Constance was outraged that she should be the object of such scurrilous speculation and she was appalled that this mean-spirited gossip could cast a shadow upon the legitimacy of her son. If people did not believe he was her child, he would not be considered the rightful heir to the Sicilian throne. His enemies would use these foul rumors against him, a pretext for rebellion. In time, he might even come to wonder himself if they were true. Alone in the dark, she wept quietly. But come morning, she rose dry-eyed from the bed, hers the steely resolve that had enabled past de Hautevilles to carve a kingdom out of the Sicilian heartland. Summoning the head of her household knights, she ordered him to set up a pavilion in the town marketplace.
“And then you are to spread the word that I shall have my lying-in there, in that tent, and all the matrons and maidens of the town are welcome to attend the birth of my child.”
They tried to talk her out of it, scandalized by the very idea of a highborn woman making such a public spectacle of herself, sharing so intimate a moment with the wives of cobblers and tanners and innkeepers. But Constance was adamant. Only once did her icy control crack, when Dame Martina asked if she was sure she wanted to do this.
“Of course I do not want to do this! But it is the only way that I can disprove these vile rumors. The women of Jesi will watch as my son is born, they will bear witness that he is indeed flesh of my flesh, and nothing matters more than that.”
ON CHRISTMAS DAY IN Palermo, Heinrich was crowned King of Sicily. He celebrated by having the bodies of Tancred and his son Roger dragged from their royal tombs. Tancred’s widow, Sybilla, had yielded to Heinrich after he’d promised that he’d not harm her or her children; showing surprising magnanimity, he even agreed to let her four-year-old son inherit the lands Tancred had held when he was Count of Lecce.
On December 26, Constance gave birth to a son, witnessed by the women of Jesi; the baby was named Friedrich after Heinrich’s father. Several days later, Constance offered further proof that Friedrich was a child of her body by nursing him in public.
ANNA WAS ACCUSTOMED TO milder climes than her future home and she wondered if she’d ever be warm again. It had been a wretched journey so far, the women exhausted by the punishing pace, Baldwin bleakly anticipating his continued confinement, and all of them made miserable by the frigid winter weather. Aenor suffered the most, and by the time they were approaching Salzburg, the little girl had developed a hacking cough and she looked so sickly, pale, and hollow-eyed that Anna thought she’d be a disappointment to her husband-to-be. Anna would be very glad to reach Salzburg, for Baldwin had assured them that they’d be staying at Archbishop Adalbert’s palace, which would be a vast improvement over some of their past lodgings, usually monastery guest halls and even a few inns. Anna had never been in an inn, so she’d enjoyed the novelty—until she’d awakened one night bitten by mites and fleas.
Sleet had begun to fall and Anna swore when a gust of wind blew back the hood of her mantle. “God’s legs!” she cried, borrowing one of Richard’s favorite oaths. “It is colder than a witch’s teat.” Thekla did not say anything, but her mouth pinched in such obvious disapproval that Anna rolled her eyes. The Cypriot widow had served her for several years, but in the past it had been easy enough to ignore her. Now she was subjected to Thekla’s earnest platitudes and tedious lectures on a daily basis. Anna had not yet forgiven her friend Alicia for balking at accompanying her to Austria, for the company on this unhappy journey left much to be desired. Thekla would have made a fine nun. Her other Cypriot maid, Eudokia, had been even unhappier than young Aenor at having to start life anew in Austria, for she fancied herself in love with one of Joanna’s knights back in Poitiers. Aenor’s childhood nurse, Rohesia, was as protective of her charge as a mother bear, and all three of Aenor’s attendants were downright elderly, at least in Anna’s eyes. Aenor herself was only ten, too young to be much fun even if she had not been crying herself to sleep every night.
Anna had tried to muster up some sympathy for the girl, without much success. Yes, she was going off to wed a stranger in an alien land, but that was only to be expected. Anna had not been happy, either, about her Austrian marriage, for she’d liked the life she led since her father’s overthrow and she’d become very attached to Joanna. But Anna was accustomed to upheaval. Her mother had died when she was just six and she and her brother had been held as hostages for two years, finally freed out of pity when the Prince of Antioch had realized their father was not going to pay the remainder of his ransom. After they joined Isaac in Cyprus, her brother soon died, and Anna had to adjust to living with a man she’d not really known, a man so feared and hated by the Cypriots that they’d cooperated with the English king to depose him. So Anna had learned very early to accept the world as it was, not as she wanted it to be, and she thought Aenor’s marriage would be much happier if she learned that lesson, too.
When Salzburg came into view, Anna sighed with relief—until she saw the huge fortress rising against the sky, hundreds of feet above the city, looking as if it were halfway to Heaven. “Lord Baldwin, please tell me we do not have to ride all the way up to that mountain citadel!”
“You need not fear, Lady Anna. Whilst Hohensalzburg Castle belongs to the Archbishop of Salzburg, he also has a residence in the town, close by the cathedral, and that is where we’ll be staying.”
She gave him a smile so charming that Baldwin found himself thinking that young Leo of Austria was a lucky lad. He was not worried about Anna, sure that she’d always land on her feet. But as he glanced over at Aenor, shivering so violently that her teeth were chattering, Baldwin felt as if he were watching a tame fawn being turned out to fend for herself in a forest rife with wolves.
THE WOMEN WERE PLEASED with their chamber, for it had its own hearth and so many beds that they would not have to bundle up four to a bed as they’d often had to do at other lodgings. Baldwin was on his way up Mönchsberg Mountain to Hohensalzburg Castle, having been told that Archbishop Adalbert was spending the night in that alpine stronghold. He’d promised the women that he would ask the archbishop to send a messenger on to Vienna, letting Leopold know that they’d reached Salzburg but they’d be resting in the city until Lady Aenor’s cough improved. Since one hundred fifty miles still lay ahead of them, this was very welcome news to them all.
They’d been served the best meal they’d had since leaving Chinon, and servants had brought up a wooden tub and lugged pails of hot water so they could bathe afterward. Anna found herself thinking that if this was how she and Aenor would be treated once they wed Leopold’s sons, life in Austria might be more pleasant than she’d anticipated. She was enough of a realist to appreciate the value of luxury and comfort, understanding that it was much easier to be unhappy in a palace than in a crofter’s hut.
Aenor was already in bed, as were several of their attendants. Anna had prodded Eudoxia into staying up to play chess with her, since she was not sleepy yet. When a knock sounded, Dame Rohesia assumed it was a servant bringing honeyed wine for Aenor’s cough. But as soon as she slid the latch back and opened the door, she sought to close it again, saying in shock, “My lord, you cannot come in here! We have retired for the night.”
As soon as she heard Baldwin’s voice, Anna rose quickly and hastened to the door. “Do not be ridiculous, Dame Rohesia. Lord Baldwin would not come to our chamber at such an hour if he did not have urgent news.” She got an indignant glare from the older woman, but she paid Aenor’s nurse no mind. She was sensitive to atmosphere, a necessary skill for anyone who’d lived with a hot-tempered lunatic like her father, and she’d begun to sense that something was amiss. The palace servants were strangely subdued, some even red-eyed, as if they’d been weeping, but since she spoke no German, her curiosity had been thwarted. Opening the door wide, she said, “Come in, my lord. What happened at the castle?”
Baldwin had impeccable manners and he apologized politely to the irate nurse, saying that Lady Anna was right and his news was urgent. By now a
ll of the women were awake, several clutching their bedcovers close, looking scandalized to find a man in their chamber. Aenor blinked sleepily, and when she began to cough, Dame Rohesia hurried to the bed, glowering at Baldwin over her shoulder.
He never even noticed. “My news could not wait till the morrow. The Duke of Austria is dead.”
Midst the gasps and outcries, Anna was the only one to smile. “Tell me he suffered ere he died!”
Baldwin grinned. “Indeed he did, my lady. The day after Christmas, his ankle was crushed when his horse fell. The injury soon festered and when the flesh turned black, his doctors told him that his only chance of recovery was to amputate the foot. But all feared to do it—the doctors, Leopold’s knights, even his own sons. So Leopold held the axe against his ankle himself, and ordered a servant to strike the axe with a mallet. It took three tries to chop off the foot. It did not save him, though, for he died on the last day of December.”
Baldwin was belatedly realizing that he’d probably been too gruesomely graphic, for several of the women were looking greensick. Not Anna, though. She’d listened raptly and as soon as he was done, she began to laugh. “He dared to capture a king and now God has punished him as he deserved. Can you imagine Heinrich’s horror when he hears of this? He’s next!”
Baldwin was amused by her unapologetic vengefulness, and he laughed, too. “I hope so, Lady Anna; indeed, I hope so!”
Anna was fiercely loyal to the man she called Malik Ric, and she made a remorseless enemy, as she proved now, saying with great satisfaction, “Best of all, he died an excommunicate, so he cannot be buried in consecrated ground and will burn in Hell for all eternity.”
“Unfortunately not, my lady. Leopold’s son Friedrich sent at once for Archbishop Adalbert, realizing the gravity of his injury. But if Leopold thought the archbishop would show mercy because they were cousins, he was mistaken. Ere he would absolve Leopold of his sins and restore him to God’s grace, Adalbert made the duke swear that the ransom would be repaid and the hostages released, and he compelled Friedrich to agree, too, since he’d be the one fulfilling these demands. He told me that he made Friedrich swear another holy vow at graveside ere he’d let the funeral proceed. He said Leopold was buried in the habit of a Cistercian monk, but I do not think that will save him from spending a very long time in Purgatory.”
“God willing,” Anna said flippantly and as their eyes met, they both laughed again.
Aenor had been half asleep when Baldwin entered, but she was wide-awake now. She started to speak, had to wait until another coughing spasm passed. Almost afraid to hope, she said in a quavering voice, “Does this mean that I need not marry Leopold’s son?”
Baldwin nodded. “Yes, Lady Aenor,” he said gently, “it means exactly that. We will stay in Salzburg whilst you recover, and then we’ll go home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JANUARY 1195
Chinon Castle, Touraine
Hugh d’Avalon, the Bishop of Lincoln, arrived at Chinon Castle on the last Wednesday in January. As soon as he was ushered into the great hall, he knew that something had happened, something good. Wherever he looked, he saw smiles, and the only sound he heard was laughter. Instead of waiting for him to approach the dais, Richard rose and strode forward, offering a warm welcome that he did not extend to all prelates. Once greetings had been exchanged, Hugh’s curiosity prodded him to ask what they were celebrating.
“A death,” Richard said, giving the older man a challenging look. “I suppose you will say that is un-Christian, my lord bishop.”
“Well, that would depend upon the identity of the deceased.”
That earned him a startled smile from Richard. “Would you grieve for the Duke of Austria?”
“No, but I would pray for his soul. I’d say he is much in need of prayers, my liege, wouldn’t you?”
Richard agreed that was so and after leading the bishop to the dais, he shared, with considerable relish, the letter he’d just received from his friend and ally the Archbishop of Cologne. “I am not utterly heartless,” he concluded. “So I was not sorry to hear that Leopold was reconciled with the Church on his deathbed. I have a legitimate grievance against the man, but not for all eternity.” Signaling for a servant to bring wine for the bishop, Richard indulged himself for a moment by imaging Heinrich or Philippe suffering Leopold’s wretched fate, for they deserved it more than the Austrian duke. He had a truly blasphemous thought then, that even the Almighty was making Leopold the scapegoat, and he said hastily, “At least none will doubt now that God is on my side.”
Hugh blinked in surprise. “Did you ever doubt that, sire?”
Richard looked at him and then away, gazing toward the molten gold flames surging in the hearth. “No,” he said, having hesitated long enough to tell Hugh he lied, “I did not. But others did.”
“Not anymore,” Hugh assured him. “I daresay Leopold’s ghastly death will give the German emperor some uneasy moments. The French king, too. No one will ever again dare to defy Holy Church and harm a man who has taken the cross. So,” he added, with a mischievous glint, “your ordeal was not for naught, sire.”
“It was well worth it, then,” Richard said, but the bishop was unfazed by his sarcasm.
“I am looking forward to meeting your queen. I was told she passed Christmas here at Chinon whilst you were at Rouen.”
Richard decided to ignore that implied reproach. “My queen is no longer at Chinon, my lord bishop. Soon after Epiphany, she moved her household to the castle of Beaufort-en-Vallée, not far from Angers.”
Hugh thought that Richard and his queen were like two ships at sea, never getting within hailing distance of each other. Leaning forward, he pitched his voice for Richard’s ear alone. “May we speak in private, my liege?”
Whenever people asked for a private audience, that usually meant they wanted something. The risk was even greater with clerics, for they could also have a lecture in mind. But Richard’s respect for the Bishop of Lincoln was genuine; besides, he liked the man. So he ordered all the others away from the dais and out of earshot.
“Did you know that you are my parishioner, my lord king? You were born at Oxford, which is in the diocese of Lincoln, and this means that on the Day of Judgment, I shall have to answer for your soul. I would ask you, therefore, to tell me the state of your conscience, so I can give you effective counsel as the Holy Spirit shall direct me.”
Richard was amused by this unexpected approach. “My conscience is at ease, my lord bishop, although I freely admit that I harbor great hatred toward my enemies and cannot forgive them for the wrongs they have done me.”
“Scriptures say that When the ways of a man are pleasing to the Lord, He shall make his enemies wish for peace. It grieves me to say this, but you have fallen into sin. It is commonly reported that you are not faithful to your marriage bed.”
Richard was no longer so amused, but he kept his temper under a tight rein. “Are there not enough unfaithful husbands in England to occupy you, my lord bishop?”
Hugh smiled. “Ah, but a king’s sins attract more attention than those of lesser men. So you do not deny it?”
Richard found it difficult to be angry with such a good-humored admonishment. “No, I do not deny it. But my wife and I are often apart, for I am fighting a war, and whilst you may not understand this, my lord bishop, a man’s body hungers for more than food.”
“Of course I understand the lure of the flesh, all too well!”
Richard was quite interested in this revelation, for he’d assumed that saintly men like Hugh were immune to such temptations. “You?”
“Yes, me. I may wear a bishop’s miter, but I am still a man like all others. Especially when I was young, I had to struggle fiercely in the war against lust.”
“We differ there, then,” Richard said with a laugh. “That is the only war in which I was willing to make an unconditional surrender.”
Hugh smiled again, but he was not distracted from his purp
ose. “Adultery is a more serious sin than fornication, sire. Each time you betray your marriage vows, you put your immortal soul in peril. Nor is infidelity your only transgression. You do not keep inviolate the privileges of the Church, especially in the matter of the appointment or election of bishops. It is said that you have promoted men out of friendship or because they have paid you for it, and simony is a heinous sin. If it is true, God will not grant you peace.”
Richard studied the other man, feeling what his father had often felt in his dealings with Hugh of Lincoln, resentment at his remarkable candor mingling with admiration for his courage. “I do not deny that I have sold offices, and I do not apologize for it; my need for money is an urgent one, first to defend the Holy Land and now to defend my own domains. But I will concede that the sale of bishoprics is a more serious sin than the sale of sheriffdoms. I will consider what you have said, my lord bishop, and I would ask for your prayers.”
“Gladly, my liege,” Hugh said, bestowing his blessings upon the king before Richard summoned his steward to escort the bishop to his lodgings in the castle. Richard was standing on the dais, watching Hugh depart, his expression bemused. When he was joined by Guillain and Morgan, he saw that they were curious about his private colloquy with the prelate. “The good bishop has been chiding me for my manifold sins. I fear that I shall have to stop.”
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