The Queen's Daughter Page 10

  “Oh!” Joan tried to think of an appropriate response. “Did the count disown him?”

  “No. But Lord Raymond had to come here. As soon as he left Toulouse, the count bought off the girl’s father and married her to a lowly knight at court. Lord Raymond was furious when he found out. He rode back into Toulouse with several of his fellows and stole away the baby.”

  “He did? What could he do with a baby?”

  “It is here. A little boy, they call him Bertrand. Lord Raymond has a nurse for it. And he says he won’t go back to Toulouse until his father allows him to bring the boy to court.”

  “That is…” Joan screwed her face into a knot. Stupid, she thought. Such a fuss over nothing. “Tenderhearted. Is he…is Lord Raymond despondent?”

  “Over the lady?” Ermengarde laughed edgily. “If the cure for heartbreak is more of the same.”

  Joan glanced over at Lord Raymond’s table. He was talking to Aimery, his face animated, gesturing with his hands as though estimating the size of some hapless prey. With a broad smile and a red face showing his amusement, Aimery slapped down Raymond’s hand. The young lord laughed, ducking his head to the table.

  “They’re like two brothers,” Ermengarde said, nudging her. “Don’t you think?”

  “Very,” she agreed, to please her new friend. But she wondered if this was how other peoples’ brothers behaved.

  LORD RAYMOND DID NOT SPEND TIME IN THE GARDENS, SO Joan saw little of him. He was at supper, of course, but though his father was overlord of St. Gilles, young Raymond sat with his knights far from the head table. She dared not look for him for fear Charisse or Ermengarde would notice.

  She had been in St. Gilles nearly three weeks when her escorts finally arrived, just in time for her eleventh birthday. She stood in the courtyard with Charisse and watched twelve carts loaded high with her dower gifts and trousseau rumble through the gates. The coverings had been peeled back to display the king’s bounty. Three entire wagons held gowns of wool and linen, shoes, hose, and undergarments. The others held silver plate, ornate golden cups and altar pieces, finely embroidered linens and curtains for the marriage bed, livery for her guard, and gifts for King William, including two gold-leaf books from her father’s own collection.

  Several groups of mounted knights crowded the courtyard. Joan saw Lord Raymond nearby with a small knot of men. She wanted them to take notice of her dowry. Instead, they noticed her guard. One of the men was unusually short and clubfooted.

  “Would you look at that? The king sent five knights and a dwarf.”

  Joan whirled to see the speaker, one of Lord Raymond’s knights. She heard the others laughing. Raymond did not even smile.

  “He must be tied to the saddle. Come.” The grinning knight beckoned to his fellows. “We’ll have a tournament.”

  Joan wanted to shout, to warn the men, but they would never hear her.

  Lord Raymond nudged his mount into the man’s path. “It will be no credit to you if you unhorse him. And certainly no credit if you try and do not succeed.”

  The knight’s face flushed. “My lord—”

  “You heard me.”

  The knight nodded. Looking more angry than abashed, he backed his horse behind his lord’s. The other knights exchanged glances, but Raymond seemed unperturbed. He dismounted and tossed his reins to a squire standing with his party, then stepped toward Joan.

  His bow was perfunctory. “Lady, I had hoped to see more of you, but it looks like you’ll be leaving us soon.”

  “Yes. Thank you,” she managed to say.

  Raymond’s jaw hardened. He looked at his feet and then back at her. “Princess, I apologize for the poor breeding of my fellows.”

  “They will improve with you for example.”

  He barely smiled. “No, I doubt it. Though it is pleasant to think so.” His voice changed. “I’m glad to know you’ll have champions accompanying you.”

  It struck her as an odd thing to say. “Will I need champions in Sicily?”

  Now he did smile. “Everyone needs friends.”

  They stood together a moment. Joan had a sudden wish for Ermengarde’s tongue. She was so afraid of saying the wrong thing, of sounding childish, she could not speak at all.

  Raymond said, “I’ve never been to Sicily, only to the Holy See, and I was too young to remember. But I’ve heard the island is awe-inspiring in its beauty, rivaling even Toulouse.”

  “My mother says nothing compares with Toulouse.” She bit her lip. She shouldn’t have mentioned her mother’s claim. And he couldn’t return to Toulouse, could he? Her face felt hot.

  He leaned closer. “Here is your chance to tell me I will always be welcome in Sicily.”

  Charisse said, “Lady, Sir Robert will be waiting. I’m sorry, but we must go. Please excuse us, sir.” She hardly curtsied before steering Joan away.

  Joan didn’t know what to think. Charisse’s behavior bordered on rude, and while trying to make conversation had been uncomfortable, nevertheless, she had wanted to try.

  “Princess, stay away from Lord Raymond. He is not suitable company for decent ladies.”

  Joan stopped short. “But, Charisse, he—”

  “I heard. His fellows are little better than brigands. He can barely control them. Lord Raymond is not fit company for you.”

  IN LATE OCTOBER 1176, TWENTY-FIVE SHIPS FROM THE SICILIAN fleet massed in St. Gilles harbor. Joan was surprised to discover she knew the counselor who greeted her in King William’s name. That is, she knew of him. Richard Palmer was a Norman, a friend of the late Archbishop Becket. He had gone to Sicily when Papa and Becket parted ways, and there he was made bishop of Syracuse. Mama called him sensible and had said to look for him in Sicily.

  Now here he was—a short man with piercing hazel eyes, light brown hair fading to gray, and frown lines that seemed ingrained. He might well frown, considering the news he bore.

  Winter gales had begun, and sailing was treacherous. Two hulks carrying gifts for King Henry had been lost at sea. They dared not take the direct route to Palermo but, rather, would sail close to the coast of Italy, cross the straits to Messina, then travel overland to Palermo. If they hurried, they could still reach Sicily in time for Christmas court.

  Her own counselors voiced no objections. At daybreak, Charisse roused her from bed to dress and board the ship. Joan was obliged to take leave of her counselors and hosts with little ceremony. Sir Robert’s face was taut. Ermengarde wept so hard she could not speak.

  The young lord of Toulouse came to the hall to pay his respects. Charisse had been relentless in her chaperonage—Joan had exchanged no more than greetings with Lord Raymond. Even now, Charisse stood close by her side.

  As Raymond bowed, Joan stretched out her hand. He kissed the fingertips, but before releasing her, he squeezed her fingers.

  “God go with you, Princess.”

  She took a breath. “You are always welcome in Sicily,” she said before Charisse could prevent it. She was rewarded with his smile.

  “And you are always welcome in Toulouse.” Then he rubbed his chin. “You are. I’d prefer you not to bring Richard with an army at his side.”

  He seemed to be joking, so she laughed.

  Charisse said, “Lady—”

  Raymond bowed. “I will not keep you. Safe journey, Princess Jeanne.”

  Jeanne. Only Mama and Richard called her Jeanne. Even in the south, the Occitanian speakers pronounced her name with the Norman accent. She would never hear it again.

  Joan said, “Good-bye, Lord Raymond. Thank you for your kindness.”

  He was not smiling now. Walking away, she thought she felt his eyes on her back.

  THE KNIGHTS SAILED ON A SEPARATE SHIP, SO JOAN HAD ONLY Charisse and the churchmen for company and sailors to avoid. She kept to her small, airless room in the forecastle. The bed was narrow and the mattress uneven. Fine linen sheets had been placed in the room, but mice nibbled holes in them. Droppings littered the floor, though Char
isse swept it clean twice a day. The cook served fish more nights than not. Joan gave up trying to eat anything but bread and dried fruit.

  As they crept along the Mediterranean coast, trying to dodge the worst storms, Joan fell ill again. They were forced to put in to harbor first at Genoa and again at Pisa, where she had to be carried ashore.

  She understood they could not stay long in Pisa. The Pisan lord would not turn away the sick daughter of King Henry of England but found the presence of so many Sicilian ships in his harbor unsettling. The admiral of her small fleet insisted they sail down the coast until they reached Sicilian territory. They would have to stay in Naples until the weather improved.

  Richard Palmer greeted each setback with foul temper. Joan thought he blamed her for her illness and the weather. She wished for the strength to match his foul temper with her own.

  En route to Naples, Joan lay abed, wondering if she would ever feel well again. Closing her eyes made her dizzy, but when she opened them, the pounding in her head grew worse. Charisse had gone out to the deck for air and stayed longer than usual. Her absence was irritating.

  The door opened. Charisse flew to the bedside. “Joan! Princess Joan, I heard…did your mother know? She couldn’t have, kept so isolated in Sarum. Oh, but Joan!”

  Joan sat up. “Charisse, what on earth—”

  “The bishop of Troia and Bishop Palmer were on the deck arguing. I didn’t mean to listen, but then I heard Bishop Palmer shout that he would bring you to Sicily on time if it meant delivering a corpse. I hid behind a barrel and heard every word. King William has been betrothed before. To the daughter of the Greek emperor. The Sicilians prepared for the ceremony, and the king went to meet his bride, but she never appeared! Can you imagine?”

  “But what has that to do with me?” Her father was a practical man. King Henry wanted the alliance, even if the Greek emperor did not.

  “Only that it explains why Bishop Palmer is so determined to see you reach Sicily. They don’t want their people reminded of the king’s humiliation. Or thinking it is happening again. Thank God, the bishop of Troia’s counsel prevailed. He insisted it is enough for you to reach Naples.”

  Joan was in no mood to be appreciative. King William had wanted to marry someone else. She lay down and turned her back. “The bishop vouched for my appearance, didn’t he? He must not want to deliver me looking like this.”

  JOAN DID NOT REMEMBER HER ARRIVAL IN NAPLES. WHEN SHE woke in a high, soft-mattressed bed surrounded by a double wall of curtains, Charisse said she had been asleep for two days. She tried to climb from the bed, but the ground swayed beneath her, forcing her to lie back down.

  She was hungry, though. The lady of the castle sent a plate heaped with bread and mild cheese, and Joan finished every bite. When the food stayed down, Charisse’s brow relaxed.

  “This is Naples?” Joan asked.

  Charisse nodded. “We could have been here faster if we’d traveled overland.”

  “Surely not.” Joan shifted uncomfortably. Naples had not been on the itinerary. The sea route to Messina should have been faster, even allowing for storms. If her frequent requirement for unscheduled stops had delayed them that much, no wonder Bishop Palmer was angry.

  “Well, merchants have. There is word of your family. Would you like to hear it?”

  The news could not be so bad, or she would not share it readily. Joan nodded.

  “The little countess of Maurienne died. Prince John is betrothed again. To your cousin Hawise.”

  The countess was dead—John would not get Henry’s castles, after all. Joan shook the futile thoughts from her head.

  Charisse looked away, eyes narrowing. “There is also news from Toulouse. Lord Raymond has married.”

  “Married! But…but…to whom?” The mother of his babe had wed someone else, according to Ermengarde.

  “The heiress of Melgueil.”

  Joan thought hard. Melgueil lay between St. Gilles and Montpelier. Money was coined in the city, so it was very wealthy. She could remember hearing nothing of its daughter. “When?”

  “Just after we left. The count allowed Lord Raymond to return to Toulouse provided he wed immediately.”

  So, likely his father chose the bride. “What do they say of the heiress?”

  “Princess—”

  “I am curious, Charisse. He was kind to me. I wish his happiness.”

  After a pause, the maid said, “She is older than he is. They say she is plain but presentable. Wealthy enough to make up for any faults he might find.”

  “I hope they are suited.”

  “Suited?” Charisse snorted. “What woman could be suited to a man like Lord Raymond? Put him out of your head now, Princess Joan.”

  WHEN JOAN WAS WELL ENOUGH TO VENTURE FROM HER CHAM ber, she found the lord of Naples eager to show her the city. Charisse agreed she might visit the cathedral. Its strange splendor eclipsed anything she had seen in her father’s lands. The lord said the strangeness was due to Greek influence. Joan stared a long time at a mosaic of the Virgin. Arched wings partially obscured the halo above her head; the long, straight black hair and dark robe accentuated the whiteness of her skin. It made Joan think of Melusine.

  In contrast to the cathedral, the castle was small, oval, and plain, the result of the city being razed time and again by too many conquerors. They had given up lavishing money on a castle that was sure to be burned. Laughing, the lord claimed Naples had a penchant for supporting weak rulers. Then he hastily amended, “Until King William, of course.”

  Whether the climate in Naples or Charisse’s ministrations were responsible, Joan’s health continued to improve. Each time she caught her reflection in glass or polished metal, she saw her cheeks becoming rounder, the dark purple hollows fading from under her eyes.

  At last, she felt well enough to attend supper in the great hall; even Richard Palmer smiled as she took her place. The men spoke eagerly of reaching the island of Sicily. After keeping Christmas, they would travel down the mainland shoreline to Reggio, then sail across the narrow Strait of Messina. The road along the rocky hills of the island’s northeast coast had been recently widened and smoothed to ease the overland journey. Their eagerness infected Joan. After all, she was going to be queen of a kingdom wealthier than England, and as warm and beautiful as Aquitaine. Armed with all Mama’s teachings, she’d make William a good queen.

  After supper she retired to her chamber, but she did not feel sleepy. She lay in bed fidgeting awhile. Then she sat up and plucked Tessie from the pillow. “We’re going on a journey, Tessie,” she sang.

  P A R T T W O

  Q U E E N J O A N N A

  E I G H T

  Palermo, Sicily, October 1179

  QUEEN JOANNA!” THE TUTOR RAPPED ON THE TABLE BESIDE her. Joan jumped: The harsh Sicilian pronunciation of her name grated on her nerves. “You are not paying attention.”

  “I beg your pardon.” She tore her gaze from the mosaics of smiling maidens and fantastic beasts decorating one wall of the chamber. Although this palace had been her home for almost three years, she’d never noticed before that the lions eyed the maidens as if they would devour them.

  Beneath the tight dark curls plastered against his forehead, Master Eugenius’s eyes narrowed in accusation. “You have not been concentrating the entire morning.”

  He bent his paunch over the table and slammed her book shut. His breath smelled of olives. Or perhaps the odor emanated from his hair.

  “You are wasting my time. You used to be such a diligent pupil. These past few months…well.” His voice lowered as he straightened and turned away, muttering loud enough for her to hear. “It’s to be expected. The female mind is not capable.…”

  Joan bit her tongue, knowing he wanted her to argue so he could turn her words against her. She had learned that her only hope of victory was in silence.

  He gathered his things and set his hat upon his head. “Tomorrow then. But if you’re still gathering wool, I’ll speak
to the queen mother again.”

  Rising from her thick-cushioned chair, she silently cursed the luxury that threatened to swallow her whole. She would never feel at home here. Palermo was as foreign to her now as when she had first come. And this morning the memories of her arrival were as vivid as if it had been days ago, not years.

  Joanna. Poor thing. You’re just a child. William’s aunt, the Princess Constance, had greeted her with those words.

  Just a child—Joan had imagined it would be different when she finally met William. She’d spent two weeks at the Favara, a Saracen-style palace outside the city, while preparations were made for her triumphal entrance to Sicily’s capital.

  At last, Bishop Palmer and the Queen’s Guard conveyed her to the city gate, where King William waited with his entourage. He shone as fair as the sun, just as her mother had said. He wore a wide scarlet mantle of silk twill, embroidered with lions attacking camels, that engulfed his torso and legs, covering so much of his horse he resembled a centaur. Little use to remind herself she did not like handsome men, or that women who loved their husbands were fools. She wanted to love him. Yet he did not even deign to smile at her, his eleven-year-old fiancée, as he murmured words of welcome she could not hear.

  A thousand torches lit the crowded streets. Wide-eyed, she tried to see everything, but everything blurred. The illuminated procession ended at the Convent Saint Maria. William abandoned her at the portcullis, looking through her as he bid her good night. They were apart until their wedding eleven days later. Throughout the ceremony, he focused all his attention on the archbishop of Palermo, so she did also. When the archbishop placed their hands together, William’s was cold. As soon as they were united, she was whisked from the cathedral to the Royal Palace. In the Palatine Chapel, even more magnificent than the church, William laid a crown upon her head and spoke over her in Latin. At the wedding feast, she sat between the queen mother Marguerite and Princess Constance.

  It must have been midnight—she had been wide awake but dreaming—when they put her in a litter bound for this palace, her new home. Not even the Favara’s splendor had prepared her for the Zisa. Modeled after the palaces of Turkish caliphs, the Zisa took its name from an Arabic word meaning “magnificent.” Pale gray stones reflected the moonlight. The rectangular palace rose three stories tall, its angles softened by the arched windows. A wide gallery welcomed her, vibrant with colorful mosaics, noisily alive with water flowing from a fountain into a pool.