“Indeed?” Eleanor studied her youngest son intently. He’d never shown much political acumen, unless deserting the losing side in his father’s last war qualified. The one time he’d been entrusted with authority, when Henry sent him to govern Ireland, he’d made an utter botch of it, allowing his young knights to mock and ridicule the Irish lords, spending money so lavishly that he’d been unable to pay his routiers, who’d then defected to the Irish. It was true he’d been just eighteen then. Of course Richard and Geoffrey had been leading successful campaigns in Aquitaine and Brittany at that age. But she wanted very much to believe that John was maturing, that he was capable of learning from his mistakes, for if he was another Hal, their dynasty might well be doomed.
“Why do you believe Philippe bears such a grudge against your brother? Richard has never had a serious falling-out with Philippe.” Not yet, she amended silently, thinking of Alys and Berengaria.
John was surprised that the question even needed to be asked. “Richard is all that Philippe is not,” he said candidly. “He overshadows most men without even trying. But kings do not expect to be overshadowed and take it rather badly. Philippe does not seem to me like one given to self-doubts. I think it grievously wounds his pride, though, that he will always be the moon to Richard’s sun. And now they are going off together to the Holy Land, where he must look forward to being eclipsed by Richard at every opportunity, knowing he cannot hope to compete with Richard’s battlefield heroics.” John flashed a sudden, sardonic smile. “I could almost pity poor Philippe, if only he did not have a stone where his heart ought to be.”
“I suspect there is much truth in what you say,” Eleanor said thoughtfully, although she could not help wondering if John could discern Philippe’s envy so easily because he shared it. But when she smiled, John decided that if this had indeed been a test, he’d passed it.
Just then there was a stir at the end of the hall and Henri of Champagne and his men entered. Eleanor was instantly alert, for Henri would not have ridden back after dark unless he’d found out something of importance. Richard had the same thought, for he was already moving to intercept the young count.
Henri offered a graceful obeisance. “My liege, Madame. I bring sad news from Dreux. Queen Isabelle died in childbed yesterday in Paris, after giving birth to stillborn twin sons.”
His revelation was met with an unnatural silence. For an uneasy moment, every woman of childbearing age found herself identifying with the young French queen, and every husband was reminded how dangerous childbirth could be. People began to make the sign of the cross, to murmur conventional expressions of piety and sympathy for the bereaved French king; some of them even meant it. A pall had settled over the hall, for Isabelle’s death was an unwelcome proof of their own mortality, of the Church’s insistent teachings that flesh was corrupt, the body but an empty husk for the soul, and death came for them all, even the highborn.
Richard joined Eleanor and John on the dais, and after a few moments, so did Richenza. Seeing how pale she was, Eleanor rose and slipped her arm around the girl’s slender waist. “That is so sad,” Richenza said, “so very sad. . . .”
“Yes, it is,” Eleanor agreed. “But you must not take Isabelle’s tragic death too much to heart, Richenza. There are some women who are more suited for the cloisters than the marriage bed, and Isabelle was one of them. Within five years, she had at least five pregnancies, only one of which produced a live baby, and Louis is said to be a sickly little lad. Another son died within hours, and she suffered several miscarriages, too. Most women do not have such difficulty in the birthing chamber. I had ten healthy children myself, after all. We have no reason to think that your pregnancy will not be as easy as mine were.”
Richard looked from his mother to his niece. “Are you with child, lass?”
Richenza blushed and nodded, marveling that her grandmother had somehow divined her secret, for she’d told no one but her husband so far. She found herself enfolded then in her uncle Richard’s arms as he offered her his hearty congratulations. John kissed her, too, and their pleasure helped to dispel the chill cast by the French queen’s death. Henri was waiting patiently to speak with Richard, but the king detoured to slap Richenza’s husband jovially on the back before joining his nephew. Richenza then hastened over to explain to Jaufre how the king knew of her pregnancy, for they’d agreed to keep it private until she’d passed the risky first months.
Glancing at her youngest son, Eleanor found herself thinking that she’d not been entirely honest with Richenza, for John’s birth had been a very difficult and dangerous one. He’d come early, on a snowy December night, soon after she’d confirmed Henry’s affair with Rosamund Clifford, a girl young enough to have been her daughter, and the bitter circumstances of his birth had kept her from bonding with him as she had with her other children. Years later, this would come to be one of her greatest regrets, but by then it was too late. Looking pensively at John now, she wondered if she’d been wrong about that. The mistakes she and Henry had made with Hal and Geoffrey could never be made right. But John was still alive. Was it truly too late?
ELEANOR HAD RETIRED for the night soon afterward, dismissing all of her ladies-in-waiting but Amaria, who’d served her so loyally during those long years of confinement. When she began to tell Amaria of the French queen’s death, she was surprised to find tears welling in her eyes. How fragile life was, how fleeting their days on earth, and how fickle was Death, claiming the young as often as the old, the healthy as often as the ailing, cruelly stealing away a baby’s first breath, a mother’s fading heartbeat. And if he showed so little mercy in the birthing chamber, what pity could he be expected to display on the bloody battlefields of Outremer?
Sensing Eleanor’s dark mood, Amaria did not try to engage her mistress in their usual nightly conversation. As she moved unobtrusively about the chamber, there was a sudden rap on the door, startling both women. Eleanor came quickly to her feet as soon as she saw her sons standing in the doorway, a premonition of trouble prickling down her spine.
After assuring Amaria that she need not withdraw, Richard crossed the chamber to his mother, with John trailing a few feet behind. “It was not the news of the French queen’s death that brought Henri back to Nonancourt tonight, Maman; that could have waited till the morrow. Whilst he was at Dreux, another courier arrived, bearing papal letters for Philippe and for me. After talking with the messenger, Henri took the liberty of opening my letter to confirm what the man said. He thought it best to confide its contents to me in private first, ere announcing it in the great hall. The King of Sicily is dead.”
Eleanor sat down upon the bed, biting her lip to keep from crying out at the unfairness of the Almighty. Was it not enough that Joanna had been denied the child she so desperately wanted? Must she lose her husband, too, be widowed at the age of twenty-four? “My poor girl . . .”
“I could scarcely credit the news,” Richard confessed. Like his mother, he ached for Joanna’s pain. However little love there’d been between him and his brothers, he’d always cared for his sisters, especially Joanna, the youngest, the family favorite. But he did not have the luxury of responding merely as a brother, for William de Hauteville’s unexpected death could have dire consequences for the king. William had offered Sicily’s ports and riches and its formidable fleet to aid in the recovery of Jerusalem. Losing him as an ally was a setback of monumental proportions. And the silence surrounding his death held sinister implications of its own.
“When did he die, Richard?” At his answer, she stared at him incredulously. “November eighteenth? And we are only hearing of it now?”
“I know,” he said. “It makes no sense. If a courier can travel from England to Rome in one month’s time, why would it take four months for us to receive news of such magnitude?”
“Well . . . the roads south of Rome are dreadful, little better than goat tracks in places,” Eleanor said, the memories of her Italian sojourn still vivid despite the passag
e of forty years. “And they were even more deplorable in Sicily. But why was the letter sent by the Pope? Why have we not heard from Joanna?”
“I was wondering that myself. Henri had the wit to bring the courier back to Nonancourt, and from him I learned that this was the second papal messenger. The first one mysteriously vanished en route. The Pope was too wary to commit his suspicions into writing, but he entrusted his man with a verbal message, too. He suspects that the Germans may have intercepted his first courier.”
John had so far been a silent witness. During his childhood, he’d been either ignored or bullied by his brothers, and he’d never been one to forgive and forget. His two oldest sisters had been sent off to foreign lands when he was too young to remember them, but Joanna had been his companion and playmate and fellow pupil at Fontevrault Abbey, and he’d missed her very much after her departure for Sicily. John’s family feelings were ambivalent at best, but not where Joanna was concerned, and he was genuinely distressed on her behalf.
“Germans?” he interjected before he could think better of it. “You mean the Holy Roman Emperor? I thought Frederick set out for the Holy Land months ago.”
“He did, Johnny,” Richard said with uncharacteristic patience. “But his eldest son remained in Germany and William’s death would be of great interest to Heinrich, for his wife is the rightful heiress to the Sicilian crown. The Pope says that Heinrich and Constance learned that William was dead not long after Christmas. He thinks Heinrich may have wanted to delay word reaching England until he’d been able to secure his claim to Sicily. I’d like it not if Sicily fell into Heinrich’s hands, no more than the Pope would, and Heinrich well knows it. If Heinrich seizes the Sicilian throne, how likely is it that he’d honor William’s promises of supplies and the use of his ports and ships?”
Eleanor understood Richard’s concern about losing his Sicilian alliance, but at the moment, her own concern was for her daughter. “Even if Heinrich did waylay the missing papal courier,” she pointed out, “that still does not explain why there has been no word from Joanna. I do not like her silence, Richard, not at all.”
Richard hesitated, but he’d never lied to her and was not about to start now. “I do not like it, either, Maman.”
John was cursing himself for not having paid more attention to Italian and German matters and vowed to remedy that in the future, for he was learning that knowledge was power. As much as he disliked revealing his ignorance, especially to Eleanor and Richard, his anxiety for Joanna prevailed over pride.
“You think, then, that Heinrich would have led an army into Italy as soon as he learned of William’s death. How would he treat Joanna?” Adding quickly, “He would have no reason to look kindly upon one of our family,” for he did not want them to think he was uninformed about the hostility between the Angevins and the House of Hohenstaufen, a political rivalry that had become personal when Henry wed his daughter Tilda to the Emperor Frederick’s most recalcitrant vassal, the Duke of Saxony.
It was Eleanor who addressed his concern. “Heinrich’s wife was very close to Joanna ere her marriage. Although from what I’ve heard about Heinrich, I have trouble imagining him as an uxorious husband.”
That masterly understatement earned her a smile from Richard. “It is by no means certain that Heinrich will prevail. The Sicilians quite sensibly are balking at the prospect of a German master, and the Pope says that several of William’s lords are advancing claims of their own to his crown.”
A silence greeted this revelation, as they considered what that might mean for Joanna. John at last gave voice to what they were all thinking. “So Joanna could be caught up in the midst of a war.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said reluctantly, “that could well explain why we’ve not heard from her.” It was only natural that she should fear for her soldier son’s life in faroff Outremer, a land convulsed by war. But how could she have been expected to see danger for her daughter, ruling over a sunlit island paradise? It would seem that the Almighty possessed a perverse sense of humor.
CHAPTER 7
JUNE 1190
Chinon, Touraine
The Count of Perche’s son had escorted his young wife to Chinon Castle so that she might spend time with her grandmother and bid her uncle farewell before Richard departed for the Holy Land. Jaufre and Richenza reached Chinon in midmonth. Three days later, Richard arrived with a large entourage of barons, knights, and bishops, after a successful mission into his southern domains to punish the Lord of Chis, a lawless vassal who’d been robbing pilgrims on their way to the Spanish shrine at Santiago de Compostela.
The next morning Jaufre found the English king holding informal court in the great hall. The men seemed in high spirits, their laughter wafting toward him even as he crossed the threshold. Richard was engaging in a good-natured argument with a young man who looked vaguely familiar to Jaufre; as he drew closer, he recognized the king’s Welsh cousin, Morgan ap Ranulf. Edging inconspicuously into the circle of men, he murmured a discreet query to another of Richard’s cousins, the Poitevin lord, André de Chauvigny. Morgan was boasting of the prowess of Welsh archers, André replied, sounding as skeptical as Richard looked.
“So you are saying that the arrows penetrated an oaken door that was four fingers thick?” Richard shook his head, grinning. “Why do I doubt that, Morgan?”
“Because you’re not Welsh,” Morgan shot back cheekily. “If you doubt me, my liege, you need only consult some of your Marcher barons. Ask the Lord of Brecon, William de Braose, to tell you what happened to one of his knights in a skirmish with the Welsh. He was struck with an arrow that pierced his hauberk and thigh, pinning him to his saddle. And when he swung his stallion around, a second arrow impaled him on the other leg!”
That evoked another wave of incredulous laughter. “And the reason why Welsh arrows have such magical power? Are they blessed by Merlin?”
Morgan took the teasing in stride. “No, my lord king. Welsh archers have no need for Merlin’s blessings as long as they are shooting Welsh bows, which are more deadly than crossbows, God’s Truth.”
“And why is that, Cousin?” Richard asked, no longer joking, for few subjects interested him more than weaponry. “The crossbows are baneful enough for the Pope to ban their use against all but infidels. What makes your Welsh bows so dangerous?”
“Welsh bows are nigh on a foot longer than the bows known in England or France.”
Some of the other men continued to joke about the “magical Welsh bows.” Richard was not one of them. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “that makes sense. The greater the length of the stave, the greater the force of the bow. So they have more power than the crossbows. What other advantages, Morgan?”
“An archer can shoot four or five arrows in the time that it will take a crossbowman to reset his weapon to shoot again. But they do have one great disadvantage, my lord. It does not take much skill to learn to shoot a crossbow, nor does it take much strength. That is not so for the Welsh bow, which needs much time and effort to master it.”
“A pity,” Richard said, for he had neither the time to hire some of those elite Welsh archers nor to teach other men their lethal skill. He’d have to make do with his contingent of crossbowmen. His gaze happened to alight then upon Jaufre of Perche. “I hope you’ve brought my niece with you?” Getting a confirmation, he welcomed the younger man with an easy smile. “So . . . are you planning to sail with us to the Holy Land?”
Jaufre hesitated, wishing he could do so. It ought to have been acceptable, for Richard was his uncle by marriage, after all. He knew better, though, knew that the French king would have seen it as an act of disloyalty, and while Richard was his kinsman by marriage, Philippe was his liege lord. “King Philippe requested that I accompany him, my lord,” he said, relieved when Richard did not seem offended. He’d leaped at the chance to wed the English monarch’s niece and blessed his luck from the moment he first laid eyes upon his bride-to-be, but he’d not anticipated how challenging i
t would be to keep both kings contented. Eager to change the subject, he said quickly, “What happened with the Lord of Chis? I’d wager he soon repented his crimes, no?”
“I daresay he did,” Richard agreed, “up until the moment when I hanged him.”
Jaufre blinked, not sure if the English king were jesting or not, for lords were rarely if ever held to the same standard of justice as those of lesser birth. But as he met Richard’s eyes, he saw that Richenza’s uncle was serious—dead serious—and he wondered if Saladin knew the mettle of the foe he’d soon be facing. He wondered, too, if Philippe knew.
THERE WERE FEW DAYS more perfect than a summer afternoon in the Loire Valley, and after their noontime dinner, Richard had chosen to savor its pleasures out in the castle gardens. He’d ordered chairs to be fetched for Eleanor, Richenza, and the Countess of Aumale, but he and Jaufre made themselves comfortable on the grassy mead, tossing a wineskin back and forth. The women were more decorous and sipped from silver-gilt wine cups, so ornate that Richard joked he ought to sell them, for when it came to financing his campaign, every denier counted. He had been surprised to find the Countess of Aumale in his mother’s household, but he bore her no grudge now that Hawisa had yielded to his will and wed William de Forz, and to show that bygones were bygones, he favored her with a smile, saying, “I have some good news for you, my lady. I am naming your husband as one of my fleet commanders.”
“An honor, indeed,” Hawisa said, for such a response was expected of a wife, even one who fervently hoped that her new husband would never return from the Holy Land. She was too shrewd to continue fighting a battle already lost, though, and shared such heretical thoughts with no one. “My liege . . . I recently received a troubling letter from my steward at Skipton-in-Craven, regarding the unrest in Yorkshire since the slaughter of the Jews in the city of York. Men are concerned that violence will break out again once you have left for Outremer. Can you assure me that measures have been taken to keep the King’s Peace?”