Lionheart (9 page)

Refusing Joanna’s polite offer of wine and fruit, Tancred wasted no time in getting to the heart of the matter. “Madame, I have come to tell you that I have been chosen by the lords of this realm to rule as king. The election was held this afternoon, and the coronation will take place after Epiphany, at which time I shall name my son the Duke of Apulia.”

Although Joanna liked Roger, it still hurt to think of him bearing the title that had so briefly belonged to her infant son. “My congratulations, Roger,” she said with a smile before turning back to his father. Tancred’s cool formality was a change from past occasions when he’d affably chatted with “Cousin William” and his “lovely lady.” She wondered if he felt as uncomfortable as she did. Taking her cue from him, she addressed him now as “My lord,” saying that she wished him well. To say more would be hypocrisy and they both knew it.

“You say the coronation is set for January? I will be sure to vacate the palace by then,” she assured him. “I may choose to rent a house in Palermo until the spring, as I would rather not make the long journey to Monte St Angelo during the winter months.” Her smile this time was not as warm as the one she’d bestowed upon Roger, for it was not easy to ask when it had always been hers to command. “I assume that meets with your approval, my Lord Tancred?”

She’d made the request as a mere courtesy, and she was shocked when he said, “I am sorry, Madame. That will not be possible.”

Was he so eager to get her out of Palermo? “As you wish,” she said coolly. “I will depart as soon as the arrangements can be made.”

“I am afraid you do not understand, Madame. Whilst Monte St Angelo is a wealthy province, its greatest importance is strategic. It controls the roads from the Alpine passes, the route that Heinrich von Hohenstaufen will take when he leads an army into Italy. It is imperative that Monte St Angelo remains under royal control. I regret, therefore, that I cannot permit it to be given over to you.”

Joanna had never expected this. “I am sure I need not remind you that my dowry is guaranteed both by my marriage contract and the inheritance laws of the realm. So what do you propose to offer in exchange for Monte St Angelo, my lord?”

“I do not deny the truth of what you say, my lady. But I am facing a rebellion. Many Saracens have fled to the hills after the unrest in Palermo and have begun to fortify villages, whilst some of the mainland lords continue to support the Count of Andria’s false claim to the crown. An even greater threat is posed by the Germans, for we know Heinrich will wage war on his wife’s behalf, with all the resources of his father’s empire to draw upon.”

Joanna’s mouth had gone dry. “Just what are you saying, my lord?”

“I am saying that I cannot afford to compensate you for the loss of your dowry lands,” he said bluntly, and Joanna’s knights began to mutter among themselves, their anger all the greater for their sense of helplessness. Roger was no longer looking at Joanna, and Tancred wished he were elsewhere, too. He’d known it would not be easy, and was hoping she’d not burst into tears, for he felt awkward and ill at ease with weeping women. He saw now that he needn’t have worried, for she’d raised her chin and was staring at him defiantly.

“So you plan to turn me out penniless? Or do you have some other surprises in store for me, my lord?”

Tancred did not try to sweeten the brew; it was bound to go down hard. “I will speak candidly with you, Madame. You and your lord husband were well loved by the people, and I am sure there will be much sympathy for your . . . situation. Your own sympathy for the Lady Constance is well known, too. Should you fall into Heinrich’s hands, either by choice or by chance, he would make good use of you to advance his wife’s cause. I think it best, therefore, that you remain here in Palermo.”

By now there were outraged protests by Joanna’s knights and gasps from her women. She was stunned, too. But she’d not give this man the satisfaction of seeing how shaken she was. She knew how her mother would have reacted to such a threat and she responded accordingly. “So I am under arrest? Is it to be the palace dungeon, or have you someplace else in mind?”

Tancred had dreaded female hysteria. Now, though, he found himself irked by her icy composure. “Of course not!” he snapped. “You will be lodged in comfortable quarters and will be treated with courtesy and respect; upon that, you have my word. And once I am secure upon my throne, I hope to be able to review your circumstances. But for now, you may consider yourself a guest of the Crown.”

“I consider myself a hostage, my lord,” Joanna snapped back. “It is obvious that there is no point in arguing with you. But this I will say, and I hope you heed it. You think I am utterly defenseless now that my lord husband and my father the English king are dead. That is a great mistake, and you will answer dearly for it.”

“I believe the Almighty will understand, my lady.”

Joanna’s lips curved in an angry, mocking smile. “The Almighty may, but my brother, the Lionheart, will not.”

Tancred was not a vindictive winner and was willing to concede her the last word. He bowed stiffly and withdrew, leaving her standing in the wreckage of the life that just a month ago had seemed well-nigh perfect.

CHAPTER 4

MARCH 1190

Nonancourt Castle, Normandy

After William Marshal’s young wife had been presented to the Queen of England, Will guided Isabel toward the relative privacy of a window-seat, for he knew she’d be eager to discuss it with him. And, indeed, as soon as they were seated, she turned toward him, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“She is not as beautiful as I’d heard, Will. I suppose that is because she is so old now. You said she was nigh on sixty-and-six.” Isabel paused to marvel at that vast age, for both of her parents had died in their forties. “Are you sure the king is not here yet?” She sat up straight, her eyes sweeping the crowded hall. “What does he look like?”

“Richard is taller than most men, two fingers above six feet, with curly hair betwixt red and gold. Trust me, lass, he is not one to pass unnoticed. If he were here, you’d need none to point him out to you.”

“Well, I hope he comes soon, for I must be the only one at court who has not even laid eyes upon the king.” Isabel looked around, then, for Richard’s brother, but could find no one who matched the king’s description. “Count John is not here, either?”

“John is over there, the one talking to the Lady Alys, in the green gown.” Will started to identify Alys as the French king’s sister, Richard’s neglected, long-suffering betrothed, then remembered that Isabel knew Alys better than he did, for prior to their marriage she’d resided at the Tower of London with Alys and another rich heiress, Denise de Deols.

“John does not look at all like Richard, does he? He is as dark as a Spaniard, and nowhere near as tall as you, Will.” Isabel gave her husband a fond glance from the corner of her eye. “He is handsome, though, I must admit. In fact, I’ve never seen so many comely men gathered in one place. Look at that youth with the fair hair and sky-blue eyes, just like a Norse raider! And there is another beautiful lad—can you use the word ‘beautiful’ for men? The one laughing, with chestnutcolored hair.”

Will took her teasing in stride, for he was amused by her lively, playful personality and was too sure of his manhood to deny his young bride the fun of flirting. He’d never hoped to be given such a prize—a great heiress like Isabel—for he was just a younger son of a minor baron, a man whose worth had been measured by the strength and accuracy of his sword arm. He still remembered his astonishment when the old king had promised Isabel de Clare to him, a deathbed reward for years of steadfast loyalty. He’d been sure that his bright future was lost when King Henry’s life ebbed away at Chinon Castle. But the new king, Richard, had confirmed Henry’s dying promise and, at that moment, Will had begun to believe in miracles.

“You truly are a king’s granddaughter,” he said, “for you’ve singled out men with royal blood flowing in their veins. Your ‘Norse raider’ is Henri of the House of Blois, the Count of Champagne, nephew to two kings—Richard and Philippe of France. And your ‘beautiful lad’ is Richard’s Welsh kinsman, Morgan ap Ranulf. His father was the old king’s favorite uncle, and Morgan served Richard’s brother Geoffrey until his death, then joined Henry’s household.”

“Life at court is going to be rather dull with so many gallant young lords off to fight the Saracens,” Isabel said with a mock sigh, still bent upon mischief. It was a safe game, for Will wasn’t tiresomely jealous like so many husbands. Her friend and Tower companion, Denise de Deols, had recently been wed to King Richard’s cousin, André de Chauvigny, and he was so possessive she had to conduct herself as circumspectly as a nun.

“They have not all taken the cross. John is not going to the Holy Land.”

Isabel’s pert, vivacious demeanor sometimes led others to underestimate her; she had a quick brain and was a surprisingly good judge of character for a girl of eighteen. She caught the unspoken undertones in her husband’s voice, and eyed him curiously. “You do not like Count John, do you, Will?”

“No,” he said tersely, “I do not.”

Seeing that he did not want to discuss the king’s brother, she obligingly steered the conversation in a more agreeable direction, asking the identity of the woman talking with Morgan ap Ranulf. When Will told her that was Constance, the Duchess of Brittany, Isabel studied the older woman with heightened interest. She knew Constance had been betrothed to Richard’s brother Geoffrey in childhood, wed to him at twenty, widowed five years later. Will had told her King Henry had then compelled Constance to marry his cousin, the Earl of Chester, wanting to be sure her husband would be loyal to the English Crown. She’d reluctantly agreed to the marriage in order to retain wardship of her two young children, but one of Richard’s first acts after his coronation had been to demand that she turn her daughter over to his custody.

Gazing at the Breton duchess, Isabel felt a pang of sympathy, and moved her hand protectively to her abdomen. She knew, of course, that children of the highborn were usually sent off to other noble households for their education. Constance’s daughter had been just five, though, taken against her mother’s will. Isabel had been taught that a wife’s first duty was to her husband, not her children, but she’d often wondered if a woman’s maternal instincts could be stifled so easily. She was only in the early months of her first pregnancy and already she felt that she’d defend the tiny entity in her womb with her last breath.

“Will you introduce me to the duchess, Will?” Receiving an affirmation, she continued her scrutiny of the hall. “Is that the Archbishop of York? And my heavens, who is
that
man?”

“Yes, that is the Archbishop of York, Richard’s half-brother,” William said, then followed her gaze to see who had provoked her outburst. “Ah . . . that is Guillaume Longchamp, the Bishop of Ely, the king’s chancellor and most trusted adviser. At first sight, he seems a pitiful figure, small and ugly and crippled in the bargain. But do not be misled by his paltry size or his lameness, for his intelligence is exceeded only by his arrogance.”

“No, not him.
That
man over there, the one who looks like he escaped from Hell!”

Once Will identified the object of her interest, he smiled grimly. “That is Mercadier. I assume he must have a given name, but I’ve never heard it. His past is a mystery, too. I know only that he entered Richard’s service about seven years ago as a routier—that is the term used for men like Mercadier, men who sell their swords to the highest bidder. He has been loyal to Richard, I’ll grant him that much, and he is as fearless in battle as Richard himself. But he knows no more of mercy than a starving wolf, and when he walks by, other men step back, instinctively making the sign of the cross.”

Isabel was staring openly at the routier captain, mesmerized by his sinister appearance—lanky black hair, cold pale eyes, and the worst facial scar she’d ever seen, slashing across his cheek to his chin like a diabolical brand, twisting the corner of his mouth into a mockery of a smile. “If ever there was a man who had a rendezvous with the hangman, that is the one,” she declared, suppressing a shiver. Suddenly the great hall lost some of its appeal. “I am tired, Will. May we retire to our chamber?”

“Of course, Isabel.” Will’s natural courtliness had been greatly enhanced by Isabel’s pregnancy, so much so that she had to remind herself not to take advantage of his solicitude. “We’ll have to bid the queen good night first,” he said, helping her to rise. As they headed toward the dais, he identified the woman who’d just joined Eleanor.

“That is the Lady Hawisa, the Countess of Aumale. She’d been wed to one of King Henry’s friends, the Earl of Essex, but he died in December and Richard ordered her to marry a Poitevin lord, William de Forz. The Lady Hawisa balked, though, actually dared to defy the king. You great heiresses tend to be a stubborn lot,” he murmured, showing that when it came to teasing, he could give as good as he got. “But Richard is a stubborn one, too, and he seized her estates until she yielded. She accompanied Queen Eleanor from England, and most likely will be wed once Lent is done.”

Isabel came to a sudden stop. Her eyes shifted from the Lady Hawisa, soon to marry a man not of her choosing, to the queen, held prisoner by her own husband for sixteen years, and then over to the Duchess of Brittany, another unwilling wife, in conversation now with a woman who asked only to be wed, the unfortunate French princess Alys, a bride-to-be who’d become a hostage instead. Isabel was too well bred to make a public display of affection, but she reached out, grasped her husband’s hand so tightly that he looked at her in surprise. “Oh, Will,” she whispered, “how lucky I am, how very lucky. . . .”

AS THEY EMERGED into the castle bailey, darkness was falling and clouds hid the moon. Clinging to Will’s arm, Isabel raised her skirts so they’d not trail in the mud, wrinkling her nose at the rank odor of horse manure. Riders were coming in and she and Will paused to watch, for the new arrivals were creating a stir. Men were running along the battlements, dogs were barking, and torches flaring. Isabel found herself staring at the lead rider. He was mounted astride a splendid grey stallion, and although his travel cloak was splattered with mud, she could see the material was a fine wool, dyed a deep shade of blue; his saddle was ornamented with ivory plates, the pommel and cantle decorated with gemstones, and his spurs shone like silver even in the encroaching shadows. As she watched, he pulled back his hood, revealing a handsome head of bright coppery hair, piercing grey eyes, and the whitest, cockiest smile Isabel had ever seen. As he swung from the saddle into a circle of light cast by the flaming torches, Isabel squeezed her husband’s arm. “You were right, Will. Only a blind man would not know he was looking at a king.”

ELEANOR’S CHAMBER was a cheerful scene. A harpist was playing for their pleasure as the women chatted and stitched, for even the highborn were not exempt from the needlework that was a woman’s lot. Denise de Deols was trading gossip with Isabel Marshal as they embroidered, and Eleanor’s attendants were occupied with an altar cloth intended as a gift for the castle chaplain. But not all of the women were engaged in such decorous activities. The Countess of Aumale was playing a tavern dice game with Eleanor’s granddaughter, Richenza, and Eleanor herself was flipping idly through a book on her lap, for sewing had always bored her. She was finding it difficult to concentrate, and finally set the book aside, getting to her feet. She was at once the focus of all eyes, and when she reached for her mantle, the other women started to rise, too.

She waved them back into their seats. She was in no mood for company, but she knew they’d consider it highly unseemly for a queen to venture out on her own. Eleanor had never given a fig for what other people thought. She’d learned many lessons, though, in those long years of confinement, one of which was that a wise woman picked her battles, and she relented at the last moment, allowing her granddaughter to accompany her.

She’d become quite fond of Richenza, who’d remained behind with her youngest brother when her father’s exile had ended and her parents returned to Germany. She was now eighteen, newly a bride, already displaying an independent streak that endeared her to Eleanor, who’d learned long ago that a woman without inner resources would not thrive in their world. Richenza’s name had been deemed too exotic for English or French ears and she’d been rechristened Matilda, but once her parents departed, she sought to reclaim her German name, clinging to it as a tangible remembrance of her former life. To most people, she was the Lady Matilda, future Countess of Perche, but to her indulgent family, she was once again Richenza. Even her husband proved willing to overlook the alien sound of her name, for while Richenza had not inherited her mother’s fair coloring—she had her father’s dark hair and eyes—she had been blessed in full measure with Tilda’s beauty.

Eleanor glanced at the girl from time to time as they crossed the bailey, drawing comfort from Richenza’s presence, for although she did not physically resemble her mother, she was still Tilda’s flesh-and-blood, evoking memories with the familiar tilt of her head, the sudden flash of dimples. She had Tilda’s tact, too, for she waited until they’d reached the castle gardens and were out of earshot of curious onlookers before voicing her concern.