by Rachel Bard
“She looks terrible,” said the earl bluntly. “Skinny, down-at-the-mouth, hair all stringy, no color in her face. If King William were to see her now he’d have the heads of those ambassadors who told him she was a beauty. And very likely King Henry would have my head too, for not delivering a princess in the same condition as when she left.” He raised his arm and swung it in a vigorous head-chopping-off gesture. His elbow brushed against Lady Marian’s cap and knocked it askew.
She sighed, straightened it, tucked in her curls, sighed again and said, “I’m afraid you’re right. And what’s worse is that she’s had fever as well as the seasickness. That’s why she looks so sickly.”
Jean-Pierre nodded. He hadn’t suffered as much as he’d feared during the voyage, but what with a total loss of appetite, his slight figure had become almost skeletal. He still felt rather fragile.
“I agree. In fact if King William were to see me now, he might send me back to the monastery farm for fattening up.” Nobody laughed. After a few moments, Lady Marian’s practical good sense reasserted itself.
“Well, there’s only one thing to do. We’ll just have to put off our arrival in Palermo. We must stay here until she’s better. She’s a resilient child. I’m sure after a week or ten days of rest and good food she’ll get over it and be as presentable as ever.”
Jean-Pierre brightened. He took his responsibilities seriously. “And maybe I’ll have time to resume our lessons. I only hope the gales haven’t swept everything she’s learned out of her head.”
“Very well, I’ll ask Count Florian to go ahead of us and tell King William about the delay,” said Earl Hamelin. He stood up.
“There’s just one more thing,” said Lady Marian. The earl sat down again.
“If Count Florian and Count Arnolfo tell King William the truth about the state his little bride is in now, we might all be in trouble. He might even reconsider the marriage agreement. What king would want a frail sickly child for a wife?”
“That’s indeed a concern,” said Brother Jean-Pierre. “I noticed they were whispering together after they walked up the hill beside her litter.”
“And so did I,” said Alan. “In fact, I was marching along just behind them. I couldn’t hear too much, but I did hear Count Arnolfo say something about King William and second thoughts.”
Jean-Pierre frowned. Lady Marian’s sigh was almost a groan. Alan looked stoical. The earl fidgeted, then broke the silence.
“Frankly, I don’t see that we can do anything but hope for the best.”
Jean-Pierre demurred. “But couldn’t we at least ask them to assure the king that we, who know the princess well, are confident this is only temporary and she’ll be her usual blooming self by the time we reach Palermo?”
“I don’t think we should try to influence them,” said Lady Marian. “After all, their loyalty is to the king of Sicily, not the king of England. I’m afraid that this time the earl is right.”
Earl Hamelin, pretending not to notice the accentuated “this time,” got to his feet and said, “That’s that, then. I’ll tell the ambassadors about the delay. I expect they’ll want to be on their way at once.”
Chapter 11
After the conference Lady Marian went up to their rooms. She was anxious about her charge, but she was also dying for a wash, a change of clothes and a proper meal at last.
She found Joanna being well tended by Mary in a spacious chamber with tall windows that provided a panoramic view of the harbor. Mary had already helped Joanna out of her wrinkled garments that smelled of seawater and sweat, bathed her and dressed her in a clean white gown and a soft blue robe. Mary, blessedly, had not suffered from seasickness and had been of great service during the voyage. She would sit by Joanna’s side for hours, sponging her perspiring face and urging her to take little sips of water and to try to swallow bits of dry bread. As often as not they didn’t stay down, and Mary dealt with that too.
Lady Marian helped Mary prop Joanna up against a mound of pillows on the high bed. The princess sighed, looked around her and slowly realized that though she felt weak and limp, she was no longer nauseated or feverishly hot.
Lady Marian smiled at her. “You do feel just a bit better, don’t you? Haven’t I been telling you all along that you would?”
“Yes, you have, ever since we left Genoa. And it was never true.”
“But now it is, isn’t it, Princess Joanna?” sensible little Mary asked.
Joanna was rather enjoying feeling cross and peevish. It was certainly preferable to the abysmal physical malaise she had suffered for the last fortnight. But she supposed they were right, up to a point. “Yes, I do feel better. A little better.”
Her three ladies in waiting, similarly cleansed and refreshed, came in, full of chatter about this wonderfully appointed castle. The thick carpets, so colorful! The glorious views! The helpful servants! The big wardrobes where one could hang up one’s clothes instead of stuffing them into chests! The bowl of dates and nuts on the table with a carafe of cool water! And best of all, a private room for each.
What with all this good cheer, Joanna revived enough to consent to go down to the hall for dinner. Mary held her arm and supported her faltering descent of the stone stairway. When Earl Hamelin had helped her to her seat, she looked around and saw that the castle hall was about half the size of the drafty great hall at Winchester and far warmer. Tapestries hung on the walls, with wondrous scenes of ladies seated in a garden and huntsmen with their bows and arrows in pursuit of a stag. The room was humming with the approving comments of her traveling companions and their hopeful conjectures about the menu. She hardly recognized them, all so much cleaner and better clothed than she had seen them in weeks. A pleasant whiff of incense came from a brazier in a corner.
Just as she was beginning to feel she might rejoin the ranks of the healthy human race, she caught the odor of roasted meat as servants began bringing in platters heaped with beef and fowl. Joanna shuddered and for a moment her queasiness returned. But she managed to partake, without incident, of a small bowl of beef broth, two chunks of bread dipped in the broth, and a sliver of apple tart.
“Bravely done, Princess,” said her uncle, as though congratulating her on a well-run race. He himself had just made away with a brace of guinea hens. “We’ll have you fit and fine again in no time.” She gave him a small wan smile and retired to her chamber.
The ambassadors left and the royal party devoted themselves to the princess’s recovery. It wasn’t as rapid as they’d hoped. All signs of seasickness had disappeared, but not the fever. She would revive enough to get up for a few hours in the morning, but every evening she weakened, grew hot and trembly and had to lie down. The best physicians in Naples were called in and prescribed various remedies: hot compresses, cold compresses, infusions of feverfew, poultices of fenugreek. Nothing seemed to help. Lady Marian was discouraged.
“Her brother Richard has had the same thing,” Alan told her. “When I’ve campaigned with him, I’ve seen him laid low like an oak that’s been felled by a woodsman. There was nothing for it but to make him as comfortable as we could in his tent and wait until the fever went away. Sometimes it took two weeks.”
“My grandmother used to make a brew of hot water, honey, and fresh hyssop flowers,” said Lady Adelaide. “It worked wonders for me when I had coughs and fever.”
“Yes, I’ve had that,” said Mary. “But we always put anise seeds in, too.”
“Well, it’s worth a try,” said Lady Marian.
But where to find what they needed in this strange, confusing big city? Mary volunteered that she’d seen a box of anise seeds in the kitchen, and was sent to ask the cook if he had any hyssop.
“He hasn’t,” came the report. “But he told me there’s a special street in the market where the herbalists set up their stands. I think I’ve seen it.”
Earl Hamelin’s eyebrows shot up and he leaped to his feet. A search for hyssop in Naples might not be as pleasant as one
for lavender in Marseilles but the rewards of success were tempting: Lady Adelaide’s admiration and, of course, the princess’s improved health.
“I shall be honored to lead the search if you will accompany me, Lady Adelaide.” He made her a little bow.
“Gladly, Earl Hamelin.”
“And perhaps Mary should go along,” said Lady Marian, “since she’s the only one of us who knows where the market is.”
Mary turned quite pink at being included in the party. But when they set out, the other two paid her no attention beyond keeping her bustling little figure in sight as they navigated the twisting, crowded streets.
They found the right street, lined with stalls offering a bewildering variety of powders, dried herbs, flowers and mysterious crumbly substances. Competing smells assaulted their nostrils. There were no fresh hyssop flowers, but Lady Adelaide followed her nose to a stall with a basket of nondescript dried flowers with a strong minty smell.
“Ah, here they are. The dried ones will do very well,” she said.
The earl managed to find in his various pockets a large handful of coins and held them out for the merchant to select what was owing him. They started back.
“Mary,” he said, “why don’t you go ahead with the herbs, and get cook started making the infusion? We’ll be able to find our way.”
The girl looked doubtful.
“Now don’t worry,” said the earl. “I paid particular attention as you led us here.” Mary ducked her head, smiled, and darted off.
An hour later the other two arrived at the palace. Lady Marian and Brother Jean-Pierre were waiting in the hall, trying not to worry. The earl looked agitated and Lady Adelaide was flushed.
“These Italians!” exclaimed the earl. “What kind of a city is this, where the streets go around in circles and nobody can speak any English or French to tell us where we are!” He flung off his cloak and let it fall in a heap on the floor. It jangled. A few coins rolled away toward a corner.
“Are you all right, Lady Adelaide?” Lady Marian asked. “You look upset.”
“We have had an adventure!” exclaimed Lady Adelaide. “A rude little man in the market grabbed me by the arm, trying to make me look at his gold and beads, and Earl Hamelin pushed him away and threatened him with his fists, and the man almost ran, he made off so fast. The earl was so brave!” She looked at him with such a fond smile that for a moment her long face was almost attractive.
The earl looked up at the ceiling and pretended not to have heard.
“Don’t you want to know whether the princess has benefited from her hyssop potion?” asked Lady Marian.
“Of course! Please forgive me, I should have asked at once. How is she?”
“Possibly a little better. She said this was the first medicine we’ve given her that tasted good. It’s all that honey, of course, and the nice mint flavor of the hyssop.”
“And she sat up in bed and asked for more,” said Brother Jean-Pierre. “And she said to thank you for suggesting it.”
“The little love!” said Lady Adelaide. “I’m so glad to hear it, aren’t you, Hamelin?”
“Indeed I am. Now my dear, you must rest after our long walk and all the excitement.” He took her arm and they started up the stairs. Lady Marian and Brother Jean-Pierre heard her murmur, looking up at her companion, “I was so very lucky that you were with me to protect me!” and his reply, “Lady Adelaide, I would like to be with you to protect you always.”
“Oh my, oh my!” said Lady Marian, looking with dismay at Brother Jean-Pierre.
“Oh my indeed! Apparently he hasn’t told her he has a wife waiting for him in England.”
Earl Hamelin and Lady Adelaide didn’t come to dinner and were not seen again that night.
Whether it was the hyssop tea, the other and viler potions her caregivers kept plying her with, or simply the passage of time, Joanna’s health returned and with it her good looks and spirits. The physicians, when consulted, agreed that she would be well enough to attend Epiphany mass at the cathedral.
Lady Marian decreed that she should dress up in her finest gown. “That’s the white satin, you know, that’s been in a chest ever since we left Winchester.”
Anticipating objections, she hurried on. “The people of Naples will be pleased to see an English princess honoring their splendid cathedral by appearing in suitable royal splendor. It’s what they would expect from the fiancée of their king.”
“And besides,” said Lady Charmaine, “if that’s what you’ll wear when you meet King William you’ll feel more at ease then for having become accustomed to it.”
Joanna was convinced and let Mary and Lady Marian help her into the ceremonial gown. It was high-necked, long-sleeved and full-skirted with a gold sash. As its only adornment, the red-and-gold Plantagenet lions romped around a wide band at the hem and a narrow one at the neck. It was a little loose because she hadn’t yet regained all the weight she’d lost, which made it more comfortable. When they placed the pearl-studded tiara on her head she took a deep breath and stood as tall as she could. She felt she was indeed a princess of the realm, no longer a sick bedridden child.
Mary held up a small mirror so Joanna could see herself in sections. But she got a better idea of how she looked from the faces of her ladies. Even shy Beatrice joined in the approbation. “King William will be enchanted!”
“So I’m pretty again, Lady Marian?”
“My dear, you are. Prettier than ever. Thank God for your recovery.”
Brother Jean-Pierre had just come in to announce it was time to leave for the cathedral.
“Amen,” he said.
Chapter 12
King William, alone in his private study, was waiting for his mother. She’d sent word that she wished an audience. He sat at an ebony table on which rested a massive gold candlestick, an illuminated Latin text, and his elbows. Supporting his chin with his cupped hands, he was studying a history of Apulia, one of the Sicilian possessions on the Italian mainland. He’d had reports of unrest there and thought he should educate himself about the province, in case he had to take action. But his attention wandered.
He looked up and surveyed this room where he felt so at peace. He liked its harmony and simplicity, with its tall arched windows and rich paneling, innocent of the carvings and mosaics that embellished so much of the rest of the royal palace in Palermo. The only furnishings, besides his chair, the table and another chair facing him, were four polished wood cabinets. Tall and austere, lined up against the wall, they held the substantial library of manuscripts that his father had acquired. And he liked the room because he could slip in here from his adjoining bedchamber without having to advertise his movements to all the palace staff and curious visitors who wandered the halls, hoping for a glimpse of royalty.
Restless, he stood up and stretched, then walked over to look out the window. From his second-story vantage point he could see that people were already filing into the square, some with cushions and stools, many with wineskins and sausages. It was hours before the anticipated event of the evening would begin but the citizens were already feeling festive and were plainly intending to make a night of it. He nodded approvingly when he saw that, in accord with his orders, the lamplighters were placing torches on the columns around the square, ready to light when darkness fell.
His mother was late. He wondered what excuse she’d have this time. Maybe her maid had forgotten to wake her from her nap. Or her gown had been torn and she’d had to change to a new one.
A page, so young that he still spoke in a childish treble, knocked, stepped quickly inside and announced, “Queen Margaret to see her son King William.”
In she swept, almost engulfing the lad with her billowing skirts. William had observed that as his mother increased in years and girth, so did the complexity and layering of her costumes. Today she looked rather oceanic, with her full-skirted sea-green gown and several filmy white scarves and shawls foaming about her shoulders. The ensemble was anchored
by a five-strand necklace of enormous pearls. Above all this splendor her small dark face, plump as a ripe cherry and topped with a wisp of a white lace cap on her black hair, rose like an afterthought.
William couldn’t help smiling at the sight. His mother, mistaking this for cordiality, spoke in a rush.
“Oh William, I’m so glad you’re not annoyed. I really couldn’t get here any sooner. You wouldn’t believe how hard we had to look before we found my pearls. I quite thought they’d been stolen, until…”
“Yes, mother, that’s good. I’m glad you found them.” He spoke firmly but not unkindly. He was accustomed to her flighty ways. He’d lived through her seven years as queen regent after his father died. William was only eleven then, but he’d been old enough to observe how totally unfit she was to govern. Along with most Sicilians he’d been relieved when, six years ago, he’d turned eighteen and had thereupon become king in fact as well as name.
Now that William ruled, his mother was on the political sidelines. She had to find new ways to amuse herself. One of these was to offer advice to her son.
She plumped her well-cushioned posterior down in the equally well-cushioned chair across the table from him.
“William, I’ll waste no words. I’m sure you’re very busy.” She looked disapprovingly at the manuscript before him, then glanced around her. “But William, why do you persist in burying yourself in this musty little hole instead of receiving people in the throne room next door? It’s so much more suitable and commodious, and your father made it so beautiful, with that splendid golden throne and plenty of places for his friends to sit.”
“Mother, we’ve been over this before. I’m perfectly willing to use the throne room to receive ambassadors or to hold meetings with my council. But when I need to concentrate or study it’s impossible, with servants running in and out and the master of the horse or the archbishop dropping by to interrupt me with whatever’s on his mind. Now, to get back, what’s on your mind?”