A Reed in the Wind: Joanna Plantagenet, Queen of Sicily

by Rachel Bard

  She regarded the large dark lump that was just going into the oven. “Do you think they will like suet pudding?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Probably not, if they have any taste at all. But it will fill the bellies of our own people, while we ply the Sicilians with larks and figs and honey.” She looked around. “All seems to be going as well as can be expected.” She turned to leave.

  Joanna wasn’t so sure. The steamy, noisy kitchen seemed like pandemonium to her. The chief cook was shouting to the boy who was supposed to bring the geese. But the lad was dawdling and gossiping in a corner and couldn’t hear because the scullery girl was making such a racket as she banged the pots and pans about.

  “Gooseboy! Where are my geese?” bellowed the cook. “The stuffing’s all ready, and if we don’t get them in the oven this minute we’ll be serving raw bloody fowl today.” The startled boy ran across the room, dragging two large plucked geese behind him. He got a cuff on the ear for his trouble.

  Taking her daughter’s hand, Eleanor walked out and across the gardens to her private apartments. “We must begin preparing you for the banquet. And here come Lady Elspeth and Lady Marian. They’ll help dress you.” She plucked a sprig of lavender from a bush by the path. “Tuck this in your bodice when you go into the great hall this afternoon. I’ve always found a whiff of lavender very soothing to the nerves.”

  In the queen’s bedroom, the high canopied bed, the chairs and chests were draped with garments. The two ladies fussed and discussed, while Joanna stood patiently. Lady Elspeth combed out her tangled hair so it fell in well-disciplined ringlets, a process which was interrupted by the occasional squeak of protest from the girl. Eleanor supervised while Lady Marian arrayed her in petticoats and underskirts. “I will look fat!” wailed Joanna as layer after layer was added.

  “Well, we can’t make you taller, so we will just have to add substance to your figure wherever we can,” said Lady Marian.

  They finished with a green silk gown, over which they added a sleeveless robe of the same silk. As final touch the queen placed a delicate diadem, set with diamonds, on her daughter’s head.

  She stood back to admire the result. “Yes, just as I intended. The color is exactly right to set off your brown hair.” She brought her precious mirror that nobody else was allowed to touch. “Now see what you think of yourself, pretty Princess Joanna.”

  “Yes, I do look like a princess, don’t I? At least from the neck up. Thank you, mother! Though the rest of me feels like a stuffed tub. I hope I don’t waddle into the hall and tip over.”

  “I’m sure you won’t. And most of the time you’ll be sitting down and the ambassadors will be concentrating on your face. Now don't forget to smile as much as you can."

  “I’ll try.” Basking in Eleanor’s approval, she forgot all her misgivings, glad only to have pleased her mother. If she pleased the Sicilians as well, that would be all right too.

  As for Eleanor, she thanked the Lord God of Hosts, the Virgin Mary and all the saints in heaven for this dutiful, calm and collected daughter.

  Chapter 3

  King Henry arrived from London the morning after the state dinner and went at once to his audience chamber. Three courtiers and an armed knight took their places behind him, but took no part in the proceedings. Their purpose was to keep the king of England from appearing outnumbered by the emissaries from King William.

  Henry surveyed his visitors, seated in a semicircle before him. Count Florian and Bishop-elect Arnulfo had been joined by Archbishop Rothrud of Rouen and a newly anointed bishop from Sicily. The churchmen were dazzling in their white satin cassocks, ermine-trimmed copes and massive gold or silver crosses and chains. The two ambassadors were almost as resplendent: their capes furred, their purple tunics cinched with jeweled belts, and Arnulfo with peacock feathers springing jauntily from his velvet cap.

  They all far outshone Henry, who was still wearing his traveling garb—a short foxfur cape over a leather tunic, brown woolen hose and riding boots. The only sign of royalty was the golden crown on his close-cropped brown hair. And, perhaps, the outthrust jutting chin and the piercing eyes that missed nothing.

  The king’s secretary, seated at Henry’s left, tidied the parchments on the table and handed Henry two sheets of vellum, covered with neat, sharply etched rows of writing, every paragraph beginning with a flowing capital letter.

  Henry glanced at it, and spoke for the first time.

  “I greet you, my lord Archbishop and gentlemen, and apologize for not being here to welcome you to Winchester. The pressure of affairs kept me in London. I thank you, as well, for bringing this marriage agreement. If it accords with my previous discussions with King William I see no reason why we cannot agree on the terms and sign it today.” He began studying the pages.

  After a few minutes of silence, when King Henry appeared to be reaching the end, the archbishop spoke. As cousin of King William of Sicily, he took precedence over the others. In an unhurried, mellifluous tone he doled out well-turned phrases like sugarplums.

  “I hope and trust we may agree, your majesty. When King William adds his signature to yours and ours, the marriage settlement will be official, to the mutual benefit of both our great countries. I see this as the beginning of a long, fruitful and harmonious friendship between the king of Sicily and your august majesty. I am confident that King William will be giving thanks to God that, after so many delays and setbacks, this matter has reached such a happy conclusion.”

  Henry had been leaning back and listening, his square-jawed, broad-browed face implacable. At the reference to delays and setbacks he sat up and glared. The Plantagenet temper almost took over, but he managed to reply without shouting.

  “May I remind you, Archbishop, that there would not have been so many delays and setbacks if King William had not broken off our negotiations six years ago when this engagement was first discussed.”

  “True, your majesty. But he had good reason, as I am sure you recall.” The sugarplums were taking on some acidity.

  Henry clenched his teeth and stared at the archbishop with contempt. His mind lurched back to 1170 and that wretched Becket affair. Some of his hotheaded nobles, thinking mistakenly they were acting in accord with their king’s wishes, had murdered the archbishop of Canterbury in his own cathedral. Henry had become the pariah of Europe, scorned and avoided by all his fellow monarchs, including William of Sicily. The monstrous unfairness of that disgrace still rankled.

  “I do recall. How could I forget?” His voice rose in his agitation. “But blameless as I was, didn’t I nevertheless do public penance in Avranches? Didn’t I permit the monks to flog me at Canterbury? Yet your king, or more likely his mother the regent, all at once decided we English were an unsuitable family to marry into.” He finished in a roar and banged his fist on the table. The inkwell bounced, spilling a few black drops on the papers. The alarmed secretary jumped up and blotted them with the hem of his tunic.

  Silence from the Sicilians. The archbishop pursed his lips in disapproval, the others looked worried. This was supposed to be a formality, a chance for both parties to congratulate each other on their wisdom and to vow eternal friendship.

  Count Florian broke the silence. “Your majesty, we understand and sympathize with your unhappy memories. But is this not the time to let bygones be bygones? Whatever differences existed between our two kingdoms in the past will be totally obliterated when King William and Princess Joanna are married.”

  “If they are married.” Henry was struggling to control himself. He took a gulp from his wine goblet and sat for a minute, tightlipped, holding in the angry words. “Even if I agree to ‘let bygones be bygones,’ there is another even more disturbing matter. I see nothing in this agreement,” he held up the pages, “about King William’s recognition of Queen Eleanor and myself. In addition to the dowry for the princess, it is customary to make significant gifts to the bride’s parents. I believe in your country you refer to this as the Golden Treasur
y. Though King William and I have not discussed this, I have assumed that he intended to honor this obligation. But apparently not.” He watched them, waiting for an answer.

  None came. They looked at each other in dismay. Nobody had been told that this matter might come up, or instructed what to say if it did.

  Henry rose, and the others hastily followed suit.

  “My lord Archbishop and gentlemen,” said the king, “either none of you is aware of this custom, or you have chosen to ignore it. Or perhaps it is your king who ignores it. In any case, it shows a serious lack of respect on the part of Sicily for its ally, England. First you accuse me of murder, then you withhold the customary gifts to Joanna’s parents.”

  His choler had returned. His face turned fiery red. “I will not suffer this insult to England. I’ve had enough of these discussions. I consider them closed.”

  He stamped out of the hall. His two courtiers and the knight followed as unobtrusively as they could. The secretary gathered his papers, looking pale and shaken. The Sicilians straggled out, exchanging recriminations, their resplendent robes swishing, their jeweled rings glittering.

  None of them noticed Joanna, standing in a shadowy niche in the corridor.

  She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. But as she walked along the corridor on the way to her Latin lesson, she heard Henry’s raised voice and his words, “If they are married.” Curiosity and alarm took over and she slipped into the niche, where she listened to the stormy conclusion of the conference.

  She was stunned. Her father had cancelled the marriage negotiations. Only now did she realize how much she’d been anticipating the whole adventure—the sea voyage, the arrival in an exotic country and the marriage to a handsome king. (He was sure to be handsome!)

  Utterly dejected, she went on to her lesson, where Brother Jean-Pierre wondered why his best pupil, normally so bright and responsive, looked at him blankly and couldn’t answer the simplest question.

  “Well, my lord,” said Eleanor, “now can you tell us about the marriage agreement? We have offered King William a generous dowry. What will he settle upon our daughter in return?”

  They were just finishing dinner that evening in the great hall at Winchester. The dim, unembellished, drafty chamber where the Sicilians had spied on Joanna was transformed. It was now warmed by two well-established fires. Flaming torches and candelabra cast a bright light over the twenty or so diners gathered in the hall. The Sicilians were not among them; they had sent their regrets. One of Eleanor’s precious Persian carpets had been laid on the dais where the royal family dined. Servers bustled about, bearing platters and replenishing wine goblets. The lords and ladies of the court, seated at long tables below, chattered and laughed. But at the head table where Eleanor, Henry, Archbishop Richard of Winchester, Joanna and John were seated, there was little levity.

  Joanna had been hoping desperately that she’d misheard Henry’s outburst. His answer to Eleanor’s question didn’t completely quash that possibility. He was looking at his wife attentively as though she were one of his clerks who had brought up a debatable point.

  “What will William settle on our daughter? Yes. I knew that the financial matters would be topmost in your mind. In brief, my lady, King William offered all the revenues of the County of San Angelo. I understand this is one of Sicily’s most prosperous regions, with vineyards and olive groves yielding dependable amounts. She would also receive revenues from the cities of Liponti and Vestia, as well as several lesser towns and castles. Does that answer your question? I considered it a satisfactory settlement.”

  “So it would seem,” agreed Eleanor. “Our daughter is well provided for. What about the bride’s parents? Usually in these arrangements they are not forgotten.”

  Henry deliberately dipped a chunk of bread in the gravy on his plate, chewed it and swallowed it, washed it down with wine, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Eleanor shuddered and looked pointedly at the linen cloth beside his plate. Napkins were an innovation she had brought from France but they had not been universally or gratefully received.

  Archbishop Richard intervened.

  “I have been wondering the same thing. When I read the Sicilian proposal for the marriage agreement, I saw nothing about additional gifts for the king and queen. I hope they have not been overlooked, because” (bowing slightly to each of them in turn) “you have always been so generous in sharing your worldly goods with the church.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you they have been overlooked.” Henry’s voice was deceptively calm. “And as a result of this and other signs of disrespect, I broke off the negotiations.”

  The shocked silence was broken by yelps from John’s vicinity. A hound was crouched at his feet and he had been offering it bones, then snatching them away.

  “John!” his mother said. “If you are quite finished, will you be so good as to take your leave, and take your noisy dog with you?” The boy rose, tossed his shock of black hair out of his eyes and slouched out. The melancholy hound, used to being deceived but ever hopeful, padded after him.

  Eleanor beckoned to Joanna, who jumped up and went to stand beside her mother. Things were moving too fast for her to comprehend.

  Eleanor, icily polite, put an arm around Joanna and addressed her husband.

  “Couldn’t you have been less precipitate and left yourself open to more negotiations? After our daughter made such a good impression on the ambassadors, and just when things were going so well, why throw away this alliance that would mean so much to England? What can be gained by this rash action?”

  Henry had been listening, not grim-faced but calmly, indulgently. At her last words he smiled—a wicked, self-congratulatory smile.

  “I could not agree more. It would be a pity to break things off now. So after I gave the Sicilians time to worry about my rejection, but not enough time to send a messenger to King William, I sent word to them that I’d been reconsidering the matter and invited them to meet again tomorrow morning.”

  “At which time you’ll take up the matter of the gifts to the bride’s parents?”

  “I shall. And you asked what could be gained by what you call my rash action? I think I can assure you, my lady, that England will come out of this with much better terms than before. The Sicilians want the marriage even more than we do. William must have an heir and needs an ally. I predict that when the ambassadors return and report to him how King Henry said no but then said maybe, William will be so grateful that he’ll load even more gold and jewels onto the ships heading our way.”

  Eleanor smiled without warmth and rose. “My lord, you have again proved yourself a master at maneuvering. Let us hope that matters turn out as you expect.” She raised her gown with one hand to keep the hem off the rushstrewn floor, took Joanna’s arm with the other, and took her stately way out of the room.

  At this signal the other diners at the lower tables, who had been pretending not to listen to the royal confrontation, also rose and filed out.

  Eleanor was silent during the short walk to her apartment. At Joanna’s door, she bent and kissed her daughter.

  “Don’t look so woebegone. I’ve seen your father work his way out of worse situations than this. Let’s assume he’ll do it again. And meantime, we’d best start making preparations for the journey. You’ll need a whole new wardrobe, for one thing. Good night, my dear.”

  Lady Marian was waiting to help Joanna prepare for bed. It was late and the girl was very sleepy. Standing in her white shift in front of the fire and waiting for her nightdress to be slipped over her head, she thought about all that had happened in the last few days. She had become engaged to a king. The engagement had been broken off. Now, apparently, it was on again.

  Or was it? She wished she could be as optimistic as her mother. But her father’s words were still echoing in her ears. “These negotiations are closed.”

  It was more drama than she had experienced in all her eleven, nearly twelve, years.

  Chapter 4

&n
bsp; The Sicilian ambassadors, having been mollified, went home two days later, vowing to urge King William to see to the Golden Treasury for Henry and Eleanor.

  Shortly thereafter, early in June 1176, two men sat side by side at a small, document-laden table in the episcopal palace in Winchester, discussing weighty matters. One was Archbishop Richard of Winchester, self-contained, dignified, his portly figure tightly and tidily encased in his scarlet cassock.

  The other, Hamelin Plantagenet, earl of Surrey, was long and loosejointed, with scarves and sleeves flying, as though he had put himself together in a great hurry with very little help from his creator or his valet. Earl Hamelin was the bastard son of King Henry’s father and, as a quasi-royal, had always lurked on the outskirts of power. Now he was to be Joanna’s official escort to Sicily, and he was enjoying his new importance.

  “The eyes of Europe will be upon us,” he said.

  “Indeed. This is a momentous event. It is not every day that a daughter of the king of England marries the king of Sicily. We must spare no expense.”

  This was so indisputable that the earl did not reply.

  “And since the princess is so very young, you will need to prepare her for her new role. What do you know of Sicily and its king?”

  Hamelin beamed, glad to be asked. He had been making discreet inquiries of anyone who had been to Sicily or knew someone who had been there and had laid up what he considered quite a store of useful information.

  “First of all, it is an island. That makes getting there difficult, but on the other hand makes it hard to invade. Nevertheless, our Norman ancestors managed it some time ago and have been running things ever since. I believe there is a volcano on the eastern coast that tends to erupt every once in a while. I suppose that’s why the kings have always built their palaces in the west. Sicily receives a great deal more sunshine than we do and produces some very decent wines, though not as good as the French of course.”