by Rachel Bard
“I believe an ancestor of mine built Westminster Abbey,” she said. “Then he was buried there and they made him a saint.”
“Would that have been Saint Edward, called the Confessor?”
“I think so. My mother and father took me there when I was very small, and I saw his shrine. It’s a beautiful church, but I thought it was very dark, like an enormous cave.”
“Ah yes,” said William. “I’ve heard a great deal about Westminster. I’d like to see it. Maybe I’d get some ideas for my cathedral. But mine won’t be dark. It will gleam and glitter!” And he explained to her how he would bring about this splendor, through generous application of gold leaf and mosaic tiles.
With such conversations and instruction they would pass the time during the three-hour ride to Monreale. Sometimes it took longer, because William often reined in his horse, whereupon all the others in the cortège had to stop too, from queen to courtiers to grooms. William, in his zeal to acquaint Joanna with Sicily and vice versa, would pause to point out notable sights to her, or to greet well-wishers who came out to see them pass. William’s subjects loved him and were learning to love her too. Sometimes she heard the same cheers that had greeted her on her first night in Sicily—“Welcome to our new queen!”
But toward the beginning of 1178, when she’d been married nearly a year, she thought she noticed less enthusiasm from the populace when she wasn’t with William. There were even sullen looks and muttered remarks. She couldn’t catch the words but the tone was unmistakably hostile. She worried and resolved to tell William about it.
Before she could, she found out with a jolt just how unpopular she’d become. She and Lady Marian were returning from the gardens at La Zisa where they’d spent the afternoon. Alan was as usual in attendance. They’d almost reached the royal palace when they saw, scrawled in huge letters on the wall of a house, “Joanna . . .”and some more words she couldn’t make out. She asked Alan what they were.
“I’m afraid it says something like ‘Daughter of a murderer! Go home.’”
While Joanna stared at the words. a slovenly looking man with a bucket and a brush, heading for the corner, turned to send her a look of such scorn and hatred that she shuddered. Speechless with dismay, they rode on. When they reached the palace Alan helped her dismount.
“You’ll want to see King William about this, my lady. Shall I find him and send him to your chamber?”
“Yes, yes, please do, Alan.”
“And quickly,” said Lady Marian.
William appeared within five minutes. Joanna was standing by the window, her slight, motionless figure outlined by the slanting rays of the setting sun. William reached her side in three long steps. When she told him what she’d seen, his lips tightened.
“This is monstrous!” Joanna had never seen him so angry.
“William, who would want to attack me so? And what does it mean?”
He saw that she was trembling and pale. He put his arm around her shoulders and she took comfort from its protective pressure.
“My dear Joanna,” he said, “of course you’re frightened and confused. I’m so sorry you had to undergo such an insult, all innocent as you are. I think I know who’s behind the calumny, though I wish I were mistaken.”
“But what does it mean, William? Do they resent me because of that old business of Archbishop Thomas of Canterbury? That was eight years ago! Surely nobody still thinks my father killed Thomas à Becket!”
“No rational person does. But it takes very little to revive ugly rumors in the minds of the people. You know, I know, all the rulers of Europe, all the churchmen—even the pope—know that your father didn’t order Thomas à Becket’s murder. And they know he voluntarily did public penance for the crimes of those misguided lords who did the wicked deed.”
“And what’s more,” said Lady Marian, “he pressed as hard as anyone for the elevation of Thomas to sainthood four years ago.”
Joanna remembered that. And she remembered her father telling her never to forget to include St. Thomas of Canterbury in her prayers.
She felt her legs weaken and sat down on the windowseat. “I don’t know what I can do to make them see how wrong they are.”
“You need do nothing,” said William, “except go on as you are and try to forget this outrage. And soon enough, you’ll see, it will all die down and the people will find something else to clamor about. I shall get to the bottom of it, I promise you. And I shall start now.” He strode out of the room. They heard him snap to the page at the door, “Find Queen Margaret and ask her to come to my study at once.”
Joanna remained seated with her head bowed for a moment, then sat up straight. “Lady Marian, I think you know more about all this than you’ve told me.”
“Yes. I suppose I should have been more frank with you from the beginning. It all started with Queen Margaret’s being so insulted that William had chosen to marry you instead of the German princess she favored.”
She continued with the account of how the old queen had enlisted Sir Matthew in her campaign to denigrate Joanna; how she—Lady Marian—had written to Joanna’s mother; how King Henry had sent Archbishop Richard to investigate Sir Matthew; how the latter had obviously duped the archbishop into believing it was all a tempest in a teapot; and how Sir Matthew had recirculated the long-forgotten evil rumors about King Henry and Thomas à Becket, with the results they had seen today.
Joanna listened carefully to the end of the sorry story.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this while it was going on?”
“My dear, I didn’t want to worry you. Brother Jean-Pierre and I decided it would be unkind to trouble you about something we hoped would soon blow over.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No, it didn’t.”
Joanna stood up. The room was now quite dim. But Lady Marian could see from the girl’s rigid stance and the firmness in her voice that something about her had changed.
“I am no longer a child. I’m thirteen years old. You needn’t be afraid of upsetting me. From now on, be so good as to keep me informed of anything you see or hear that has to do with me, my husband the king, or the Sicilian people. And you may tell Brother Jean-Pierre the same thing.”
William was right. After stern interviews with his mother and with Sir Matthew, including the threat of demotion and even exile to the latter, the attacks on Joanna dwindled, then ceased. The people took her back into their hearts and before long, they were swept up in noisy protests about a new tax on wine.
Queen Margaret still made sotto voce derogatory remarks about her daughter-in-law in the dining hall but Joanna learned to ignore them.
William’s preoccupation with his new cathedral intensified, if possible. One morning in April of 1178 he and Joanna left Palermo quite early, along with a half-dozen courtiers and Florian, the justiciar, who possibly wanted to see whether all this money the king was spending was getting results.
They rode quickly through the little village of Monreale, where people were just emerging from their cottages to go to the fields. Then it appeared, an enormous structure of thick stone walls rising to dizzying heights, pierced by arched windows, but still lacking a roof. They left the fresh, sunwashed spring day to enter the cavernous interior. Joanna shivered and drew the fur collar of her cloak closer.
William had come to address a group of skilled artists he had invited from Constantinople, masters of the Byzantine techniques of creating images with tiny pieces of colored glass and stone.
“All along this south wall,” he told them, “I shall have stories from the Bible. I wish you to use all your skill, so that the people can instantly understand the life of our Lord from the pictures you build with your mosaics. Do not hasten the task. Be careful and be inventive. Generations to come will make pilgrimages here to admire your work.”
“And have you selected the stories you wish us to picture, my lord King?” asked a bearded ancient, apparently the leader of the group.
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br /> “I have, but I will be glad to hear others’ suggestions. I would like to see the Washing of the Feet, the Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes, the Last Supper, the Betrayal, to start with.”
“And perhaps,” said Florian, “Christ Driving the Money Lenders from the Temple?”
“By all means. You, my lord justiciar, as the man in charge of safeguarding the king’s treasury, naturally have an interest in putting a stop to any unseemly financial behavior.” William smiled, whereupon the others in the party chuckled discreetly.
After further discussion with the Byzantine artists, and having made sure they would be well lodged and fed, William and his chief of construction made a tour around the outside of the cathedral. Satisfied that it was not about to tumble down and was progressing according to his wishes, he re-entered to tell Joanna it was time to start back. She was standing at the center of the vast space, looking up toward the sky.
“William, will you cover all the walls with mosaics of Bible stories? And the ceiling?”
“I’m not sure. The walls, certainly. But I’m thinking that just there where you were looking, at the center of what will be the dome over the apse, I’ll have a very large Christ, as though he were looking down from heaven with his hands outstretched to embrace all who enter here.”
“That would be wonderful.” She gazed up, trying to imagine it.
“I’ll have to confess, Joanna, that it wasn’t an original idea. My grandfather, King Roger II, created such a Christ in the dome of his cathedral at Cefalù. I’ll take you there soon. You’ll see how glorious a great cathedral can be—and how I hope mine will be.”
“Will you have the artists picture some saints, too?”
“Saints, angels, archangels—the whole host of holy folk.”
They began walking out toward the bright afternoon.
“Then I’d like to make a request. Would you find a place somewhere for St. Thomas of Canterbury? And let me pay for that? My father gave me a rather large sum of money when I left home, and I haven’t had much to spend it on. I would dearly love to do this.”
William stopped, placed his hands on her shoulders and looked down at the earnest face turned up to his.
“Joanna, what a splendid idea. You’ve surprised me again with your good sense. Think of the effect on the citizens when they know their queen has honored St. Thomas.”
“I’m not suggesting it because of that, but because I truly do venerate Thomas. But I suppose”—she smiled at the thought—“it wouldn’t hurt anything if people knew I paid for it.”
“And we’ll see that they know. Maybe we can hire some of Sir Matthew’s rumormongers. If they could spread falsehoods so quickly, they should be able to spread the truth even faster.”
Chapter 22
On a warm, steamy July evening in 1180 King William stood, arms akimbo, and surveyed the antechamber of his apartments in the royal palace. His justiciar, Count Florian, who was ten years older than the king and not as fit, had sat down to rest. They had been preparing for departure the next morning for Italy.
Though the room appeared cluttered, to William’s eye it was in perfect order. Royal robes, boots, tunics, jerkins, capes, crown and jewels were secured in a half-dozen stout chests, strapped and locked. William and Florian had selected the documents they’d need when conferring with the envoys of the emperor of Germany. They’d seen to their placement in a leather satchel, also securely locked. This, and the pouches of gold and silver they would need during the next six weeks or so, were entrusted to Count Florian.
The valet, Peter, was just finishing stacking the bags and boxes that the draymen would take down to the galleys that awaited them in the harbor.
William’s face was glistening with sweat. Peter handed him a linen cloth to wipe his brow.
“Thanks, Peter. You have managed very well, You may go.” Peter bowed and left.
“I believe, Florian, we’ve earned a few minutes’ rest,” William said, seating himself on a chest. “We seem to be as ready as we can be.”
“I believe we are, my lord King. But before any more time passes, may I say that I greatly appreciate the honor of accompanying you? I hope to justify your trust in me.” William had usually taken his chancellor, Matthew of Ajello, on his diplomatic missions. Florian’s role had been to stay at home and see to the day-to-day business of the kingdom during his absence.
“I do trust you, Florian. You’ve served me loyally for many years. I’m afraid I don’t remember to thank you often enough.”
Florian’s thin face, his beaked nose and the bald spot on top of his head turned pink with pleasure. He wasn’t used to praise from his monarch. Their relations had always been extremely businesslike, but now William seemed disposed to speak more freely. He poured each of them a goblet of water from a pewter pitcher. Florian drank deeply and settled in his chair with a tired sigh.
“In fact, Florian, you’re one of the few people I can talk to frankly without fearing you’ll turn it to your advantage. I’ve ceased to trust Sir Matthew as much as I’d like. He and Archbishop Walter are at such loggerheads over so many matters that they seem to be putting their own interests first instead of those of Sicily.”
“Yes. I’d hoped that after the archbishop of Winchester came two years ago and looked into the chancellor’s activities, Sir Matthew would have seen the error of his ways. And maybe he did, for a while.”
“But he can slide back into his devious paths as smoothly and quietly as a snake.”
Florian reflected that it wasn’t easy being the king of Sicily. He tried to think of some less discouraging subject.
“At least, my lord, he seems to have stopped plotting to discredit your queen. That was disgraceful.”
“True. But I worry that while we’re gone we’ll have few to keep an eye open for signs of further intrigue except Queen Joanna and Brother Jean-Pierre.”
“Still, Jean-Pierre is very good at learning what’s going on. He looks so meek that everybody thinks he’s just a harmless monk and people say things in front of him that they’d best not.”
“I hope you’re right. And it isn’t just Matthew, you know. I’m concerned about Archbishop Walter as well. He sees my new abbey and cathedral at Monreale as a threat to his primacy in the kingdom. He’s already enlisted most of the bishops and priests of Palermo on his side. If he goes much further, Sir Matthew may see his own power waning and who knows what he might do in reprisal.”
Florian’s shoulders were hunched and he looked so dejected that William had to laugh. “Yes, my friend, it’s a dismal prospect, but don’t despair. We’ve been through worse, and I much prefer a battle of wits than one on the field of combat. And let’s be grateful for Jean-Pierre’s powers of detection, and for Queen Joanna’s watchfulness and wisdom.”
Florian brightened. “Yes, our queen is a wise one. I’ve been convinced of it since I first saw her as a child at Winchester. Sicily is fortunate that you chose so well.”
“And so am I, Florian. Now I must go down. She’s been waiting for me to join her, and I have a great deal to discuss with her—a great deal. Some of it affecting our court here, including a very important addition that should help us keep better informed of what the mischief-makers might be plotting.” He rose and stretched. “So I’ll be off. You and I will have plenty of opportunity to talk about these matters during the voyage. If all goes well on this trip, Florian, don’t be surprised if you find yourself vice-chancellor when we return. Good night, my friend, and get a good night’s sleep. Remember, we sail at first light.”
Florian was left to absorb this news of his prospects for promotion. It was all very flattering, but also promised to entail new responsibilities. Was he up to them?
And what, he wondered, is this step that William has taken that affects the court?
He doubted that he would get a good night’s sleep.
Chapter 23
When William walked into the atrium, he found Joanna and Lady Charmaine fanning
themselves idly. Their embroidery lay in their laps, ignored. Though the sun had gone down it was still too warm for serious endeavor. Not a breath of air stirred. The stately palms in their blue pots were as motionless as though they had never known a breeze.
Joanna was wearing a loose gown of lacy white cotton. “Just looking at you, my dear, makes me feel cooler,” William said.
He sat next to Joanna and rested his head against the back of the bench, closing his eyes. She rose to stand behind him and gently massaged his neck and shoulders. He looked up at her gratefully.
“No wonder you’re tired, my lord,” chirped Charmaine. “Getting ready for a long journey takes so much planning and concentration. Why, I remember to this day how it was before we left England all those years ago. I was quite exhausted by the time we set out. I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. And then…” Joanna cleared her throat audibly and looked at her meaningfully. Charmaine stopped in mid-sentence. “But what am I thinking of? I told Lady Marian I would help wind some yarn this evening. She must be wondering where I am.” She gathered up her work and hurried out.
William put his hand up to rest on Joanna’s and squeezed it. “Thanks, my sweet. You always know what I need. Let’s go out to walk in the park. It must be cooler there.”
With arms about each other’s waists they walked along an avenue bordered by palms and cypresses. The breeze from the sea was freshening and it ruffled William’s smooth cap of hair and set Joanna’s ringlets dancing.
A tantalizing scent drifted toward them from a trellised gateway where roses were in full flower. They sat on a bench within the arbor and William put his arm around her shoulders. Joanna reached up to pull down a blossom so she could inhale its sweetness. Suddenly she was overcome with a wave of nostalgia for her mother’s rose garden at Fontevraud Abbey. It was the same rose, pale yellow with a blush of peach, and the same spicy fragrance. How long it was since she’d played in that garden as a child! And how her life had changed! Here she was, queen of Sicily, with a loving husband—who was about to leave her for a long time.