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

by Rachel Bard

  “I intend to make Monreale Cathedral the royal burial place. You and I will be laid to rest there, Joanna, and all the kings and queens of Sicily who come after us.”

  “A most worthy plan, my lord King,” said Brother Jean-Pierre. “Future generations of Sicilians will thank you for leaving them this magnificent cathedral, where they can come to pay their respects to the royal line that has brought honor, glory and prosperity to the kingdom.”

  The others looked at him in surprise. He was not ordinarily so eloquent. Perhaps he had taken just a bit more wine than usual.

  “Thank you. I hope your prediction will come to pass.” William took a sip from his glass. “And it may be that the ceremonies at Monreale will prove entertaining to the noble visitors I expect in two days’ time.”

  “Noble visitors?” asked Count Florian, as confused as the others about whom the king referred to.

  “Yes, two emissaries are on their way from Germany with a message from Frederick Barbarossa Their arrival date has just been confirmed.”

  “I wonder what the emperor has in mind,” said Florian. “I thought he was your enemy.”

  “I wondered too. But of late he’s been acting more like a prospective ally. My informants tell me that the emissaries will propose on Frederick’s behalf that his son and heir, Prince Henry, should marry my kinswoman, Constance.”

  “Constance? Your old aunt who’s spent her whole life shut up in a convent? Why would an emperor’s son want to marry her?” Charmaine asked.

  “She’s not my old aunt, she’s actually a year younger than me. We were both brought up in the royal palace. We were playmates and became good friends and still are. And it’s true she’s been living in a convent for the past twenty years. But she went there to further her education, not as a member of the order. She hasn’t forsworn the world.”

  “In fact, she’s well-informed and quite nice,” said Joanna. “William took me to see her once soon after we were married. She was interested in everything we had to tell her about goings-on at court. She was very kind to me, at a time when I was still feeling rather lost in my new home.”

  “But why she isn’t here in Palermo, living in the palace as she used to do?” Charmaine asked.

  Joanna knew why. The minute Queen Margaret had become queen regent on the death of her husband she’d banished from the court both the child Constance and her mother Beatrix. This was common knowledge, part of the vast store of unsavory lore that had accumulated about Queen Margaret over the years. Margaret hadn’t wanted any attention deflected from her own son or any possible notion that there might be another claimant to the role of rightful heir.

  But Joanna didn’t answer Charmaine. She didn’t want to lay still another accusation at her late mother-in-law’s door. Count Florian rescued her.

  “Never mind that now. We should be concentrating on this upcoming visit by these important visitors. I assume, my lord King, you’ve decided what you’ll say to them?”

  “I have. I shall give my assent. And I’ve already invited Constance to come to Palermo to prepare herself for her new role.”

  “Shall you discuss this with your council?”

  “I shall. But I know exactly what they’ll say. Chancellor Matthew will oppose it, on the grounds that it would give Emperor Frederick a stake in Sicily. Frederick has coveted Sicily for years. Even as Holy Roman Emperor with a dominion that reaches from the North Sea to the northern border of Italy, he’s hungry for more.”

  “So would this alliance not help him to claim that stake?”

  “Theoretically, yes. But it’s very unlikely any time soon. He’s far too busy reining in his uncooperative lords in Germany and consolidating his hold on his demesnes in Tuscany. As to the rest of the council, Archbishop Walter will support me because of his friendship with Constance. She’s always been a devout Catholic. He’d see this as a splendid opportunity for her. And he’d support my suggestion that she spend time in Palermo before leaving to marry Henry. She’d be very popular here because of her direct descent from King Roger. The people still revere his memory.”

  He paused and looked at Florian with a slight smile. “Vice-Chancellor Florian will support me as well, I’m sure.” The latter nodded. “As for the others, they’re insecure enough in their positions to be unlikely to go against my wishes.”

  Joanna was impressed. How well William had thought everything out! Then it struck her. He was seeking this alliance because he feared she would remain childless. If so, and if Constance and Henry produced a son, that son would be in line to become king of Sicily. William was making sure that the next king would still have Norman blood in his veins—if only through the mother.

  She had failed William, her parents and everybody who’d had such high hopes for this marriage.

  She couldn’t help it; tears welled up in her eyes as conflicting emotions overwhelmed her. She loved William for his wisdom, she despaired of her own role, she railed at the God who had disdained her prayers for a child. And she resented being replaced by Constance as provider of the heir.

  She rose, mumbling something about feeling unwell. “I think I may have had too much of that garlic sauce on the lamb.”

  William half rose and looked at her with concern. Lady Marian asked “Would you like me to come with you, my lady?”

  Joanna averted her head to hide her tears

  “No, thank you, I’ll be fine in a minute. “

  She escaped to run up the stairs to the quiet comfort of her old room, the room where she’d lived when she first arrived in Palermo. She sat down, dried her eyes and resolved to deal logically with her distress.

  First of all, Constance. None of this was her fault. When they’d first met Joanna had seen her as well-meaning, genuine, outgoing. She was calm and spoke little but when she did speak it made sense. And she’d treated Joanna as an equal, not as a child, in spite of being a dozen years older. She wasn’t quite a beauty; her chin was too long and her nose pronounced (what William called “the Norman nose”). But she was attractive—tall, slender, with fair hair and blue eyes and a wide, generous mouth. So what if she married Henry of Germany? There was nothing Joanna could do about that, so why worry about it? And perhaps when Constance came to Palermo they would become friends.

  And I would dearly love a friend, she thought. Someone I could talk to freely about things that matter.

  For a time she’d thought of Yasmin as that friend. Now she saw how mistaken she’d been. Even before the revelation of her duplicity about her relations with William, Joanna had begun to see through the superficial charm and beauty. Beneath the good humor, the idle chatter about fashion, the amusing gossip, there was a rather empty head.

  But these musings had nothing to do with the subject she’d been trying to push out of her mind. She forced herself to confront it: William’s desire for a son. I’ve been praying to the Virgin Mary, to God the Father and God the Son and to all the saints for a child. What more can I do?

  She stood up wearily and stretched. It was very warm. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the open window. Not a breath of air stirred. There was a basin of water on a nearby table, with a scattering of pale pink blossoms floating in it. She dipped her hands in the water and bent over to bathe her face, then wiped it with a linen towel. That felt better, as though she’d washed away the doubts and questions that consumed her. But she’d hardly sat down to continue her search for constructive action when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” she called. It was Brother Jean-Pierre, quite his sober self again.

  “My lady,” he said, “the others will be starting to walk back to the royal palace shortly, and I said I’d come ask how you are feeling and whether you’d like your horse brought around.”

  “I’m feeling much better and I’d prefer to walk too, just so we go slowly, what with this heat.”

  Jean-Pierre assured her he too was in no hurry. When they joined the others, William looked at Joanna. “All right no
w, my love?” She slipped her hand in his and said, “Much better. I just needed to rest a bit and let my dinner settle.”

  Their route led them along narrow, shady streets lined with substantial houses. Joanna found herself walking beside Jean-Pierre as they came out into a square dominated by a lofty church with a glorious three-tiered bell tower, each tier supported by graceful marble columns. Next to it was a more modest church with three neat round cupolas.

  “What a lot of churches there are in Palermo!” exclaimed Joanna. “Jean-Pierre, do you remember that once you offered to introduce me to the city’s churches, back when I was so inconsolable about the loss of Bohemund?”

  “I do indeed. You said you felt uncomfortable in the Palatine Chapel with all its brilliance. So I told you Palermo was blessed with a number of more modest churches that I’d be glad to show you. But you put me off.”

  “So I did. How insufferable everybody must have thought me during those days. Now I think the time’s come. I still don’t feel God really hears me in the chapel; I’m too distracted by the blazing gold and the glitter of the mosaics to concentrate properly on my prayers. But there, for instance”—she pointed to the smaller church—“perhaps I’d find the peace and calm I’m looking for. It reminds me, somehow, of our country churches in England.”

  Jean-Pierre smiled like a child who’s been given a sweet. “That’s San Cataldo. It’s one of my favorites. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to accompany you there. You have but to name the day.”

  “I will, and soon.”

  William appeared at her side and she took his arm and they strolled on. The heat was lessening at last with the decline of the sun. For the first time in months, in years, she felt a glimmer of hope that God might hear her prayers for a child.

  Chapter 33

  Summer waned and presently Constance arrived. At first she found it disconcerting to be again in the palace where she’d romped with William as a child. It had seemed enormous to her then, with so many high-ceilinged corridors to run down, so many chambers to explore, so many walls festooned with fantastic beasts and birds created with brilliant mosaic. And of course there was the great park. How fearfully the children had approached the cages where William’s father’s prized collection of exotic creatures prowled, roared, whistled, hooted, growled and sulked.

  “If the lion gets loose,” eight-year-old William had cautioned her one day, “we must run as fast as we can and climb a tree.”

  “But there aren’t any trees except those palms and they don’t have any branches low enough to hold onto,” objected nine-year-old Constance.

  “It isn’t hard. I’ve never done it but I’ve watched the men climb up to get dates. You have to use your knees and put your arms around the trunk and pull yourself up. Come on, let’s try.”

  They tried, with considerable damage to Constance’s skirts and William’s leggings. In ten minutes they managed to get three feet off the ground. The lion watched the exercise from his cage with infinite boredom.

  Constance was remembering those carefree days now as she set off from her chamber in the palace—far more sumptuous than the rooms she and her mother had occupied, all those years ago, until Queen Margaret pushed them out. Joanna and Constance had arranged to sally out into the city this morning for shopping and strolling. She looked forward to the expedition. The two women had taken to each other in spite of the eleven-year difference in their ages. Constance, accustomed to the serious, sedate life in the convent, was enlivened by Joanna’s enthusiasm, her artless charm and her quick intelligence. Joanna admired the older woman’s broad range of knowledge, her calm, and the way she listened to whatever Joanna said and considered carefully before replying.

  But when Constance arrived at the palace entrance for what she thought would be a walk for the two of them, she was greeted by what looked like a crowd.

  “I’m afraid the party has grown,” said Joanna. “Brother Jean-Pierre wants to show us San Cataldo. William has business with the bishop of Santa Maria on the same square. And Mary can point out the best stalls for silks and laces.”

  Lady Marian appeared with a shawl for Joanna. “It looks warm, my pet, but you never know when a breeze will spring up.” After some dithering, she decided to accompany them because she needed blue embroidery thread. “But I don’t want to slow you down. You know I can’t walk as fast as I used to.”

  Then William decided that Sir Alan and two of the palace knights should do guard duty, one ahead and one behind.

  Hardly had the party dawdled across the square than it fell into serious disarray. Lady Marian decided to sit on a bench in the sun for a few minutes. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch up with you,” she said. Then William and Jean-Pierre, who were engrossed in a discussion of which of the city’s churches had the finest Arabic frescoes, didn’t notice that the others had turned a corner and kept going straight ahead. Mary darted into a shop where a skein of blue silk had caught her eye—just the color Lady Marian wanted. When it was noticed that Mary was missing, one of the guardsmen went back to look for her. Sir Alan sent the other guardsman to round up William, Jean-Pierre and Lady Marian. That left Joanna and Constance to stroll along behind Sir Alan, which was the kind of sortie Constance had in mind in the first place. She smiled when the exasperated knight turned and growled—but it was a respectful growl—“Begging your pardon my lady Queen, but this reminds me of nothing so much as when I was a lad herding a flock of heedless sheep on the moors.”

  They’d reached one of the busiest streets in the city. It was crowded with townsfolk hurrying to buy or to sell or to get home for dinner. Everything was just as Constance remembered: passersby chattering and shouting in Arabic, Greek, French and the local patois. Hurrying, dark-skinned men in burnooses, pairs of women in veils gossiping animatedly, wealthy merchants in furred cloaks, their wives strutting in sumptuous gowns of velvet and silk while servants walked behind to hold up their trailing skirts and keep them out of the mud and dust. Soldiers marched or sauntered by, the former guarding an important person in a closed litter, the latter off-duty and making their noisy way to an alehouse. Farmers dragged carts of vegetables and fruits to the market. The shops and stalls displayed a bewildering variety of wares that had come from far and near to this polyglot city, crossroads for tradesmen from Asia, Africa and Europe. The scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted from one open doorway. From another, squawks and squeals were heard and customers came out bearing a chicken by the legs or a piglet in a bag.

  “How it takes me back!” said Constance. “Everything is so much the way it was. Oh look, here’s Simon’s shop!” She’d stopped at a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop, open to the street, where shelves were stacked with silk fabrics. Turquoise, purple, crimson, magenta, apple-green—all were piled up helter-skelter and with no regard for harmony. The proprietor’s head popped up from behind the counter as they entered. His wrinkle-seamed face looked puzzled and he stared at Constance, trying to place her in some distant memory.

  “Yes, Simon, it’s Constance, daughter of King Roger. Twenty years older, though, than when you last saw me.” He grinned in sudden recognition and ran around the counter to clasp her hand. He hardly came to her shoulder—a very small man with a great deal to say.

  “Oh yes, Princess. You and your mother, Lady Beatrix, used to come in so often, when you were just a tiny girl. And you’re even prettier than you were then! Tell me, how is your dear mother?” Constance explained that her mother had died. His face changed in an instant from merriment to sorrow. “Oh me oh my, a fine, generous lady she was. I remember her so well. Her favorite color was blue and she was especially partial to the silks from our own silkworks, right here in Palermo. But so it goes, and we must accept our losses. Make the most of today, for who knows what God has in store for us tomorrow, I always say.” Taking heart from his own philosophy, he spread out a length of gold-embossed ruby-red brocade from a roll on the counter. “So, Princess, you’ve come at a very good time. Do look. We�
�ve just received this beautiful silk …” He broke off in confusion, having at last noticed Joanna standing behind Constance. “But forgive me—can this be our queen? I’ve heard so much about you from your maid Mary. She comes in often. And now you yourself honor my humble shop!” He bobbed his head several times and danced from foot to foot in his delight at such distinguished visitors. Before they could stop him he was pulling samples of his wares down from their shelves and strewing them across the counter. “He’s like a merry little monkey!” Constance whispered to Joanna. Simon urged them to look and feel but they explained they’d have to come back when they had more time.

  “What a dear man!” said Joanna on their way out. “I’ll have to come with Mary soon and buy reams of silk.”

  They emerged to find that Sir Alan had managed to collect Lady Marian and Mary. In a few minutes they reached their goal, a spacious square with one whole side bordered by two churches that couldn’t be more unlike: extravagant Santa Maria del Ammiraglio and unassuming San Cataldo. They joined King William and Brother Jean-Pierre, who were standing in the middle of the crowded square, gesticulating and talking loudly to be heard above the noise.

  “Do you see what I mean, Jean-Pierre?” William asked, pointing toward the larger church. “There you have the Islamic style at its most sublime. That belltower is the perfect flowering of the eastern architects’ creativity.” The whole party looked up at the tall slender tower, surmounted by a graceful dome.

  “Indeed, I see,” said Jean-Pierre. “It balances the monumentality of the church itself, quite exquisitely too. Whereas the little church next to it, San Cataldo, is a different thing entirely. It’s more like a Norman church.”

  “Exactly, my friend! San Cataldo came later than Santa Maria, during my father’s reign, and is a fine example of how the Norman influence began to take over. The three red domes are Arabic, to be sure. But the arched windows are pure Norman.”