by Rachel Bard
The pilgrims were disappearing around a bend in the road. The sound of a rousing marching song drifted back. Joanna watched the carefree throng until it was out of sight.
Beatrix had observed the pilgrims’ procession without much interest. She was squirming in her saddle. “Please, can’t we go on?” she asked Raymond. “I’m so tired of riding. How much farther is it to Polignac?”
“Not far. I’ve sent word to the count of Polignac that we’ll be there before sundown. And the road is fairly flat and easy from now on.”
“No more rivers to cross?” asked Joanna.
“Alas, no. So there’ll be no more rescues of fair ladies.” He was laughing at her and it sounded like a real laugh, not a false one produced for effect. She laughed back. How nice, she thought. We seem to be getting along more harmoniously after that little episode at the stream.
As the procession got underway again, Joanna paused and turned to look down the southbound road where the pilgrims had disappeared. She imagined she could still hear their joyful voices and their marching feet. Suddenly she felt a strange urge to ride after them. What would it be like to forget her responsibilities as a daughter of the Plantagenets, to devote herself to the blessed journey to pray at the saint’s tomb in far-off Compostela? It would be a long and tiring trip. Could I perhaps have a little donkey to carry my effects, she wondered, and to ride when I got tired? Probably not. The whole purpose was to make the pilgrimage on foot. I’d have to get some sturdy boots.
Her musings were interrupted by the sound of a galloping horse. Federico appeared at her side. “My lady, the others are waiting for you.” She didn’t answer at once and seemed to be in a trance, her unfocused gaze directed southward. He was alarmed. “Are you all right, my lady?”
She came to herself with a start. “Oh yes, thank you. I was just thinking how I’d like to join that group of happy folk bound for Compostela. What a wonderful way to demonstrate one’s faith! What do you think, Federico, shall we become pilgrims?”
“Maybe next year, when I’m a knight. Then as you trudge along I’ll ride my big black horse beside you and guard you during the journey.”
They both laughed at such a preposterous idea and rode quickly to rejoin their party.
But in the back of her mind a new thought hovered. She’d always considered herself as devout. She’d gone to mass regularly, confessed her sins and given to the poor. But what had she ever done beyond the minimum, what had she sacrificed? Those pilgrims were giving up years of their lives and probably their life savings to honor their God. What had she ever given up? What could she give up?
It was too much for her tired brain now. One of these days, she told herself, I’ll give this some real thought. One of these days.
Chapter 53
The road-weary travelers took heart when they caught sight of the castle of Polignac, an enormous sprawling structure with a tall donjon tower at its center. It stood on an eminence in the middle of the town and was highly visible from all directions, as would have been any assailants who approached it. Riding up the winding road that led to the imposing entrance, Joanna was enchanted by gardens in full flower and intersected by tiled walks. Here was a bed of crimson roses, there one of blue delphiniums, beyond were masses of yellow and white daisies. This promised to be the grandest lodging they’d encountered yet.
They were admitted to the reception hall where servants took their cloaks and brought ewers of water and towels so they could rinse the dust off faces and hands. After only a few minutes their host appeared. A portly man, he had a florid face and a mass of disorderly white hair that made his head resemble a dandelion gone to seed. Incongruously, his bushy eyebrows were as black as his hair was white. His tunic and leggings were deep maroon velvet, and his considerable paunch was encircled by a massive belt studded with jewels. Everything about him spoke of good humor, hospitality and wealth.
“Welcome, welcome,” he cried as he approached them, smiling broadly and with arms widespread. “What an honor this is for the House of Polignac! Never in our history—which goes all the way back to Charlemagne, you know—have we sheltered two queens, a princess and a count all at once. I only hope our humble little abode will prove up to the honor.” He looked at them solemnly, than broke into delighted laughter at his own drollery. He was so convulsed that the rest of them couldn’t help laughing too. Raymond, obviously an old friend, turned to the others and said, “That’s only the twentieth time I’ve heard Count Jules make that feeble joke about his humble abode,” which set the count off on another fit of laughter, during which Raymond managed to make the introductions.
“Now,” said Count Jules, more seriously, “I’m sure you’re longing for a meal. Perhaps you’ve been thinking all day of a grand repast in my ancestral dining hall. Six or seven courses, maybe, from the stuffed quail to the flaming puddings? How does that sound?”
Joanna groaned inwardly and one of the knights groaned audibly. It had been a very long day and a meal like that would last till midnight. Count Jules, oblivious, offered his arm to Beatrix in a courtly gesture. “Princess, may I escort you to the dining chamber?” He led the way down a long corridor to a room that was clearly not anybody’s ancestral dining hall. It was more like a royal salon, luxuriously furnished with divans and chairs. Costly Persian carpets were scattered on the marble floor. Candles in gilded candlesticks were everywhere, their light illuminating the glowing colors of the tapestries on the walls. Four large round tables were laid with silver cutlery, pewter bowls and crystal goblets.
“My dear count,” said Raymond, “the humbleness of your abode continues to amaze me. I don’t believe I’ve seen that really gorgeous tapestry”—he pointed—“which I believe depicts Jason and the Argonauts?”
“Correct,” said Count Jules. “I’ve just received it from Constantinople. Yes, I rather like it too. Now my friends, may I suggest that the ladies seat themselves at this table closest to the hearth. Sir Alan, Federico and the knights may take the two tables at the other end of the room, and Count Raymond, Brother Jean-Pierre and I will be at this one, in the corner. Why this unorthodox seating? Because in my experience, ladies often have a great deal to discuss at the end of a day’s journey. So do the brave knights. But the two groups may not wish to discuss the same matters. Meantime, I must inform Raymond and Jean-Pierre of certain items of news that have come to my attention and that concern us all. Satisfactory?” He peered at them, his black eyebrows moving rapidly up and down.
They found their places and at once a troop of servants entered. Instead of bringing intimidating platters of fowl and meats, each bore a steaming tureen of thick pea soup, in which garlic, rosemary and chunks of ham had not been spared, and ladled generous portions into the guests’ bowls. Others placed big baskets of fresh-baked bread and crocks of butter on each table. Still others distributed plates of crisp, curly lettuce, dressed with oil, vinegar, and, Joanna decided, thyme. Finally the wine—ruby-red, fruity—was poured. When Raymond complimented him, “I send all the way to Bordeaux for it,” Count Jules said off-handedly. As he seated himself he called out, “Save some room for cherry pies to come.”
“Ahhh,” said Lady Mary after her first spoonful of soup. “Just what we needed after this long day. I’m so relieved not to have to face a stuffed quail.” There was general agreement as everybody fell to. For a few minutes there was no sound except discreet slurping and calls for seconds from the knights, accompanied by the dulcet melodies produced by a harpist in a corner.
When the first hunger pangs had been assuaged, when the wine was flowing freely and the pies had been brought in, the knights became garrulous, talking about whatever it is knights talk about. At Joanna’s table the conversation veered from musings about the pilgrims—Berengaria admitted that she too had felt a pull to join them—to conjectures about what lay ahead.
Beatrix, who had been silent but had permitted her wineglass to be refilled several times, announced that she was weary of the journey a
nd could hardly wait to get to Queen Eleanor’s palace in Poitiers. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of handsome young noblemen there. Isn’t Queen Eleanor famous for her brilliant court?” she asked Joanna.
“That’s true, or at least it was when I was a child. My mother has a very wide acquaintance among French and English nobility.”
Beatrix’s smile was almost a smirk. She fluttered her eyelashes and remarked to nobody in particular, “Really, I’ll be happy to see the last of Count Raymond. He was getting quite tiresome. I’m glad he’s found someone else to devote himself to.”
“Shhh,” said Berengaria. “Do keep your voice down, my dear. I wonder if you may have had too much wine. Would you like me to accompany you to our rooms?”
Beatrix paid no attention and addressed Joanna again. “How gallant he was to rescue you from drowning!” Angrily, she gulped down the last of her wine and tossed her head. She jumped to her feet and stalked out of the room, holding up the skirt of her green silk gown as though keeping it out of the mud, though the marble floor was scrubbed and clean.
Count Jules, who had risen and was leading Raymond and Jean-Pierre to Joanna’s table, looked at Beatrix in surprise but said nothing. He drew up chairs for himself and his two companions.
“May we interrupt you? It’s time for a conference,” he said.
“Of course,” said Joanna. She beckoned to Sir Alan and Federico to join them. The rest of the knights were straggling out of the room, yawning and belching.
When everyone was seated, the count continued, no longer the jokester. “I’ve shared with Brother Jean-Pierre and Count Raymond the news I had from Germany last week. We’ve discussed the consequences and what action you might take.” His audience looked increasingly worried.
“First, we learned that King Richard has been released from solitary confinement in the castle of Trifels and is now at Emperor Henry’s court in Speyer.”
“I had no idea they were keeping him in solitary confinement!” cried Berengaria.
“So is this good news, that he’s with the emperor?” asked Joanna.
“Not very. He’s still virtually a prisoner and prohibited from leaving Henry’s palace.”
“But as we’re all well aware,” said Jean-Pierre, “Richard is so eloquent, and his reputation for integrity and bravery is so well known, that he’ll be far more influential in determining his fate at the royal court than he could have been in Trifels.”
“What about the ransom?” asked Berengaria. “Is the emperor still demanding that impossible 100,000 marks?”
“I’m afraid he is. Emperor Henry, I regret, seems to care more about money than a reputation as a just ruler.”
Joanna thought sadly about her friend Constance, married to a man so mercenary—and merciless.
Raymond picked up the account. “But this latest news the count has received is the most disturbing. King Philip of France would like nothing better than to have Richard in his clutches. Not for the ransom, but with Richard out of the picture, Philip would have free rein to take back some of the French lands that Richard controls. He’s connived with Prince John and is offering to buy Richard from the emperor for a huge sum—well above the 100,000 marks.” He’d been speaking dispassionately, like a legal expert outlining the facts of a case. Now he addressed Joanna directly, and she thought she heard real compassion in his voice. “It must be hard for you to learn that one brother is plotting treachery against another.”
“Hard, yes. But not a surprise. John has always been crafty and unprincipled. But…”
Sir Alan interrupted, redfaced with anger, unable to control his outrage. “This is monstrous—to treat our king like a commodity, like a cow or a bale of hay to be bought and sold!”
Joanna looked sympathetically at Sir Alan. “It is monstrous. But Count Jules, you said you would advise us about steps we might take to prevent this calamity.”
“Yes. My suggestion, which I think has a good chance of success, is to write to the pope. I understand you and Queen Berengaria have seen him recently and I’m sure he remembers your concern for Richard. Plead with him to use his influence with the emperor, to try to get the ransom reduced and above all to prevent the sale of Richard to Philip,which would only lead to more warfare between France and England. This pope is far more desirous of having soldiers go to rescue Jerusalem from the infidels than to shed blood here in Europe fighting each other.”
“I’m sure,” said Brother Jean-Pierre, “that Queen Eleanor has been assiduous in pleading with Pope Celestine. Your voices added to hers might spur him to do what he has resisted doing—threatening Henry with excommunication.”
“He certainly resisted it when we saw him in Rome. But yes, if there’s a slight chance that it might help, of course we’ll write.” Joanna looked at Berengaria, who was nervously plucking at the fabric of her skirt. She looked anguished, but nodded.
Count Jules rose.
“We’ll meet again tomorrow. You all need your sleep.” His eyebrows were in motion again and his infectious smile lit up his face. “And please, if there’s any dissatisfaction with your rooms—as there well may be, I’m sure you’re all accustomed to far more comfort than we can offer in our humble castle—but if you have the least wish for anything at all, ask the pages to fetch the majordomo.”
When they stood up they realized how tired they were. “I hope there aren’t too many stairs,” sighed Lady Mary.
Joanna was near exhaustion too, but she still had questions. She caught up with Brother Jean-Pierre as he started up the steps—of which, fortunately, there were only six.
“I’d like to talk to you a little more about all this, if you could spare me just a few minutes before we all collapse?”
She saw that his drawn face showed lines of aging that she hadn’t noticed before. He longed for his rest as much as she did. But “Of course,” he said.
“Then when you’re settled in your room, come back to mine.”
The servant who was escorting them had bounded up the stairs and was holding open the first door along a long corridor.
“Your apartments, Queen Joanna, and as Count Jules said, you have only to ask if we can serve you further.”
“Thank you. There’s just one thing—could you bring some barley water with lemon and honey?” She turned to Jean-Pierre. “Or would you like more wine?”
“I would not. Count Jules was more than generous with his wine tonight. I’ve had enough to last me a week.”
“Very well, my lady. Barley water it is.” And the servant ran down the stairs.
A half-hour later, Joanna in her blue robe and Jean-Pierre minus his hooded cloak but still in his belted monk’s gown, sat before the fire in Joanna’s elegant outer chamber, sipping barley water.
“Most restorative,” said Jean-Pierre. He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs toward the hearth and closed his eyes for a moment, then sat up straight. “Now, my dear, I think I know what’s on your mind. Something to do with the motivations of our host, Count Jules, and our guide, Count Raymond?”
“Exactly! Much as I like him, I can’t help wondering why Count Jules is taking such an interest in Richard’s plight. And why is he being so kind to us?”
“As to your second question, I’ve learned already that Count Jules is inclined to take in, feed and lodge any who come to his door. He’s proud of his ‘humble abode,’ out here in a region that’s off the beaten path and where one least expects to find anybody with such elevated tastes. Some of his motivation is because he loves to play lord of the manor, especially to royalty. But most is because he is by his nature an open-hearted, generous man.”
“And there are few enough such men in the world, in my experience.”
“Ah Joanna, you’re far too young to be a cynic. Leave that to men of my generation who’ve been observing humankind for decades.”
“But you’re not cynical, dear Jean-Pierre. I’ve never known anyone with more faith in the power of men to redeem th
emselves—with God’s help of course. But let’s go on. Why is the count so willing to help get Richard freed? I don’t believe he’s ever even met him.”
“It may be as simple as this: Jules is deeply opposed to war and its devastation. There aren’t many who feel as he does and he doesn’t talk about it much. But he’s seen its effects close up. He told us that he himself had to fight for King Philip in one of his wars with Richard’s father, King enryHHenry—a series of bloody affairs that didn’t settle anything. Later, Count Jules lost his oldest son in a similar battle. And then, his remaining son died only two years ago in the Crusade. So he tries in his own way to prevent other parents from suffering what he’s been through. In the present case, he sees conflict as more and more likely the longer Richard is a prisoner. Not only is England poised to take arms against the emperor. In addition, Richard has many potential allies right in the emperor’s back yard. The restive German princes would need very little provocation to rise against their nominal ruler.”
He paused for breath and to take a sip of his barley water. “As to the motivations of Count Raymond, that’s a different matter. He’s a close-mouthed man who doesn’t volunteer much about what he thinks or believes in, if indeed he has any beliefs. But from what I’ve been able to pick up here and there”—he paused and peered into his goblet, as though seeking the right words—“it goes like this.” He held up his hand and ticked off the items on his fingers as he recounted them.
“One. Queen Eleanor asked the pope to ensure your safe conduct to Poitiers. The pope agreed. Personages at that lofty level are happy to do favors for each other against the day when they’ll need a favor in return.
“Two. The pope knew Count Raymond was eager to rid himself of his wife. He’d asked the pope to permit him to divorce her.