Lionheart (26 page)

Berengaria thought the de Lusignans sounded more like brigands than vassals, yet she had to admit their history could have come straight from a troubadour’s tale. After numerous rebellions, several brothers from the unruly family had sought their fortunes in Outremer, where Guy de Lusignan had unexpectedly made a brilliant marriage with Sybilla, the elder sister of Baldwin, the Leper King. After Baldwin’s death, the crown had eventually passed to Sybilla and Guy, and this highly unpopular knight, a younger son with limited prospects, found himself the King of Jerusalem. His reign had been a disaster, for he’d rashly led his army against Salah al-Dīn at the Horns of Ḥaṭṭīn and suffered a devastating defeat, one which led to the capture of the Holy City. Freed by Salah al-Dīn, who’d said that kings did not kill kings, he’d returned to Tyre, the only city still in Christian hands. But Tyre was now under the control of Conrad d’Aleramici, son of the Marquis of Montferrat, an Italian-German aristocrat and adventurer who’d won the gratitude of the citizens by staving off a Saracen attack, and Conrad not only refused to acknowledge Guy as his king, he’d refused Guy entry into the city. Guy had no political skills or sense, but he’d never lacked for courage and he’d ridden off to lay siege to Acre. To the surprise of Saracens and Christians alike, this gallant, foolhardy gesture inspired others; and as the siege dragged on, more and more men joined Guy before the walls of Acre. He was still a king without a kingdom, though, his fierce rivalry with Conrad yet another problem confronting Richard and Philippe upon their arrival in the Holy Land.

The winter had been mild so far, but it was snowing when they reached the town of Sisteron, situated on both sides of the Durance in a narrow gap between two mountain ranges. Here they hired the local guides known as
“marons”
and encountered travelers who’d trekked from Italy into France and were eager to share their stories of hardship and peril, dramatic tales of deadly avalanches and steep alpine paths and dangers so great that it was easy to conclude Hell was an icy, frigid wasteland, not the fiery pits of flame proclaimed by priests.

Their progress slowed dramatically; on some days, they only covered three or four miles. The
marons
led the way, using long staves to test the snow’s depth, setting out wooden stakes to mark the path. It was bitterly cold now, their breaths lingering in the air like wisps of pallid smoke, men’s beards stiff with hoarfrost, tears freezing in the time it took to trickle down chapped, reddened skin. The cloud-shrouded jagged peaks sometimes blotted out the sun, and the winds roared relentlessly through the ravines, the eerie echoes reminding them that dragons were said to dwell in ice caves on the barren slopes. The routier Mercadier scoffed at these legends, though, wanting to know why any sensible dragon would choose to freeze its bleeding ballocks off instead of flying away to warmer climes.

Berengaria disapproved of his crude language, but appreciated his pointing out the obvious to their men; there was enough to fear in the Alps without adding dragons and monsters to the list. She had very ambivalent feelings about Mercadier, for Hawisa had acquainted her with his fearsome past. This dark-haired man with the sinister scar had an even more sinister reputation, one of the most notorious of the routiers who sold their swords to the highest bidder. It was said that grass withered where he’d walked, Hawisa murmured, eyeing Mercadier with fascinated horror. But he’d served Richard faithfully for the past seven years, she assured Berengaria, and his presence here showed the king’s concern for the safety of his mother and his betrothed. Berengaria agreed that Mercadier’s very appearance would be enough to frighten off most bandits, for he looked like one of Lucifer’s own. She found it disquieting, though, that Richard would admit an ungodly routier into his inner circle, and she realized how little she really knew about the man she’d soon wed.

The women had to ride astride now, for sidesaddles were too dangerous. They’d been forced to leave their carts behind in Sisteron, transferring the contents to pack mules and bearers, men who made their living as the
marons
did, by braving the mountain passes in all but the worst weather. The air was so thin that some were suffering headaches, queasiness, and shortness of breath, common complaints of those unaccustomed to such heights, according to the
marons
. They spent Christmas in the village of Briançon, just a few miles from the Montgenèvre Pass, but a storm blew in soon afterward, trapping them for more than a week, and they were not able to continue their journey until the approach of Epiphany.

They passed the night at a travelers hospice and departed at first light, after kneeling in the snow as one of the bishops prayed to the “Holy Lord, Almighty Father, and Eternal God,” entreating Him to send His angels of peace to show His servants the way and to let the Holy Spirit accompany them in their time of need. And then they began their trek up Montgenèvre.

The sky was a blanched blue-ice that seemed as bloodless and frozen as the lifeless, empty landscape, and the surrounding drifts of snow were so blindingly bright that they had to squint and shade their eyes. They were vastly relieved to reach the summit of the pass, only to realize that the worst still lay ahead of them. The men would have to dismount and lead their horses, the
marons
directed, and the queen and her ladies must be strapped into ox hides so they could be slid down the slope. None bridled at the
marons’
assertiveness, for on the alpine heights of Montgenèvre, theirs was the command of kings. Seeing the dismay on so many faces, the
marons
tried to reassure these novice mountaineers that it could have been much worse. There had been journeys when the horses had to be lowered on ropes, their legs bound. This time they need only blindfold the more fearful of the animals, they said cheerfully. After an oppressive silence, Hawisa stirred nervous laughter when she said, as if ordering a cup of wine, “I’ll take a blindfold, too, if you please.”

Eleanor had crossed the Alps once before; she’d been much younger then, though. “I never expected to be sledding down a mountain at my age,” she muttered to Hawisa, but she was the first to allow herself to be wrapped in an ox hide, for queens led by example. It was a rough, bumpy ride, but she made only one concession to the brittle bones and physical frailties of a woman of sixty-six, closing her eyes during the most perilous part of the descent. She could hear horses whinnying in fright, could hear men’s muffled oaths as they edged along the trail, sometimes on their hands and knees, and then, hysterical sobbing. She was thankful when the cries were abruptly cut off, for they’d been warned that even loud talking could bring on an avalanche. She wondered if that terrified woman was one of her ladies or one of Berengaria’s. She wondered, too, if any queen had ever been swallowed up in an alpine crevice. Was Harry watching from Purgatory and laughing? And how in God’s Name had the Carthaginian general Hannibal ever gotten elephants across the Alps?

A hospice was nestled at the foot of the pass, its monks waiting to welcome the shaken, shivering travelers with mulled wine and the promise of food and beds for the night; they knew from experience that even highborn guests would not complain if the wine was weak, the blankets frayed, and the straw mattresses infested with fleas, so thankful would they be to have survived their pilgrimage through the Montgenèvre Pass. The women were escorted to safety first; it would be hours before the pack mules and the last of the bearers trudged into the hospice. They huddled in front of the open hearth, seeking to thaw frozen fingers and feet, expressing their heartfelt relief that the worst was over. Until they had to return in the spring, Hawisa reminded them darkly, and it would be almost as dangerous then, for the
marons
claimed avalanches were more common when the snows began to melt. “I may well start life anew in Sicily,” she declared, so dramatically that Eleanor could not help smiling, and held out her wine cup for Hawisa to share, a gesture of royal favor that caused some of the other women to look askance at the countess.

Hawisa drank deeply, sighing with pleasure as the wine’s warmth flowed into her veins. “Did you hear that Spanish girl, Uracca?” she asked the queen. “She was on the verge of panic, and it might well have spread. But Mercadier strode over and stopped her screams by clamping his hand over her mouth. She was quiet as a mouse after that!”

“I daresay she was,” Eleanor said dryly, for she’d noticed Mercadier’s unsettling affect upon women; they were either appalled or secretly attracted in spite of themselves. When she said as much to Hawisa, the countess laughed, saying she’d never confess which response was hers, and Eleanor laughed, too, for the younger woman’s blithe insouciance stirred echoes of a dearly missed friend, Maud, the Countess of Chester.

“Of course, once we were safe, Uracca went off in a fury to Berengaria, complaining that a ‘lowborn routier’ had dared to lay his hands upon her. But Berengaria surprised me. She gave the girl a right sharp talking to, saying that she’d put us all at risk. She then told her, more kindly, that it is only natural to be afraid, but a gentlewoman must not give in to it.”

Eleanor glanced across the chamber, where Berengaria was conversing quietly with her brother; she missed no opportunities to spend time with Sancho, for he’d soon be leaving them, planning to go no farther than Milan. “Blood does tell,” she agreed. “Berengaria has shown commendable courage so far. I am sure she has not endured hardships like these, but she never complains. I think she will make Richard a good wife.”

“Mayhap you ought to tell her that, Madame.”

Eleanor was taken by surprise. “Mayhap I will,” she said at last, and Hawisa hoped that she would, knowing how much her praise would mean to Berengaria. She’d not expected to like Richard’s young bride as much as she did, and she wished the girl well, even though she was certain that a wife would always be incidental to a military man like Richard. But that did not mean their marriage would not be a success. All that truly mattered was that Berengaria fulfilled her duties as a queen—that she provide Richard with a son and heir.

ALL OF THEM were thankful to leave the Alps behind, but Eleanor was particularly happy to cross into Italy, for she hoped now to be able to reestablish contact with Richard. She hoped, too, to learn the reason for her daughter’s disquieting silence. As soon as they reached Turin, where they accepted the hospitality of the young Count of Savoy, she immediately dispatched a courier with instructions to ride with all possible speed to Genoa and there take ship for Messina, carrying a letter to her son. The teenage count knew nothing of the events in Sicily, though. She had somewhat better luck at Milan, where the bishop had heard of a peace made between Richard and the Sicilian king, Tancred. But he could tell her nothing of Joanna. Eleanor consoled herself with common sense; surely word would have gotten out if evil had befallen Joanna? She was not surprised by the lack of information, for Sicily must seem as remote to the people of the Piedmont region as the moon in the heavens. At least she’d learn more in Rome, for the papacy had a vested interest in the fate of the Sicilian kingdom.

Bishop Milo insisted upon accompanying them through Piedmont, an act of commendable courtesy in light of the fact that their next stop would be Lodi, which had long been a bitter rival of Milan. Eleanor had already contacted the bishop of that riverside town to arrange for accommodations, and they departed Milan before dawn, for Lodi was more than twenty miles away. They set a faster pace than usual, but darkness had long since fallen by the time they saw the city walls in the distance. Cursing the weakness of age, Eleanor had been forced to ride the last part of the journey in her horse litter, and she leaned out the window at the sound of shouting. The young knight who’d ridden on ahead to let the Bishop of Lodi know of their impending arrival was back. His mount was lathered, evidence of haste, and Eleanor beckoned to him. “Is something amiss? The bishop is still expecting us?”

“Yes, Madame, he is. But he is as flustered as a rabbit in a fox den,” the youth said and then grinned. “He did not expect to be entertaining the Queen of England and the King and Queen of Germany at the same time, but that is what he’s facing. Heinrich von Hohenstaufen and the Lady Constance arrived this morn with a vast entourage—a baker’s dozen of bishops, several German counts, Lord Boniface of Montferrat, and so many knights and men-at-arms it would take half a day to count them all.”

Eleanor sat back against the cushions as she processed this startling news. “So his war against Tancred has begun. Passing strange that he’d not have waited until the spring. Few campaigns are fought in winter.”

“He has a pressing need to get to Rome, Madame—to be crowned by the Holy Father without delay.”

Eleanor drew a sharp breath. “His father is dead?”

“Yes, my lady, he is. According to the bishop, the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa drowned last summer whilst trying to cross a river in Armenia. His younger son led their army on to the Holy Land, but most of them died or deserted along the way. Heinrich did not learn of his father’s death until last month, and set out for Rome as soon as he could. The bishop says that once he is crowned as emperor, he’ll lead his army into Sicily to claim the throne.”