“But Barbarossa wants the alliance sealed with a marriage contract.”
“You can’t…” Her mouth felt tacky. The Holy Roman Empire was no less a threat to an heirless Sicily than the Eastern Empire. “Constance cannot marry the future Holy Roman emperor.”
“I know.” William sighed. “But perhaps, by the time the bishop comes back…” He rubbed his nose roughly. “Genuold thinks…thinks I should lie with you more often.”
“You’ve discussed me with your physician?”
“Joanna, please,” he said irritably. “I should not have to beg permission.”
“God’s feet, William. You’re bleeding again.”
He saw the streak of blood on his hand and paled. “It is nothing.”
She fished a piece of linen from the drawer in her bedside table and dabbed above his lips. “No, there isn’t much. I think it has stopped.” She gave him the cloth. Reluctantly, she said, “If Genuold believes it will help, come as often as you wish.”
He rose and put on his clothes. “I’ll come again in…in three days?”
“I’ll be here.”
He smiled weakly and put his hand to the door. After he left, she realized she had misspoken. He did not come because he wished to, but because he had been told he must.
The next morning, William failed to appear in the chapel. She whispered an inquiry after his health only to learn he had gone hunting. Black thoughts filled her head, blotting out the words of the priest. When prayers ended, she decided to leave the city also, to visit Constance. By hinting at their proposal, she might learn how the princess felt. Moreover, she could talk about Richard and Papa and perhaps be comforted.
Guards at the front gate admitted her, rousing the servant who should have been minding the door.
“There is no need to announce me. I’ll find the princess.” Joan headed for the stairs.
“She is in the garden, my lady,” said the flustered doorkeeper. “She wanted time alone.”
“In a temper?” Joan asked, hiding her smile.
The doorkeeper nodded, then shook her head and reddened.
“Charisse, wait for me. If she doesn’t want company, we’ll leave.”
She slipped out the side door, glad for a few moments alone in the sun-warmed garden. She strolled past a red carpet of poppies, inhaling sweetness until she thought her lungs would burst.
Constance was not on the bench near the rosebushes where Joan expected to find her. She walked on. Near the cerise and purple sweet pea, she slowed, imagining she heard Constance’s voice. But the maid had said she was alone.
Joan began watching where she set her feet, creeping along the path. A bench hidden in a bushy alcove was also empty, but the alcove was definitely the source of the voice. Constance sounded weepy.
There was a low rumbling answer. Joan halted. Could Constance have a lover? Little bumps of excitement rose on her flesh. She walked faster toward the sound, and now she could see a place where the bushes had been flattened. They were hiding!
The man’s voice rumbled again, sounding almost like William. Nearly close enough, Joan knelt on the crumbly earth and tried to see through branches and twigs.
Constance sat on the ground, feet tucked beneath her robe, hair disheveled. Her face was streaked with tears.
“You lie!” That, Joan heard well enough. “You want to be rid of me.”
A man leaned over, elbow into the mud. He had hair the color of William’s. She heard the gruff voice say, “You know that’s not true.”
Twigs scratched her face, but Joan could not move. Not even to swallow the viscous saliva that suddenly filled her mouth.
“You think you can gain my silence with a crown?”
“Darling, I gain nothing.” Darling! “But this is wrong. You know it is wrong.”
“You said…you promised…” Constance sobbed so hard she could not continue. Joan clutched her abdomen.
“Constance, we must do what is right. For your sake—”
“You don’t care about me. The harlot’s daughter has won! You deny me everything and give her all. You cover her with kisses that should be mine. You dream by her side.”
“I never kiss her! I barely speak to her. I swear, I do only what you know I must. I’ve kept my promises—”
“No! You promised you would never abandon me. Yet now you say I should be an empress.” With a gasping breath, she cried, “I never wanted a throne.”
William put his hand on her shoulder, but Constance pushed it away. Still as death, Joan could not tear her eyes from the scene. Then he moved, throwing one leg over Constance’s lap, pushing her to the dirt. Joan saw his face in profile, taut with anguish. Constance’s arms encircled his neck. He kissed her with a passion Joan had not believed him capable of.
She doubled over and retched. The horror of their sin filled her, and she could not be emptied of it. She vomited loudly, crashing against bushes too weak to bear her weight. Vaguely, she was aware her noises had startled them. Then awareness dissolved into nothing but dark.
She woke in her old bedchamber. Her forehead ached, and when she put a hand to her hair, she found it matted with blood.
“My lady!” Charisse cried, coming to kneel beside her bed. “She wakes!”
In a moment, Genuold was leaning over her, his beard falling onto her face. “Can you hear me?” he shouted.
“Get away,” she demanded, swiping at him, but her voice was thick and her hand clumsy.
“Do you remember what happened?” he asked in the same overloud tone.
“I told you.” It was Constance speaking. Joan’s stomach roiled. “She fainted and hit her head on the paving stone.”
“Yes, but she vomited,” Genuold said. “Lady, did you vomit before or after you hit your head?”
“Stop shouting at me.” She closed her eyes. “Before,” she said. “Before.”
“Lord be thanked,” he sighed. “There are scratches and a bruise on your forehead. But a head injury that causes vomiting is reason for concern. Have you been ill? Have you reason to think you may be with child?”
Joan groaned. “Leave me alone.”
“We sent to the Cuba for William,” Constance said.
Charisse put in, “We were so frightened, lady. We could not think but to send for Genuold when you did not awaken. But the king—”
“I won’t see him.”
“He will be concerned.” Constance’s steady voice grated against her nerves. How did she dare?
“Tell him he need not be.”
“He will want to speak with you,” Constance insisted. “To see for himself.”
“You tell him. I’m sure he will believe whatever you say.”
“Lady—” Genuold began.
“Go away. My head hurts. I want to be alone.”
JOAN STAYED A WEEK AT THE ZISA. FOR MUCH OF THE TIME, Constance sat with her, watching with a guarded expression, waiting for her to speak. William must be waiting also.
Her injuries were minor; there was no excuse to remain. Yet if she returned to court, what would she do?
On the seventh day, Charisse announced a visitor she could not turn away—the archbishop of Palermo. He came boldly to the privacy of her anteroom.
“My lady queen,” he said, bowing from the shoulders rather than the waist. He was so short and round he’d probably topple over and roll across the room if he bowed properly.
“Would you care for something to eat or drink after your journey?” Her voice sounded as far away and false as an echo.
“No, thank you, lady. It was hardly far to come.”
“It is kind of you to visit. Though I assure you I am well.”
“I am pleased to hear it. But it is not your mishap that brings me.” He lowered his gaze to the floor. “Or only in part—your mishap. It is being said there might soon be an heir?”
Her forbearance dissipated. “If it is so, it is too soon to speak of it.”
“I beg your pardon, my lady.”
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Joan returned to her seat, gesturing to one of the yellow-cushioned benches opposite. He sat, gracelessly crushing the pillows. Embroidered pink-and-silver flowers wrinkled and disappeared beneath his dark robe.
“I’ve come because I know you have some influence over the king, and I hope to convince you that I am not—as he seems to think—his enemy.”
“My influence is minimal. You might convince him yourself by behaving as a friend.”
He smiled. “To my mind, I have never done otherwise.”
“But you can understand how he might be confused.”
The archbishop chuckled. How refreshing to hear someone laugh at irony. But then, Archbishop Walter was an Englishman by birth.
“Lady, the princess must be married before she is too old to tempt any suitor at all.” He certainly did not dance around delicate topics. “You are probably not aware that the emperor’s ambassadors have returned.”
“What do you mean? How could they?”
“They made it no farther than Messina. I think they expected the king to send a messenger after them and were surprised he did not. They have doubled the promised subsidy to aid Alexius Comnenus, provided that the king accepts the proposed alliance.”
“Constance cannot marry Prince Henry unless Sicily’s succession is secure.”
The archbishop ran his pudgy hands up and down his thighs. “If there is no heir, there will be war in Sicily, no matter whom the princess marries. The best hope is for the war to be short and decisive.”
“I’m sure Barbarossa will promise that.”
“The kingdom would not fall to Barbarossa, but to Prince Henry. Who will have enough trouble keeping his vassals from dismantling the empire at his back—Henry is not a strong man.”
William had said the same.
“He wouldn’t be able to spend much time in Sicily,” he went on. “But he might send Princess Constance back to be regent.”
“Sicily would still be annexed by the empire.”
The archbishop shrugged. “Three generations ago, there was no Sicilian kingdom. The world changes, my lady. I think Sicily will not find a distant overlord too great a burden. Worse would be internal strife, division of the kingdom. Endless warfare.”
As in her father’s realm. She had heard that after Henry’s death, Richard, as next eldest, became heir to England. But in return, her father commanded him to relinquish Aquitaine to John. Naturally Richard refused. Furious, her father gave John control of his armies, along with permission to invade Aquitaine. Her family was at war again.
“Why do you bring this to me?”
“You haven’t the Sicilian temperament. You can weigh the options without irrational fear of the Holy Roman Empire. Talk to your husband. I suspect he is not so averse to the match as some of his advisers. He may only need stiffer support than mine.”
She arched her brows at him. “Perhaps if you were to feign opposition to the match?”
“That,” he answered, laughing heartily, “would serve the familiares right.”
Joan could not help smiling. How simple it would be to rid Sicily of Constance. And William’s kingdom could go to the devil for all she cared.
F O U R T E E N
AFTER ANNOUNCING THE BETROTHAL OF PRINCESS Constance to Prince Henry, heir to the Holy Roman Empire, King William began readying Sicily for war.
To her disgust, Joan discovered her husband’s idea of war preparations differed greatly from her father’s. William had no intention of taking part himself, but he would visit the shipyards in Messina, where fifty new galleys were being built at his command. Joan decided to go also—an opportunity to escape Palermo seemed God-sent. She knew William would acquiesce. He now acceded to whatever she asked, allowing her to take part in councils despite the objections of his advisers, promising Constance to Prince Henry, and banishing her to the convent San Salvatore until Barbarossa sent for her. The fool must be afraid. As if anyone would believe what Joan had seen.
The sight of Messina jolted her from her gloom. The city sprouted at the foot of tall mountains to the west and overlooked the strait. It had a mercantile heart; she could hear the clamor of its vendors ringing in her ears. Peeking though the curtains of her litter, she watched citizens along the narrow streets drop to their knees as the cortege passed. William rode amidst a cadre of guards, his scarlet mantle around his shoulders, a thick crown of gold encircling his hair; he did not deign to turn his head. It was the Sicilian way—the people shouting praises did not expect acknowledgment. Still, Joan thought he looked pompous.
She sat back, away from the curtains, before the urge to throw them open and wave to her subjects became strong enough to act upon. The smell of the marketplace—fish and fowl, unwashed bodies, smoke and cheap incense—permeated the litter, all underlain by the scent of the sea. They bounced slowly onward, then inclined as though going up a hill. The noise outside dimmed, and they came to a stop.
Messina’s palace was built of limestone. It was sturdier than Palermo’s, and not as pretty, with a haphazard design, as if constructed in stages by different men for different purposes. The elderly castellan hurrying to the porch had a Greek complexion, and his wife was as wrinkled and brown as a peeled apple left out in the air. William greeted them both in Greek, and they chattered away for several moments before he bothered to introduce her.
“Queen Joanna,” he said, lifting her hand.
“An honor and a great pleasure,” the castellan said, bowing. “My wife, Helena.”
Helena smiled warmly. “You must be tired. There is no more torturous method of traveling than riding in a litter.” Her French was as round and melodious as the Greek had been fluent and clipped. “Come. I’ll show you your rooms and you can bathe before supper.”
For two weeks, Joan and William acted as husband and wife, eating meals together, conversing politely for the sake of their hosts. He encouraged her to speak Greek, sometimes praising her efforts, sometimes gently laughing at her mistakes. One morning he even accompanied her on a tour of Messina’s churches. She could almost join him in pretending nothing was wrong.
Until he appeared in her bedchamber, looking both contrite and determined. “Joanna,” he pleaded, “it is our duty.”
Perhaps she had been expecting it. Or else she felt too heartsick and weary to fight. With resignation, she lay down on the bed and lifted her skirt.
“Joanna,” he said gruffly. She didn’t answer. “Is this how it will be?”
She turned her head and closed her eyes.
Every few nights, he lay with her, seeming as resigned as she was. Her courses came twice, marking the passage of time, marking her failure; she began to wonder if he considered it not duty but penance. What was he thinking? How could it be she still did not know him at all?
One breezy, cloudy September morning, a commotion interrupted their breakfast. A messenger entered to announce a shipwreck had occurred the previous night during a storm. The ship had lodged on a rock just before dawn and was slowly sinking.
“How many does it carry?” William asked, his eyes wide with concern.
“A few hundred, sire, including women and children. They launched a longboat this morning. It brought some of the better passengers to shore, but the boat broke up in the landing. The rowers have been begging use of other craft.”
“Why is there no rescue?”
“It’s a Saracen vessel, sire.”
Joan pushed aside her trencher, appetite gone. What a horrible way to die.
William rose from his chair, his color up. “Do you mean to tell me those on shore are merely watching?”
“The wind and waters are still high. Only smaller boats might reach the ship without running aground, and even that is dangerous.”
William turned to the castellan. “Saddle my horse.”
“I’m coming too,” Joan said, pushing on the table to rise unsteadily. She felt morbidly curious, but more, she wanted to see what he would do.
She rod
e a palfrey at his side, the discomfort of the saddle a pleasant change from that of the litter. No one tried to stop her. She realized that Marguerite’s death and the discovery of William’s shameful secret had freed her to be herself again—a Norman lady, not a Sicilian one—a Norman queen like Eleanor. At least she could be thankful for that.
Within an hour, they were at the quay. A handful of fishing boats had ventured out to offer transport to any merchants able to meet their extortionate demands. The rescued—there were pitifully few—milled about weeping. Joan began to wish she’d stayed at the palace. She glanced at William, gazing out at the rocks where the doomed ship was barely visible.
He turned abruptly to the castellan’s man beside him. “Tell the fishermen to go back out.”
“But, sire, they’ll claim it isn’t worth Christian lives and livelihood to save Saracens.”
“They saved these.”
The man smirked. “They weighed the risks and demanded fair price.”
“I will pay what they ask,” William said simply.
“Sire! There are hundreds. It will cost—”
“Go. Tell them I won’t pay for drowned bodies.”
The man shot off. Soon, Joan saw the first few boats bobbing out into the waves. She turned to William, whose eyes were fixed again on the shoals. The knot of tension in her gut loosened. Several more small craft followed the first. She was glad of the rescue, even if they were infidels. Yet wouldn’t others consider this evidence that the Sicilian king loved Saracens? He should have considered that.
Probably he had—and counted it no more important than the fortune he’d promised to the fishermen. What a strange man he was, self-assured only in kindness.
The musing brought her up cold. Kindness was a weakness. Heaven hated sinners and Saracens. And Eleanor’s daughter hated weakness even more than sin.
ON JUNE 11, 1185, THE SICILIAN HOSTS SET SAIL FROM MESSINA. Before the month’s end, Durazzo, the Greek empire’s third largest city, was in Sicily’s hands. The army, eighty thousand strong and led by the count of Acerra, marched onward to Thessalonica while Admiral Tancred of Lecce brought the fleet around by sea to blockade the port. They reached Thessalonica on August 6. That siege lasted just eighteen days.
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