by Rachel Bard
In spite of the tiring nature of the ceremony, your daughter stood straight and did not lose her composure. Furthermore, my lady, she looked very much the little queen. I heard more than one comment from the nobles and their ladies who were assembled in the chapel about her beauty and how well she bore herself. Only once did she appear a little discomposed, as anybody would have done under the circumstances. It was during her coronation, which followed the wedding ceremony. After the archbishop removed her diamond tiara, he sprinkled a few drops of holy oil on her head. Than he took the crown of the queen of Sicily from the red cushion that an assisting priest was holding. (And only then, my lady, did I realize that the priest was our Brother Jean-Pierre, looking quite splendid and a little uncomfortable in a red cope and a snowy white surplice over his customary black cassock.) The archbishop placed the crown, which was all of gold and laden with jewels, on Joanna’s head. Because it was so large and heavy (and, I suspect, because the oil on her hair sped it on its journey), it slipped right down over her forehead and came to rest supported by her little nose. I saw her start and begin to reach up to push it away, but in a trice King William took it off and placed it back on the cushion that Jean-Pierre was still holding. The archbishop, quicker-witted than I would have thought, inserted something in the ritual words he was delivering to the effect that now the queen had been symbolically crowned. He went on to ask her to acknowledge her sacred duty to serve her lord the king loyally and to care for the welfare of his people. She spoke up as though nothing had happened, in a voice audible to all, that she did so promise. This was almost the end and after another prayer (for which we all knelt yet again and heartily glad were my knees that it was the last time) and the benediction, William took Joanna’s arm and led the procession out of the chapel.
Then, of course, there was a long banquet in the Fountain Room. I will not describe that splendid chamber to you, since by the time you read this I am sure Earl Hamelin will have arrived and told you about the beautiful palaces we live in here.
Eleanor looked up, exasperated. No, Earl Hamelin had not arrived. Where was the man? She knew he was on the way. Although she herself was confined to Winchester at Henry’s orders, she had a trustworthy network of informants who kept her aware of what was important to her. She knew the earl had reached Bordeaux where he was to take some matter up with Richard. But he should have reached England by now.
She resumed reading.
Joanna was, understandably, quite tired when it was all over. But she was as happy as I have seen her. I believe she fully realizes the honor and good fortune she enjoys in being the queen of Sicily. Also, she and King William have, even in the short time they have known each other, become good friends.
Now, my lady, though this letter is already over-long, I must add a few words about a matter that is not so pleasant. I mentioned Matthew of Ajello, the king’s chancellor. By tactful questioning and listening here in the king’s court, I conclude he is a wily man and in league with Queen Margaret, who despite having given up her position as queen regent, still wishes to be influential in the kingdom’s affairs. Brother Jean-Pierre and I are convinced that she has taken an intense dislike to Joanna, probably because the king did not consult her about his choice of a queen. We fear that she and Sir Matthew may make trouble for Joanna. To be blunt: we believe Sir Matthew intends to revive the old Thomas à Becket affair, when King Henry was falsely accused of ordering the murder of Archbishop Thomas of Canterbury. Jean-Pierre has acquired reliable information that Sir Matthew intends to publicly brand King Henry as a murderer, and thereby to defame his daughter.
None of this may be imminent. Sir Matthew is preoccupied now with his rivalry with Archbishop Walter for the king’s favor and for power in the kingdom. However, I beg of you, my lady, to acquaint King Henry with this situation. It would be most helpful if he could send someone—or come himself—to look into whatever mischief Sir Matthew and Queen Margaret may be plotting, and to see how they can be controlled. I suppose that if Earl Hamelin were still here he might have been of help. But perhaps it is just as well, because the situation seems to call for a man of more standing —shall we say a man of judgment and discretion?
I have kept you reading too long, my lady, and your eyes must be tiring. Adieu, from your loyal servant, Marian de Beauchamps.
An afterword: When I told Joanna I had written you and described the wedding, she asked me to send you her love and to say that she looks forward to the day when you may visit her. How pleased she would be if King Henry were to send you to deal with this matter!
And so would I, thought Queen Eleanor. And so would I.
But now there was work to be done. She rolled up the parchment and tied the ribbon. She walked to the door and told the page outside to send her a messenger at once. By the time the man arrived she had written ten lines to King Henry, who was at Westminster:
My lord:
I have just received the letter that accompanies this from Lady Marian de Beauchamps in Palermo. Not only does it contain news of the marriage of our daughter—apparently a successful and joyful occasion—but at the end some alarming cautions about the political situation in Sicily. As we are both aware, Sicily is one of England’s most powerful allies and we had hoped this marriage would strengthen the alliance. We cannot afford to see any cracks appear in the relationship, nor can I bear to think of danger to Joanna. Lady Marian must be answered—can you come to Winchester soon so we can take counsel together about this?
Eleanor
She hardly dared hope that Henry would come, much less soon. He seldom asked for her counsel in anything nowadays. To her surprise he arrived three days later, greeted her with an embrace and a kiss on the cheek and said, “You are looking remarkably handsome, my Queen. I’ve come at your bidding, to discuss Sicily and Joanna and all the possible disasters that may befall us if we fail to take action at once.” He was laughing, he was almost the old Henry with whom she’d fallen in love all those years ago. She doubted if this rapport would last but welcomed it none the less.
They dined in her private dining room early in the afternoon. Clouds were scudding across the sky, often blotting out the sun so the room swung from brilliantly alight to dark and gloomy. Eleanor ordered the candles to be lit.
She had forgotten how enthusiastically Henry could attack a meal and watched in amazement as he made away with half a roast chicken and a bowl of stewed beef before she’d had more than a few mouthfuls of her own chicken. Finally replete, he pushed his chair back from the table and sat watching while she ate. He stroked his brown-bearded chin. He sipped from his goblet.
“As to this pother in Sicily, of course we must look into it. But I can hardly believe anybody would seriously accuse me all over again of murdering the archbishop.”
As he continued, Eleanor could see the signs she knew all too well that his temper was rising. He was biting off his words and shaking his head in anger, his voice becoming strident.
“All Europe knows by now, in fact has known for seven years, that when those renegade knights killed Thomas in Canterbury Cathedral, it wasn’t on my orders. They just assumed…” He began to sputter and his face was mottled with an alarming flush. The sputter turned to a roar. “How could they be so rash and stupid? They assumed that simply because I’d complained about my differences with the archbishop I wanted him put out of the way.” He jumped to his feet, overturning a stool in his vehemence, and shook his fist at the ceiling as though to enlist a just God to his cause—or to rail against an unjust one. “And didn’t I crawl on my knees to do penance for a deed I hadn’t done? Didn’t I let the cardinals scourge my bare back? Didn’t I beg the pope to make Thomas a saint?”
Eleanor, accustomed to his rages, watched in admiration. It was something like witnessing a thunderstorm. There was nothing to do but wait until the thunderer tired and calm returned.
Henry kicked the stool out of his way and sat down, breathing heavily. His hands were shaking. Eleanor poured him
more wine.
After a few minutes his breathing became normal. He resumed their conversation.
“Yes, we must look into the situation. Lady Marian’s analysis seems sound. You may compliment her on her wisdom and on her loyalty to us. She was a good choice to send with Joanna. What a pity she isn’t a man, she might have served as our agent in Sicily.” He took a sip of wine. “Too bad the other ladies didn’t turn out so well. I hear that the duenna resigned her post in Saint-Gilles, that one of the others was seduced by our Richard with unfortunate results, and still another permitted herself to form a liaison with Earl Hamelin, though he seems to feel very little remorse.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Has he returned, then?”
“Yes, he arrived in London a week ago. Do you mean to tell me you, with all your sources of the latest news, were ignorant of that?” Now he had reverted to the malicious, insinuating Henry, the husband who had kept her prisoner for four years and took pleasure in baiting her.
“Never mind, I’m sure he’ll call on you before long. I believe he has a message for you from Joanna. Something about asking you when you’ll be coming to Sicily.”
This was her opportunity, but she mustn’t sound too eager.
“And what a good time this would be for me to go. I could find out what Chancellor Matthew is up to, and perhaps enlist Archbishop Walter to help me. I knew him when he was a priest at Winchester Cathedral.”
“So you could, Eleanor.” He picked up his goblet, stared into it and downed the last few drops. He rose and stood in front of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. “You never stop trying, do you? But I’m not ready to grant you your freedom. The minute you crossed the Channel you’d start stirring up rebellion and encouraging my sons to rise against me.”
She knew better than to argue. She looked at him standing there, stocky, square-jawed, booted feet planted well apart: still a fine figure of a man, a man as confident of the strength of his will as of the strength of his sword arm.
“What’s more, you’re a bit late. I’ve already arranged for Archbishop Richard to go to Sicily. I spoke to him when I arrived in Winchester this morning. He’ll travel back to Westminster with me tonight and I’ll instruct him on how he is to represent me in Palermo. Or rather, to represent us. I take it you concur in this choice?”
He was pretending to solicit her assent. She was pretending to be thinking of whether to give it, staring at him thoughtfully. She nodded. “Very well, my lord. I shall write to Lady Marian, shall I? And explain to her what we plan?”
“Please do. But I believe you should caution her against telling Joanna anything about all this. There’s no point in alarming the child about something that may not happen.”
For once they were in agreement. Eleanor rose.
“You will want to leave soon while there is still daylight.”
Henry left, the candles guttered in a blast of cold air that blew through the open door, and Eleanor stood staring into the fire. Twelve years would pass before she traveled to Sicily and saw her daughter.
Chapter 21
Except for a move from one palace to another, very little changed in Joanna’s life after her wedding. She now had her own apartments in the royal palace, every bit as sumptuous as the ones at La Zisa. Rooms for Lady Marian and the other ladies were nearby. William continued to be attentive and friendly, though more like a brother or a teacher than a husband. Joanna was perfectly content with that.
Archbishop Richard of Winchester, dispatched by King Henry to investigate the subversive plotting of Matthew of Ajello, arrived in due course. Joanna had never been particularly fond of the archbishop, but she was glad to see a familiar English face. Nobody had told her why he was there. She supposed it was one of those state visits that monarchs and their deputies make, just to remind their allies that they’re still allies.
Aside from the archbishop’s rather perfunctory transmittal of her parents’ greetings, she saw very little of him during his three weeks in Sicily. First he had to recover from the rigors of the sea voyage, which had left him bilious and nearly bedridden. Next he was present at a series of state dinners in his honor. There he divided his time between conversation and consumption, the former looking to Joanna like polite but desultory talk with various notables and dignitaries, the latter a serious effort to make up for the reduction of his girth due to seasickness.
Once when she was seated on the balcony of the courtyard, waiting for Lady Marian, Beatrice and Adelaide, she heard a door close, then hearty masculine laughter from the corridor. She recognized the voices of Sir Matthew of Ajello and Archbishop Richard. They must have just come from William’s private study. She couldn’t help overhearing their conversation as they drew closer.
“That’s that, then, Sir Matthew,” said the archbishop. “I’m so glad we see eye to eye. This has been a most interesting and, I trust, productive visit. I’m only sorry I must leave tomorrow. I’ve grown quite fond of your Sicily. I’ve never had such fine capons in wine sauce.”
They’d reached the balcony, but to Joanna’s relief turned to the right rather than to the left where she was seated. They didn’t see her.
Sir Matthew was more cordial and outgoing than she’d ever seen him. He clapped the archbishop resoundingly on the back, which caused the latter to wince and recoil. Sir Matthew didn’t notice. They sat on a bench not ten feet from her, but a stout pillar kept her hidden from their view. She couldn’t help but eavesdrop.
“Yes, Richard, as you say, interesting and productive. I hope you’ll tell your king that he need have no further concerns about the matters we’ve discussed.”
“So I shall. Where he got the idea that anybody hoped to cause a split between Sicily and England, I can’t imagine.” The archbishop belched discreetly. One too many capons, Joanna thought.
“Oh well, the common folk will make up foolishness when they’ve nothing better to do. Perhaps some of that idle talk reached King Henry. Come, shall I see you to your chamber?”
They descended to the courtyard and were lost to sight.
Joanna sat on, puzzling about what she’d overheard. Presently Lady Marian arrived and Joanna told her about it.
“I can’t say I’m surprised. That archbishop’s a useless sort of man, in my opinion. Might as well have stayed at home.”
Before Joanna could ask her what she was talking about, Lady Marian hurried on.
“But never mind that now. Adelaide and Beatrice are coming to say goodbye.”
Joanna knew Adelaide would be leaving for the abbey of Fontevraud in France and that Beatrice wished to be with her family in England when her baby was born. But so soon? “I thought they’d be here another month.”
“Apparently King William has sensibly decided it’s best for them to join the archbishop’s party, which will have seven galleys staffed with skilled captains and seamen, rather than going later on transport that’s possibly less reliable.”
When Beatrice and Adelaide appeared Joanna realized how much she was going to miss them. She’d always liked Beatrice for her gentleness and lack of pretense. Immediately after Richard’s desertion she’d become even more reserved, turning aside Joanna’s overtures of friendship. Yet in time she seemed to have gotten over her broken heart. Lately she’d responded gladly to suggestions for a walk in the park or a visit to the bazaar. As for Lady Adelaide, her misadventures with Earl Hamelin had left her chastened and far less assertive.
Joanna sometimes wondered if an unhappy love affair made one a nicer person than before.
“I hope this isn’t really goodbye,” said Joanna, giving each a hug. “Surely we’ll meet again some day. Beatrice, maybe after your baby comes, you could bring him back to Sicily, at least for a while.”
Beatrice’s blue eyes grew misty. Joanna thought that her approaching motherhood had made her even more beautiful, with a calm contentment that softened her features.
“I don’t know, my lady. Maybe. But all I loo
k forward to now is to be back in my father’s house and to see him and my mother and—soon—to bear my child.” She took Joanna’s hand and, near tears, clasped it in both of hers. “I shall never forget how good and kind you’ve been.”
“Oh dear, if you start crying I will too.” Joanna turned to Adelaide, who was standing with bowed head, surreptitiously wiping her eyes with a corner of her sleeve. Lady Marian passed out handkerchiefs to all.
“Dear Adelaide, I feel sure we’ll meet again, too. Let me hear from you after you’re well settled at Fontevraud Abbey. I know you’ll be happy there. And who knows, maybe I’ll come to visit you some day!”
“Oh, I hope so. After everything you’ve told me about the abbey I expect to find it’s just what suits me. But I’ll never, never forget you and this beautiful land of Sicily.”
And with more tears and protestations of friendship, they parted.
Joanna did miss them, but not as much as she’d expected. William kept her busy, asking her to accompany him on various expeditions. She particularly liked it when they went several times to his new abbey and cathedral at Monreale, an ambitious project and very dear to his heart, though still some years away from completion. William took an intimate interest in every aspect of the construction.
“It will be my legacy,” he told Joanna, “just as the Palatine Chapel where we were married was my grandfather’s and La Zisa was my father’s.”
Joanna tried to think of some comparable achievement in her family. Her father had certainly built no cathedrals, though he had a respectable list of refortified castles to his credit. Then she remembered something she’d heard once.