, “Do you think the Scourge will sit Alexius on the throne and return home?”
“He is an old man. And his son is weak. More likely Barbarossa will die and his son will find his resources overextended. The Greeks will overthrow young Henry’s rule.”
Grudgingly, Joan finished the thought. “It will cost Sicily less and gain us more in the end.”
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