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

by Rachel Bard

  “Well, no point in worrying my poor old head. The king has asked Brother Jean-Pierre, Lord Hassan and me to come to his chamber after supper. I expect we’ll know soon enough what’s going on.”

  “And you’ll tell me, won’t you, uncle?”

  “I will, because I know I can trust you not to go blabbing what you hear. You’re a good girl, Mary. And you are to tell your mother and father I said so, next time you write.”

  “If that’s an order, of course I will.” She blushed with pleasure. Few people thought to praise her. Alan kissed her on the cheek and they said goodnight.

  King William’s meeting was short and productive. He’d asked his vice-chancellor, Count Florian, to join the other three.

  They met in his private study, a setting so austere as to discourage any inclination to lightmindedness. The four men—solemn, worried men—sat in chairs ranged around the king’s bare, polished table, behind which he sat in his own slightly more royal chair.

  He told them of his suspicions, and of the need for watchfulness to prevent the old queen from contacting anyone who might connive with her in further schemes.

  “You may be sure it pains me enormously to have to suspect my own mother of being a murderess. My only consolation is that the unfortunate woman may have reached such a stage of dementia that she doesn’t realize the seriousness of what she’s doing. We’ll say no more on that subject.”

  Alan, when he took in the import of the king’s words, saw at once the meaning of what Mary had overheard. He struggled between anger and remorse—anger that anybody should plot to kill Joanna, and remorse that he hadn’t been more watchful. The king told him the page at Joanna’s door was to be replaced by a knight from the palace guard. “And I will share the duty, my lord King,” said Alan, resolved to redeem himself.

  William also asked him to place an armed guard at Queen Margaret’s door.

  “And the guard is to demand of every caller his name and his business, and he is to have the person discreetly followed when he leaves.”

  Lord Hassan was to provide the followers.

  “You are acquainted, I believe, with persons in the city who could put you in touch with men both trustworthy and guileful?”

  “Indeed I am.” Lord Hassan’s lean, dark, guarded face relaxed into an expression of eager anticipation. On arriving in Palermo he’d accepted the king’s directive to keep him informed of any incipient mischief in the kingdom. This was the most interesting incipient mischief he’d heard of yet.

  As for Brother Jean-Pierre, his assignment was the most delicate. As a man of the church he was to attempt to ingratiate himself with Queen Margaret, get her confidence and learn what he could of her plans and plots. Failing that, he was to pursue the same goal by conversations with his fellow members of the clergy. Ideally he’d become intimate with the queen’s confessor.

  At this suggestion Jean-Pierre bridled.

  “My lord King, I could never ask a priest to betray the sacred privacy of the confession.” He shook his head decisively.

  “Of course not. But in conversation with him you might well glean a few useful tidbits about Queen Margaret’s habits, state of mind and so forth.”

  “With all due respect, sir, could not you, as her son, accomplish the same thing more easily?”

  This question had been nagging the others as well.

  “I wish it were so. But unfortunately my mother will hardly speak to me these days. She has so much animosity toward Joanna that a good deal of it becomes attached to me.”

  He looked at each of them in turn. “So. We understand each other?” All nodded. He rose.

  “Very well. Thank you, on behalf of my queen and myself. We’ll meet again soon.”

  And so they did, but to very little purpose. Queen Margaret had become a recluse. She stopped attending court functions and shunned the dining hall. She sent no messages, received no one except Lady Maria Cristina. When Brother Jean-Pierre tried to get a foot in the door he was rebuffed. “The queen is sorry, but she is too tired and ill to see anyone,” came the reply.

  William dutifully dropped in on her regularly and found her no more unwell than usual but curiously lethargic. She didn’t scold. She didn’t ask for or volunteer any gossip. She sat looking at him, waiting for him to leave.

  Once she inquired about Joanna’s health. When William reported that she was feeling as well as could be expected and prayed daily that her child would be born safely and soon, his mother said, almost as though she meant it, “As do we all.” William was perplexed—where was the old malice?

  After he left, the queen called Maria Cristina to sit with her by the fire. The old malice was back in force. “It won’t be long now. We must start our planning. I think we’ll wait until the child is a week or so old. You’ll have to drop in often, to send my best wishes to Joanna and to say how sorry I am that I don’t feel well enough to come myself. You’ll admire the baby. Then when they’re used to seeing you there, it won’t be hard for you to find a moment to drop the poison in her tea or her wine.”

  Maria Cristina was used to a more passive role, as audience for Queen Margaret’s rampages and complaints. She was nervous about playing such an active part.

  “I still don’t see why you can’t do it yourself.”

  “How I wish I could!” Her little eyes, almost hidden by the fat wrinkled cheeks, blazed in the firelight like black diamonds. “But William has people watching me like a hawk. There’s no way I’d be permitted in Joanna’s apartments. But don’t worry, it will be easy. You’re such a perfect nonentity that you’ll blend right in. You can do it.”

  Maria Cristina, who didn’t quite know what a nonentity was, began to think that maybe she could indeed do it.

  The weeks passed. At last came the morning when Joanna felt a sharp pain, then two more, as though her stomach was trying to explode. She cried out, Lady Marian and Mary came running, and messengers were sent to bring the doctors, to find the nurse, to tell William. Joanna was hardly aware of all this. In fact for the next six hours she was hardly aware of anything except her excruciating pains, each spasm worse than the one before, and the refusal of the doctors to do anything to help her though she shrieked at them.

  At four in the afternoon of January 15, 1182, the baby was born. He was very small and after one short wail very quiet. When Joanna had been cleansed and was resting, they brought him for her to hold and told William he could come in.

  He kissed Joanna, then gingerly took his son from her arms.

  “How tiny he is! Are all babies this small? I haven’t met many babies.” He tickled his son under the chin but got no response beyond a solemn stare.

  “He has your eyes, Joanna, the very same intense brown eyes.”

  “And your nose, I think, so straight and noble.”

  “We’ll call him Bohemund,” said William.

  I’d really have liked him to be named Richard, thought Joanna. But she was too tired to argue and smiled a weak assent.

  “Bohemund was my ancestor and Prince of Antioch, you know. A hero of the Crusade, long before I was born but I heard tales of his deeds all during my youth. They say he was taller and stronger than any man in his army. So that gives this little prince something to live up to, eh Bohemund?” But the little prince had closed his eyes and seemed to be asleep.

  Baby Bohemund hardly cried and was almost indifferent to the wet nurse’s nipple. He slept through his own baptism in the resplendent Palatine Chapel, except for a whimper when he felt the priest’s cold hand on his forehead. Back in Joanna’s chamber, lying in his cradle or in his mother’s or his father’s arms, he’d look up with his dark unblinking eyes at the face hovering over him, then close them again.

  After three days in the world, quietly, uncomplainingly, he left it.

  Chapter 29

  After the death of her baby, Joanna shunned palace dinners and court activities. She cried often, almost inaudibly, while lying in bed or propped up on the divan. Lady
Marian kept a supply of soft handkerchiefs in Joanna’s reach and was getting well practiced in murmuring, “There, there.”

  Other than such minor measures, Lady Marian didn’t know how to cope with this prolonged depression. Neither did King William. No matter how much he sympathized with Joanna, how lovingly he told her they had both suffered a grievous loss and must now take strength from each other, she wouldn’t be consoled. When he suggested that they could still hope for children, she shuddered and didn’t answer.

  Brother Jean-Pierre reminded her of God’s promise to comfort the afflicted. He urged her to go to mass and to pray for submissive acceptance of her loss.

  “If that means attending mass in the Palatine Chapel I cannot—I cannot—bear the thought. That was where my Bohemund was baptized, only to die the next day.”

  “Then we’ll go elsewhere. There are many more churches in Palermo, some quite beautiful. I’d be honored to introduce you to them.”

  “I’ll think about it. You’re very kind.” And she turned her face to the wall again.

  Lady Charmaine with Sir Mario in tow came once but they didn’t stay long. Joanna hardly acknowledged Charmaine’s effusive introduction of her companion, a foppish gentleman with a tiny blond beard that didn’t quite conceal a receding chin. He was superficially handsome but somewhat the worse for wear. Joanna guessed he was Adelaide’s senior by at least fifteen years.

  “I’ve told you so much about Sir Mario, my lady, and of course I’ve told him about you. We were both very sorry to hear of the death of your baby, and we thought we’d call on you and try to cheer you up.”

  To cheer me up, thought Joanna bitterly. What could they possibly say that would cheer me up?

  “And we have the most wonderful news, haven’t we Mario?” She looked at him adoringly and took his hand. “You’ll never guess what it is, my lady!”

  Joanna thought she could.

  “We’re going to be married, aren’t we Mario?”

  “Indeed we are, my love. You are going to make me the happiest man in the world.” He kissed her hand, then shot a glance at Joanna to see how she was taking this astonishing turn of events.

  She was taking it with a distressing lack of enthusiasm.

  “I’m very happy for you.” But she didn’t look happy and had nothing more to say, even when they told her that though they’d make their home in Messina they’d come often to Palermo to visit their old friends.

  They left soon after that. Lady Marian heard Sir Mario growl on their way out, “I thought you told me she was pretty and pleasant.”

  Lady Yasmin called too. Lady Marian was glad. Surely Joanna would cheer up at the sight of this good friend.

  “I waited a few days, my dear, because I knew you’d need some time to get over the dreadful shock. Of course you’ll never really get over it. There must be nothing more heartrending than to lose a child.” She sat beside Joanna on the divan and looked at her affectionately. Joanna smiled, weakly, for the first time in days.

  “Thank you, Yasmin. Thank you for coming, and thank you for understanding. Right now I don’t think I’ll ever get over it, no matter that everybody tells me I will in time.”

  “And I’ll be here whenever you need someone to keep your spirits up. May I start now, with the latest court gossip?”

  “Yes, please do.” Joanna adjusted her pillows and sat up. “But you needn’t tell me about Lady Charmaine and Sir Mario. They’ve already come and gone. I told them I was happy for them, but honestly I’m happier for myself. It’s always been on my conscience that I couldn’t like Lady Charmaine more. Now Sir Mario has relieved me of the duty.”

  “Very well, and shall we be charitable and agree not to remark that Lady Charmaine, who must be all of twenty-seven, should count herself lucky at such an advanced age to snare a husband—never mind that he’s a bit desiccated and more than a bit impressed with himself.”

  Joanna laughed. Lady Marian, busy with her embroidery on the other side of the room, could hardly believe it. She listened with half an ear as the two chatted on.

  “What about Queen Margaret? Has anyone seen her at all?”

  “Not since your little one was taken from you. Her maid told my maid that when the queen heard the news of the baby’s death it sent her even further out of her mind. She won’t see anyone but Lady Maria Cristina and even lashes out at her, the poor long-suffering soul. Strange, isn’t it? For someone who wanted to kill you to take it so hard when your child died.”

  “Yes, it is strange. But I’ve long ago given up trying to understand Queen Margaret.”

  “Me too. So let’s move on. I’ll confine myself to three items that may interest you. I’m sure you’re dying to learn that Lady Genevieve’s little dog has refused to eat for four days, and she paid one of the court physicians an exorbitant sum to examine him. “

  “And what was the verdict?”

  “That she should change his diet from chopped lamb to mashed boiled whitefish with plenty of garlic.”

  “Ugh. Poor dog.”

  “And the next big news is that the astrologers are predicting that Mt. Etna may erupt again this summer.”

  “How I’d love to see that! But I suppose it could be dangerous.”

  “Oh, it could. Hassan was in Catania last year when there was a great spurt of fire into the sky and he said that all the villagers on the north side of the mountain had to run for their lives. A great many of them, unfortunately, lost their homes and fields when the lava poured down so fast. But he said it was a marvelous sight, if you weren’t too close.”

  After a bit the chatter stopped suddenly. Lady Marian glanced up to see Yasmin look at Joanna uncertainly and put an arm around her shoulder. Joanna shook her off. In a strained voice, she said, “Of course that’s wonderful for you. How happy you must be! But I can’t…I can’t…” and she sobbed aloud and bowed her head. “Maybe you should go now, Yasmin. I’d like to be left alone.”

  Lady Marian met Yasmin at the door.

  “What on earth…?”

  “Oh dear, I’d no idea she’d take it like that. I told her I was expecting a baby. She was absolutely stricken. I should have thought. It must have been a terrible reminder of how happy she was not long ago, just as I am now. I’m so sorry, Lady Marian.” She looked back at Joanna, who was sitting motionless, bent over, with her head in her hands.

  This can’t go on, thought Lady Marian. But what to do?

  King William, a patient man, loved his wife and indulged her in her grief. But patience and indulgence have their limits. He visited her often, hoping to find her in better spirits and urging her to come out of seclusion, but to no avail. When this had no effect his visits shrank to one a week if that.

  On the six-week anniversary of the baby’s death, she forced herself to go to the Palatine Chapel to hear mass and to say a prayer for his soul, but it gave her no comfort. She came back to her chamber to resume her solitary mourning. Before she could climb up onto the four-poster bed where she’d taken up near-permanent residence, Lady Marian took her firmly by the hand and sat her down in a chair.

  “Joanna, I’m going to talk to you as I believe your mother would. She’d tell you that no matter how you feel now, this isn’t the end of the world. She’d tell you that she herself lost her first son in infancy. She grieved, as you do. But she knew the importance of looking ahead, not back.”

  Joanna’s expression was as woebegone as ever. But she was listening. Lady Marian warmed to her subject. She even began to sound as firm as Queen Eleanor at her most imperative. Instead of her usual gentle tone she spoke sharply, articulating each syllable precisely.

  “She’d remind you that you are the queen of a king who depends on you to give the royal family an heir. You must think beyond your own anguish and put yourself in your husband’s place. He loves you, Joanna. He’s been waiting for you to pull yourself together and remember that you’re a wife as well as a bereaved mother. But he may not wait forever. He’s a man as w
ell as a king. Your mother would tell you in no uncertain terms that it’s time to get hold of yourself, to stop wallowing in self-pity, to get up and get dressed, and receive your husband with wifely welcome.” She stopped and took a deep breath. She was amazed at her audacity in speaking so to the queen, but also rather proud.

  Joanna, equally amazed, stared at her wide-eyed. She swept her hand across her forehead as though brushing aside a spiderweb.

  I do believe, thought Lady Marian, that she really listened.

  Joanna felt she was waking from a dream. She stood up. She asked Lady Marian to send for Mary and to send word to King William that she hoped he could call on her in an hour. Mary, delighted to be useful again, dressed her lady in a white gown with a rose-colored velvet cape. When King William arrived, in exactly one hour, he found Joanna not reclining listlessly on her divan but sitting up in a chair before the fire, with a happy smile of welcome. Lady Marian observed with satisfaction his look of glad surprise to find Joanna herself again. She slipped out to muse on the changing nature of a young woman’s humors.

  She discussed it with Jean-Pierre later in the dining hall. Most of the others had left, but the two old friends were still at table with their glasses of sweet wine and bowls of dried apricots and almonds.

  “I can hardly believe how quickly she seemed to come to herself. But she has always wanted to please her mother. So I’m glad it occurred to me to speak as a surrogate for Queen Eleanor, as it were.”

  “A powerful shaper of events, our English queen, even from half a world away,” said Jean-Pierre.

  “When I write to her and tell her about all this I’ll beg her to pray to the blessed Virgin—as I shall—that our little queen isn’t dealt any more such punishing blows.”

  “Amen. My prayers will join yours.” Brother Jean-Pierre, feeling he’d now earned his nap, took his leave.

  Chapter 30

  “He looks very like the archbishop that I remember, William. How skillful your artists are! See how his hand is raised just so, and he has such a wise and intelligent expression—as though he knew something we don’t.”