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

by Rachel Bard

  A servant had placed a platter of roast meat before him and was carving it into succulent slices. “Aha, kid with saffron sauce,” Abbot Bernard said. When he and his neighbors had been served, he speared a chunk with his knife, chewed judiciously and nodded. He turned back to Joanna. “Our cooks do this quite well, don’t you think?”

  She’d thought she wouldn’t be able to eat a morsel but the smell of the roast meat was tantalizing. She took one bite and then another. “I’ve never had roast kid so I have nothing to compare it with. But I agree, it’s delicious.”

  “I agree as well,” said Adelaide. “In fact, I must tell you I’m astonished at how different your abbey is from the only other one I’m familiar with, Fontevraud. I’ve always thought Fontevraud very welcoming, with all the comforts one could wish in a peaceful refuge from the distractions of the world. They too have farms and produce much of what they need. And the nuns who do the cooking are excellent. But I’m sure roast kid with saffron sauce has never been on the menu there, nor do they serve their meals on linen cloths or from silver plates. Compared with your Saint-Pierre, Fontevraud is positively austere! I’m quite overwhelmed with what you’ve accomplished here.”

  During Adelaide’s monologue Joanna, half listening, had been looking around the room and saw in a niche in a far corner, almost out of view, a statue of Christ on the cross. Dimly lit by a few votive candles, Christ seemed to be gazing reproachfully at the worldly diners. He looks lonely, she thought—unnoticed, unworshipped. After dinner I’ll go pray for his help in getting my baby back.

  She brought her attention back to her neighbors. Abbot Bernard was responding to Adelaide.

  “I must try to visit your Fontevraud some day. From what I hear it’s an admirably administered abbey, considering that it’s run by women.” Before Adelaide could make an indignant reply the abbot adroitly changed the subject. “And I thank you for your kind words about our Saint-Pierre. Indeed, we manage, we manage. And we’re happy to share our good fortune with anyone in need of rest and refreshment. We ask nothing in return although, if they have a few coins to spare, we gladly accept them for the furtherance of our charitable work. But all are welcome, rich or poor, pilgrims, soldiers, troubadours, merchants, nobles, kings and queens.” He turned to Joanna. “I believe you have come from Toulouse? And where are you bound?”

  Joanna was momentarily at a loss. Should she tell him the real purpose of her journey—to escape from an abusive and deceitful husband, to find Richard and enlist his help? She thought not. Or perhaps he already knew.

  “I have some matters to take up with my brother Richard, but he’s hard to track down. Our last word was that a message would be waiting for us at Limoges, so that’s our next goal.”

  “That’s a good two weeks’ journey from here. Why don’t you plan to spend two nights with us? That will give me time to see what we might learn about King Richard’s whereabouts. Some of our monks are adept at keeping up with what’s going on in the world, and besides we know townsfolk who often talk to wayfarers. They’re very likely to provide useful bits of information they’ve learned in their travels.”

  She accepted with gratitude this generous offer of assistance and resolved to donate more than a few coins to the abbey’s charitable work.

  To her relief the rest of the meal was relatively modest. A salad of chickpeas accompanied by thick slices of the monks’ excellent, crusty bread followed the kid, and the meal concluded with almond blancmange.The wine didn’t flow freely. One glass per guest seemed the rule, except for a few convivial pilgrims who wheedled the servers into bending the rule.

  After bidding the abbot and her table companions goodnight, Joanna went to the tiny chapel and knelt before the crucified Christ. First she gave him thanks for bringing her this far on her journey, for the abbey’s hospitality, for her good health and the well-being of the child she was carrying and for that of her fellow travelers.

  Then, “I beg you, O Lord, to grant me three things. First, that my son may arrive safely in Toulouse and that he may in time be restored to me. Second, that we may speedily learn where Richard is and go to him. And third, that you will set me on the course that my life will take from now on.”

  She wondered briefly if she should pray for a reconciliation with Raymond and rejected the thought. It was an unrealistic request—Raymond was clearly determined to carry out his evil schemes. Besides, she couldn’t bear the thought of living with him ever again.

  She rose. Her fate was in God’s hands now. But as she walked back to her room, despair at the loss of her baby assailed her again.. No matter how firmly she told herself there was nothing she could do about it, she relived the violent, clamorous scene of his abduction over and over.

  She pinned her hopes now on receiving word of Richard. Maybe tomorrow. The abbot was right—they’d do well to pause and see what news the monks could discover.

  Meantime she might as well take advantage of this unexpected day of respite and build up her strength for the hard riding yet to come. As she prepared for bed, she thought she’d visit the abbey church first thing in the morning. It would fill the waiting time and take her mind off her troubles for a while. Abbot Bernard had told her at dinner that the sculptures at the portal and around the cloister were exceptional and that experts in these matters claimed they were the finest in all Europe. Joanna had protested that she’d been told that honor should go to Saint-Gilles.

  “Yes, I’ve seen those, and they’re certainly splendid examples of the sculptor’s art. Undoubtedly worthy of being rated second-best in Europe.”

  Joanna didn’t argue. She’d learned it wasn’t worth it to try to crack the abbot’s confidence in his own infallibility. Besides, it would gratify him if she seconded his claim that his sculptures were Europe’s finest. Agreeing with him would keep him well disposed toward her. And she needed all the help she could get to further her efforts to find Richard.

  The next day dawned bright, cloudless and warm for April. Joanna sent for Adelaide, who’d said she too wanted to see the sculptures. At the church they stood before the huge arched portal, divided by a substantial stone column. There was so much to see that they hardly knew where to begin.

  “Abbot Bernard said to pay particular attention to the central column, but I forget why.” They saw that it was almost covered with sculpted figures, two of them human and the rest a host of mythical beasts and fishes.

  “Perhaps I can help.” A monk appeared at their side. Joanna remembered seeing him at the dinner table the night before. She’d noticed that, unlike his brother monks, he managed to look disheveled though his white habit was identical to theirs. She’d decided it was his bushy head of gray hair. Every time he nodded or shook his head a few more hairs sprang up to join the disarray.

  “Good morning, and let me introduce myself. I’m Brother Anselmo, and the abbot asked me to be on the lookout for you. I’ve been studying these sculptures for years so he thought I might be able to answer any questions you might have. That column you mention, for example, includes a fine depiction of the prophet Jeremiah. See, up at the top on this side?” He led them to a good viewpoint. Obediently, they craned their necks and saw, at the very top of the tall column, the prophet. He stood slightly stooped as though discouraged and his face spoke of sorrow with resignation.

  “One can only admire the sculptor who was able to capture that expression,” said Joanna after an awed inspection. “And those magnificent mustaches!” exclaimed Adelaide.

  The monk smiled. “Between you, you have hit on the features that I myself consider most remarkable about the Jeremiah. Though I would add to the magnificent mustaches the graceful flow of the long beard. Now, shall we move on to the tympanum?”

  The first thing to catch their eyes was the row of a dozen or so seated figures looking up at God, who stood in his majesty at the apex of the arch. After a minute of studying them Joanna caught Adelaide’s eye. She too was trying to repress a giggle.

  Brother
Anselmo noticed. “You’re quite right to find it amusing. I believe the sculptor meant us to laugh.” His eyes ran along the row. “Each one is unlike all the others, isn’t he? A collection of individuals!”

  “Yes, how different their expressions are! Some of them look incredulous, some look beatific, some are obviously skeptical, that one near the end seems to be falling asleep, and there’s a man who looks as though he’s just been playing his lute.”

  “And several of them are holding wine goblets,” said Adelaide. “On the whole, a jolly gathering. And they’re so realistic! They look like men one might see every day, in the market, or in a shop, or walking down the street. I wonder if the sculptor found his models here in Moissac?”

  Before Anselmo could answer they saw Abbot Bernard hurrying across the courtyard, looking serious and untypically flustered.

  “I apologize for interrupting, but I’ve just received some news that I must pass on to you at once, Queen Joanna. Shall we step inside?”

  “Is it about my baby? Have they found Richard?” Breathless in her anxiety, she followed him into the church. But she remembered her manners and turned to Brother Anselmo. “Thank you so much, and I’ll hope to continue the tour some day.”

  “I’ll hope for that as well.” With a nod in their direction and another to Jeremiah, he departed. His hair, now completely out of control, hovered in a ring around his pate like a halo.

  The abbot sat on a bench toward the rear of church and Joanna and Adelaide sat on another, facing him. He began speaking at once. His voice was gentle, too gentle, as though he were trying to soften a blow.

  “This isn’t good news and I can’t make it easy for you. King Richard was in Châlus--”

  “I’ve never heard of Châlus. Where is it and why was he there?” She was trying to put off hearing the dire tidings that she sensed were coming.

  “It’s a small town on the road to Limoges. The news was brought to us by a monk who arrived this morning from St. Martial’s Abbey in Limoges. He said his information was that Richard had gone to Châlus to punish one of his vassals who had traitorously declared his allegiance to King Philip instead of to Richard. He said others maintain that Richard was seeking a treasure of golden coins the man had discovered buried near his castle, which Richard claimed as rightfully his. But our informant didn’t believe that.”

  “Nor do I. Richard isn’t a greedy man.”

  “No. At any rate, while Richard and his men were besieging the castle, an arrow launched by the defenders pierced his upper breast. The wound festered and there was nothing the physicians could do. Your brother died on April seventh. Queen Eleanor had been sent for and arrived just before the end.”

  As the shocking words sank in, she moaned and bent over, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders trembled and she began to sob loud, wrenching sobs. Adelaide put her arms around her. The abbot watched compassionately, and Joanna raised her tear-stained face to ask, “Do you know when and where he’ll be buried?”

  “Our monk said he’d heard that Queen Eleanor was taking him to Fontevraud and that the services would be held as soon as you and Queen Berengaria arrive.”

  “Then I’ll leave at once. I must be there, I must!”

  Chapter 70

  When the travelers reached Solignac, ten days from Moissac, they sheltered again in a hospitable abbey. Here they were heartened by the arrival of an armed escort and fresh horses, sent by Eleanor. She also sent her personal physician to see to Joanna’s health and a message:

  “My dear daughter:

  I pray that with these reinforcements you will be able to reach Fontevraud well before Palm Sunday, when Richard’s memorial will take place. The bishops of Agen, Angers and Poitiers will attend, and our old friend Hugh of Lincoln. The pope is sending his personal representative, Cardinal Pierre de Capua. I have invited King Philip, in hopes that for this event he will lay aside his enmity for the English and join us in mourning the loss of a great warrior. Your brother John will be here. I understand he is already wearing the crown of the king of England, though his coronation is yet to take place.”

  Joanna read the message carefully, marveling at the distinguished roster of guests Eleanor was assembling. She wondered what it would be like to see King Philip of France again. But the whole Crusade adventure and his brief role as her possible suitor now seemed like a chapter in someone else’s life.

  She disliked Dr. Basilio, Eleanor’s physician, the instant she met him. He was a wizened little man who may have known all about medicine but had no notion of how to conduct a civil conversation. He examined her in her room at Solignac Abbey.

  When he was satisfied, he pronounced, in a voice as scratchy as his personality, “You seem to be in surprisingly good health, in spite of the chances you have taken. But I make no promises that that will continue. Have you any idea how foolhardy you were to undertake this long, difficult journey in your condition? You have needlessly endangered not only your life but also that of your child. You would have done much better to stay in Toulouse until after the birth.”

  She was speechless with anger and wanted to cry out that it wasn’t her choice to leave Toulouse, that she was fleeing from a vindictive husband. But the doctor was gone.

  From Solignac the trip proceeded uneventfully until they were only two days from Fontevraud. Joanna was riding between Adelaide on her left and the physician on her right. The latter sat hunched over, looking not at the purling river at their side nor at the tender green leaves of the poplars, but down at the dusty road and the plodding hooves of his horse. She thought grudgingly that he was undoubtedly carrying out Queen Eleanor’s orders to the best of his ability, staying close to his charge, ready for any sudden need of his services.

  Her horse, an easy-gaited, even-tempered sorrel, stepped along smoothly. She held the reins loosely and gave the steed its head. It was a mild spring day when everything conspired to make a traveler smile. The noontime sun beamed with equal benevolence on riders, villagers and farmers plowing their fields. Under any other circumstances Joanna would have been gladdened by the promise of the greening countryside. But she was sunk in grief at the loss of Richard and discouragement about the future. She wondered what Raymond le Jeune was doing, whether Nurse Marie was taking proper care of him, whether he even remembered his mother. She was gradually accepting the likelihood that she could not be reunited with him. His father would never give him up. Without Richard, she was helpless.

  Added to this was a new fear—that Raymond would snatch the new baby from her when it was born, especially if it was a boy.

  Absorbed in her melancholy and with head bowed, she came to with a start to see they’d left the open fields and were making their way, single-file, along the dark, narrow main street of a town. Houses leaned precariously toward each other and blotted out the sunlight. The townspeople had come out to speculate loudly on this curious procession. If it hadn’t been for the knights and the banners flaunting the Plantagenet coat of arms, it might have been taken for a band of tired, disconsolate pilgrims returning from Compostelle.

  Joanna, still trying to get her bearings, was riding just behind Adelaide. Suddenly Joanna’s horse shied sideways, perhaps at a dog in its way or a bystander who made a sudden move. Taken unawares, she tumbled from her saddle to the ground. The breath was knocked out of her and for a moment she lost consciousness. When she opened her eyes she saw Dr. Basilio on his knees, leaning over her. Captain Floret was standing behind him. The other travelers had dismounted and were crowding around.

  “Move away!” the doctor snapped. “Give us some room here. Captain, ask that woman standing in the doorway if this is her house and if there’s a bed on this level.” Then he gave his attention to Joanna.

  “Do you feel any pain, any pain at all? As far as I can tell you’ve broken no bones. Try to move your legs. That’s right. Does it hurt?”

  “No. And I can move my arms. The only place it hurts is my lower back and hips. I landed awfully
hard.”

  “You did. We’re lucky you didn’t land on your head, as I recall your late husband did. Your discomfort should be only temporary. Our main concern now is the baby. You must rest.” He looked up. “So, Captain?”

  Captain Floret reported, “Yes, this is her house and she said she’d give us a bed in the room just inside the door. It looks clean and tidy and it’s warm, with a good fire on the hearth. She’s getting some blankets and fixing the bed now. Her name is Berthe and she lives here alone. She said she’d expect payment, in advance if possible. I can take care of that.”

  “Well done.” The captain nodded and went off to look for lodging in the town for the rest of the party.

  Under the doctor’s supervision, three knights carefully lifted Joanna, carried her into the house and laid her on the bed. She groaned at the pain and looked around. The room was certainly clean, as promised. It was also decidedly bare. She saw a table near the fireplace with two straight-backed wooden chairs drawn up to it, a small table and another chair by her bed, a pine armoire against one wall and a small narrow cot against another. It would do for one night. She drew the blankets up to her chin and closed her eyes. But she opened them when the doctor pulled aside her coverings and bent to put his ear to her stomach.

  “What, doctor? Is the baby all right?” He didn’t answer right away and she looked up at him, wide-eyed, frightened.

  “It’s very hard to tell at this stage. But I believe the baby is stable. The important thing is for you to avoid any more shocks or sudden movements. Complete rest, right here, for at least a week.”

  “A week! Oh no, I must be in Fontevraud by Sunday.”

  Since her fall he’d been attentive and professional, almost likeable. Now he reverted to the short-tempered scold she’d first met.