by Rachel Bard
Chapter 31
King William thought perhaps he should send an armed force to Byzantium. The rich and powerful eastern empire, where the Greek Orthodox Church ruled supreme, had been in turmoil for three terrible years, ever since the cruel despot Andronicus Comnenus had declared himself emperor in1182.
“And there he sits in Constantinople, torturing and killing his subjects, enriching himself, while nobody dares to rein him in. Something must be done!”
William was orating not to his council but to his wife. He’d formed the habit of trying out his ideas and formulating his plans with her as audience. He never really expected a comment, though, of course, he paused courteously if she replied to one of his rhetorical questions or expressed an opinion. Sometimes he even listened. Joanna was proving to have a quick grasp of the kingdom’s problems and William’s policies. Her suggestions often made a great deal of sense. William found this surprising but, being of a pragmatic nature, he welcomed it.
On this occasion they were taking a pre-bedtime stroll around the atrium of the royal palace. It was dusk. A servant, having noticed the royal couple, was placing candelabra here and there to create pools of light in the encroaching darkness.
Joanna had made it her project to turn this large, rather sterile space into an indoor garden. When she’d first come to the palace, the courtyard was graced only by one tall palm in each corner as well as a few placed haphazardly near the center, all in enormous pots. She’d added numerous smaller pots and planters overflowing with greenery and flowers. These were arranged on the marble floor to create pathways. She’d even cajoled the architect of the royal gardens to devise a way to bring water in for a fountain and to surround it with a circular bench. More than once Queen Margaret had been heard to sneer at the very idea of such a useless extravagance. But most who lived in or visited the palace welcomed it, especially on summer days when they wanted to escape the scorching sun. And Joanna took private pleasure in the knowledge that, like her husband and his forebears, she was adding a bit of beauty to the Kingdom of Sicily.
This evening the two of them had the atrium all to themselves. They strolled along a flower-lined path to the fountain and sat on the bench.
William looked around rather absently. “You’ve made such a difference here, Joanna. I do appreciate it.”
“Thank you. I think I may have inherited my mother’s love of gardens. I wish you could see the rose garden at Fontevraud Abbey!” She was hoping to change the subject. But William’s mind was not on roses. He was still caught up in his battle plans.
“Yes, the tyrant must be stopped! And who will take on the task if I don’t?”
“William, I don’t see why it has to be you. I don’t want you going off into battle. I have enough worries about Richard, risking his life every day while he and his soldiers march about Aquitaine.”
“Never fear, I wouldn’t lead the expedition myself. I have two excellent commanders in mind for that, one to lead the naval forces and another for the army. I know my limitations. I’m no soldier. But I will say I know how to plan and supervise.”
“Yes, you do. But why must this be a task for Sicily? Rome is ever so much closer to Constantinople than Sicily is. Why can’t the pope do something?”
“He could if he would. But the main concern for the pope these days is how to hold onto the little patch of Italy that Rome controls. He’d be most unwilling to start a quarrel between the Latin and the Greek churches. Because that’s what it would come to.”
“Well then, what about Frederick Barbarossa of Germany? As Holy Roman Emperor, surely he has as much reason to control this tyrant as you do.”
“Yes, good point, Joanna. He should get involved. But he won’t. He maintains he must stay close to events in northern Italy. He’s been trying for years to incorporate those independent towns in Lombardy into his empire.”
“But I still don’t see why you or anyone has to send an army at great expense to settle the problems of a land so far away. Why can’t the mistreated people who live there rise up and get rid of Andronicus?”
“Because they’re demoralized and terrified. While this pseudo-emperor is in power, nobody’s safe. His minions kill anyone they suspect of disloyalty. He’s a madman. No matter what the differences between Greeks and Latins are, it’s our duty as good Christians to intervene.”
She considered this and sighed. Why, she wondered to herself, did being a “good Christian” so often require going into battle and killing one’s fellow Christians?
William heard the sigh. “But Joanna my love, it’s not as though I were leaving tomorrow. It will take months and months to assemble a fleet and train recruits. And I’ll need to travel about the kingdom to build up popular support for the expedition. For any endeavor of this nature, thorough preparation is half the battle.”
“I’m sure it is. But tell me, dear William”— she took his hand and looked into his eyes—“could there be still another reason you want to do this? Something to do with pride and reputation and your place in history?”
“Joanna, you know me too well. There is one other reason. I keep thinking of what my grandfather Roger accomplished. By the time he was thirty-three he’d conquered both Apulia and Calabria on the Italian mainland and united them to Sicily. Roger was the founder of this great kingdom that we are fortunate enough to rule over today.”
“Yes, I know. Your grandfather’s memory is so much alive that sometimes when I’m out in the city I expect to see him walking along the street toward me. But I didn’t know he’d done all that while so young.”
“And that’s just it. Here I am, almost as old as he was when he created the kingdom, and what have I done? I’ve built a cathedral, but it will never rival the one he built at Cefalù. I’ve launched a few naval assaults on the Muslims in North Africa but I’ve added nothing to our possessions. And I sense a growing boredom and cynicism in the army, as though my soldiers and generals believe me incapable of bold action and may be losing respect for me. I wish to prove them wrong.”
“Very well, it would indeed be a bold action that your people could applaud—at least all those you don’t conscript for the army!” William ignored that.
“But never mind,” she added, “ I’ll join you in praying for success. I’ll also give thanks that you’re sensibly not insisting on leading the forces. If you were gone so long with your life in constant danger I don’t think I could bear it.” There was a catch in her voice. He could see a tear on her cheek. He gently wiped it away with his fingers and she seized his hand and kissed it.
“Don’t ever leave me, William.”
Arm in arm, they walked slowly up the marble steps. Halfway up William paused and Joanna looked at him questioningly. He kissed her and held her close. “I’m so glad to have you back,” he whispered.
She knew what he meant. After the death of the child, she’d put him off. Then, after Lady Marian had scolded her for neglecting her duties as a wife, she’d welcomed him but with a kind of frantic haste, as though she were hoping to have the whole thing over with as soon as possible. But now, she’d found comfort and strength in the cathedrals of Monreale and Cefalù, those calm, holy places. She’d gotten over the panic she’d felt at Hassan’s crude attempt to alienate her from her husband. She’d become more relaxed with William. Their lovemaking had become more mutually considerate and ultimately more passionate than ever before.
“And I’m glad to be back,” she said. They walked on to her chamber where her lofty bed with its airy white curtains awaited them.
Before William could get seriously into planning for his eastern expedition, he was distracted by the illness of his mother. People had begun to think that Queen Margaret, by some dark sorcery, had found a way to live forever. But now she entered on a serious decline.
After the death of Bohemund, she’d stopped plotting to become a person of consequence in the palace again. She went into even deeper seclusion. For a while, she’d occasionally totter down
to the banquet hall, leaning on a cane and with Maria Cristina hovering nearby. She’d given up her flouncy colorful garb and wore only black. She shrank, her fat face grew gaunt and her pointed nose protruded like a beak.
Mostly, however, the old queen kept to her bed. When William called on her she’d hardly listen while he tried to make conversation. She’d babble on incomprehensibly about something that happened when she was a much-admired young queen or even farther back when she was a princess in Spain.
Once he asked her if she’d like Joanna to come, hoping her old enmity had died away and the two could be reconciled before she died. Suddenly she became lucid.
“No! Stupid girl! Spilled the wine I’d specially prepared for her! Then let her baby die but she didn’t die! It wasn’t supposed to be like that. I’d so wanted to have another little William to bring up.” She began to whimper. It was as close to a confession as she’d ever made. A confession but not an apology. William, shocked and saddened, left her.
That same night she died in her sleep.
He gave her a state funeral with all the pomp befitting a queen of Sicily. She was buried at Monreale. Thousands turned out to watch the funeral procession. The Sicilians always enjoyed a grand funeral. It wasn’t quite as good as a royal wedding, of course, when free food and drink were liberally provided in all the city’s squares and plazas. But there was usually a distribution of money so the citizens could buy a candle and pray for the soul of the departed. And if you spent the money on a bottle of wine instead, who was to know?
Chapter 32
It was an oppressively hot day in July of 1184. All Sicily was baking under a merciless sun. But the world’s work had to go on: peasants scything the prickly golden hay in the fields; fishermen at sea where there was no shade or breeze and there were precious few fish; bakers and cooks laboring by their blazing hearths and red-hot ovens, for the people must have their daily bread; tradesmen trudging dusty roads laden with heavy packs —all these, unable to escape the heat, could only wipe the sweat from their brows and pray for sunset.
Far from the common folk, two men were walking slowly, not speaking, along a seldom-traveled path of the walled park of Palermo’s royal palace. The path led them to a secluded dell with a small pool. In the middle of the pool, a marble faun tirelessly spewed jets of water from his laughing mouth. Thanks to the shade provided by tall laurels and the musical splashing of the fountain, it was possible here to forget the hot city, but not the stability of the kingdom.
“Sicily needs an heir,” said Archbishop Walter, lowering his bulky body awkwardly onto a bench and trying not to wrinkle his crisp white robe.
“You are absolutely correct,” replied Chancellor Matthew of Ajello. He sat down on a bench opposite with a thump and a sigh. A thickset man but muscular, Sir Matthew was feeling his sixty-four years these days.
The need for a royal heir was probably the only thing the archbishop and the chancellor had agreed on in twenty years. They were still bitterly at odds over the cathedral affair. King William, with Matthew’s support, had completed his stupendous monument, the cathedral at Monreale, and the pope had established its legitimacy as an archbishopric by a papal bull. Archbishop Walter’s rival cathedral in Palermo was at least a year away from completion. Matthew had won that battle.
But they weren’t here to breathe new life into those smoldering old coals. They had more urgent business on their minds: how to forestall the civil war that they feared would break out if King William should (God forbid) die without an heir.
“We may continue to hope that the queen will bear a son, but it’s looking less likely,” said the archbishop. “It’s three years since she lost the first one. Something should have happened by now.”
“Agreed,” replied Matthew. “I’ve talked to the royal physician but he shilly-shallies and won’t give an opinion, beyond saying the first birth was perfectly normal and shouldn’t have precluded future pregnancies.”
“And I’ve talked to the king and tried to inquire—delicately of course—if he or the queen would like some counseling as to their marital duties. But he assured me they were both well aware of their duties and needed no urging from God or anyone else to live together as loving man and wife. He seemed rather irritated that I should have brought up the subject. He just brushed me aside when I said that his subjects are understandably nervous, as long as they see no heir on the horizon.”
“Ah well. He has so many overseas matters on his mind these days that I fear he may have lost track of what’s going on here at home and the mood of the people. Why is he so set on this misguided notion of an assault on Constantinople?”
Walter suspected that Matthew’s annoyance had as much to do with resentment that he hadn’t been put in charge as with disapproval of the king’s planned expedition.
“Never mind all that now, Matthew. We’re here to talk about an heir to the throne of Sicily. If we can agree on a recommendation it will have more force than if we each support different candidates.”
“So far I am with you.” Matthew fixed his world-weary gaze on his adversary. He waited. He knew the advantage of letting the opponent strike the first blow.
“Good. I urge you to join me in favoring the king’s aunt, Constance. You must agree that, as the daughter of William’s own grandfather, Roger, she has impeccable lineage. She’s only thirty—young enough to bear a respectable brood of children, once she’s fitted with a suitable husband. From my own knowledge, she’s modest, tractable and God-fearing. She’d have the people’s trust and, in due course, their support and affection.”
“And in the meantime? While we wait for the suitable husband to appear, and wait still longer for the respectable brood of children? What if King William dies before all that? Will the people of Sicily accept an unknown like Constance as their queen, as someone able to hold the kingdom together? I think not. Sicilians have never held with women as rulers of the kingdom and aren’t likely to change their minds now. Even Queen Joanna, popular as she is, would be opposed.”
The archbishop raised a hand, palm outward, in priestly reproof. “Not so fast, Matthew. Constance is hardly unknown, at least to those who have kept in touch with her. Just because she’s been living quietly in a convent doesn’t mean she’s in another world. It’s only half a day’s ride from Palermo, if you’d ever taken the trouble to go see her. Plenty of people do, and they’d support her as Queen Regent .until her son becomes old enough to assume the throne.” In his vehemence, the archbishop’s voice had risen and so had his temperature. He subsided and fanned himself vigorously. Gradually his plump face resumed its placid self-righteousness.
“My turn now?” Matthew’s thin lips curled. “Whether Constance or Joanna, it will be years before either produces a son—if ever. In the meantime we’d risk anarchy. What Sicily needs isn’t an inexperienced woman but a strong, proven leader to be recognized now as William’s heir. Fortunately just such a man is available: Tancred of Lecce, the king’s nephew, would command the people’s respect. The king trusts him. And as for lineage, he too is directly descended from King Roger.”
“Ah, but you don’t mention one obstacle, my friend. Tancred’s a bastard. is father, William’s brothe Roger, never bothered to getrid of his first wife
His father, the king’s brother, never bothered to marry his mother. His lineage is flawed. Many in this Christian land will hold that against him. And many more, if I’m not mistaken, will remember how he rebelled against King William’s father, a score of years ago. What’s to keep him from repeating the deed, if he takes a notion?”
“His own self-interest. He’s in a position of power now and isn’t likely to do anything foolish to jeopardize it. As to the rest of your argument, sometimes toughness and ingenuity in a leader are more important than character and reputation."
They sat staring at each other, deadlocked. Neither had really hoped to change the other’s mind. The test would come when they made their cases to the king. They were alr
eady mentally rehearsing their speeches.
A rustling in the shrubbery made them start. They’d chosen the spot for its privacy, where eavesdropping would be most unlikely. Was it a spy? Sir Matthew’s hand went to his sword. Was it a bloodthirsty beast escaped from the royal menagerie, on the prowl for a juicy archbishop? Walter clutched the gold cross that hung around his neck and muttered a prayer.
A doe emerged from the bushes and stepped daintily down to drink from the pond. Matthew snorted. The archbishop let go of the cross. Both rose.
“Shall we return?” growled Matthew. Off he went without waiting for a reply. They retraced their steps, walking without speaking, as the sun finally sank below the walls of the park and the palm fronds waved gently in a hesitant breeze.
Meantime, in the Zisa palace another colloquy was in progress. The king and queen had decided to dine here rather in the close, windowless dining hall of the royal palace. Dinner was over and the tables had been cleared except for a bowl of grapes and a decanter of white wine that had been brought up from the cellar. All the diners had left except William, Joanna, Count Florian, Lady Marian, Brother Jean-Pierre and Lady Charmaine, who was visiting from her new home in Messina. Joanna’s hair was coiled in a loose knot at her nape. This and her azure gown that fell in soft pleats from neck to hem gave her, William thought, a classic Grecian look. He and Florian too had dressed for the warm day, in loose white linen tunics over cotton hose. Only Jean-Pierre had made no concessions to the heat, other than leaving his brown robe unbelted.
The group leaned back in their chairs, plucking a grape from time to time, letting digestion take over and discussing what William had just told them. He’d said that he planned a ceremony at Monreale on the following Sunday to mark the first anniversary of his mother’s death and also to celebrate the transfer of his father’s remains from Palermo to a new tomb adjoining hers at Monreale.