“Yes, Madame, he is. But he is as flustered as a rabbit in a fox den,” the youth said and then grinned. “He did not expect to be entertaining the Queen of England and the King and Queen of Germany at the same time, but that is what he’s facing. Heinrich von Hohenstaufen and the Lady Constance arrived this morn with a vast entourage—a baker’s dozen of bishops, several German counts, Lord Boniface of Montferrat, and so many knights and men-at-arms it would take half a day to count them all.”
Eleanor sat back against the cushions as she processed this startling news. “So his war against Tancred has begun. Passing strange that he’d not have waited until the spring. Few campaigns are fought in winter.”
“He has a pressing need to get to Rome, Madame—to be crowned by the Holy Father without delay.”
Eleanor drew a sharp breath. “His father is dead?”
“Yes, my lady, he is. According to the bishop, the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa drowned last summer whilst trying to cross a river in Armenia. His younger son led their army on to the Holy Land, but most of them died or deserted along the way. Heinrich did not learn of his father’s death until last month, and set out for Rome as soon as he could. The bishop says that once he is crowned as emperor, he’ll lead his army into Sicily to claim the throne.”
Frederick’s death would be a blow to Richard and the other crusaders, for Heinrich was not likely to take the cross, at least not until he’d been crowned as King of Sicily. It would be an even greater blow to Tancred, for now Heinrich could draw upon all the resources of the Holy Roman Empire to win his war. The ramifications of Frederick’s death would be felt throughout Christendom. But it would begin in Lodi, with this chance meeting of Richard’s mother and an avowed enemy of their House.
“Well,” Eleanor said, after several moments of silence, “this ought to be interesting.”
BECAUSE HEINRICH WAS AN ALLY of the French king, they decided that it would be best if Berengaria’s true identity was not made known to him, and she agreed to pose as one of Eleanor’s ladies. The Bishop of Milan already knew that she was the Navarrese king’s daughter, but he was quite willing to honor Eleanor’s request for secrecy. Although it was almost thirty years since Heinrich’s father had deliberately reduced the city of Milan to rubble and charred timbers, the Milanese had long memories.
Berengaria’s parting from her brother had been painful, for she did not know when they’d meet again. She kept her grieving to herself, though, and prepared to follow Eleanor’s lead when they met the new Holy Roman Emperor and his consort. She was not sure what to expect, given Heinrich’s hostility toward the English Crown. But when she broached the subject with Eleanor, the older woman laughed, saying that she and Heinrich would be poisonously polite, scrupulously observe all the proprieties, and then studiously avoid each other for the balance of their joint stay in Lodi. She even sounded grimly amused at the prospect, and to Berengaria, that was further proof that she’d never fully understand the enigmatic English queen. They are not like us, little one.
HEINRICH VON HOHENSTAUFEN was not as Berengaria had envisioned him. He was of moderate height, but seemed shorter because of his slight, almost frail physique. His face would have been handsome if it was not so thin, and his fine blond hair and patchy beard made him seem even younger than his twenty-five years. He could not have been more unlike her brother Sancho or her betrothed, the Lionheart, and her first impression was that he was not at all kingly. But she changed her mind as soon as she looked into those piercing pale eyes, for what she saw in their depths sent an involuntary shiver up her spine.
Thinking that she’d not have wanted to be wed to this man, Berengaria had glanced toward his wife with both sympathy and curiosity, for her father’s sister Margarita had often written to them about life at the Sicilian court. Constance de Hauteville was as tall as her husband, very elegant in a lilac gown embroidered with gold threads and tiny seed pearls. Her veil and wimple hid her hair, but Berengaria was sure she’d been blessed with the flaxen tresses so praised by troubadours, for her skin was very white and her eyes were an extraordinary shade of blue, star sapphires framed by thick golden lashes. Berengaria had expected her to be fair, for the de Hautevilles were as acclaimed for their good looks as Henry and Eleanor’s brood. Time or marriage had not been kind to Constance, though; in her mid-thirties now, she was almost painfully thin, and what remained of her beauty had become a brittle court mask. Her manners were flawless, her bearing regal. But Berengaria could see in this aloof, self-possessed woman no traces of the girl in her aunt Margarita’s letters, the fey free spirit who’d been privileged to grow up in Eden.
Just as Eleanor had predicted, the conversation was coldly correct. She’d offered her condolences for the death of Heinrich’s father and received an appropriate response in return. They then talked of the weather and their respective journeys through the Alps, both agreeing that his had been the easier route, for the Brenner Pass was at a much lower altitude than Montgenèvre. The stilted dialogue was rendered even more awkward by their language barrier, and long pauses ensued while Heinrich’s German was translated into French for Eleanor’s benefit and her replies were then repeated in his native tongue. The visibly nervous Bishop of Lodi had finally begun to relax, thinking this unsettling encounter was almost over, when Heinrich chose to veer off the road paved with platitudes.
His translator gave him a startled look, and then lowered his eyes discreetly as he relayed the message to Eleanor. “My lord king says that he was pleased to hear of your arrival, Madame, for he is sure that you could not have reached such a venerable age without acquiring the prudence and wisdom that your son so obviously lacks. It is his hope that you will exert your influence with the King of the English ere it is too late. His rash decision to embrace that bastard Tancred and even to sanctify their unholy alliance by wedding his heir, Arthur of Brittany, to the usurper’s daughter is one that will cost England dearly—unless you can convince him that he has made a monumental blunder.”
Berengaria was grateful that no eyes were upon her, for she could not suppress a gasp. When she looked toward Eleanor, she felt a flicker of admiration, for the queen did not even blink at the astonishing news that her son John had been disinherited in favor of a Breton child who was not yet four years old. “Tell Lord Heinrich,” she said, with a smile barbed enough to draw blood, “that I have the utmost confidence in the judgment of my son, the English king. I will overlook his blatant bad manners, though, as reaching such a ‘venerable age’ has given me a greater understanding of the human heart. It must be unbearably humiliating and humbling for him—being rejected by the lords and citizens of Sicily in favor of a man born out of wedlock.”
The translator looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue. “Madame, I . . . I cannot tell him that!”
“Of course you cannot,” the Bishop of Milan interceded smoothly. “Let me do it.” And Milo gleefully proceeded to do just that, in fluent Latin. By the time he was done, Heinrich’s pale skin was blotched with hot color. He spat out something in German, then turned on his heel and stalked away, as the counts of Eppan and Shaumberg and the Bishop of Trent jettisoned their dignity and scurried to catch up with him.
Constance did not follow. Instead she accepted a wine cup from a passing servant and smiled blandly at Eleanor. “I’d rather not translate that last remark, if you do not mind, my lady.” Eleanor smiled just as blandly, saying that sometimes translations were unnecessary and, to Berengaria’s amazement, the two women then began to chat nonchalantly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Listening as they discussed benign topics of interest to neither of them, Berengaria wondered if she’d ever achieve that sort of icy aplomb. How did they learn to immerse the woman in the queen? Could she learn to do that, too? Did she even want to learn?
The conversation soon turned to music, for Boniface of Montferrat was a noted patron of troubadours, with one of the best known in his entourage here at Lodi: Gaucelm Faidit. Gaucelm was native to
Eleanor’s world, a son of the Limousin, and she assured Constance that they could look forward to an evening of exceptional entertainment. “Gaucelm Faidit was often at my son Geoffrey’s court in Brittany and with Richard in Poitou ere he became king. I’ve been told that Gaucelm and Geoffrey once composed a tenso together, and I would dearly love to hear it.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged. I know your son Richard is a poet. Geoffrey was one, too, then?”
“He turned his hand to poetry from time to time, but not as often as Richard, who derives great pleasure from music. If you’ll overlook a mother’s pride, I can honestly say that several of his sirventes are as sardonic and witty as any composed by Bertran de Born.”
“Does he write in French or in lenga romana?” Constance asked, sounding genuinely curious, and nodded thoughtfully when Eleanor said he composed in both languages but preferred the lenga romana of Aquitaine. “My lord husband is a poet, too . . . did you know that, Madame? Heinrich could easily compose in Latin, or even French. But like your son, he prefers his native tongue, and has written several songs of courtly love that are quite good—if you’ll overlook a wife’s pride.”
“Indeed? Most interesting. Lord Heinrich is a man of hidden talents,” Eleanor murmured, all the while seeking to decipher the message cloaked in those seemingly casual words. Constance had just alerted her—and with a subtlety that Eleanor could appreciate—that she should guard her speech in Heinrich’s hearing, for if he understood enough French to compose in it, he’d had no need of a translator. What she did not understand was why the other woman was giving her this warning.
She soon had her answer, though. Constance glanced about the hall, saw that they were no longer attracting attention, their conversation too banal to stir suspicions, and lowered her voice, pitching it for Eleanor’s ears alone. “You said that you were traveling to Rome, Madame. Since you’ve come so far, I assume you’ll continue on to see your son in Messina. If I give you a letter for your daughter, will you deliver it to Joanna for me?”
Eleanor did not hesitate, instinctively sure that the other woman was acting for herself, not for Heinrich. “Of course I will. Joanna often mentioned you in her letters, saying you’d done much to ease her loneliness when she arrived in Palermo.”
For the first time, Eleanor saw a genuine smile light Constance’s face. It had a transforming effect, shedding years and cares and calling up the ghost of the carefree young girl she’d once been. “I always thought of Joanna as if she were my flesh-and-blood. Mayhap not a daughter since there were only eleven years between us, but most definitely a little sister. During our stay in Lodi, I would be pleased to share with you stories of Joanna’s girlhood at William’s court.”
“That would give me great pleasure, Lady Constance.” Eleanor proved then that Constance had won her trust by saying with unguarded candor, “Do you know what has befallen my daughter? William’s death was followed by a strange and ominous silence. She did not write and I very much fear it was because she was unable to do so. I’d hoped to learn more in Rome, but I am guessing that your lord husband hears of it as soon as a tree falls in a Sicilian forest.”
“Indeed, he does. You had reason for concern, Madame, for Joanna was ill treated by Tancred. He seized her dower lands and then held her prisoner in Palermo, fearing her popularity with the people and her fondness for me. But she is safe now, has been free since last September. Have you ever heard of a scirocco? It is the name we use for a wind that comes out of the African desert and rages across the sea to Sicily, where it wreaks great havoc. Well, your Richard swept into Messina like a scirocco, and Tancred not only set Joanna at liberty, he soon settled her dower claims, too. I daresay his sudden change of heart had something to do with the fact that Richard had seized control of Messina. It is called negotiating from a position of strength, I believe.”
Eleanor paid Constance a rare compliment, allowing the younger woman to see the vast relief that flooded through her soul. “Thank you,” she said simply, and they exchanged a look of silent understanding, the mutual recognition that women like them, however high of birth and resolute of will, would always be birds with clipped wings, unable to soar in a world ruled by men.
DESPITE THE PRESENCE of a king and two queens, the center of attention soon proved to be the younger son of an Italian marquis. Boniface of Montferrat was a magnet for all eyes, for he was strikingly handsome, with curly fair hair, vivid blue eyes, and the easy smile of a man who well knew the potent appeal of his own charm. He had a reputation for battlefield heroics and reckless gallantry, his exploits often celebrated by the troubadours who frequented his court, and, unlike his German cousin Heinrich, he was outgoing and affable. Fluent in four languages, one of which was the lenga romana of Aquitaine, he and Eleanor were soon chatting like old and intimate friends. He continued to hold sway over the high table during their elaborate meal, flattering Heinrich, flirting with Constance, jesting with Eleanor and Bishop Milo. But when the talk turned to the struggle with the Saracens, he related a story about his brother Conrad that caused an astonished silence to settle over the hall.
For the benefit of those unfamiliar with his family history, he explained that his eldest brother William had been wed to the Lady Sybilla, sister of Baldwin, the Leper King, but he’d died soon afterward, and Sybilla had then made that accursed marriage to Guy de Lusignan, which resulted in the loss of the Holy Land to the infidels. “My lord father was amongst those taken prisoner at the Battle of Ḥaṭṭīn. When my brother Conrad took command of Tyre, Saladin brought our father to the siege, demanding that Conrad yield the city or our sire would be put to death before his very eyes. He did not know my brother, though. Conrad shouted down from the walls that he’d never surrender Tyre, that his father had lived a long life and Saladin should go ahead and kill him!”
Boniface paused then for dramatic effect, and burst out laughing at the dumbfounded expressions on the faces turned toward him. “Conrad does not lack for filial devotion, I assure you. But he would never surrender the only city still under Christian control, and if the price of Tyre’s survival was our father’s death, so be it.”
Most of those listening were greatly impressed by Conrad’s piety. Only Eleanor thought to ask what had happened to his father. Boniface’s answer was somewhat anticlimactic. “Oh, Saladin eventually freed him, and he was allowed to join Conrad in Tyre.”
Boniface then diplomatically shifted attention back to his royal cousin, asking Heinrich about his Sicilian campaign. Eleanor was no longer listening, for Boniface’s offhand revelation had stirred an old memory from the waning years of England’s civil war. At the age of five, Will Marshal had been offered up by his father as a hostage, a pledge of John Marshal’s good faith. But Marshal had broken his oath, and when the outraged King Stephen had warned that his son would die if he did not surrender Newbury Castle as he’d promised, his ice-blooded reply had passed into legend. Go ahead and hang Will, he’d said, for he had the hammer and anvil with which to forge other and better sons. John Marshal had gambled the life of his son upon his understanding of his foe, sure that Stephen could not bring himself to hang a child—and indeed, Will had been spared. Eleanor wondered now if Conrad had been wagering, too, upon an enemy’s honor.
THEIR HOST HAD ENGAGED harpists to play while his guests dined. Afterward, Boniface’s renowned troubadour took center stage. Gaucelm’s repertoire was an extensive one, offering cansos of love and the dawn songs known as albas, interspersed with the stinging political satire of the sirvente. When he retired to thunderous applause, several of Boniface’s joglars were summoned next. They began with a tactful tribute to Boniface’s liege lord, performing one of Heinrich’s songs of courtly love, although only the members of the royal retinue understood German. They then accepted audience requests, and the hall was soon echoing with popular songs of past troubadour stars like Bertran de Born, Jaufre Rudel, and a female trobairitz who’d composed under the name Comtessa de Diá.
&n
bsp; As the evening progressed, the songs became increasingly bawdy, culminating in Heinrich’s request for a song by Eleanor’s grandfather, Duke William of Aquitaine, a man often called “the first troubadour,” who’d delighted in outraging the Church both in his life and in his songs. The one chosen by Heinrich was surely his most ribald, the rollicking tale of a knight who’d pretended to be mute so two highborn ladies would think it safe to dally with him. After testing him by letting a savage tomcat rake its claws along his bare back, they’d taken him to bed, where he boasted that he’d sinned so often that he’d been left in a woeful state “with harness torn and broken blade.” When he’d recovered from his amorous ordeal, he’d sent his squire back to the women, requesting that, in his memory, they “Kill that cat!”
The song was a carnal celebration of sin, but if Heinrich had hoped to embarrass the English queen, he’d misread his adversary. Eleanor was proud of her incorrigible, scandalous grandfather, and she laughed as loudly as anyone in the hall at his amatory antics. It was her son’s betrothed who was embarrassed by the blunt language and immoral message. Berengaria had listened with discomfort as the songs became more and more unseemly. She’d been particularly offended that a woman could have written the lascivious lines penned by the Comtessa de Diá, “I’d give him reason to suppose he was in Heaven, if I deigned to be his pillow,” for the comtessa’s song was a lament for an adulterous lover. Berengaria kept her disapproval to herself, sipping her wine in silence as the hall rocked with laughter, but she’d not yet mastered one of the subtleties of queenship: the art of subterfuge. Her face was still the mirror to her soul and her unease was noticed.