by Rachel Bard
“It’s strange, isn’t it? She’s such a lovely woman, and he’s so—may I say lusty?”
“You may. And it is strange. I suppose the lesson is that my mother should have talked it over with him before she decided who his bride should be.”
She looked up to see Mary trying to hide a smile.
“Now what do you find so amusing?”
“It’s just that two minutes ago you were complaining about how women have no say when others choose their husbands. Now you explain away Richard’s behavior for the same reason: he wasn’t allowed to choose his wife. So do men whose marriages are arranged deserve sympathy as well?”
Joanna thought a minute. “Clever argument. I see what you mean. But it’s not quite the same. A man like Richard can go blithely along, sort of pretending that he isn’t married and nobody thinks the worse of him. A woman can’t do that; I certainly couldn’t do that. I’d be frowned on and ostracized.”
“I suppose so. But it’s late and we aren’t going to solve any of these problems tonight. Shall I brush your hair, my lady? You might find it restful.”
“Oh, please do. Maybe you’ll untangle some of the snarls inside my head, too.”
The rhythmic strokes of the brush and the tune Mary was humming made her drowsy. When she climbed into bed, Mary pulled up the warm woolen coverlet and they exchanged “Good nights.”
Just before Mary closed the door she heard Joanna say sleepily, “Just the same, Mary, sometimes it’s enough to make me wish I’d been born a man.”
Chapter 56
December 20, 1195. One of those rare days when Nature shows how benign she can be despite the season. The temperature was below freezing but no wintry wind blew, not even a breath of a breeze. The sun beamed as cheerfully as in midsummer. A light snow had fallen the night before and the whole city of Poitiers wore a dusting of glittering white. The townspeople seized the opportunity to wrap themselves in woolen coats and scarves, pull scarlet caps over their ears and go out to stroll and enjoy the scene.
Joanna heard the crunch of the snow under their boots and their cheery greetings as an annoying distraction. She was sitting at a small table near the window of her tower room, frowning as she pored over a sheet of parchment. She wasn’t in the least charmed by Nature’s benignity. She was, in fact, quite cross.
“Oh dear, why am I so stupid? Why can’t I make it out?”
Her maid Jeanette, new to her service, got up from where she was working on her embroidery and looked over her mistress’s shoulder.
“Don’t call yourself stupid, my lady. Who could make sense of all those strange squiggles?”
“It’s Arabic. A few years ago I could have read it easily. But I’ve forgotten so much! How I miss William!”
She’d been feeling depressed and at loose ends and thought getting out her Arabic lessons would prove a distraction. But they only reminded her of happier days long gone. The palace was quiet—too quiet. Queen Eleanor was in Tours, dealing with a recalcitrant bishop who refused to pay the church’s fair share of taxes. Adelaide and Mary had gone to Fontevraud Abbey for a few days. They’d asked Joanna to go too but Richard had sent word he intended to come to Poitiers for Christmas and host a banquet. He’d said he’d arrive today and she wanted to be there to greet him. She was eager to see him, after nearly a year. He could always find a way to cheer her up when she was downhearted.
She put the parchment away and walked restlessly up and down the room. Like her mother, she had made her quarters in the palace a reflection of her individual taste in furnishings and décor. But where Eleanor valued elegance more than comfort, Joanna clung to the Arabic notion that comfort is paramount and even better when combined with brilliant color and furnishings to give the discriminating eye something to feast on. She’d commissioned a skilled craftsman to create a screen like the wonderfully worked Arabic ones she’d so admired in Sicily. With this she partitioned off half of her spacious reception room and here, in miniature, was a re-creation of her apartment in the royal palace in Palermo. Well-cushioned benches lined the walls. Large puffy pillows were scattered on the pale-blue carpet in lieu of chairs. She changed the color scheme sometimes. Today the pillows were indigo blue, magenta and deep purple. Out of consideration for those who might not care to sit on the floor, she’d added a pair of ottomans, covered in dove-gray wool.
She settled herself on a purple pillow because, though there was nobody but herself to admire the effect, it went so well with her violet gown.
She heard a knock at the door. Richard at last!
But instead of the roar of the Lionheart, “Ho there! Where’s my little sister?” she heard only Jeanette’s “Yes, in here,” then the rustle of skirts. A dear, familiar face peeped around the screen and Joanna sprang to her feet, overcome with joy.
“Berengaria! But what… why… where…?”
There was a confused flurry while Jeanette helped Berengaria out of her cloak and gloves, Joanna kept asking questions and Berengaria tried to reply through the wool shawl that she was pulling over her head. Finally the two friends were seated side by side, each on her pillow, crosslegged, with skirts spread decorously. Jeanette brought two pewter mugs and a pitcher of mulled wine and placed them on a low table between them.
“How lovely and warm it is in here!” said Berengaria. She squirmed a little, getting comfortable, and looked around appreciatively. “Braziers everywhere. We’ve had such a cold ride today, but this is heavenly.” She sipped her wine. “Mmmm. Now I take it from your surprise that Richard didn’t tell you I was coming?”
“Not a word. He said only that he planned to celebrate Christmas at Poitiers. I supposed he was still being the neglectful husband and I determined to scold him again. But here you are! Can you tell me how things are with you two these days?”
“I can, gladly.” Her face, already glowing from the warmth, turned even pinker.
“Joanna, I’ve never been so happy!”
She poured out her story while Joanna listened in amazement.
Three weeks ago Richard had appeared at Beaufort, completely unannounced. He’d said he intended to spend some time there shoring up the castle walls, which he said had been disgracefully neglected. “And so have you, my queen.” His whole attitude toward her had changed. Gone were the impersonal politeness, the perfunctory attention. He was loving and thoughtful.
“For the first time, I feel Richard really cares for me. He’s a different person. He’s the husband I’d dreamed of but never knew.”
“What could have caused such a change?” marveled Joanna.
“I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m just going to be happy with this new Richard.”
Joanna had misgivings. This was so unlike her brother. But she pushed them aside.
“And I shall be happy for you.” She stood up, stretched and pulled Berengaria to her feet. “I can see you’re not comfortable with my exotic eastern seating arrangements. Let’s move to the windowseat and you’ll tell me more.”
“No, first you must tell me about your own affairs.” When they were seated she took her friend’s hand and looked at her searchingly. “You’re looking pale and strained, it seems to me. Are you worried about something? Are you unwell?”
Joanna sighed. “I’m perfectly well. But lately I’ve been feeling rather lost, almost friendless. Much as I love Mary and Adelaide I can’t confide in them as I can with you. But you’re so far away! My mother is always traveling hither and yon and even when she’s in Poitiers she hasn’t much time for me. I need someone to be close to. And there’s no one.”
“You don’t need another woman friend. You need a man.” Berengaria spoke with the assurance of one who has her man. “In my opinion, you’ve been comparing everyone you met with your William and nobody ever measured up. Am I right?”
“I suppose you are. My mother, when she thinks of it, tries to interest me in some prince or duke who she says would make a valuable ally for our royal house. But he’s usually
twenty years older than I am, or has a harelip, or talks about nothing but battles, or doesn’t talk at all. She had a much easier time getting Beatrix married off.”
“So that’s happened at last, has it? Is the princess content with her new husband?”
“More than content. She’s been smitten with him and he with her ever since they met six months ago. It was a miracle that Eleanor agreed that he’d do.”
“And what are his qualifications for this desirable alliance?”
“He’s wealthy, for one thing, which Beatrix, in spite of being a princess, definitely isn’t. He has enormous land holdings, including some very profitable vineyards near Bordeaux. He fought in the Crusade, which pleases Richard. And since Beatrix is Richard’s ward, Richard must be pleased. Finally, he’s only five years older than his bride, and reasonably handsome.”
“You almost sound as though you wish he were your husband.”
“Mother in Heaven, no! His idea of a conversation is a monologue about how he couldn’t decide between a gold belt buckle or a silver one when he was dressing; or how much trouble he’s having training his new horse to be a good hunter. Beatrix, bless her, hangs on his every word and contributes the occasional ‘Really!’ or ‘Oh dear!’ or ‘How clever of you!’ They’re meant for each other.”
“Well then, we’ll have to look elsewhere for the man meant for you. Richard dropped a few hints that he has some ideas about that.”
“He did, did he? His record at trying to marry me off isn’t too good. By the way, where is Richard? Why didn’t he come here with you?”
“He wanted to walk about outside to make sure the palace walls were in good shape. He said he’d join us here in time for supper.”
At that very moment Richard had entered the palace and stood unobserved in the doorway of Queen Eleanor’s great hall. He watched as Jacques Blom hung the last of one hundred pine boughs from its peg in the wall.
Jacques, the poulteror’s son, had been charged with decorating the hall for the Christmas festivities. He was pleased because he’d finished well ahead of schedule. He stretched to get the kinks out of his neck and arms and stood back to admire the effect. The spicy scent of pine filled the air.
“Not like that, you numbskull!”
He jumped and turned around to see the seneschal Alphonse looking even more disapproving than usual.
“You’ll have to do them all over again. They’re supposed to be right side up like trees in a forest, not hanging down droopily like so many wet nightshirts on a clothesline. What will King Richard think?”
“What will King Richard think of what?”
There he stood, the Lionheart himself, his hand placed jauntily on his hip and his blue eyes glinting with amusement.
“Oh my lord King, I beg your pardon. I didn’t know you were here.” Alphonse spoke respectfully. Richard was the only person besides Queen Eleanor to whom he showed deference.
“Well, of course not. I’ve only just come in. Now as I see it, you’re trying to create the illusion that we’re in a forest. Excellent concept. I suggest we bring in some live pine trees and place them in big tubs along the walls. We’ll leave the pine boughs as they are—they’ll make a nice green woodsy background.” He turned to Jacques. “What’s your name, my lad?”
“Jacques Blom.” He was almost tongue-tied with awe at the royal presence but he managed to keep his voice from trembling.
“Very well, Jacques. You seem a knowledgeable lad. Do you know the Forest of Vouillé?”
“Oh yes—my father used to take me hunting there when I was a boy…” He suddenly remembered that the Forest of Vouillé was a royal preserve. Was the king going to accuse him of poaching, all those years ago?
But Richard was imbued with the seasonal spirit of peace and goodwill as well as the lingering euphoria produced by an excellent wine at his dinner. He contented himself with a dry “Oh he did, did he?” and went on. “Then you may recall a fine stand of pines at the eastern edge of the forest. Tomorrow you can lead a work party out there and dig up a few score of the smaller trees. But not too small—they should reach at least halfway to the ceiling. I’ll send a crew of my knights to do the digging. It’ll do them good to get some fresh air and exercise instead of carousing in the wineshops. Can you handle that, do you think, Jacques?”
“I’m sure I can.” His self-confidence shot up. “And we’ll need a good many carts and mules to get the trees here.”
“So you will. Good thinking. Alphonse my friend, you can arrange that, can’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” Not my usual line of work, he thought. But I’ll turn it over to the drayman.
Richard looked around, envisioning the pine forest that would soon transform the room. But something was missing.
“Birds!” he exclaimed. “Any self-respecting forest has birds, flocks of the little rascals, flitting about and twittering. How could we manage that?”
Alphonse looked appalled. Birds were definitely not his line of work.
“But maybe not,” said Richard. “They might fly over the guests during dinner and, um….” He sought a euphemism.
“Crap on them,” said Jacques helpfully.
“Exactly. So, no birds. Thanks, my friends. I’ll expect to see what you’ve accomplished in a couple of days. And Alphonse, please arrange for supper to be served in half an hour in Queen Joanna’s apartments for myself, my wife and my sister. After supper I’ll go over the guest list for my banquet with you. You must tell me who has accepted the invitations I asked you to send.”
Having successfully launched the Forest of Vouillé project, he was already engaged in planning the next campaign. There was one name in particular he wanted to make sure was on the list of acceptances: Count Raymond of Toulouse.
Chapter 57
King Richard’s Christmas banquet was beginning very merrily. The roast suckling pig had been borne in and consumed down to the trotters. The pork custard had been indifferently received, but its accompanying saffron rice, golden and studded with raisins, met universal approval. Everybody was waiting eagerly for the next course, having heard rumors that Richard and the chef had devised something quite out of the ordinary.
Meantime the noise level in the great hall rose steadily. Half a hundred knights, nobles and their ladies, ranged along the two long tables that formed the arms of the U-shaped seating, found more and more to say or shout to each other as the servants kept their wine goblets full.
Yet it could have been worse, Joanna reflected from the head table on the dais. She was impressed with Richard’s pine forest, which muffled the sound that would otherwise have been bouncing off the stone walls. She could actually hear the musicians, a trio of flute, vielle and drum who perched on stools in the open area between the long tables. Their costumes were as cheery as their tunes: the flautist in a green tunic with chestnut-colored leggings, the drummer in red festooned with gold braid, and the viellist in red and green stripes. The flautist played with concentration, seldom raising his eyes. The viellist swayed back and forth as he drew the bow across the strings, looking dreamy and carried away by the sweet tones. The man with the tabor was the liveliest. He beat on his little drum energetically and bounced up and down on his stool, grinning infectiously at the audience. Joanna felt a little like bouncing too. She’d been looking forward to this festive event, such a contrast to what had become for her a rather dull existence.
She was on Richard’s left and Berengaria sat on his right. Queen Eleanor, pleading the need for rest, had stayed in Fontevraud. This was just as well, since the presence of three queens would have made for a knotty seating problem.
The chair on Joanna’s other side was still empty. When she asked Richard why, he said mysteriously, “You’ll find out soon enough,” which was no help. He turned back to Berengaria, whom he was plying with toasted walnuts and plump red grapes. Observing him, Joanna had to admit that he was transformed. When he filled Berengaria’s wineglass and urged her, “Drink up, my
love. We have the whole evening and the whole night ahead of us,” Joanna wondered: was there something false in his tone? Was he play-acting? But when she leaned forward and saw Berengaria’s face, so full of love and trust, she hoped she was mistaken and persuaded herself that she was. It was Christmastime, the season for good cheer and optimism, not for suspicion.
A clamor behind the door to the kitchens got everybody’s attention.
“Go! Go now!” somebody cried. It sounded like a very nervous Alphonse. The door was flung open and Alphonse pushed in a page holding the Plantagenet pennant with its three rampant lions. Behind the page marched a trumpeter in the red-and-gold Plantagenet livery. His bold military tune was so loud that it drowned out the conversation, which shortly ceased altogether and gave way to gasps as eighteen knights in armor emerged from the pine forest and marched around the tables in single file, each bearing a spear held upright. Impaled on each spear was a roasted pheasant, still feathered in luminous gold and green, its wings outstretched as though in flight. Big plump birds, they’d probably never gotten this far off the ground while alive. Servingmen followed and distributed silver platters along the tables. The knights carefully transferred the birds to the platters and the servingmen began to carve. The rich aroma of roasted fowl and of sage-and-sausage stuffing filled the air. The company, delighted, cheered and raised their glasses to Richard. His grin was the broadest in the room. The spectacle had gone exactly as he’d planned.
Joanna, like everybody else, was entranced. She turned to Richard and hugged him. “Congratulations, big brother! That was amazing.” He laughed and said, “I thought so too,” with no pretense of modesty. “But Joanna, I believe you’re going to have another surprise. Look who’s arrived.”
Raymond of Toulouse was sliding into the empty chair on her left. He was a little breathless and disheveled, and drops of water—melted snowflakes, she supposed—spangled his black hair. He sent her a quick smile and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m so glad to see you again. It’s been too long.” Before she could respond, he leaned forward to address Richard as well.