by Rachel Bard
“Where’s Joanna? What’s wrong?”
He clutched Lady Marian’s arm.
“Is she ill? Is she…”
Lady Marian struggled to answer.
“No, she is well—or as well as can be expected. But…” She couldn’t go on. Brother Jean-Pierre took over.
“My lord King, she has lost the child. Only yesterday. She asked us to tell you as soon as you arrived. She wanted you to hear the news from us, before you saw her.”
“But she’s waiting for you and begs you to come as soon as you can.” Lady Marian, filled with pity at the sight of his stricken face, wished desperately she could think of some words of comfort. But William wouldn’t have listened. He pushed his way through the group and rushed up to Joanna.
After her miscarriage Joanna didn’t give in to the same deep depression that had followed Bohemund’s death. She felt bereft, she wept, but before long she was able to accept this second loss as God’s will, for his own mysterious purposes. She recovered, physically and emotionally, more rapidly than anyone had dared hope.
She was far more concerned about the effect on William, and it was grave.
After his profound relief that Joanna was all right, he began worrying about the future. If he had no son, then a son of Constance and Henry could inherit his kingdom. Had he been wise to open the door to that possibility? To be sure, the child would have Norman blood through Constance. But in reality, the royal line of Germany would displace the Norman kings who had ruled so brilliantly for two centuries.
Looking back, he realized it had been an impulsive decision. He’d been dazzled by Emperor Frederick’s offer to betroth his son and heir to Constance. It would mean peace between Germany and Sicily, two of the greatest powers in Europe. Thus allied, Frederick wouldn’t meddle with Sicily’s possessions in Italy while William’s forces were pursuing his cherished goals in Byzantium. Finally, it would offer to Constance a resplendent future. In due time she’d be an empress. He was fond of Constance, and it had pleased him to be able to present her with this magnificent gift.
But all that had been back when he still had realistic hopes of having an heir. Now those hopes were dimming. And yet—the doctors maintained there was no physical reason that Joanna couldn’t bring a pregnancy to term.
He confided in no one about his concerns, but spent hours in his study walking up and down, arguing with himself. It was urgent that he father a son. He owed it to Sicily, to posterity. Yet wasn’t it this desire that had led to Joanna’s two disastrous pregnancies? Could he risk her undergoing another?
While he wrestled with these matters he tried to avoid being alone with Joanna and denied himself the pleasure of going to bed with her.
This state of affairs didn’t suit Joanna. Day after day passed while she waited for William to see sense. But she also remembered how, two years ago, she’d rebuffed him for weeks.
As so often when faced with a dilemma, she tried to think what her mother would have done.
“Didn’t you tell me, Lady Marian, that my mother had several miscarriages?”
“Indeed she did, poor lady.”
“How did she deal with them? And did it make my father less attentive?”
“I wasn’t in Queen Eleanor’s service then so I can’t say.” She’d assumed her prim expression to show her discomfort at such intimate questions.
Joanna assumed her guileless expression to show she considered these to be simple matters any woman would be glad to discuss with another.
“But surely her other ladies who had been there talked about it. What did they say? You must remember.”
Lady Marian relented. She knew why Joanna was asking. She remembered perfectly well the way the ladies had gossiped and conjectured about the royal marital relations.
“To the best of my memory they said Queen Eleanor recovered her vigor and her spirits quite soon after the unfortunate losses. She’s always been one to look forward, not back.”
“And my father?”
“I believe he regarded them as temporary setbacks and was undeterred from his task of procreation.”
Joanna laughed. “My dear friend, how marvelously discreet you can be! Well then, I guess it’s up to me to remind William of his task.” She mused a moment. “I’ll send an invitation to him to join me for supper. Let’s have Mary in to find something particularly fetching for me to wear. And she can do my hair pulled back in a knot the way William likes it.”
Lady Marian went to find Mary. On her way back she discovered William standing in the corridor outside his study as though he’d been waiting to intercept her. His air was almost furtive and decidedly nervous. He smoothed down his hair, which was already in flawless order.
“I’m so glad to see you, Lady Marian. I’ve been wanting to ask you something. Will you step inside for a few minutes?”
He ushered her in and gestured toward a chair. Lady Marian had seldom been in the king’s private rooms and looked around at the lack of ornamentation, so unlike the rest of the palace. She found it restful. But the king was in no mood for repose and stood behind his table, clasping and unclasping his hands.
“I know that your first loyalty is to Joanna, and I wouldn’t wish you to betray any confidences. But can you tell me frankly whether you think she would… whether she is ready… “ He started over. “May I consult you on a matter that bears on the queen’s state of mind in regard to…”
Lady Marian took pity on him.
“I think I know what is on your mind, my lord King. I can assure you that your wife would welcome a return to the intimate relations you have previously enjoyed, and is still desirous of giving you an heir.” There, she thought. That’s plain enough.
King William thought so too. He stepped quickly around the table and pressed her hand.
“Thank you, thank you. You’ve relieved my mind.”
“Then I may add that she’s sent you a message inviting you to supper in her chambers, this very evening.”
His tenseness melted into pleasure and anticipation.
“Please tell the queen that I shall be at her door within an hour.”
Hurrying back to Joanna’s chamber, Lady Marian thought maybe Mary’s assistance wouldn’t be needed after all.
For some time tranquility reigned in the royal bedchamber and optimism increased in the council chamber. Reports came in that the fleet of two hundred vessels, commanded by Tancred de Lecce, had reached the eastern Mediterranean and was nearing the Dardanelles—almost in sight of Constantinople. The news of the army’s progress was even more exhilarating. The five thousand mounted knights and still more thousands of foot soldiers had moved from Durazzo on the Adriatic into Macedonia, meeting no resistance from the despot Andronicus.
Thessalonika, second city of the Byzantine Empire, held out briefly but fell to the conquerors. The triumphant army proceeded eastward, while the scattered forces that Andronicus finally sent out soon retreated into the hills and, whether through cowardice or lack of leadership, watched the Sicilians make their way unimpeded across the parched plains.
There was every reason to expect a resounding victory and the downfall of the hated tyrant.
That was the last word William had for several weeks. In December, 1184, he received a messenger from Tancred.
The messenger, who had been riding night and day, was dust-covered and weary but refused any refreshment or rest until he had told his tale to his king. William hastily summoned his chancellor, Sir Matthew of Ajello, and the vice-chancellor, Count Florian de Camerota, to join him in King Roger’s throne room. Joanna and William sat on their gilded thrones. Nobody had had time to change into ceremonial garments, though the king and queen wore their crowns as they always did in this magnificent room that was dedicated to royal power.
The messenger’s somber face and his drooping, dejected posture spoke of bad news before he said a word. In five minutes he dashed the hopes William had been nurturing for years. He told his tale doggedly.
He paused, took a deep breath, and drank from the goblet of water on a table at his side.
So far so good, thought William, still hopeful. The tyrant is gone. I’d have preferred that my army deposed him, but at least he’s out of the way and the people will be eager to accept a ruler who governs with fairness and kindness.
The messenger went on, however, to report that the citizens of Constantinople had at once chosen their liberator Isaac as their new emperor and he had been promptly crowned in Hagia Sophia.
“This was before our army arrived?” William asked.
“Alas, the Sicilian army never arrived. Emperor Isaac saw them as invaders, not rescuers, and sent a force of many thousands to repel them. Which they did, driving our army back and killing most or taking them prisoner. Those who could escape managed to reach Durazzo where some of the fleet had remained, and they’re now on their way home.”
William, searching for a straw to clutch, asked, “What of the rest of the fleet? Was it too destroyed?”
“No, fortunately, most of the fleet, which had been lying off Constantinople waiting for the army, was able, under Admiral Tancred, to sail off through the Sea of Marmara to safety in the Mediterranean. By now they’ll be well on their way to Sicily.”
“Thank God at least for that,” said Sir Matthew.
But William stared wordlessly at the messenger without seeing him. Instead he envisioned scenes of slaughter, blood and sweat, dying men, screaming horses, rampaging enemy soldiers brandishing their banners and their swords as they pursued his brave, outnumbered troops. His face was blank but his heart was burning with rage and helplessness.
The messenger broke the awful silence.
“And that is all I know, my King.” He was swaying with weariness. Joanna, since no one else made a move, stepped down from her throne and led him to the door where she instructed the page to see that he was given food, drink and rest.
Meantime the others had risen and were talking.
“I must go to Messina again,” said William. Suddenly he was all business. “I must be there when the men who escaped arrive, and when Tancred comes with the fleet. Sir Matthew, you will accompany me. We will leave tomorrow. Count Florian, you will act as chancellor in our absence.” In short order it was decided who would join the party and that Count Florian would convene the rest of the council and tell them what had happened.
“And one more thing. Count Florian, please see that the messenger is well rewarded. It wasn’t his fault that the news he brought so swiftly was so dire.”
Joanna and William left the room and walked slowly down the corridor. She took his arm, wishing she could think of something to say that would help him deal with this tragic development. William sighed deeply, then managed a tired smile.
“At least, my love, I won’t have to uproot you from your comfortable home and take you off to be the empress of Byzantium. You never really wanted that, did you?”
Chapter 36
William wasn’t the only one worrying about the future. While he was still in Messina and she was wishing he’d return, Joanna found her thoughts turning more and more toward the days, the years, ahead.
What if she remained childless? And then, what if something happened to William? Goodness knows, she thought, plenty could happen, what with the way he dashes about on his many ventures: a storm at sea, shipwreck, pirate attack, a fall, a fever… Without William she’d be completely on her own, a queen without a king, without a child, without position. She’d probably have to go back to England, or to France, or to wherever her mother was.
Or possibly to Richard, wherever he was. She still thought of him as her protective big brother. Of course he’d grown older, more famous and, from what she’d heard, more fierce since she’d seen him, eleven years ago. But surely he’d find her a refuge if she needed one, wouldn’t he?
Wrenching herself out of such fruitless worrying, she told herself she must give her mind something else to do.
She decided to resume her study of Arabic, but on her own. She didn’t need Yasmin anymore. She could always go to Ibn Hakim, the physician. He’d often let her practice speaking Arabic to him and offered to help if she had questions.
With the doctor’s guidance she perfected the greeting she’d give William on his return:
“Welcome, my dear lord. I have missed you sorely and I trust you will not leave me again soon, God willing.”
This was all very well, but it wasn’t enough. She still felt the lack of something worthwhile to fill her days. Most unexpectedly, Brother Jean-Pierre gave her the answer.
The two had formed the habit of going together to services at the Church of San Cataldo once a week. One morning when they met in the palace entry hall, Jean-Pierre remarked that he was glad the weather was so fine because he was planning to walk down toward the harbor that afternoon.
“Why to the harbor?” asked Joanna. “Are you searching for a ship to take you back to England? Have you had enough of Sicily’s balmy days? And you long for our northern damp and chill?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’ve found a new way to do God’s work right here. I’m trying to alleviate the dreadful poverty that blights the lives of so many in Palermo.”
“I don’t understand. Are there so many poor people in Palermo, needing help? I must say, when I go into the city everybody seems well fed and well clothed. Some of those ladies must spend far more on their wardrobes than I do.”
“Let’s sit down and I’ll explain.” They seated themselves on a nearby bench. Around them the business of the palace swirled. Servants and their masters, ladies and their maids, and preoccupied, frowning men with their minds on important matters came and went. Nobody was paying much attention to the queen and her friend the monk. Joanna’s gown was a discreet dark brown, unadorned except for narrow bands of silver braid at the neck and hem. She always avoided ostentation for these visits to the unassuming San Cataldo.
“It’s true,” said Jean-Pierre, “that there are plenty of well-off citizens. But Joanna,”—when addressing his queen as teacher to pupil, as he’d done when he first began instructing her, Jean-Pierre reverted unconsciously to the familiar address—“Joanna, you’ve never ventured beyond the busy center, where people with money and leisure gather. Though even there you’ll see the occasional beggar. You have seen an occasional beggar, haven’t you?” He fixed her with a stern gaze. She felt again like the little girl who hadn’t done her lessons.
“Of course I have. And if they look ill, or old, or thin and starving, I always give them a few coins. But if they’re young and able-bodied I don’t.”
“Well and good. You’re to be commended. But that’s not where poverty is visible. Well beyond the center, down by the port and off to the east, families of four, six or more are crowded into cold, leaky hovels. They’re always hungry, hardly ever warm and dry.”
“They must be lazy. Can’t they find some way to earn enough to live better?”
“The lucky ones may have a little plot of ground where they can raise a few turnips and cabbages, maybe even have a couple of chickens. But for the most part they live by scrounging. They search the gutters, the waste heaps and around the market after the vendors go home, looking for a morsel to eat or rag to wear.”
He paused, realizing he’d gotten carried away. His face had reddened from his beardless chin to the bald spot on his pate. His eyebrows went up and down with indignation. His hands were clenched in his lap.
“And some become robbers, I suppose,” she said.
“Some do.”
Calmer, he went on. “And some are enterprising enough to be in the right place at the right time, when a merchant needs goods delivered or picked up. The ones with halfway decent clothing can earn a few coins as litter bearers for merchants’ wives who are afraid to soil their dainty feet in the dust of the streets. We need to encourage all those who are honestly trying to find any way at all to earn a living. But we also need to provide alms for those who are too ill or old to work and those who, try as they might, can’t find enough food to keep their children alive. I’ve been working with the Benedictine Abbey here in Palermo to gather food and clothing and distribute it where it’s most needed. As a Benedictine lay brother, thanks be to God I have a good deal of experience with this kind of thing.”
She looked pensive, then stood up decisively. “We’d better go or we’ll be late for the service. But may I go with you this afternoon? I had no idea there were such conditions in our city. I must see for myself, if what you say is true.”
He considered this while they walked down the steps and out into the square.
“Of course, as far as I’m concerned. But I’m not sure what King William would think. You’d be in a rather unattractive and sordid part of town. I can’t imagine there’s be any danger but he might not see it that way.”
“Never mind, he isn’t here to object. And I’ll ask Sir Alan to have one of the palace guards go with us.”
When he heard where the two were going Sir Alan decided to accompany them himself. He also advised them to ride rather than go on foot. “It’s not only safer, it’s more seemly, my lady,” he told her, his stiff soldierly bearing tempered by the solicitous concern in his voice. “You are, remember, the queen of Sicily. Your people expect you to show yourself as such. And so would King William.”
Around two in the afternoon of that mild winter day, they rode sedately down the broad avenue toward the harbor. Taking advantage of the almost springlike weather, many citizens had come out to stroll, and Joanna received recognition, smiles and bows as the little party rode along.