Lionheart (8 page)

WILLIAM’S DEATH had destroyed the sense of security that Alicia had gained in the months since the sinking of the
San Niccolò
. Suddenly Sicily had become an alien place again, a dangerous place. She grieved for the young king and for Joanna, who seemed like a lost soul, pallid and frail-looking in her stark black mourning gowns and veils. She was frightened by the outbreaks of street violence and she could tell that the palace’s Saracen servants were frightened, too. Almost overnight, everything had changed.

Alicia had seen little of Joanna in the weeks after William’s death, and when she did, the queen seemed distant and preoccupied. The royal household was in a state of turmoil. Two of Joanna’s ladies-in-waiting had already departed her service, for they were kin to the Countess Sybilla, the wife of Tancred of Lecce. But Alicia knew that several others were talking of leaving, too, hoping that Sybilla might take them on. A reigning queen was a far more attractive mistress than a widowed one.

After finding Alicia crying, Beatrix had reassured the girl that Joanna’s future was secure. She held the Honour of Monte St Angelo, with the revenues from all its cities and towns, Beatrix explained, thinking it best not to mention that Monte St Angelo was on the mainland, far from Palermo. Alicia took comfort from that, for her trust in Joanna was absolute and she felt sure that Joanna would take her along when she moved to her dower lands. But then they got word of the English king’s death and everything changed yet again.

After the Requiem Mass for her father, Joanna had withdrawn into her bedchamber, and Alicia sought out Emma d’Aleramici and Bethlem de Greci for answers. The news of the English king’s passing seemed to have alarmed everyone and she wanted to know why.

She found them in the process of packing their belongings, obviously planning to leave Joanna’s service. Last week she’d overheard them discussing their chances of entering Sybilla’s household once she was crowned, reluctantly concluding that she was not likely to accept them and it was better to remain with Joanna than to return to the tedium of their own homes. So what had changed their minds?

They were quite willing to tell her, always welcoming an opportunity to gossip. Joanna’s influence had died with William, they said bluntly. It would have been different if she’d given William a son, for then she’d have been regent until he came of age. She had still been more fortunate than most barren, widowed queens, though, for she was the daughter of a great and powerful king, a man known to be very protective of his children, at least the females in the family. All knew how he’d come to the aid of his daughter Matilda when her husband, the Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, had been driven into exile by the Holy Roman Emperor, giving them refuge at his court whilst he maneuvered to get their banishment edict revoked.

But once he died, Joanna was vulnerable, fair game for those who might want to abduct her and force her into marriage. She was a valuable prize, they told the horrified Alicia, for she was beautiful and her dower lands were rich enough to tempt any man. So they were looking after their own interests whilst they still could.

“But . . . but Lady Joanna still has a royal protector,” Alicia stammered. “Her brother is the English king now. Surely he’d come to her aid if—” She broke off in bewilderment, for they’d begun to laugh at her.

“You are such a child, know nothing of the ways of the world. Brothers rarely show much concern for sisters sent off to distant lands. That is especially true when the needed alliance died with a sister’s foreign husband. If you want proof of that, consider the sad history of Agnes Capet, the French king’s little sister.”

Alicia sensed that she did not want to know Agnes’s story, but she made herself ask, not wanting to display timidity before these women she disliked. “What happened to her?”

Bethlem hesitated, suddenly realizing that Alicia was too young to hear of these horrors. Emma had no such qualms, however. “Agnes was betrothed to Alexius, the son of the Emperor of the Greeks, sent off to Constantinople at age eight and wed to the boy the following year when she was only nine. That was well below the canonical age for marriage, of course, but the Greeks are barbarians and care little for such niceties. That same year the emperor died and Agnes and Alexius, who was ten, ascended the throne. But two years later a cousin named Andronicus Comnenus seized control of the government. Shall I tell you what happened next?”

By now Alicia was positive she did not want to know, already feeling great pity for the little French princess sent to live amongst barbarians. She shook her head mutely, but Emma was enjoying herself and forged ahead.

“When Andronicus took power, he began to get rid of anyone he saw as a threat. He poisoned Alexius’s sister Maria and her husband, the very same Maria who was to wed our King William until the emperor changed his mind. He then forced Alexius to sign his own mother’s death warrant and had her strangled. The next year he had himself crowned co-emperor with Alexius. You can guess what he did then. He murdered Alexius and had the boy’s body thrown into the River Bosphorus. Poor Agnes found herself widowed at age twelve, but the worst was still to come. Andronicus forced her to marry him. Can you imagine wedding your husband’s murderer?

“He was more than fifty years older than Agnes, too,” Emma said with a fastidious shudder. “The thought of bedding a man so aged is enough to make me want to take a vow of chastity! Andronicus soon revealed himself to be a monster, began a reign of terror, and within two years, the people of Constantinople rose up against him. He fled with Agnes and his favorite concubine, but they were captured and brought back to the city, where he was subjected to torture and then turned over to the mob. He was doused with boiling water, had his eyes gouged out, his hand cut off—”

“Stop!” Alicia cried in a strangled voice, fighting back nausea.

Emma cocked a finely plucked brow. “I hope Agnes is not as squeamish as you, Alicia, given all she has had to endure. Surely you want to know what became of her? Sadly, we do not know. That was four years ago and her fate remains a mystery. I assume she is still alive, still dwelling in Constantinople, unless her ordeal drove her mad. But the point of my story is that Agnes is the full sister of Philippe Capet, the powerful King of France, and he did nothing whatsoever on her behalf. Brothers cannot be relied upon, Alicia, and that is why Bethlem and I are leaving your beloved queen’s service. A woman’s lot is not an easy one, and once she has no husband or father to protect her—”

“That is enough!” They all spun around as Mariam stalked toward them. Alicia shrank back, but then realized that she was not the target of Mariam’s wrath. “The two of you ought to be ashamed,” she said scathingly, “scaring the child with such ghastly tales. What do you plan to do next, torture Alicia’s new puppy or poison the garden songbirds?”

“It was not me!” Bethlem protested, her voice rising in a squeak. Emma attempted to stand her ground, but she was soon squirming under the heat in Mariam’s blazing brown eyes, and when Mariam told them to get out, neither woman argued. Once they’d fled the chamber, Mariam took Alicia’s hand and led the trembling child over to the window-seat.

“You must not pay any heed to those spiteful cats, Alicia. They have not a single brain between the two of them, just more malice than the law ought to allow.”

“Was . . . was it true, though?”

“Alas, what she said about Agnes was true. But her tragedy has naught to do with Joanna, who is in no peril. This is Palermo, not Constantinople. Ours is a more civilized society. And Joanna is far from friendless. Have you forgotten that her brother rules the greatest empire in Christendom?”

“Yes, but . . . but the French king—”

“Philippe and Richard are as unlike as chalk and cheese. I know Joanna has told you stories of her brother. He is a brilliant battle commander, utterly without fear, so courageous that men call him the Lionheart. No one would ever call Philippe that, trust me. Mayhap Rabbitheart,” Mariam added, and succeeded in coaxing a smile. “Now do you feel better?”

Alicia nodded, realizing to her surprise that she did indeed trust Mariam. “But what will happen when this Tancred becomes king? Emma and Bethlem said he is bastard-born, that he rebelled against King William’s father and spent years in gaol, that he is so ugly men call him the ‘monkey,’ that—”

“Alicia, by now you ought to know better than to believe anything Emma or Bethlem says. Yes, Tancred was born out of wedlock, but he is of good blood; his mother was the daughter of a lord. And yes, he did rebel against William’s father. But he was pardoned by Queen Margarita and served William loyally during his minority and afterward. He is a brave soldier and a capable administrator and I believe he truly cares about Sicily. He is not a man to maltreat a woman, least of all Joanna, his cousin’s widow.”

“Thank you, Lady Mariam,” Alicia said gratefully. “But . . . but you did not deny that Tancred looks like a monkey?”

“Well, there you have me,” Mariam admitted, “for poor Tancred has been cursed with a face that would scare a gargoyle,” and they both laughed, a moment that would mark a turning point for Alicia. From then on, she viewed the Lady Mariam as an ally, and she jettisoned the last of her brother Arnaud’s values, adopting the beliefs of Joanna’s Sicily as her own.

THE RAINY SEASON began in the autumn and when Tancred of Lecce’s ship dropped anchor in Palermo’s harbor at dawn on December 11, a steady, chill rain had been falling for days. Undaunted by the winter weather, he hastened to a council meeting with Matthew of Ajello, the Archbishop of Monreale, and the highborn lords of the realm. Despite the dynastic nature of the Sicilian kingship, Tancred was elected king by unanimous consent, for those who disapproved, such as the Archbishop of Palermo and his brother, had not been invited. That evening Tancred, his fourteen-year-old son Roger, and a military escort rode to the royal palace for a task that was both necessary and unpleasant. Tancred was not looking forward to it, but he refused to delegate it to others, for honor demanded that he be the one to tell the queen; he owed her that much.

As they approached the Joharia, Tancred noticed that Roger’s steps were lagging, and he found himself torn between amusement and impatience, for he understood Roger’s reluctance. The boy was totally besotted with Joanna, could not speak to her without blushing, squirming, and stammering.

“Roger,” Tancred said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. When Roger met his eyes, he felt a surge of parental pride, for his son was all that he was not: tall and well formed. “Would you rather wait here whilst I speak with the queen?” He thought it was only fair to offer Roger that choice, for Matthew of Ajello had also begged off from accompanying them, using his gout as an excuse to avoid facing Joanna, whom he’d always liked.

Roger was silent for a few moments and then shook his head resolutely. “No, Papa, I will come with you.” Tancred smiled and they continued on.

JOANNA WAS AWAITING THEM in the royal audience chamber, accompanied by her seneschal, her chaplain, several of her household knights, and her ladies Beatrix and Mariam. She had already heard of the day’s events, and while she was not happy that Tancred should claim the crown that belonged to Constance, she knew there was nothing she could do about it. She did not know Tancred very well, but what she did know was to his credit: He’d served William loyally and had distinguished himself in William’s disastrous military campaign against the Greeks. She could only pray that he was up to the challenge and would be able to restore peace to their island kingdom.