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

by Rachel Bard

  My dear mother,

  Joanna tells me she has given you an account of much of what has happened here in the past month. I rejoice to add that, thanks to God’s grace, I am nearly recovered from the fever. There is still much to do here. We must arrange for governors in the cities we have taken and strengthen their fortifications. We must disassemble our siege engines and stow them on the transport galleys. But I hope to leave by the end of next month. I shall dispatch Berengaria, Joanna, Princess Beatrix and their retinues well before then.

  I beg a favor from you. Please try to counter the calumny sure to be heaped on me for my “abandonment” of the Crusade. I have already heard it here. I have not abandoned the Crusade. I shall return within three years to resume the good fight. But it was not God’s will that I should risk the destruction of my army in an attack on the Holy City that would be assured of failure. Saladin had poisoned and polluted all the wells and burned the orchards and farmlands for two miles around the city. During the siege we would have had no food or water, no place to forage and our supply lines to the coast were impossibly long. Saladin’s forces outnumbered ours three to one. It would have been suicidal to continue. And the truce we signed is a fair one and will preserve the status quo until we return.

  Next time we shall prevail.

  You doubtless wonder if I am remembering my responsibilities to create an heir. I am. Now that I am stronger, I shall resume my efforts in that regard. If Berengaria is not with child by the time she returns to France, it will not be from any lack of trying on my part.

  God willing, I shall see you by Christmas.

  Your son Richard

  Chapter 49

  “Palermo,” mused Joanna. “Do you suppose it will have changed much, Berengaria?”

  The sisters-in-law sat at their ease on the deck of the dromond, which was sailing slowly past Cefalù on the north coast of Sicily. Berengaria was admiring the proportions of the cathedral dome and the way the sheer gray cliff behind it provided such an austere, even intimidating, backdrop. After one last look—the city was rapidly disappearing from sight—she gave her companion’s question her full attention.

  “I shouldn’t think so. It’s barely two years since you left, isn’t it? And from what you’ve told me Palermo’s a durable city—full of sturdy, stately stone buildings that have stood there for centuries.” After a moment’s thought she added, “Though from what you’ve also told me about ambitious Lord Tancred, whom we mustn’t call King Tancred, I suppose he might have torn them all down and replaced them with dazzling new palaces for himself and his royal family.”

  Joanna laughed and then said thoughtfully, “Still, I mustn’t be too hard on him. He did agree to give me my inheritance, after Richard threatened him with dire punishment if he didn’t. But we left for Palestine and I still haven’t seen a farthing of it. I shall just have to trust that in this at least he’s a man of his word.”

  “Well, we’ll soon know, won’t we?”

  They fell silent, each absorbed in her thoughts. During the months that they’d lived and traveled together they’d become the best of friends, comfortable with each other. Especially since leaving the Holy Land, they’d drawn even closer.

  Each was, in her way, a woman bereft.

  Joanna still grieved at the loss of her William. No matter what path her life now took—whether through her own choosing, her mother’s machinations or God’s mysterious decrees, she was sure Sicily would never again be her home. Therefore, she had decided on the detour to Palermo during the journey to France, for one last pilgrimage to William’s tomb.

  As for Berengaria, the two women had developed such a rapport that Joanna could tell her friend was confused and worried. Richard, so attentive while they were in Jaffa, had resumed his earlier neglect. Joanna had pled with him to offer Berengaria the affection she deserved as his wife. Again and again she’d reminded him of their mother’s concerns about the succession. His only response was that he had done all he could. “I’ve sown the seed; now it’s up to her to produce the child.” It looked less and less likely that he would settle down as a dutiful husband when they were reunited.

  But on this brilliant, sun-drenched day neither woman was giving in to gloom. It would have been impossible. The sea that stretched to the horizon on their right was a dazzling blue expanse. Along the shadowed cliff-lined shore to their left, the water was as green as polished jade. The wind had dropped and was little more than a breeze, fresh and cool on their faces but hardly enough to fill the sails. So it was up to the oarsmen, twelve on a side, to keep the vessel moving. Joanna watched, almost hypnotized by the perfect synchrony as they leaned forward, dipped their blades in the water, pulled hard, brought them up and smoothly returned them to the starting position. It looked effortless but she could see the rippling muscles of their bare arms and shoulders. As they rowed they sang, repetitively and rhythmically, in some language she didn’t understand. Most of them were dark-skinned, from one of those mysterious lands in Africa, she supposed.

  “What do you suppose they’re singing?” asked Berengaria. “I expect it’s something like ‘Yo heave ho, over the waves we go.’ ”

  “Perhaps. Or, let’s see… how about ‘The harder we row, the sooner to port, where the girls are waiting to give us some sport.’ “

  They heard a muffled snort of laughter and turned to see Federico, who had just come on deck and overheard the last interchange. He hastily rearranged his face in a more serious expression. “My lady, Beatrix asked me to ask you if there’s anything worth seeing and should she come up.”

  Joanna sighed. At sixteen, Beatrix was going through what Joanna and Berengaria agreed was the “difficult” stage, though neither of them could remember ever being difficult themselves at that age. While they were all in the Holy Land she’d been docile and respectful, especially to Joanna who had known of her brief affair with Richard and had forgiven her. But now the girl tended toward moodiness, withdrawal from the company of her elders and an unspoken disdain for their counsel. Federico, a year younger, was the only person she seemed to communicate with freely.

  “Tell her that before sundown we should be in sight of Palermo. You know it well, Federico, and you can point out the sights—Monte Pellegrino looming up out of the sea, then the harbor, with all the fishing boats coming and going, and then when you get near the shore you see the palm trees and the avenue leading up to the city…” she had to stop. She bowed her head, close to tears, remembering her first arrival and her first sight of William, waiting there at the pier to greet her.

  Federico nodded. “I’ll tell her just how it is, my lady,” he said softly. She put her arm around him and rested her cheek for a moment on his curls. Dear Federico! He was always so quick to sense when she needed sympathy.

  After a minute or so of silence, while both women gazed out to sea, Berengaria asked, “What will be the first thing you do when we reach Palermo, sister? Seek out the evil Tancred and demand your golden throne?” Joanna had told her how Tancred had refused to give up the ceremonial throne that William had given her at her coronation.

  “I’m afraid that will have to wait. First we must settle in at La Zisa Palace, and then I’ll announce our arrival to him. But since he’s so clever and has so many spies and agents, maybe he knows we’re coming and will meet us at the shore and forbid us to land!”

  An hour later they entered the harbor.

  Joanna had asked everybody to come on deck and a festive-looking group they were, except for Jean-Pierre in his customary brown habit. Lady Mary and Lady Charmaine had dressed in bright colors for maximum visibility. Sir Alan was not in battle dress but in leather doublet and leggings. His sword in its polished silver-embossed scabbard was buckled to his belt. Federico stood at his side as befitted a knight’s squire, in sober gray but sporting a bright red velvet cap. Beatrix, caught up in the expectations of the group, had revived from her sulks. Her long black hair, adorned with a plain gold circlet, framed her lovely oli
ve-skinned face. Her eyes were alive with the same excitement that animated the whole company.

  The two queens stood in the bow, looking properly regal in their crowns and their velvet robes—Joanna’s blue and embroidered with silver fleurs-de-lys, Berengaria’s scarlet and bordered by the Plantagenet lions. High above their heads, more lions adorned the pennant that flew from the mast.

  The oarsmen slowed the tempo and the ship slowly approached the pier. And that was when Joanna wished she hadn’t made such a facetious conjecture about Tancred’s refusal to let them land. A dozen horsemen were lined up in military order with their captain at the fore. With the sun in her eyes, she couldn’t see whether they were armed, but each man had his right hand at his belt as though preparing to draw a sword. When the ship came to rest, Sir Alan stepped down first, then helped Joanna and Berengaria. The captain of the waiting troop dismounted and marched purposefully toward them. Joanna kept a tight hold on Sir Alan’s arm. The captain spoke.

  “My lady Joanna, King Tancred has sent me to greet you in his name and to conduct you and your party to your lodgings at the palace of La Zisa. He has ordered a full complement of servants to be on hand. He and Queen Sibylla will call on you and Queen Berengaria tomorrow at noontide to greet you in person.”

  The cordiality was welcome but suspect. “Why can he be acting so nice?” she wondered as she and Berengaria rode up to the city.

  But she was so happy to be back in La Zisa that she forgot to worry about Tancred’s motives. The next morning she ordered that the dining hall, still graced by its fountain, should be prepared for the meeting with Tancred and Sibylla. Bowls of raisins and almonds, plates of sweet biscuits, and flagons of wine were set out. A servant stood by, ready to serve. Joanna wanted to make it plain that she was the hostess here, not the supplicant.

  When the couple walked in, they seemed to have reversed roles. Tancred was bent over and walked haltingly. He appeared even shorter than Joanna remembered, diminished in stature and bluster. Sibylla, whom Joanna had considered lacking in self-confidence, had assumed the position of dominance in this strange marriage.

  Joanna introduced Berengaria and invited her guests to seat themselves and partake of some refreshment. Sibylla, who wore an elegantly simple blue silk gown instead of the unsuitable stiff garments Joanna remembered, placed a hand on her arm.

  “My dear Joanna! We are so very glad to see you, and we’ll do all we can to make your stay in Palermo pleasant.” She accepted a glass of wine from the servant and plucked a raisin from a bowl.

  “Thank you, thank you very much. But tell me, how did you know we’d be arriving last evening? It was most heartening to be greeted by the captain of the guard.”

  “Oh, King Tancred has his ways of finding out what’s what, don’t you my love?” Tancred responded with a nod and a wink.

  “I’m sure he has,” said Joanna. She turned to him. “Then you must know what Henry of Germany is up to in Italy. Before we left Acre we heard that he’d been crowned Holy Roman Emperor, his father having recently died. Do you think he has designs on the Kingdom of Sicily, thanks to the claims of his wife, Constance?”

  “Of course he has! And haven’t I…” he stopped to take a deep breath and hurried on as though trying to reach the end of the sentence before having to pause again. “And haven’t I been fighting him all this past year to keep him from grabbing our possessions in Italy?” The words were what she’d expect from the belligerent Tancred she remembered but his speech was slurred and came in bursts. “And Sicily will be next.” He took a gulp of wine and shook his head violently from side to side. He looked at Joanna with some of the old venom. “And this is all because your husband…”

  Sibylla nudged him and gave him a warning look.

  “Yes yes, I know, we mustn’t offend her,” he muttered to Sibylla, but everybody heard. “If your husband, God rest his soul, hadn’t had bad advice, probably from that shortsighted Archbishop Walter, and named his Aunt Constance as his heir, and then encouraged her to go off to Germany and marry Henry…” He faltered, then fell silent and sat staring at his folded hands in his lap. He clutched them tightly to keep them from trembling. His lips moved but no words came out. Then he finished his sentence in one desperate spurt. “…then Henry wouldn’t have the slightest reason to claim Sicily.”

  Sibylla stood and helped him to his feet. “Come my dear, it’s time for your rest.” He permitted himself to be led to the door, where she instructed the waiting servant to see that he got back to the royal palace safely.

  She resumed her seat with a sigh. “As you see, he’s not himself.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Joanna. “I suppose you’ve consulted physicians? What do they say?”

  “They say this, they say that, but the truth is nobody knows what’s wrong. I think it’s the pressure of defending Sicily all by himself against Henry and his vastly superior armies. It’s broken him. Where are our allies when we need them?”

  She looked first at Joanna, then at Berengaria.

  “Where indeed?” said Berengaria who, although somewhat confused by the conversation, thought somebody had to say something.

  Joanna had seldom felt so conflicted. She still felt drawn to Sicily. It had been her home for so long and she had loved reigning over it at William’s side. She hated the thought of this proud kingdom becoming an appendage of the soulless, ponderous Holy Roman Empire. Yet it was true that Constance—and she loved her too—Constance was William’s rightful heir. Legally, Henry had every right to claim his wife’s inheritance as his.

  But then, there was Sibylla’s question about allies. Hadn’t her own father, Henry, made a pact with William, sealed by her marriage, that the two countries would be firmly allied against all enemies?

  And finally, Tancred. She had never thought she could feel sympathy for him, yet the fact was that he had done his best to hold the kingdom together. Whether from love of the kingdom or love of power, the goal of his struggle with the threatening German army was the preservation of Sicily’s independence. And clearly the struggle had broken him.

  Sibylla spoke, almost apologetically.

  “I—we—had hoped that we could ask you, both of you, to use what influence you can to enlist England on Sicily’s side in this conflict.”

  Joanna had come to a decision. “Lady Sibylla, I’ll do all I can. Richard’s departure from Palestine was to be a little later than ours, but he’ll undoubtedly arrive in France soon after we do. I’ll talk to him and to my mother and remind them of the historic ties between our two countries.”

  Sibylla looked inquiringly at Berengaria.

  “I’ve only recently become queen of England, and I have much to learn about the kingdom’s governance. But your cause seems eminently just. I shall join my sister-in-law in seeking support for Sicily. And I suspect Richard may be persuaded. There’s been no love lost between him and Henry.”

  Sibylla sighed—a deep sigh of gratitude. She rose. “I can assure you this promise of yours will raise Tancred’s spirits. Thank you!”

  Joanna signaled to the servant to fill their wineglasses. “Before you go, Sibylla, let’s drink a toast to the three queens and their bold plan to save Sicily!”

  They raised their glasses and drank with as much bravado as if they’d been three kings.

  The next day Joanna made her visit to the cathedral at Monreale. She chose a gown that William had always admired, green velvet with a high round neck edged with white satin.

  She went alone except for two of the palace guards, old acquaintances from days gone by.

  When she entered the vast, echoing cathedral, a priest had just finished saying mass. He and the clergy were filing out, followed by the celebrants. A few people remained behind at prayer or, in one instance, napping. Nobody paid any attention to the well-dressed lady who strolled down the aisle, looking about her with interest. Tourists from Sicily and beyond came here all the time to see William’s famous cathedral.

  Ever
ywhere Joanna looked she was reminded of William. This great edifice was his creation—he had seen to every detail, from the carvings on the columns to the beautifully crafted altar rail. As always, she was dazzled by the gleaming mosaics that covered the walls, telling the Bible story from the Creation to the Crucifixion. She walked slowly along, admiring them as though seeing them for the first time.

  Next she approached the central apse to visit an old friend. Among the saints whose figures encircled the base of the enormous dome she sought out Thomas à Becket, whose mosaic portrait she herself had commissioned. His hand was still raised in benediction, and she imagined from his rather admonitory expression that he was saying, “So you’ve come back, have you? About time!” She smiled at him, then sat down and raised her eyes to the awesome figure of Christ Pantocrator that filled the dome. The compassionate face, the outstretched arms had never failed to move her. She sat there for ten minutes, lost in a reverie that was half prayer and half reliving her life with William.

  Finally she knelt to pray at William’s tomb in a side apse. The magnificent sarcophagus with its effigy had been moved, at Archbishop Walter’s orders, to his cathedral in Palermo. Only a stone coffin-shaped tomb remained. Though she knew it contained William’s remains, it seemed strangely impersonal, with no connection to the husband she had loved. After a few minutes she rose, smoothed down her skirt and walked slowly back down the nave. Here she was much closer to William, surrounded by the serene beauty he had created. Leaving the church, she felt consoled and at peace.

  At the portico the waiting palace guards came to attention and watched the approach of the slim, graceful figure. Unconscious of their scrutiny, she turned for one last look inside, smiled and bowed her head in salute to William, to St. Thomas, to the Christ in the dome, to the whole magnificent temple. One guard whispered to the other, “Our queen was always a pretty one, but I think she’s turned into a real beauty, eh?”