The Queen's Daughter Read online

  YOUNG WALTER LEFT AFTER A FORTNIGHT. JOAN ASSUMED HE was reporting to the king, but who could blame him for finding any excuse to escape? She had never seen a place as gray as this castle. At night, she dreamed wistfully of the crisp air and bright sunshine of Poitiers and understood Papa’s cruelty in exiling Mama to Sarum. Each morning, they woke in darkness, dressed, and stumbled across the bailey to the chapel to pray by candlelight. They ate a gray meal of bread and tepid gruel, then hurried to fit a day’s tasks into the few hours before the dreary sun abandoned Sarum once again to the dark and the cold.

  The household supped early and passed the long evenings in the great hall, listening to the mournful howling of the wind. The women crowded beside the hearth to spin or embroider while they gossiped. The men sat against the single wall lit by a lamp, drinking wine and talking about hunting and tournaments. Joan listened, eyes on her sewing, mimicking her mother. She couldn’t imagine what Mama thought of such petty talk. How could Eleanor, who believed a queen should influence kingdoms and empires, bear being trapped here at the end of the world?

  WALTER WAS COMING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS; THEY WATCHED from the walls as his party approached. Joan stared at a knight in gray at the fringe of the company. She thought…and then she was sure. She ran down the stairs two at a time.

  “Sir Robert!” She caught his leg before he had a chance to dismount.

  “Princess.” He smiled. “Let me get down before my horse squashes you.”

  As soon as his feet touched the earth, she flung herself into his arms. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  “I’m glad to see you, too. Your father sends his love.”

  Her smile hurt her cheeks. As she took his hand to lead him inside the gate, she heard, “Princess Joan?”

  It was Walter. He bowed, and she nodded. He looked miffed, so she dropped Robert’s hand and walked closer. When she held out her hand, he squeezed her fingers.

  “It is good to see you, lady. You’re lovely in that gown.”

  “Thank you.” She blushed. Charisse had cut down one of the queen’s old dresses to make her a new one for her tenth birthday. “Excuse me, please.”

  “Yes, of course.” He bowed again.

  She caught the wary look on Robert’s face, but it was fleeting, and he smiled when she came back to him. She led him up the steps, babbling about Sarum, warning him to be careful of the ice or he might slip. Inside the door, the queen waited.

  “Robert? This is a surprise.” Her voice was tense. Joan looked up sharply. Her mother’s face was pale.

  “Lady.” Sir Robert bowed. He straightened and said, “They are well. They are all well.”

  “God is merciful,” she said, pressing her lips into a thin line. “So why are you here? To free us?”

  Joan didn’t like when her mother used that mocking tone.

  Robert shook his head. “I have another matter to discuss.” He paused and scratched his nose. “We needn’t speak of it now.”

  The rest of the travelers had come into the hall. Lady Penelope dispensed orders to servants and directions to the knights while holding on to young Walter’s arm.

  “Speak of what?” Eleanor asked. “Why did Henry send you?”

  Joan watched Robert glance toward Walter before speaking. Walter was dragging his mother closer. Then Robert looked at the queen. “He wants your advice, lady.”

  “My advice? Henry, Henry.” She laughed, a rolling trill deep in her throat. “Tell me, Robert, how can I advise my lord king?”

  Robert coughed into his hand. “He has had an offer for Joan.”

  The queen stopped laughing. Behind her, young Walter halted abruptly.

  “One worth considering?”

  “He believes so. He puts it to you. King William of Sicily.”

  Joan caught her breath. The queen folded her arms across her chest and smiled.

  S I X

  AT LAST, ELEANOR HAD SOMETHING TO DISCUSS AROUND the evening fire.

  King William II of Sicily had made generous concessions. He agreed to marry Joan at once, not keep her as ward until she came of age. Her coronation would immediately follow the wedding. And she would be given a wealthy fief—the county of Monte Sant’Angelo—which would remain hers even if he died. In return, he insisted she arrive in Sicily before the end of the new year.

  Sir Robert claimed King Henry’s counselors had protested Sicily’s haste. Benumbed with shock, Joan could only think they had not protested very hard. Surely Mama would find some fault with Papa’s arrangements.

  However, after the first night, talk of the terms ceased and was replaced by talk of the kingdom. After all, a wise ruler must know the domain. Joan listened, trying to absorb it all while praying her mother would yet change her mind.

  Before the Normans conquered Sicily, chaos had reigned. Eleanor said King William’s great-grandfather and grandfather had forged a united kingdom—more or less. Without a strong leader, it would crumble back to what it had been.

  Joan wanted to ask, What sort of man is the king? She only dared ask, “Is King William strong?”

  “He is young. But he has been king for almost ten years, and the kingdom has not crumbled. Sweetling, you will help him be strong.”

  Two weeks after Christmas, Sir Robert took his leave. Old Sir Walter and a few knights attended his party as far as the earthworks. The ladies waved from the walls. Shivering despite her wraps, Joan watched until the last banner faded into the mists. Her mother stood beside her; Eleanor neither waved nor shivered. She was as unmoving as the icicles hanging from the balustrade, and the satisfaction in her unblinking eyes was every bit as cold. The queen would not change her mind.

  Early the following morning, Walter cornered Joan on the stairs on her way to breakfast.

  “Come here,” he said. “I have a secret.”

  “Come where?” If he meant to go behind the stairs, he could go by himself.

  He grabbed her wrist. “I want to tell you something.”

  When she tried to wrench away, he pulled her close and put a hand over her mouth. He dragged her behind the stairwell and pressed his forearm across her chest. She swung her arms, but her blows just made him scowl.

  “Be quiet. I don’t want to hurt you.” He pushed so hard the back of her head ground against the stone wall. “Will you listen?”

  She thought: Idiot. How did he expect her to answer? It was hard even to breathe. She opened her eyes as wide as they would go.

  “You don’t want to go to Sicily. You’ll never see anyone you love again. And King William is…he’s practically a Saracen. He has infidels in his court.”

  As he eased the pressure against her mouth, she twisted her head sideways. “Let me breathe or I will faint.”

  He moved his hand cautiously from her mouth to her shoulder. Despite her resentment, she didn’t renew her struggle; she was curious to hear what he might have to say.

  “Mama says the king is a Norman.”

  “He has Norman blood. That doesn’t make him a Norman. His mother is Navarrese. He keeps a harem of Saracen slaves. Do you know what that is?”

  She shook her head.

  Walter’s eyes narrowed. “Slave women. He will add you to his harem like a slave.”

  “Liar.”

  “You don’t have to go. Just do what I say. I won’t hurt you any more than I have to.” He kissed her ear. His lips felt cold and wet.

  “No!” She twisted back and forth frantically. If he didn’t let go, she would scream.

  “Hold still, girl.” He grabbed a handful of her skirts. “Do this and no one else will have you. Your father will have to give you to me. You want to marry me, don’t you?”

  “Marry you?” Her mouth was too dry to spit. “Why would I want you?”

  His hands fell to his sides, and his eyes widened in disbelief.

  Had he actually imagined she wanted to be his wife? She rubbed the back of her hand roughly across her ear where his lips had touched her.

  Ho
ping to shame him, she said, “What kind of man kisses children?”

  Instead of showing remorse, he sneered. “Ask Princess Alice. Or ask William of Sicily why he would marry you so quickly. Some men prefer little girls.”

  ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE HAD BEEN THIRTY WHEN THE POPE annulled her first marriage. Her new husband, Henry the duke of Normandy, count of Anjou, heir to the English throne, was nineteen. Joan had always known that, but she had never given it much thought before.

  Did Papa stop loving Mama because she was too old?

  She was passing time in her mother’s chamber before supper. The back of her embroidery was one large knot, which she had been trying to disentangle before Mama inspected the work. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Walter had said that morning. Why did King William want to marry her so soon?

  “Mama?”

  “Don’t sit with your knees in the air like that. Put your feet on the floor.”

  Joan thumped her feet down. “How old is King William?”

  “A good age. He is twenty-two.”

  “Why is that a good age?”

  “He’s not an untried boy but not a doddering old fool, either. And a girl should marry a man at least ten years older. Men prefer young wives.”

  Then it was true. Would he tire of her when she was no longer youthful? With grave voice, she asked, “How young?”

  Her mother peered at her over her own sewing. “Child, you worry too much. There is nothing to be afraid of. King William will not want to lie with you before your courses start. That will be another three or four years. You will feel ready by then.”

  Lie with? Some men prefer little girls. Was that what Walter had meant? Her palms began to sweat.

  “But, Mama, what if—?”

  “If he takes you before that, it is no sin. You will be his wife. Remember, Joan, a queen’s first duty is to give her husband an heir. If he comes to your bed, you must make him welcome. Then he’ll be patient if an heir is slow to come.” Eleanor looked back at her needlework.

  Conflicting fears jumbled together in Joan’s brain. She took a breath and blurted out, “Mama, what is a harem?”

  Now her mother gave her a long, hard stare. “A harem? Why do you ask?”

  “I heard King William has one.”

  “Who in the world would tell you a thing like that?”

  “I don’t know who said it. I was listening behind a wall.”

  Her mother laid down her cloth and frowned. “There is a rumor that William’s father kept a harem. He adopted many Saracen practices, so it might be true. But, Joan, it is also rumored the old king stood seven feet tall, had a knotty black beard that grew to his knees, and could lift his horse. I taught you to listen when people talk. I did not teach you to believe everything you hear.”

  Joan heard irritation in her mother’s voice, but her question hadn’t been answered. “So, King William doesn’t have a harem?”

  “Are you asking if the king takes slaves to his bed? He’s a man. If you want to keep other women from your husband’s bed, be in it.”

  Joan hadn’t meant to anger her mother, but now she was more confused than ever. How was she supposed to make her husband welcome? What did the old king do with all those women in his bed?

  Amaria said, “Princess, you are tiring your mother. Come. I’ll help you dress for supper.”

  Joan followed her, surprised by the maid’s solicitousness. Amaria filled a washbasin and helped her clean her hands and face. She smoothed Joan’s gown, brushed her hair, and tied a ribbon in it, deftly, without Charisse’s stray caresses, then said, “Has anyone ever told you anything about what men do?”

  “What they do?” she repeated.

  She knew men and women must lie together when they were married, and it was a sin if they lay together without being wed. Like Papa and Alice. She had ciphered that lying together made babies come. And illegitimate children were God’s punishment for such sins.

  Yet as far as what men actually did…

  “I suppose not.”

  Amaria sighed. Very quietly she said, “Would you like me to tell you?” Joan nodded. She needed to know.

  When Amaria explained, Joan could scarcely credit it. She remembered Walter grabbing her in the stairwell and felt ill. Too embarrassed to ask questions, she merely nodded her understanding, then followed the maid to the dining hall.

  Joan was glad Amaria knew so much about men, but she had said nothing about William. Joan knew she’d have to try asking her mother again.

  At last, one night while speaking of Sicily, Eleanor wondered aloud if Joan ought not to learn Greek. Although the Sicilian kings were Normans—just as Joan’s ancestor William the Conqueror had been—and Norman French was the official language of both courts, the Sicilian kings were said to speak all the languages of their realm. William was known to be fluent in Greek, Arabic, and Latin as well as French.

  Joan lifted her head. “What else do people say about King William?”

  One of Lady Penelope’s maids answered, “He is supposed to be the handsomest man in all of Christendom.”

  The queen’s lips pursed. Joan pouted. They were patronizing her.

  “I don’t want made-up stories.”

  Her mother sighed. “It isn’t a story. King William’s comeliness is well known. He was crowned three days after his father’s death because the kingdom was not stable enough to tolerate any delay. He was just twelve, and there was general fear his father’s enemies would kill him or undermine his rule. His advisers even suppressed word of the old king’s death until his coronation was under way. But the chroniclers said the new king emerged from the ceremony shining fair as the sun, and even the most hard-hearted opposition melted before him.”

  Joan stared, mouth agape. Then she snapped her jaw shut. “Hmph. He didn’t do anything to win over his enemies except look handsome?” She heard some of the maids titter. She thought of Walter. “It wouldn’t win me. I don’t like handsome men.”

  Her mother laughed out loud. “What sort of men do you like?”

  Joan folded her arms across her chest. “An intelligent king is better than a handsome one.”

  “True. King William is supposed to be intelligent.”

  Her mother’s mood was expansive today. What else could she learn? Quickly, she added, “I like kind men.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Her mother frowned. “A kind man makes a weak ruler. Kindness is a luxury only serfs can afford.”

  Tears stung Joan’s eyes as she recognized the truth of her mother’s words. No one would ever call her father kind. Or Richard. Henry was said to be the kindest of her brothers, and Papa had once called him soft. There was Sir Robert, but he was only as kind as Papa allowed him to be.

  “Then I shan’t love him.”

  In Poitiers, she had heard enough troubadour poetry to know the queen put great stock in love. Perhaps she would not have to marry King William if she didn’t like him.

  “God’s teeth, child, don’t be stupid. There is no greater fool than a woman who loves her husband. Unless it is a woman who believes her husband when he says he loves her. Don’t believe otherwise or you’ll be hurt.”

  The room fell silent. To Joan’s surprise, it was quiet Lady Penelope who finally spoke.

  “Not all men are so cruel, Princess. I would not gainsay your mother, but perhaps you will find something to love in King William. Even if he is not kind, he has no reason to treat you ill.”

  Joan nodded to acknowledge Lady Penelope’s thoughtfulness but could not find voice to thank her. It occurred to her that old Sir Walter was kind, but he was lord of nothing but Sarum. She was going to marry a king.

  MORE RAIN FELL IN A SARUM SPRING MONTH THAN FELL IN A year in Poitiers. In the midst of a May thunder shower, unexpected messengers from the king appeared. They were sodden to the bone; Lady Penelope insisted they wring themselves out by the hearth fire in the great hall before they announced their purpose. When she was assured they were fit
to address the queen, they were at last given audience. They had come to fetch the prisoners and take them to Winchester.

  “King William’s ambassadors will be there,” said the bishop of Norwich.

  “So soon?” Eleanor asked. “My, my, the king of Sicily is impatient.”

  “No, lady. It isn’t that. It seems…” The bishop coughed. He glanced at Joan then back at the queen. “It seems there is a consideration the previous ambassadors neglected.”

  Eleanor frowned. “He wants to change the terms?”

  “No, no. It is just King William was disappointed his ambassadors did not have a chance to see the princess.” He lowered his voice. “To be sure her countenance is pleasing.”

  “Pleasing!” She laughed, laying a hand on her middle. “Oh, Joan. Your husband-to-be is a vain man. What fun you will have.”

  Joan’s stomach turned over. What if she wasn’t pretty enough for the king? She was too tall, she knew, and still growing. She looked too much like Richard, not enough like Mama.

  The bishop’s nose wrinkled. “I daresay this is too much trouble for you and my lord king to find so amusing. We are to bring you and the princess to Winchester. The king regrets he cannot attend you there, but he said”—he took a deep breath and rolled his eyes upward, saying words he clearly had been instructed to say—“‘Tell Joan to smile. Her scowl would scorch a dragon’s eyeballs.’”

  Eleanor laughed again. “How soon do we go? I’m not overly fond of Winchester, but anything is better than Sarum.”

  Joan cast a glance at Lady Penelope. Her eyes were down, her cheeks pink. She wished she could tell Lady Penelope that she would miss Sarum.

  IN WINCHESTER, JOAN MET THE AMBASSADORS FROM SICILY, led by the bishop of Troia. He was a short, funny man with an even funnier name, which she could not pronounce. He made a great fuss over her, touching her hair and calling her lovely.