Lionheart (25 page)

TANCRED LOOKED HAGGARD, his sallow complexion and red-rimmed eyes testifying to anxious days and sleepless nights. “Sit down, my lord archbishop,” he said wearily. “But do not waste your breath arguing that the English king’s enmity toward Hohenstaufen matters more than his outrageous seizure of Messina. I’ve already heard enough of that from the chancellor.”

“You well know that the English king is no friend to the Holy Roman Emperor, my liege, so there is no need to remind you of it. I would rather talk with you about the French king.”

“Matthew told you of the Duke of Burgundy’s message? I admit I was taken by surprise. But the duke brought a letter in Philippe’s own hand, apparently written whilst the city was still under attack, for it is splattered with ink blots as if he were gripping his pen like a sword. Show him the letter, Matthew. Let him see for himself.”

“I do not doubt the sincerity of the French king’s rage, sire. But his actions after the fall of the city do raise doubts about the sincerity of his offer. As angered as he was by Richard’s attack upon Messina, he was even angrier to see the English flag flying over the city afterward. He demanded that the French flag be flown instead, reminding Richard of a pact they’d made at Vézelay to share equally all spoils during their campaign.”

Tancred stiffened. “You are sure of this?”

“I am, my lord. As you’d expect, Richard did not take kindly to the demand. I heard that his first impulse was to tell Philippe exactly where he could fly those French flags, in vivid and rather obscene detail. But when he calmed down, he agreed to replace his banners with those of the Hospitallers and the Templars, putting the city in their custody until he could come to terms with you.”

Tancred slumped back in his chair as the other men exchanged troubled glances. Richard was not going to be satisfied until Tancred turned over Joanna’s dower and William’s legacy. But once this was done, he’d be more amenable than Philippe to an alliance against the Holy Roman Empire. Tancred knew this, for he was far from a fool. But would he be willing to put Sicily’s welfare above his lacerated pride?

RICHARD ARRIVED in Bagnara bearing gifts—casks of wine for his knights and a beautiful chestnut mare for his sister, white mules for her ladies. He brought word, too, that peace reigned in Messina now that the dead had been buried, hostages taken for the citizens’ good behavior in the future, prices set for bread and wine, and some of the plundered goods returned. He was in such high spirits that Joanna suspected he had more to tell her, and that would prove to be true.

“ I AM SORRY I could not come over sooner, Joanna, but for the past few days I’ve been having secret negotiations with the Archbishop of Monreale and the chancellor’s son; the old man’s health did not allow him to make the trip from Catania.”

“There is no need to apologize, Richard. I know there were not enough hours in the day to get everything sorted out. Besides, Morgan has been very conscientious about keeping us informed of developments in Messina. Hardly a day has passed without him paying us a visit.”

“Yes, I’d noticed the lad was spending much of his time here in Bagnara this week. Need I remind him that you and he are cousins,
irlanda
?”

“I do enjoy his company, for I suspect he is a bit of a rake, and women always find men like that irresistible,” she said with a laugh. “But it is not my charms that are luring him across the Faro. He is very taken with Mariam.”

Richard was not sure who Mariam was, had no real interest in finding out. “Are you not going to ask how the negotiations with Tancred are going?”

“Since you have that cat-in-the-cream look about you, Brother, I’m guessing they are going well.”

“Better than that, lass. Tancred and I have made peace, and he has agreed to compensate you for the loss of your dower lands. How does twenty thousand ounces of gold sound to you?”

To Joanna, that sounded very good, indeed. “That is wonderful, Richard!” she cried, and flung herself into his arms. “And what of William’s legacy?”

“Another twenty thousand ounces in gold,” Richard said, sounding very pleased with himself. “Officially it is to be an advance payment for the marriage of his daughter to my heir, and is to be paid to the girl when the marriage takes place . . . if it ever does. It is a satisfactory arrangement, saving Tancred’s pride and giving me the use of the money in the Holy Land. I might well need to draw upon your share, too, Joanna, depending upon how long we’re in Outremer. Would you have any objections to this?”

“Of course not, Richard! I’d not begrudge you my last copper
follaris
,” she promised, generously and a little recklessly. “You said there is to be a marriage? Tancred’s daughters are very young, but is he willing to wait until you have a son? He does not know about Berengaria, after all.”

“No, Tancred preferred a flesh-and-blood heir for his girl. So I had to provide one for him.”

“But Johnny already has a wife. You told me you’d permitted him to wed the Gloucester heiress.”

“I did. Since they’d not been granted a dispensation for their marriage—they are cousins—I suppose it might have been possible to have it annulled. But I was not about to pay the Pope’s price for a favor like that. Fortunately I had another prospect, this one happily free of any marital entanglements—my little nephew Arthur.”

“Good Heavens, Richard!” Joanna was shocked that he seemed so casual about the succession to the English Crown, switching heirs as if it were of no greater matter than switching saddles. But then she realized why; he did not expect either John or Arthur to succeed him. And God willing, Berengaria would give him a son; she fervently hoped so. What of Johnny, though? How would he take this?

“I was very fond of Johnny once,” she said. “We were the two youngest, together at Fontevrault Abbey, and it was only natural that we’d form a bond. Granted, I have not seen him since I was ten and he was nine, so I know naught about the man he’s become. But you indicated that he sees himself and not Arthur as your heir. Will he not be very disappointed when he hears of this treaty with Tancred?”

“I suppose,” he said and shrugged. “But I never formally named him as my heir. He must have realized that it is likely I’d wed and sire a son of my own and, if not, that is his misfortune, not mine. I have already dispatched Hugh de Bardolf to England; he sailed this morning. With luck, he’ll bring the news to my justiciar, Longchamp, ere Johnny gets wind of it. If you’re right and Johnny does take it badly, Longchamp will make sure that he does no more than sulk.”

Joanna hoped that would be so. “I am glad that you’ve come to terms with Tancred, Richard. As dearly as I love Constance, I would not have wanted to see Heinrich ruling over Sicily. From what I’ve heard of the man, he is one to nurse a grievance to the grave. I do not know about Johnny, but I am sure you’ve made an enemy of Heinrich. He is going to be utterly enraged when he learns that Tancred’s kingship has been formally recognized by England. With this treaty, you may have earned his undying enmity.”

“I would hope so!” he said and laughed, sounding so carefree and confident that she could not help laughing with him.

WHEN PHILIPPE LEARNED that Tancred had agreed to pay Richard forty thousand ounces of gold, he was infuriated and claimed half of that amount as his share. Richard was no less infuriated by this demand, pointing out that Joanna’s dower could not possibly be considered spoils of war. The French king remained adamant, though, and Richard eventually and very grudgingly agreed to give Philippe a third, for he feared that the French might desert the crusade if he did not. After they’d patched up this latest dispute, they settled down to pass the winter in Messina and to await the return of favorable winds in the spring. But unbeknownst to Philippe, Richard was also awaiting the arrival of his mother and betrothed.

CHAPTER 11

OCTOBER 1190

Pamplona, Navarre

Pamplona was an ancient city, founded by the Roman general Pompey. Located on the pilgrim road to the holy shrine of San Juan Compostela, it was the Navarrese city best known to the world beyond the Pyrenees, and at one time Navarre had even been called the Kingdom of Pamplona. But Sancho de Jimenez spent little time there, for it was an Episcopal city, and his relationship with its bishop was a tense one. So the impending arrival of the English queen posed a dilemma for him. He’d have preferred to entertain her at Tudela, yet it seemed very inhospitable to expect her to travel another sixty miles after such a long journey; even his palace at Olite was still almost thirty miles farther south. He’d been building a residence in Pamplona, but it was not completed. He’d finally decided that Eleanor’s comfort mattered more than his reluctance to request a favor from a man he disliked. The bishop was quite willing to play host to his king and his royal guest, relishing an opportunity to have Sancho in his debt and curious, too, to meet the woman who’d been the subject of so much gossip for more than half a century.

ELEANOR’S WELCOME had been lavish enough to please all concerned: a princely feast meant to show her that Pamplona could match the splendors of Poitiers and Paris. The guests had not departed to their lodgings in the bishop’s palace or within the city until long after darkness had descended upon the Arga River valley. But not all were ready for their beds, and Sancho’s eldest son and namesake was walking in the gardens with his sister.

“So . . . what did you think of your future mother-in-law, little one?”

“I found her to be gracious, charming, and rather formidable,” Berengaria said and then paused. “As long as she lives, there will be two Queens of England.”

“For some brides, that would be one queen too many. But not you?” Sancho asked, even though he was sure he already knew the answer.

“She is Richard’s mother. I will be Richard’s wife. I do not see why we must be rivals, much less adversaries. I am sure we can both carve out our own domains, hers in the council chamber and mine in the bedchamber. Besides,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would be foolish, indeed, to begin a war I could not hope to win.”

Sancho smiled, too. “How did one so young become so wise?” he teased before saying, on a more serious note, “You’ll need to keep your wits about you in that family, for they are not like us, little one.”

“The Devil’s Brood?”

“Ah, so you heard that, did you? You know I count Richard as a friend, but he and his brothers could have taught Cain and Abel about brotherly strife. And his war with his sire was proof to many that St Bernard was right when he said the Angevins came from the Devil and to the Devil they’d go. It will not be easy for you to understand them, coming from a family as tightly knit as ours.”

“But their family is not utterly lacking in love, Sancho. Richard is fond of his sisters, and all know he and his mother are like spokes on the same wheel.”

Sancho knew how deeply Berengaria missed their own mother, who’d died in childbirth when she was nine, and he was not surprised that she sounded wistful of Richard’s close bond with Eleanor. He hoped she had no illusions about Eleanor filling that void for her. Fortunately, his sister had always been sensible, for he suspected that a starry-eyed romantic would not have fared well as Richard’s wife. He knew Berengaria’s delicate appearance and serene demeanor belied an inner will as strong as his own. He was protective of her, nonetheless, and found himself asking now, even though it was too late, “You are content with this match . . . truly?”

“Of course I am, Sancho,” she said at once, wanting to put his mind at ease. She was scrupulously honest, though, and felt compelled to confide, “I confess it is not the destiny I’d expected for myself. I have always yearned for tranquility and I suspect life with Richard will be anything but tranquil.”

Coming from anyone else, he’d have taken that for a droll understatement. But his sister lacked any sense of the absurd and would not see the irony in it—that a young woman who’d once thought of becoming a nun, craving neither attention nor influence and comfortable in the shadows, was about to wed the most renowned king in Christendom, a man who gloried in his fame and wielded power as zestfully as he handled a sword.

Berengaria read faces well and saw the shadow that crossed his. “But it is the destiny that the Almighty and our father chose for me, Sancho, and I do not question it. It is flattering, too, that Richard should have picked me, for he has seen me and knows that I am no great beauty.” When he would have protested, she stopped him with a smile. “Bless you, dearest, but I possess a mirror. Mind you, I am not saying I am plain or drab. I think my eyes are my best feature, and I’ve been told I have a pleasing smile. But I am not a beauty as Richard’s mother was, or as his sisters are said to be. So it is good that we’ve already met and I need not worry that he might be disappointed.”

Sancho was touched by her matter-of-fact appraisal of her attributes. “Richard is a lucky man,” he said and snatched her up in his arms, whirling her around while she protested this was not seemly, but laughing, too.

Neither one had heard the footsteps on the path or realized that their father was watching with a fond smile. As always he was amused by the contrast they presented. Berengaria was barely five feet and Sancho towered above her like a vast oak, for he was said to be the tallest man in all of Navarre, more than seven feet in height, one reason why he’d become known as Sancho el Fuerte—Sancho the Strong. Sancho senior had been given an accolade of his own, Sancho el Sabio—Sancho the Wise—a tribute to his shrewdness in dealing with his powerful, predatory neighbors in Castile and Aragon. Berengaria’s marriage had further enhanced his reputation in the eyes of his subjects, for what better ally could Navarre have than the redoubtable Lionheart?

But on this moonlit October night in the Bishop of Pamplona’s garden, the king found himself beset with a father’s misgivings. He loved all five of his children, even more fiercely since the tragic loss of his wife, but Berengaria had always been his secret favorite. He knew he was being foolish, for she was nigh on twenty-one, well past the age when princesses were wed. It was time for her to try her wings. Yet how empty the nest would be without her.

“Papa!” Berengaria blushed at being caught in such tomfoolery and made Sancho put her down. Coming toward him, she turned her cheek for his kiss. “The revelries were truly spectacular. People will be talking of it for weeks to come.”

“I daresay even the most illustrious Queen of England was duly impressed,” Sancho said with a grin, for their father’s admiration of Eleanor of Aquitaine had long been a family joke. He’d met her in Limoges nigh on twenty years ago, and had returned to Navarre singing her praises so enthusiastically that his own queen had feigned jealousy. He’d even interceded on Eleanor’s behalf after her ill-fated rebellion, asking Henry to show her mercy, a gallant gesture that had pleased Sancho’s wife and irked the English king. In welcoming Richard’s mother to Pamplona, he was also entertaining a glamorous ghost from his past, and the obvious pleasure he’d taken in the reunion gave his children pleasure, too.

“Yes, it did go well,” he agreed modestly, as if he’d not fretted over every detail beforehand. “Our esteemed bishop is claiming full credit, of course. But at least he is no longer grumbling about being a member of your escort, Berenguela. He is finally seeing it as the honor it is.” He glanced questioningly then at Sancho. “Have you told her yet, lad?”

Sancho shook his head, for he’d known their father would want to do it. He watched, still smiling, as their sire took Berengaria’s hands in his. “Your brother and I have been discussing it, sweetheart, and we’ve decided that he will accompany you on your bridal journey.”

Berengaria’s delight was revealing, showing how much she was dreading that final farewell. For once utterly oblivious to her dignity, she embraced her father with a squeal of joy, and then pulled her brother’s head down so she could scatter haphazard kisses into his beard. Laughing, Sancho warned that he could not escort her all the way to Messina, not daring to spare so much time away from Navarre. But he would see her safely across France and through the alpine passes into Italy, he promised, and saw that he could not have given her a more welcome wedding gift.

Berengaria soon retired for the evening, but before returning to the great hall to collect her duennas, she bade them good night with a smile radiant enough to rival the silvered Spanish moonlight. They watched her go in silence, and as soon as she was out of earshot, Sancho’s father said softly, almost as if to himself, “Am I doing right by her?”

Sancho looked at him in surprise. “Papa, you’ve arranged a brilliant future for her!”

“Yes . . . but will she be happy?”

Sancho doubted that there was another king under God’s sky who’d have asked a question like that. But his parents’ marriage had been that rarest of rarities, a political union that had evolved into a genuine love match. He was sure that his father had never been unfaithful to his mother, and he was still faithful to her memory. In the eleven years since her death, he’d taken concubines from time to time, but he’d not taken another wife, and Sancho did not think he ever would.

“Yes, Papa,” he said, with all the conviction at his command, “I do think Berenguela will be happy as Richard’s queen.”

He could see that his father took comfort from his certainty, and he was glad of it. It was not as if he’d lied, after all. Why would Berenguela and Richard not find contentment together? The ideal wife was one who was chaste, obedient, and loyal. Berenguela would come to her marriage bed a virgin and would never commit the sin of adultery. She believed it was a wife’s duty to be guided by her husband. And she would be loyal to Richard until her last mortal breath—whether he deserved it or not.

RICHARD’S FATHER had been renowned for the speed of his campaigns; Henry had once covered two hundred miles in just four days. Most travelers set a more measured pace and would be very pleased to manage thirty miles a day in summer and twenty in winter. Traveling with a large retinue slowed the rate of speed, however, and Eleanor and Berengaria were averaging only about fifteen miles a day, for they were accompanied by Poitevin bishops and barons, Navarrese prelates and lords, ladies-in-waiting, grooms, servants, knights, and enough soldiers to guarantee their safety. The presence of women inevitably slowed them down, for they had to ride sidesaddle or in horse litters. But so far they’d not encountered any severe storms and Eleanor remained confident that they would be able to reach Naples by mid-February, where Richard’s ships would be waiting to convey them to Messina.

Within a month of departing Pamplona, they’d reached the city of Avignon, where they crossed the River Rhone over the splendid new St Benezet Bridge, and then followed the old Roman road north along the River Durance. As they’d traveled through southern France, they’d accepted the hospitality of the local nobility—the Trencavels of Carcassonne, Viscountess Ermengard of Narbonne, the ailing Lord of Montpelier—although they’d detoured around Toulouse, whose count was no friend to the Angevins. When castles were not available, they stayed at monasteries, but rarely for more than a night, as Eleanor was determined to get to Sicily before February 27 and the start of Lent, when marriages would be banned.

That was the only intimate confidence she’d shared with Berengaria so far—her confession that she very much wanted to attend Richard’s wedding. She was quite willing to discuss politics and statecraft with her son’s betrothed, and she was willing, too, to indulge Berengaria’s curiosity and tell her stories of Richard’s boyhood. But she revealed nothing of herself, to Berengaria’s disappointment, for the younger woman hoped that they might forge a bond during their long journey.

Berengaria did form an unexpected friendship, though, with one of Eleanor’s ladies, the Countess of Aumale. Wary initially of the countess’s sarcastic asides, she was gradually won over by Hawisa’s often startling candor. Hawisa had proven to be a good source of information, too, for her first husband had been a close friend of the old king. From her, Berengaria learned that Nicholas de Chauvigny, the courtly middle-aged knight in charge of Eleanor’s household, had been with her when she was captured by Henry’s men and had been imprisoned for his loyalty to the queen. She pointed out one of the notorious de Lusignan clan and shocked Berengaria by telling her how they’d dared to ambush Eleanor in a foolhardy abduction attempt after Henry had seized their major stronghold. A young knight, William Marshal, had held them at bay long enough for the queen to escape, thus beginning his illustrious career in the service of the English Crown.