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

by Rachel Bard

  “I think we can,” said François. “Advice. If I were you, Joanna, I would leave Toulouse as soon as possible. Take the initiative before Raymond comes to drive you out. Marie-Louise and I must do the same. Raymond makes no secret of his suspicions that our friendship with you masks some evil plot to undermine his authority.”

  “It will be hard for you to leave,” said Joanna. “And I feel responsible. If it hadn’t been for your kindness to me…” François broke in. “No, you mustn’t think that. I’ve seen Raymond turn against his best friends in the past.”

  “And more than one wife,” said Marie-Louise.

  “And now I join the list. But you’re right. I must go. I don’t think I could stand another confrontation with Raymond.”

  “Then you had better leave tomorrow, before he gets back from Albi,” said François. “You’ll go to Richard, I suppose?’

  “Yes. I’ll send at once for the knights he left to guard me and tell them my plans. They’ll be able to find out where he is now.”

  “Then we’ll leave you to your preparations,” said Marie-Louise. “But I’ll stop on the way out to ask Lady Adelaide to come to you.”

  “And we’ll be here in the morning to see you off.” François took her hand to wish her farewell, and the steady gaze of his eyes, the kindness and understanding that shone from his face, gave her heart. Marie-Louise enfolded her in an encompassing motherly hug. As she told them goodbye, tears came into her eyes for the first time in this painful meeting—tears of gratitude.

  When they’d left, Joanna suddenly felt full of energy. She couldn’t give in to her anguish. There was too much to do. She wanted only to escape. Much as she’d come to love the city of Toulouse and the counts’ palace, she now saw it as a place of menace, not welcome.

  She sent a page to find Richard’s knights. They promised to send messengers at once to track Richard down. Then she sent for Captain Floret, the knight who’d been her guardian whenever Raymond had had to leave her alone in Beaucaire. Since then he’d often been on duty at the palace in Toulouse and they’d developed a solid, trusting relationship. He’d told her more than once to call on him if she ever needed his help. Sure enough, he willingly agreed not only to join her but to enlist three others whom he knew to be disaffected with Raymond’s highhanded, imperious ways.

  Finally, her son. He’d been in the forefront of her mind ever since she decided to leave. Raymond would be furious when he returned to Toulouse and found them gone. What would he do? He’d pursue them, of course. Not because he wanted to get back his discarded wife, but to retrieve his only son and heir. All the more reason for haste, to gain as much of a headstart as possible. She was just leaving to tell Nurse Marie about the plans when Adelaide arrived.

  Adelaide, like others close to Joanna, had sensed the strained relationship with Raymond, but they hadn’t discussed it. Now Joanna filled her in quickly on what was happening.

  “You know you need not come with me if you don’t wish to,” she said.

  “Ha! And stay here to dance attendance on that foolish, deceitful little Beatrix if she’s the next countess of Toulouse? No indeed. I can’t imagine leaving you, my lady. Now what can I do?”

  Joanna asked her to tell Nurse Marie to get herself and the baby ready to leave by nine the next morning. “Tell her I’m very sorry about the suddenness of all this. Tell her I’ll come in to see her as soon as I can.”

  “She won’t like it,” said Adelaide. “You know how she hates any disruption of routine. But I’ll try to soothe her.” She set off at once. Aha, thought Joanna. She sees the urgency. How fortunate that I have such good people near me when I need them.

  She called Jeanette to help her assemble her clothes and effects for the journey. Jeanette was a sensible, no-nonsense young woman, calm and trustworthy in any emergency. She had a very good idea of how things stood with Joanna and Raymond and needed no explanation, for which Joanna was glad.

  “I’ll just take warm traveling clothes,” Joanna said. “Only two fine gowns and a few jewels and my queen’s crown. And let’s not forget the pouch of gold pieces I’ve had ever since I left Sicily.”

  Finally Joanna went to the kitchen. She spoke confidentially to Michel the cook, and told him she was called away suddenly to see her brother Richard. Could he pack up several hampers of food? And could he spare one of his assistants and two or three servingmen for a week or so? She promised to send them back as soon as they reached their journey’s end.

  Joanna knew from experience that there came times when a party of wayfarers sought refuge at the end of the day at a baronial hall or a monastery that was taken by surprise, unprepared for these hungry, tired visitors. She knew how they’d welcome additions to the larder and extra hands to help.

  Michel, ruddy-faced and stocky, respected Joanna. She always came to thank him for a particularly good meal. They’d had many friendly arguments about roast beef, which Joanna remembered fondly from her youth in England but which Michel scorned. “Dried-out, loses all its flavor from the juices that drip into the fire,” he complained. No arguments now. He was immediately cooperative and promised to provide what she asked and more, and to have mules laden with supplies by nine the next morning. She thanked him sincerely and was on her way to the door when he called after her, “Excuse me, but would you perhaps consider permitting me to accompany you?” She turned back.

  “I can be spared here—we have very few big banquets these days and my staff can easily fill in for me. It would be an honor and a pleasure for me to serve you during what may be a difficult, uncomfortable journey.” With every sentence he became more eager. “Also, I have relatives in Agen and Fumel whom I’ve not seen for years. If we pass through those cities they might be able to help us in some way. Maybe they’ll give us a few rounds of cheese or some of their famous sausages!” His smile at the thought of these delicacies was so broad that it seemed to split his jolly face in two. Joanna laughed and patted him on the arm.

  “Thank you, Michel. I accept your offer with great pleasure. I’ll be delighted to have the company and the skills of the finest cook in Toulouse.”

  Back in her room, she loosened her sash and sat down to take stock. Jeanette and a servant were tying a cord around a wicker chest. A half-dozen other chests and bags, securely trussed, were lined up on the floor. Joanna rested her elbows on the table before her and supported her head with her clasped hands. She sighed and closed her eyes. In a minute she’d go to the nursery. But first she had to face the question that she’d been trying all day not to think about.

  It wasn’t the question of what she’d do if Raymond arrived and prevented them from going. There was no point in worrying about that. It was in God’s hands.

  No—it was whether this arduous journey would endanger the child she was bearing. She was beginning the fourth month of her pregnancy and felt perfectly well. But she remembered vividly her miscarriage in the past and still feared another. Yet did she have an alternative? She couldn’t stay to be reviled and probably driven out by Raymond.

  She sighed again and raised her head. The packing was finished, the servant had left and Jeanette was looking at Joanna with concern. She approached and put her hand gently on her mistress’s shoulder.

  “I’m so very sorry for you, my lady. You shouldn’t have to suffer like this. But you’re doing the right thing. And we’ll all make the journey as easy for you as we can.”

  The next morning the party of fifteen gathered in the courtyard. In spite of leaden skies and the seriousness of the situation, there was an air of subdued excitement and anticipation. This was an adventure, a daring escapade to thwart the forces of evil. Even Raymond le Jeune was caught up in the spirit, bouncing up and down and squealing with glee. He and Marie had been carefully positioned on a substantial, dependable horse. Everyone admired the special saddle that one of the grooms had devised, with its child-sized leather seat affixed to the front of Marie’s saddle and a miniature pommel to hold onto.
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  As they rode out of the palace square and through the city, Joanna wondered when she would see Toulouse again. She’d miss its narrow cobbled streets that threaded their way between the familiar buildings with their elaborate towers. She watched as the bell tower of the Basilica of St. Sernin disappeared from view, then set her face resolutely forward. It was time to look ahead, not back. Ahead to the day, not far off now, when Richard would rescue her from the tattered remains of her marriage and help her find a road to the future.

  Chapter 69

  “What’s that—thunder?” asked Adelaide, who was riding at Joanna’s left. She pulled her cloak up around her neck and looked anxiously at the sky.

  Immediately ahead of them were Marie and Raymond le Jeune. He’d fallen asleep and the nurse had an arm around him. On the fourth day of their journey everybody had begun to feel safe from pursuit by Raymond from the rear. But danger might still lurk ahead. Captain Floret and the knights led the way, on the lookout for trouble. Since at the moment there was no large-scale war or Crusade, many unemployed soldiers roamed the countryside in search of vulnerable travelers.

  “I don’t hear anything,” said Joanna. But then she did. She realized it was the pounding of many hooves on the roadway behind them. The noise grew louder, closer. Before she knew it a dozen men were upon them, brandishing swords. One huge fellow rode at a gallop past her and snatched the reins from Marie’s hands. He yanked until the nurse’s terrified horse reversed course and was swept along with the abductors’ steeds while Marie clasped the wailing baby to her breast. The whole troop rushed off in the direction they’d come. Captain Floret and his men wheeled their horses and galloped after them.

  “Don’t stop!” he shouted to Joanna as he tore by. “We’ll catch up with you.”

  All this had taken less than a minute.

  Joanna felt that she was going to faint but managed to stay upright in her saddle. The urge to turn back, to join the search, was almost overpowering, but Captain Floret was right. There was no way she could help. They must keep going, and hope against hope that he and his men would return with her son and Marie. Tears coursed down her cheeks and she stared straight ahead. Adelaide and Jeanette rode close to her, one on either side.

  Joanna looked around at the others. She saw that everybody appeared stunned, unable to comprehend what had just happened. It was up to her, Joanna, to give them hope and direction. She beckoned to Michel the cook. He was the only one in the party who knew this area. Though his jolly face was far from jolly, he tried to smile encouragingly as he rode up. In return she tried to sound confident and in control.

  “Where are we, Michel? I know we’re on the road to Agen, but do you know what our goal for tonight is?”

  “We’re not far from the abbey at Moissac. Captain Floret had already sent them word that we hoped to be there this evening. We’ll be safe with the monks. They’ll welcome us and give us dinner. And they’ll offer compassion and comfort to you about this grievous abduction. In fact, they may well have some word on your brother’s whereabouts.”

  The worried servants and muleteers had crowded around to hear this. They took some comfort from the prospect of a good meal and a warm dry bed. Even the tired horses sensed that rest and oats might lie ahead and the pace quickened. Presently, sure enough, the tower of the abbey church came into view across the fields. In the fading afternoon light the tower caught the last few rays of the sun and glowed like a welcoming beacon.

  Captain Floret and his men overtook them as they entered the abbey enclosure. They did not have Raymond le Jeune and Marie. They were dirty and damp and looked completely worn out from hours of hard riding. The captain, still catching his breath, reported to Joanna.

  “We never even laid eyes on them. They must have turned off the main road on one of the little lanes, or simply melted into the trees. We searched and searched. They were Count Raymond’s men, of course. I recognized the fellow who seized the horse, and one other.” He stopped to wipe his sweaty face and to gulp down some water from the flask Michel handed him. “Once we thought we heard a baby crying, but when we followed the sound it turned out to be a bird. I’m so very sorry.”

  “You did your best and I’m grateful. I suppose we’ll have to accept this as God’s inscrutable will and keep on.” But she thought wearily that God was being far more inscrutable than necessary, sending so many misfortunes her way in quick succession. First Raymond’s unforgivable behavior, then the sudden disruption of what she’d thought was a safe and settled life in Toulouse, and now this snatching away of her only, her beloved child. She agonized over what lay ahead for him, but she persuaded herself that almost certainly he was in no danger. The abductors’ instructions would have been to deliver him, safe and unharmed, to his father. And it was a tremendous comfort to know that Marie would be there to care for him. So while she grieved and worried, she held onto the hope that soon, somehow, with Richard’s help she’d be reunited with him.

  Bodies and spirits were much revived by the stay at the abbey. An important way stop on the Pilgrimage Road to Compostelle, it was a sprawling enclave of church, cloister, dormitory, refectory and gardens. Outside its walls stretched cultivated fields and orchards, where even now at dusk monks could be seen at work.

  Abbot Bernard greeted them as they entered the reception hall. A tall, substantial man, he was dazzling in vestments of heavy white silk embroidered in gold. His voice was low-pitched, mellow and resonant. He seemed easy in his role as God’s ambassador on earth. “You are welcome to the Abbey of Saint-Pierre. Most of our guests are hungry, dusty, road-weary pilgrims so it’s an unexpected pleasure to entertain a countess—or should I say a queen who is also a countess—and her retinue. We’ve heard of the day’s grievous events and we will pray that your son may be restored to you. Meantime, please make yourselves at home, and I shall look forward to seeing you at dinner.”

  Joanna, however, was not looking forward to dinner. She had no appetite for an uninspired meal in a drab refectory, where the monks would eat quickly and in silence. She’d have to converse with the abbot, who seemed a rather pompous sort. All she wanted was to be left alone in her room which, though small, was snug and well furnished, with a comfortable chair and a cheerful fire. She decided to ask Jeanette to send word that she needed to rest, and would be glad of a tray sent to her room. “Tell them just a small bowl of soup.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I believe you’d do much better to go in to dinner with the others.”

  Joanna liked Jeanette for her thoughtfulness and level-headedness, but this was a new side of her. She’d never given her mistress advice before.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because nothing will be served if you stay here alone, brooding and worrying. It won’t get your baby back to you any sooner, and it won’t get us to King Richard any sooner. It will only make you more unhappy.” She spoke with complete seriousness, but with compassion. “What you need is some distraction, to take your mind off your troubles.”

  “Well…” said Joanna, half convinced.

  “And besides, you heard the abbot say what a pleasure it was to entertain a queen instead of a scruffy batch of pilgrims. Why deprive him of that? Let’s show him Queen Joanna, in all her regal splendor!” She was not at all serious now and her enthusiasm was contagious. Joanna couldn’t maintain her glum mood. She smiled.

  “How right you are. I’ve been forgetting who I am. I’m Joanna Plantagenet, Princess of England, sister of King Richard and Queen of Sicily. Far more than the discarded wife of the count of Toulouse! I shall go to dinner dressed like a queen. Abbot Bernard deserves no less.”

  She’d brought only two suitable gowns and chose the crimson satin with its sash embroidered with miniature Plantagenet lions.

  “And why don’t you wear your diamond tiara, the one you told me you’ve had ever since you left England for Sicily?” Jeanette asked.

  “Why not indeed?”

  When she stepped in
to the refectory for dinner she was astonished at the unmonastic luxury. The room could easily be taken as the great hall of a wealthy secular lord. The table was set with silver platters and crystal goblets on a white cloth. The room was brightly lit by a dozen candelabra and was pleasantly warm, thanks to logs burning cheerily in a huge fireplace.

  The abbot led her to a seat at his right at the head table. To his left were three local lords and their wives, all looking plump and prosperous. Farther down the table were Captain Floret and his knights and a dozen of the more senior monks. The latters’ habits were of white linen instead of the dull brown or black Joanna was used to. They were conversing freely—apparently there was no rule of silence here. At the second table she saw a clump of pilgrims, looking out of place in their motley costumes but uninhibitedly garrulous and merry.

  “I wonder what our friend Jean-Pierre would think of all this,” Joanna whispered to Adelaide on her right.

  To the abbot she said, “This is like no abbey or monastery I’ve ever seen. How well you live!”

  “We do, and we see no reason to hide the fact. Much of what you see is due to our own industry. This oak table and the armchairs on which we sit, for example, were crafted by our monks who specialize in fine woodworking. We follow the rule of the mother abbey at Cluny. We’re encouraged to live off of what we can produce. So we raise livestock, grow wheat, cultivate our gardens and vineyards, make our wine and bake our bread—we’re quite proud of our self-sufficiency.”

  Not a word about giving thanks to God for all these blessings, thought Joanna.

  The abbot continued, explaining that because of the monks’ industry, they always produced more than they could use. So they sold the surplus, adding thereby to the abbey’s coffers.

  “Besides which, many generous and devout friends contribute to our endowment.” He nodded graciously to the three complacent dignitaries on his left. “In fact, your own mother, Queen Eleanor, has been quite liberal in her donations.” He paused and she guessed he was giving her an opportunity to say she would follow her mother’s example. She’d think about it.