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

by Rachel Bard

  The others nodded sleepily. Joanna stood up.

  “Since we seem to have finished the wine, shall we retire and dream about our arrival in Poitiers in a few weeks’ time, safe and sound, virtue intact?”

  The next morning Berengaria and Joanna walked down to the abbey church.

  They found the figures on the frieze were as realistic as ever—from the folds of the robes of the apostles to the patient expression of the ass bearing Christ into Jerusalem.

  “It’s like revisiting old friends,” said Berengaria.

  “Yes, and that must be one of the new ones Raymond spoke of—that cross-looking fellow tumbling down the steps to some horrible fate.”

  For some time they walked back and forth, admiring and commenting, until their thoughts turned again to their enigmatic host.

  “Sir Raymond has been the soul of accommodation, hasn’t he?” mused Joanna. “Why, do you suppose? Why would the count of Toulouse be so eager to be of service to the sister and the wife of his longtime enemy Richard?” She looked up at St. Peter as though seeking an answer. But he was otherwise engaged, watching David battle Goliath.

  “I expect your mother can explain it. There may be some political reasons we aren’t aware of.” And they had to leave it at that.

  It was a sizeable party that set out two days later. Those who had come from Rome numbered twenty-five: the ladies, their maids and servants, Brother Jean-Pierre, Sir Alan, Federico and six knights and as many grooms. Now Raymond provided ten more knights, five to ride ahead and five behind. Then there were the pack animals, laden with bags and boxes and some of the knights’ excess armor, ambling along in the rear.

  The procession was noisy. Armor clanked, muleteers loudly cursed their charges, hooves pounded out a drumbeat on the road. No wonder it got attention from other travelers and from villagers along the way.

  Raymond was known to the local citizenry. He often rode about the county on his father’s business. But who were his companions—the four elegantly clad ladies in their satins and furs, the monkish-looking man in the plain brown robe, the strikingly handsome black-haired youth in green velvet? And the brawny knight whose groom carried a banner with three golden lions on a field of scarlet—wasn’t that the device of the English, who were no friends of the counts of Toulouse? And could one of those ladies be a prospective bride of the count-in-waiting? It was widely known that Sir Raymond was not getting on well with his present wife. He might be casting about for a successor. He might have already chosen one.

  When Nimes came in sight it was late in the afternoon but there were still a few hours of daylight left. As promised, Raymond guided them to the arena. And as promised, Beatrix received his personal attention. First they admired the grand design from outside. The entire façade of the great oval consisted of tall stone arches, with another identical level above the lower.

  “And to think that it’s a thousand years old!” marveled Jean-Pierre. “I wonder if the Romans had any idea it would still be standing in this year of our Lord 1193. They truly built for the ages.”

  “Indeed they did,” said Raymond. “But they also made sure their past was properly recognized.” He took Beatrix by the arm and led her to a carving of a wolf suckling two little boys. “Do you know what that signifies, Princess?”

  “I don’t,” she replied, “and I’m not sure I want to. Why should human children be nursing from a beast?”

  “It goes back to the myths about the origins of Rome,” he explained, and went on to tell her the legend of the she-wolf who took pity on two orphaned boys who grew up to be the founders of Rome. But she made a face and turned her back on the sculpture.

  Not at all discomfited, he went on equably, “So, if that doesn’t please you, shall we go inside?” He led the group through an arched entrance into the vast arena, with its dozens of tiers of seats rising to a graceful gallery that crowned the exterior wall. Joanna tried to imagine the arena filled with cheering spectators, while wild beasts fought each other, or a troop of fierce bulls was paraded around the ring, tossing their horns and snorting. And then there were the gladiators.

  “I’d have liked to see it in those Roman days,” Joanna said to Berengaria, “but I don’t quite think I could have watched the gladiators, fighting each other to the death for the amusement of the citizenry.” She shuddered.

  Berengaria agreed. “War is so barbaric, it shouldn’t be mimicked and presented as entertainment.”

  “But don’t you see,” said Raymond, “it wasn’t just a show of men being killed; it was a demonstration of their skill, their bravery, even their nobility? Many of the best were viewed as heroes by the populace.”

  “And the more nobly they died, the more they were revered? Yet they did die, painfully.” Berengaria seemed ready to embark on a philosophical discussion of life and death, but Beatrix interrupted.

  “It’s getting late. Please, Sir Raymond, show us where the lions and tigers were.”

  Most of the others preferred to sit on the stone benches, still warmed by the sun, while Raymond led Beatrix, Sir Alan and Federico down the ramps to the subterranean chambers where, long ago, gladiators and wild animals waited their turn to appear on the arena field.

  To pass the time until the return of the explorers, three of Raymond’s mounted knights raced each other around the oval, standing in their stirrups and shouting, pretending to be charioteers. This was mildly amusing for a time. But the sun was descending toward the western wall of the arena. The travelers, from queens to grooms, were hungry and tired, but they couldn’t leave because only Raymond knew where they’d spend the night.

  Suddenly Sir Alan and Federico popped out of a dark doorway, blinking in the daylight. Joanna hurried over to them.

  “Where are Raymond and Beatrix? I hope they’re on their way up too.”

  “We got separated. It’s very confusing down there—little narrow passages going every which way.” Alan wiped his forehead. “Federico and I had quite a time of it to find our way out.”

  “And we kept calling to the others, but they must not have heard us.” Federico looked a little shaken by the experience. “And then our candle went out. But I saw a glimmer of light way up ahead and we aimed for that and here we are.”

  “Yes, here you are indeed, and that’s a relief,” said Joanna. “But where can Raymond and Beatrix be?”

  Before she had time to get seriously worried the pair emerged from another doorway. Both Joanna and Berengaria studied them covertly, looking for signs of misbehavior. Was Raymond a trifle discomposed? Was his smile a little nervous? Was Beatrix’s hair somewhat disheveled? Joanna looked at Berengaria and shrugged. Maybe, maybe not.

  Raymond efficiently shepherded everybody out of the arena to the square. The royal ladies and their attendants were to be lodged in the bishop’s palace.

  Raymond, the soul of propriety, rode beside Joanna, pointing out other famous Roman ruins. When they reached the palace, with utmost courtesy he bowed over each lady’s hand, just as he’d done when they’d arrived at the castle in Saint-Gilles. But this time there was no doubt about it: he held Beatrix’s hand a fraction of a second longer, and a complicit look passed between them. Joanna watched him riding off, back straight, horsemanship impeccable.

  Inside, the three ladies were conducted by a servant into a small reception room where they were drawn to the warmth of a blazing fire within an ornate marble fireplace. They’d all become chilled during the ride through the darkening city. But Beatrix was actually shivering.

  “You’d better go up, my dear,” said Berengaria. “Your maid will be there by now. You should really change into something warm and have her send for a hot drink.”

  “Yes, I think I will. It was so cold and damp down in those tunnels. Sir Raymond was kind and wrapped me in his cloak and kept his arm around me while we climbed the stairs. But I don’t think I’ll ever warm up!”

  When she’d left, Berengaria brushed her hand across her forehead and sighed.r />
  “It’s still a long way to Poitiers. I think something should be said to Raymond about our young charge. She’s a valuable property, whether she knows it or not, on the European marriage market. Your mother has probably already started talking to various royal and noble families about a suitable match.”

  “You’re right, of course. He must be made to understand that we take very seriously our responsibility to protect her. But how can I bring this up without implying that I think he’s trying to seduce her?”

  “Joanna, maybe it should come from me. Nobody could accuse me of speaking out of self-interest, since I already have a husband. But you’re a lovely royal widow who could well be casting about for an eligible new spouse. And there are few more eligible and sought-after than Raymond—if one can catch him between marriages! Raymond isn’t stupid. He could well ascribe anything you said about Beatrix to jealousy.”

  “Jealousy? Me, jealous of her? Ridiculous!” She clamped her mouth shut to keep from making an angry reply. After a minute she regained her composure.

  “If you can find an opportunity to speak to him, please do. You’re very good to be willing to. Thank you, sister.” She smiled tiredly.

  “We’d better go up and change. I wonder what the bishop’s serving for supper.” And she started up the stairs.

  Once alone, she walked to a mirror and stared at her reflection for a long time. She could find no fault with the face she saw. Her cheeks were smooth, her complexion was creamy, with a pleasing bronze tone from her years in sunny Sicily. Her lips were as rosy, her eyes were as brown, her hair as golden-brown as ever. But attractive as it was, it was the face of a twenty-seven-year- old woman. It had none of the bloom, the freshness, the eagerness to taste what life had to offer of a sixteen-year-old.

  Could I be jealous? she wondered.

  Maybe there was a grain of truth in what Berengaria had said.

  Chapter 52

  Their first day out of Nimes, Berengaria watched for a chance to deliver her lecture to Raymond. It came before they’d been on the road an hour. A knight who had been riding next to Raymond moved up to join his companions in the advance guard. Berengaria glanced at Joanna, nudged her horse to a trot and took the knight’s place. She was frowning slightly. She didn’t look forward to the encounter.

  Joanna, twenty paces back, could see but not hear the conversation. At first Raymond looked surprised when Berengaria reined in her horse beside him. She began speaking at once, earnestly and soberly. He listened intently. He nodded and then replied at some length. Again she spoke, again he replied. He looked inquiringly at Berengaria, who replied with only two words, which Joanna thought might be “Thank you” or “Very well.” Raymond reached to take her hand as though assuring her of his sincerity. Berengaria rode back to take her place beside Joanna.

  “I’m glad I talked to him. I think he took it well.” She related how Raymond thought it strange that anyone could have found his attentions to Beatrix improper, when he was merely trying to show an eager, curious young person the sights along their way. “He denied any inappropriate behavior on his part or hers. But he admitted he found her attractive and had even entertained the thought of marriage some day.”

  “Did he indeed! Any mention of an existing wife?”

  “Yes, he said, almost casually, that of course he couldn’t remarry until his divorce was approved by the pope, but that he expected that soon.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “But this is the interesting part. When I emphasized to him that Queen Eleanor would be in charge of Beatrix’s future, he said ‘I understand. And I would never have spoken of marriage to Beatrix before talking to the queen. That is also true of any other ladies in whom I might take an interest in the queen’s entourage or family.’ I think he was referring to you, Joanna.”

  Joanna began to protest, but Berengaria hurried on.

  “And this was interesting too. He volunteered that he’d probably do well to let up on his attentions to Beatrix, lest the poor girl get ideas that he was wooing her. I heartily agreed.”

  They rode in reflective silence for several minutes. Joanna let down her hood and raised her face to bask in the warmth of the morning sun.

  “Well, we’ve done what we can,” she said. “Now let’s just enjoy this glorious June day!”

  Still not far from Nimes, they rode through prosperous farmland and neat villages. Small yellow-green birds flocked and twittered in chestnut groves. In the orchards, cherries hung red and ripe from the branches.

  Sir Alan smacked his lips. “Cherry tarts on the supper table tonight, eh?”

  Soon, though, they departed from the comfortable lowlands and climbed forested slopes toward a high rocky plain, bleak and forbidding. It seemed to go on forever, but after two days the landscape became less stark. There were still many hills to climb, many streams to cross. Raymond had recommended this route as shorter, though more arduous, than the one that followed the Rhone River. Sometimes they had to ride until sundown before finding an abbey or some local lord’s castle where they could spend the night.

  As they approached Polignac, their objective for the evening of the seventh day, the road descended from a ridge into a deep valley. Joanna turned to Raymond, who was riding at her side. “I believe I detect the sound of swiftly running water. I hope this isn’t another of your ‘shallow little streams whose bridge has mysteriously disappeared but will take only a moment to ford.’” She meant to sound teasing but the words came out like criticism. To her relief, he smiled.

  “I make no promises except to do my utmost to get you dry-shod to the other side.”

  And he very nearly did.

  The stream, when they reached it, proved to be not very formidable—only a dozen yards across and it looked shallow. Joanna, with Raymond on her left, urged her horse forward. Midstream her steed stumbled over some hidden impediment—a root, a loose boulder—and sank to its knees. Joanna cried out as she began to slide down its neck. In an instant Raymond leaned down and clasped her about the waist, arresting her descent. For what seemed an eternity she hung in midair, saved from a plunge into the river by Raymond’s tight hold. Then the horse with a gallant effort regained its footing. Raymond kept his arm around her until they reached the other side.

  Joanna was trembling. Mary brought her a shawl. “Perhaps you’d like to dismount and walk about a bit and get your equilibrium back?” Raymond asked. “That wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences.”

  “But without your help it could have been far less pleasant. No harm done—my shoes got a little splashed but that’s all. I’m very, very grateful. And do let’s go on to Polignac. We must be nearly there.”

  All the way up from the gloomy valley to the next ridge, she shivered intermittently, recovering from her narrow escape. But when they emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight she forgot everything in her amazement at what she saw.

  A road branched off from theirs and wound down toward a town nestled in another deep valley. What captured Joanna’s attention was an impossibly tall needle-like spire just coming into view. As their road dipped down a little she could see that it wasn’t manmade but sprang heavenward from the rock of the valley floor. What was that at the top? A chapel! Then she saw the stairway that climbed the spire and tiny figures toiling up. She was full of questions and looked around. Raymond wasn’t in evidence but Brother Jean-Pierre was. He smiled apologetically at her puzzled face.

  “I’m sorry, Joanna, I can’t explain it. I do know the town is Le Puy, a famous starting place for the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. And I’d heard there were strange rock formations. See, there’s another one, not quite so tall and closer to the town. I believe the one with the chapel is where the pilgrims officially begin their journey.”

  The whole party had reined in their horses and paused to gaze, awestruck. The rays of the descending sun bathed the valley in gauzy shafts of gold and reflected off the slender pinnacles so they seemed to glow from within
. It was perfectly quiet except for the far-off cooing of doves.

  Was this a fairyland? Or was this what heaven looked like?

  The spell was broken by the sound of voices, some raised in song, some in shouted conversations so loud that they nearly drowned out the singers. A band of several dozen pilgrims appeared at the top of the steep road from the town.

  They stepped along briskly, helping themselves up the slope with their staffs. They were as colorful as a flock of parrots. On this first day of their long journey they’d dressed in their finest. Farmers and tradesmen, millers and bakers, shepherds and drovers, soldiers at loose ends, spinners and weavers, butchers and publicans had dug into their chests and found scarlet waistcoats, purple sashes and caps as green as the new hay of the fields they were leaving behind.

  “They don’t look much like a band of devout Christians setting off on a holy pilgrimage,” said Berengaria.

  “It’s as much a holiday for them as a serious pilgrimage,” said Jean-Pierre. “I expect most of them have been dreaming of this journey for years and saving up for it.”

  Federico had been watching wide-eyed and open-mouthed as the pilgrims rounded the corner and set off down the road by which the Poitiers-bound travelers had come. “What a time they’re going to have! Seeing all those strange lands, going all the way to the western ocean. If I weren’t going to be a knight I’d like to be a pilgrim.”

  “They won’t look quite so jolly when they come hobbling back in a couple of years,” said Raymond. “I’ve seen plenty of returning pilgrims with their boots and shoes worn through, their clothes dirty and ragged and their money spent.”

  “But they’ll be wearing the cockle shell on their caps.” Brother Jean-Pierre spoke quietly, and he raised his hand to his own head as though in wistful hope that he might find a shell pinned to his hood.

  “A cockle shell?” asked Joanna.

  “Yes, you earn them only by completing the pilgrimage to Compostela. They’re the emblem of Saint James’s miracle when he came by sea to far-off Galicia. Any pilgrim who comes back with a cockle shell is envied and revered by his neighbors to the end of his life.”