To her surprise, the bishop merely sighed. “He has been ill a long while, hasn’t he?”
She nodded.
“May I see him?”
It felt odd to have him ask her permission. When had she gained the authority to stand between Richard Palmer and the king?
“Of course. But don’t wake him if he is sleeping. He sleeps so fitfully now.”
The bishop sighed again, turning his head to blink at tears. Joan put a hand on his arm.
“He will be pleased to see you,” she said, knowing it to be true. She had never paid attention to the fact that they were friends. There was so much about William she’d never bothered to know.
Another week passed, and Joan realized, counting the days, that she had not had her flux in almost eight weeks. It had been late before—she’d learned not to hope—but never this late. She said nothing to anyone, not even a whisper in William’s ear while he was sleeping, but she counted each sick twinge in her belly, each time fatigue threatened to overwhelm her, as more evidence in her favor. God was merciful. She would have a son after all. She would not be the barren queen who brought about Sicily’s ruin.
She and Richard Palmer took turns keeping the bedside vigil. When William was awake, he seemed peaceful. But in sleep he was tortured, coughing, gasping for breath, calling out feverish words Joan never understood.
On the eighteenth of November, he woke suddenly and said, “Joanna!” She startled awake and reached for his hand. It felt cold and without the strength to grip hers in response.
“Forgive me.” He coughed, weakly, and made a gasping sound. Then his eyes bulged, and blood dribbled from his mouth.
“Genuold!” she shouted, getting to her feet. “Genuold!”
The physician flew into the room, his tunic askew. “What is it?”
Joan dropped her husband’s hand, which fell limply beside the bed. Genuold reached down and closed William’s eyes, then lifted the hand to fold over his chest.
“Hand me a towel,” he commanded.
Joan found one on the bedside table and gave it to him without a word. Genuold wiped the blood from William’s lips and chin.
“Tell the bishop—he’ll know what to do.”
Tell the bishop. Joan plodded from the room, dazed. She didn’t want to look for Bishop Palmer. She wanted to sleep. She hadn’t slept well for a week. Her last bath had been…she couldn’t remember.
With one hand on the railing, she descended the stairs. It was very early in the morning; only the kitchen servants must be awake. She’d have to wake Sati to find the bishop. Glancing down at her skirts, she saw a small splotch of blood. The first thing she must do was change her clothes. How could he have spat blood all the way onto her skirt when his cough had been so weak?
Then the whole world spun round. Joan collapsed onto the steps and sobbed. William was dead. And the blood was her own.
P A R T T H R E E
C O U N T E S S J E A N N E
S I X T E E N
Palermo, Sicily, September 1190
THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND WAS IMPRISONED BECAUSE OF HER sons; the queen of Sicily, for want of one. Who would fight to set a barren queen free?
Tancred of Lecce had usurped Sicily’s throne before William was cold and immediately arrested Joan, confining her to her apartment in the Royal Palace. She’d been his prisoner now for nigh on a year.
Tancred knew he would have to defend himself against Constance and her husband, Barbarossa’s son. To that end, he had kept for himself the fortune William had bequeathed to the English king in gold and provisions for the crusade: a large silk tent, fifty armed galleys, and four months’ stores of grain and wine. Not that Tancred’s perfidy would mean much to the crusaders. At last word, Richard and King Philip had met at Eastertide to discuss their plans, only to receive news of the death of France’s queen in childbed. Once again, their departure had to be postponed.
Joan wondered how the Christians in the Holy Land could possibly hold out. King Guy de Lusignan’s siege of Acre had lasted throughout the previous winter, despite harsh weather, sickness, and famine. Queen Sybilla died, and Conrad of Montferrat married her sister, staking his own claim to the throne of Jerusalem. Sicily sent no more aid. In fact, Tancred had even recalled Margaritus, claiming he needed the fleet at home.
A knock on the door interrupted Joan’s musings. A eunuch guard announced, “It is the tutor.” Charisse hurried to the door and opened it. There stood Eugenius, a stunned expression on his face.
“Whatever is it, Eugenius?” Joan asked.
“The crusade is underway at last. King Richard is come.” His voice sounded strained.
She stared. “My brother? Here?” He had come to deliver her. Warmth stole through her and she felt so overcome she nearly wept.
“He wants the ships King William promised.”
Bewildered, she asked, “He thinks Tancred will give him aid?” It made no sense. Surely, Richard knew William was dead.
Eugenius snorted. “I doubt he cares for Tancred’s intent. He’s in Messina, along with the king of France, demanding your release and dowry.”
Joan sat down, almost missing her chair. “Richard!” she said under her breath, as if swearing an oath. So he was not here for her sake alone. “Will…will Tancred release me?”
“He must. He can’t afford to alienate any enemy of Emperor Barbarossa. And if he dares defy your brother, there will be bloodshed.”
Biting her lip, Joan looked away. She was responsible for Sicily’s impossible predicament. And now Richard must bargain or fight with Tancred, when he should be saving his money and men for the crusade.
“Lady?” Eugenius’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “Tancred will make peace with King Richard. You will be free of this prison.”
What would happen to her now? Another marriage? The dowry William had promised her, Monte Sant’Angelo, had worth, but not enough to overcome the liability of her person: barren yet too young to conveniently die. An old man with sons might take her. Or there was always the convent. She’d exchange one prison for another.
Why had Richard bothered to come?
THERE STANDS A KING, JOAN THOUGHT.
In the frescoed dining hall in Messina’s palace, surrounded by a dozen thick-limbed Norman knights with ragged beards and swords at their sides, Richard waited. He stared a moment before breaking into a wide smile and opening his arms. Joan flung herself against his chest. After a crushing embrace, he pushed her away to study her.
“Sister mine, you look like hell. Did Tancred do this to you or William?”
Flushing, Joan glanced reluctantly at the stained gown she had been wearing since leaving Palermo. Her belongings were supposed to follow on the next ship, but she suspected Tancred would keep everything of value.
“I get seasick.”
“God’s legs! Seasick doesn’t account for your hair.”
She touched her head. The coils Charisse and Sati had painstakingly wrapped were all in place. Scowling, she said, “It’s the Sicilian fashion, Richard.”
“There,” he bellowed, laughing. “I know that face.”
He had not changed in the least. But what did she expect him to do? Weep for joy at the sight of her? This was Richard, not Henry or John.
“Ah, sister mine. There’s someone you must see. Philip is very anxious to meet you. You’re the only one who has eluded his spell.”
“Spell?”
“You will think he is simply flattering you, until you wake one day distrusting your own heart. I’d keep you from him, but you always did have more sense than the rest of us.”
At the end, his voice gentled. His eyes, pale blue and sad, met hers. Pride would never allow Richard to admit his regrets, but he had loved their brothers and Papa, too. Joan touched his arm. When he smiled, she felt unburdened. She forgave him and he knew it, as if their souls could speak without sound.
“Must I meet him now?” She gestured to her dress.
“He
won’t even notice. You’re cleaner than he is, and not half so ugly. We’ll go to him. He’s expecting me to send a messenger requesting the honor of his company or some such foolishness. Tell me if you don’t think he’s a maggot.”
“But Richard—”
“Come.” He pulled her arm eagerly, and together they traversed the halls of the palace to a small chamber at the back. Joan thought it had once been a storeroom. Richard pounded on the door. “Philip! I’ve got her. Come see!”
The door opened. A page dressed crisply in scarlet blinked up at Richard, then bowed.
“Please come in, my lord, lady.”
He backed out of the way. Richard winked and ushered her inside. Philip glided forward out of the shadows. Joan had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from giggling. His greasy tunic stank of sweat. He was shorter than she was, puny beside Richard. His dark hair was already receding, and he was obviously blind in one watery, drifting eye.
“Richard,” he said curtly without looking at his rival, “and Lady Joan.” When she gave him her hand, he bent and kissed it. “Please accept my condolences. It is a great tragedy for Christendom, but I am sure an even greater loss to you.”
His good eye fixed on her face. She opened her mouth then shut it. She hadn’t expected sympathy. Even more surprising was his evident sincerity. But then, he had just lost his wife.
Meeting his unsmiling gaze, she replied, “You’ve suffered an equal loss. I—”
“Not quite equal,” Richard interjected. “Philip got a son for his pains.”
“Richard,” she scolded weakly, feeling as though he had kicked her, seeing Philip’s face also go gray. Richard must be the most insensitive man alive.
Philip turned aside. “Your brothers have always sung your praises, madame. I now see why. I hope you will grace us often with your company while we’re in Messina.”
He sounded less sincere, as if a veil of courtesy had dropped between them.
Richard laughed. “If we don’t invite her, we’ll find her hiding under the table. Let’s go, Joan. There must be a woman somewhere in Messina who knows how to plait hair. If I have to look at that hive on your head any longer, I’ll take my knife to it.”
Joan rolled her eyes, knowing Richard too well to take offense. She curtsied to the French monarch and turned to follow her brother. In leaving, however, she caught Philip’s expression. Not pitying but compassionate. Apparently, the French king knew Richard as well as she did.
JOAN HAD BEEN IN MESSINA LESS THAN A WEEK WHEN DISAStrous word came from the East: On the tenth of June, Barbarossa had drowned in a river crossing. His second son, Duke Frederick of Swabia, managed to keep only a small army together to push on to Acre.
Although she believed this meant Richard and Philip were more urgently needed, they saw it otherwise. There was no risk the Holy Land would be saved without them; so, rather than subject themselves to a winter sea journey, they would set out again in the spring.
But Richard could not abide idleness any more than their father; it didn’t take long for the novelty of Messina to wear thin. Daily clashes occurred between the merchants of the city and Richard’s soldiers, and he did nothing to discipline his men. When the violence came to a head, Joan was certain he welcomed it.
Early in October, a fight over the price of a loaf of bread escalated into a riot. Instead of reining in the instigating soldiers and asking the magistrate to quell the disturbance, Richard donned his armor and roused his knights with a call to war against the “Grifons,” as he called the Greeks of Messina. At the end of the day, England’s banner flew over William’s city.
While Richard and his knights celebrated loudly throughout the halls of the palace, Philip, whose men had taken no part in the skirmish, came to her apartments. He was followed by the same young page she’d met before, who carried a flask of wine and two goblets.
She’d not turn away a king, though it was poor judgment for him to pay a call with no more of an escort. She did not offer him a chair. As if oblivious to the thinness of her welcome, he plucked a goblet from the page’s grasp and poured it full of wine.
“Divided loyalties?” he asked, putting the drink in her hand.
“Pardon?” She closed her fingers tightly around the stem so her hand could not tremble. Although she didn’t want wine, she brought the goblet to her lips. The warm, sweet bouquet of French wine filled her nose, bringing Poitiers closer. She sipped.
He answered while pouring his own drink. “Daughters are reared to be loyal to their fathers. Then those same fathers, or brothers, marry them off to the enemy.”
“William was not my father’s enemy.”
“No. But you were Sicily’s queen for twelve years.” His mouth quirked into an awkward smile. “It shouldn’t bother you to see Richard’s standard flying over one of Sicily’s proudest cities, but it does.”
She sniffed and looked toward the windows, but didn’t refute him.
“I thought I should tell you, I plan to see him this evening and insist France’s banner be raised also. We agreed before setting out that any of the spoils of the crusade would be evenly divided.”
“Sicily is not a spoil!”
His smile reappeared. “Divided loyalties.” He took a drink. “I have no intention of conquering Sicily, and neither does Richard. He wants to frighten Tancred into keeping your husband’s promises.”
Joan squeezed her goblet tighter. What was Philip doing? “Do you wish to frighten some concession from Tancred also?”
“No. Nor am I interested in stealing half of your dowry.” He looked at his hands. The insinuation was clear—he thought Richard would take what was rightfully hers. “But I do want to remind Richard that we are partners in this war. I believe Tancred will try to play us off each other. I have little patience for such games when our goal is Jerusalem.”
“How noble of you.”
He laughed. “You have Richard’s tongue for sarcasm.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Perhaps because I anticipate what your brother will say about me after we argue tonight.”
“Do you expect me to defend you?”
“No. I’d rather he not know I talked to you at all.”
“I won’t lie to him.”
“You may tell him whatever you like.” Philip glanced around the room, then drained his goblet before looking back at her. “Would you like more wine?”
“No, thank you, though I enjoyed it.” She handed back her goblet, the wine unfinished.
He smiled thinly. “Do you mind so much that I spoke with you?”
“Not at all.”
“Perhaps I’ll come again?”
“You are welcome.”
“Come,” he said to the page, and to Joan, “Good evening, madame.”
IN THE MORNING, RICHARD BURST INTO HER ANTECHAMBER. His boots scuffed loudly on the marble floor until he stood directly in front of her couch, his beard flecked with food and his pores redolent of last night’s wine.
“Did you hear what that coward…that shirker…it is like him to claim credit when he did none of the work!”
“Mmm-hmmm,” Joan said, wetting floss between her lips to thread her needle. “What work is that? Using knights to mow down burghers?”
Richard stood still. The muscles of his jaw twitched with his anger.
She cast her eyes down and said, “I was their queen, Richard.”
He stared at her before saying evenly, “Had they been Londoners, I would still have put down a riot.”
“Had you been in London, you wouldn’t have let your knights steal from merchants and force the women.”
He held silent a moment. “Maybe not,” he granted, then with a snort of laughter said, “What do you think Tancred will give us to go away?”
Joan shook her head. “You’ve nowhere to go until spring.”
“By then, he’ll be desperate for us to leave.”
“Unless Emperor Henry is on the march. In which c
ase, he’ll hope one of you stays.”
“One of us?”
She laid down her sewing. “Tancred needs an ally, Richard. And everyone knows you and Philip are uneasy friends. If he gets any word of dissension, he’ll be quick to take sides.”
“You’re suggesting I need fear either Tancred or Philip?” He sounded irritated.
“Not individually.”
“So you think I should remain cozy with Philip?”
“Unless you plan to ally with Tancred yourself.”
Richard retreated to the windows and gazed toward the mountains.
“Your voice is so like our mother’s.” When he turned to face her, his eyes were hard. “Perhaps that is why Philip’s words sound so much more convincing from your mouth. When was he here?”
Swallowing her nervousness as he advanced again, she answered, shrugging. “It was yesterday evening, while you were carousing.”
Richard grabbed her wrist. “How often do you meet?”
“Don’t be absurd.” She tried to shake off his pincer grip.
“Are you aware”—his voice was low and sly—“that people are saying there will be a wedding at Christmastide? A widower already blessed with an heir and a barren widow—”
“Holy Mary! Who would start such a rumor?”
“I did.” He laughed in her face. “It embarrasses him to hear it whispered about. He’s afraid I’ll guess how much he wants it.”
“He doesn’t,” she said, wishing her voice were stronger.
He released her arm. “Even a man half blind can see your charms, pretty sister. But I’d never give you to him.”
She let out her breath.
“Unless your honor is at stake. They say a young widow is easy prey, and if I were to understand Philip has been calling on you in secret—”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I’m your brother and protector. It would be my duty.”
Had this been his plan all along, to marry her to Philip? To the enemy? She bit back angry words. It would be a mistake to challenge Richard.
As if misunderstanding her silence for submission, he smiled falsely and said, “Don’t fret. If his company pleases you so very much, you can enjoy it as often as you like, in my presence.”
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