Berengaria caught her breath and then smiled, suffused with such utter and pure joy that she seemed to glow and, for that moment, she looked radiantly beautiful. “How courageous of him,” she murmured, more impressed by that one act of devout contrition than by all the tales she’d heard of Richard’s battlefield heroics. “Scriptures say that ‘God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble.’”
Eleanor murmured a conventional piety, but, unlike Berengaria, she was more puzzled than gratified by Richard’s spectacular atonement. She was convinced that her husband’s equally spectacular penance at the martyred Thomas Becket’s tomb in Canterbury had been more an act of desperation than one of contrition. She knew, though, that Richard was more emotional and impulsive than his father. Moreover, he had a flair for high drama that Henry had utterly lacked. Was that enough to explain his mea culpa in Messina? Were his sins so great that he felt the need for a public expiation?
Once the meal was over, a harpist was summoned to play and the guests broke into small groups. William de Forz withdrew to a window-seat with the Count of Flanders for a spirited discussion of recent political developments in Outremer. Morgan was flirting with Berengaria and several of her ladies. Eleanor could not help noting that Hawisa stayed as far away from de Forz as she could get, and she felt a flicker of sympathy, for she’d become fond of the outspoken countess and she knew what it was like to be yoked to an unwanted husband. She chatted for a time with the Navarrese envoys and then seized her chance to draw her kinsman aside for a private word.
“You know Richard as well as any man alive,” she said quietly, “for you’ve fought beside him for years. Tell me, André . . . what impelled him to make an act of atonement like that?”
“I think it was because of what Joachim told him, Madame. He said that the king is destined to fulfill those prophesies, that Almighty God will grant him victory over his enemies and glorify his name for all eternity. Naturally, such a prophesy gladdened the king’s heart, but I believe it caused him to search his soul, too. To be told that his deeds could bring about the salvation of mankind is both a great honor and a great burden. I think he wanted to be sure that he was worthy, and so he felt the need to cleanse himself of past sins.”
Eleanor was glad that she’d asked André, for his explanation made perfect sense to her. “Well,” she said with a smile, “he surely emerged as pure as one of the Almighty’s own lambs after such a public scourging of his soul.”
“Indeed, Madame.” André’s answering smile was bland, for not for the surety of his own soul would he have discussed Richard’s sins with his mother, even a mother as worldly as this one. Theirs was a friendship that went deeper than blood, for it had been forged on the battlefield, and he thought it likely that only Richard’s confessor knew more about his cousin’s vices than he did, for some he had witnessed, some he had shared, a few he had suspected, and others neither he nor Richard considered to be sins at all.
Turning away then to fetch Eleanor more wine, André found himself dwelling upon those questions that all true Christians must grapple with. He believed that he was a good son of the Church. But he did not understand why lust was so great a sin. Why must his faith be constantly at war with his flesh? He listened dutifully when priests warned that he must not lie with his wife in forbidden positions or on holy days or Sundays or during Lent, Advent, or Pentecost. He did not always follow those prohibitions, though, and this was a source of dissention in his marriage. But why was it a sin if Denise mounted him or if they made love in the daylight? Why was a man guilty of adultery if he burned with excessive love for his own wife?
It sometimes seemed to him that the Church Fathers knew little of the daily struggles of ordinary men and women. In his world, fornication was not a vice, at least not for men, and it was his secret belief that adultery ought to be a conditional sin, too. What of married men who’d taken the cross? Were they supposed to live as chastely as saints until they could be reunited with their wives? Even the worst sins, those held to be against nature, any sex act that was not procreative, seemed less wicked under certain circumstances. If a poor couple could not afford another child, was it truly so evil to try to avoid pregnancy? He thought the sin of sodomy was more understandable, more forgivable, when committed by soldiers, for what did clerics know of the solidarity of men at war or the sudden, burning urges that followed a battle, a narrow escape from death? All knew that was a vice of the monastery, and surely the Almighty would judge soldiers less harshly than easy-living, privileged monks? No, it seemed to him that there were greater sins than those of the flesh, and no sermons about the Devil’s wiles and eternal damnation had explained to his satisfaction why the Lord God would have made carnal intercourse so pleasurable if such pleasure was a pathway to Hell. Certain that celibacy was an unattainable goal for most men and women, he’d found himself a confessor who’d lay light penances and he took communion before battles so he’d die in a state of grace. More than that, he was convinced, a man could not do.
He’d just returned to Eleanor with a goblet of sweet red wine from Cyprus when his cousin Nicholas de Chauvigny hastened toward them. “Madame, the compalatius has just ridden in and is requesting to speak with you.”
As they awaited his entry, Eleanor commented to André that Aliernus Cottone had doubtless heard of their arrival and wanted to bid them welcome on King Tancred’s behalf. That seemed likely to André. But he changed his mind as soon as the compalatius was ushered into the hall, for his discomfort was obvious to all with eyes to see.
Eleanor noticed it, too, and she began to assess the man at Aliernus’s side. His costly garments proclaimed him to be a lord of rank, as did the sword at his hip, and unlike his companion, he seemed utterly at ease, with the smug complacency of one who enjoyed being the bearer of bad tidings.
The Count of Flanders had sauntered over to join them, his nonchalant smile belied by his narrowed gaze, for Philip read men as well as Eleanor did. After exchanging greetings, Aliernus introduced the stranger as Count Bernard Gentilis of Lesina, Captain and Master Justiciar of Terra de Lavoro, and then said, with the resolve of one determined to get an unpleasant task over with, “The count brings unwelcome news, Madame. I will let him speak for himself, though.”
Eleanor realized then that Aliernus’s disquiet was actually the embarrassment of a man confronted with a duty he did not like. “My lord count?” she asked silkily. “I assume you come from King Tancred. Since he is allied with my son, the English king, I cannot imagine that any news from him would be unwelcome.”
“I have been instructed to tell you, Madame, that you may not sail from Naples. My lord king has decided that your entourage is too large to be accommodated in Messina, and you must continue your journey by land.”
There was a moment of shocked silence before the hall erupted in angry protest, William de Forz identifying himself grandly as the king’s admiral and André dismissing the count’s explanation as utter rubbish. It was Philip d’Alsace, though, who shouted the others down, demanding to know if this idiotic order applied to him, too.
The Count of Lesina seemed unperturbed by the hornet’s nest he’d stirred up. “No, my lord Count of Flanders, you may go wherever you will,” he said with insulting indifference. “My orders apply only to the English queen.”
By now Berengaria had moved to Eleanor’s side, looking bewildered but resolute, and the older woman gave her a quick glance of reassurance. The quarrel was heating up and Eleanor interrupted before it could get out of control. Drawing Philip and Richard’s men aside, she said in a voice pitched for their ears alone, “We accomplish nothing by arguing with this man. We need to learn why Tancred has issued such an inexplicable order, and only my son can do that. I think you ought to return to Messina on the morrow and let Richard know what has happened.”
This delay meant that they would arrive in Messina after the start of Lent and she would not be able to see Richard and Berengaria wed. It was a great disappoin
tment, but she was not about to let anyone see that, for she’d had much practice at hiding her heart’s wounds. Instead of raging as she yearned to do, she said calmly, “Tell Richard that we are well and will continue our journey south whilst he resolves this matter with Tancred.”
RICHARD’S ASTONISHMENT gave way almost at once to outrage. He resisted his first impulse, which was to berate the Count of Flanders for not remaining with his mother and Berengaria; he could not blame Philip for his eagerness to reach the Holy Land and an overland passage would add another month to his journey. Instead he said, “How would you like to meet the King of Sicily, Cousin?” Not waiting for Philip’s reply, he beckoned to one of his knights. “Ride to Catania with all due speed, and tell Tancred that the King of England will be there by week’s end, if not sooner.”
CHAPTER 13
MARCH 1191
Catania, Sicily
Facing Tancred across a wooden trestle table was not the same as facing him across a battlefield, but the hostility in the chamber was unmistakable. Richard’s gaze flicked from the Sicilian king to his teenage son, Roger, and then to his counselors, the aged Matthew of Ajello and his two grown sons, Tancred’s brother-in-law, the Count of Acerra, the Archbishop of Monreale, the pirateadmiral Margaritis, and Jordan Lapin. While he’d arrived with a large escort, Richard had been accompanied into the council chamber only by his cousins, the Count of Flanders and André de Chauvigny, and by Gautier de Coutances, the Archbishop of Rouen. They’d so far remained silent, content to let Richard speak for himself. With Tancred, it was just the opposite; his advisers were doing all the talking, while he said very little, studying Richard through opaque, heavy-lidded eyes. While they were obviously on the defensive—it was difficult to mount a convincing argument for the claim that Messina could not have accommodated Eleanor’s entourage—they were not giving any ground, insisting that their king must act in the best interests of his own subjects. And Richard’s patience, always as ephemeral as morning mist, soon evaporated in a surge of exasperation.
“I have a suggestion,” he said abruptly. “At this rate, Easter will have come and gone ere we’ve made any progress whatsoever. Counselors always seem to have time to waste; kings do not. So it would be in our mutual interest, my lord Tancred, if you and I threshed out the wheat from the chaff by ourselves. Unless, of course, you feel more comfortable here in the council chamber. . . .”
It was a challenge few kings could have refused and Tancred was quick to accept it. Shoving back his chair, he got to his feet and said tersely, “Follow me.”
AS THE MONARCHS APPROACHED the gardens, they were watched with curiosity and some amusement by the palace guards, for the two men could not have presented a more dramatic contrast. Even Richard’s enemies acknowledged that he looked like a king out of legend, tall and athletic and golden, whereas even Tancred’s most devoted supporters would admit that there was nothing regal about his appearance, for he was of small stature and very ill favored. But there was affection, not derision, in the smiles of the guards, for in the fourteen months since he’d claimed the crown, Tancred had displayed qualities that men-at-arms valued more than a handsome face and a royal bearing: courage and energy and tenacity.
Tancred would have been greatly surprised had he known the English king agreed with his soldiers. Richard had devoted most of his life to perfecting the martial skills that had won him such fame, but he did realize that he’d been blessed by the Almighty with physical advantages not given to all—uncommon height and strength and cat-quick reflexes. It was obvious to him that Tancred’s military prowess had been earned by sheer force of will, by his refusal to accept his body’s limitations and his willingness to risk all on the field of battle. To Richard, that made him a man deserving of respect, and he stopped as soon as they came to a marble fountain so Tancred would not have to struggle to keep pace, for his shorter legs required him to take two steps for every one of Richard’s.
Perching on the edge of the fountain, Richard regarded the other man thoughtfully. “We are both kings. But we are both soldiers, too, and I cannot believe that you fancy these diplomatic dances any more than I do. So let’s speak candidly. Unless I know your real reason for refusing to permit my mother to sail from Naples, we do not have a prayer in Hell of reaching any sort of understanding.”
Tancred continued to pace back and forth, keeping his eyes upon Richard all the while. “Do you truly want to reach an understanding?”
Richard blinked. “Why would I not? We are allies, after all.”
“Allies of expediency,” Tancred said bluntly, “dictated by circumstances. But who is to say what will happen if those circumstances change? And the death of Frederick Barbarossa is a great change indeed.”
“So you feel the need to take greater precautions now that Heinrich is stepping into his father’s shoes. You want to protect your borders. I understand that. But surely you do not see my aging lady mother as a threat, Tancred?”
Tancred was quick to respond with sarcasm of his own. “Come now, Richard. Your ‘aging lady mother’ is no matronly widow in her sunset years, content to embroider by the hearth and dote upon her grandchildren. In the game of statecraft, Eleanor of Aquitaine has been a high-stakes player for more than fifty years. You could not have chosen a better agent to confer with Heinrich. Did they reach an accord at Lodi? Or did she merely open the door so you could then pass through?”
Richard was more astonished than angry. “Is that what this is about? You think my mother was scheming with Heinrich? Their meeting at Lodi was happenstance, no more than that, and to hear my mother tell it, it was awkward for both of them.”
“Happenstance is like charity in that it covers a multitude of sins. Suppose I accept what you say—that their meeting at Lodi was by chance—however unlikely that seems. But that still does not explain your mother’s presence in Italy. She is well past the age to be crossing the Alps in winter unless she had an urgent reason for doing so. Why is she here, Richard, if not to strike a deal with Heinrich?”
Before Richard could reply, Tancred flung up his hand, for there was a relief in being able to confront the English king with the suspicions that had been so damaging to his peace of mind. “If you are about to remind me of the hostility between the Angevins and the von Hohenstaufens, spare your breath. Mutual interests can bridge the greatest of gaps, as we both know. At one time, you were considering a marriage with one of Frederick’s daughters, were you not? So is it so far-fetched that you and Heinrich could reach an accord at my expense? I have been told that he has offered you enough gold to buy an entire fleet and has promised to send German troops to the Holy Land, whilst your own mother has suddenly turned up in Lodi with that treacherous two-legged snake. Why should I not believe that I am about to be stabbed in the back?”
Richard was quiet for several moments, considering his options. “So you think Heinrich has bribed me to abandon our alliance? You are a brave man to say that to my face. But I will not take offense, for I think someone is playing a very dangerous game with us both. I am no man’s pawn, though, and neither are you. Let’s prove it by making a bargain here and now. I will tell you the true reason for my mother’s arrival in Italy if you then tell me who has been pouring this poison into your ear.”
Tancred’s mistrust was still obvious, yet he did not hesitate. “Fair enough.”
“My mother is bringing me a bride, the Lady Berengaria, daughter of King Sancho of Navarre.”
“I thought you were plight-trothed to Philippe’s sister.”
“For more than twenty years, surely the world’s longest march to the altar. I have valid grounds for refusing the marriage, grounds the Church will recognize. But that is between Philippe and me.”
“It is none of my concern, and I’ll be the first to admit that. Yet would it not have been easier to disavow the plight-troth and wed the Spanish princess whilst you were still in your own lands?”
“I dared not do that, for Philippe had not want
ed to take the cross. In fairness, neither did my father, but they were both shamed into it by the Archbishop of Tyre. I knew that Philippe would seize upon any excuse to forswear his oath, and I would have given him a silver-gilt one had I revealed my intention to marry Sancho’s daughter. He would have refused to sail for Outremer, using my action as his pretext, for he cares naught for the future of the Holy Land. And then I’d have been faced with an impossible choice—to break my blood oath to liberate Jerusalem in order to defend my own lands, or to honor it, knowing that my domains would be overrun by French forces as soon as we sailed from Marseille. I chose the lesser of evils, and whilst I do not deny it was underhanded, I have no regrets.”
“You have even less reasons for regret than you think, Richard. Philippe is the one who has been ‘pouring poison’ into my ear. He insisted that you and Heinrich were conspiring against me, claiming that Heinrich has bought your support, and using the Lodi meeting to lend credibility to his accusations.” Tancred paused then, mustering up a small, abashed smile. “I suppose I was a fool to heed him. But he was very convincing.”
“I daresay he was,” Richard said grimly. “He has proven himself to be diabolically adept at taking advantage of other men’s vulnerabilities, using my brothers against my father with a puppeteer’s sure touch. In my case, I was using him as much as he was using me, and he had a rude awakening once he realized that. In truth, I think that is one reason why he harbors such animosity toward me.”
Tancred thought it was probably simpler than that; the two men seemed like fire and ice to him, so utterly unlike in every way that conflict was inevitable. The tragedy was that their bitter rivalry would continue to rage in Outremer, and that did not bode well for the rescue of Jerusalem.
TO THE SURPRISE OF ALL, including the two kings, Richard and Tancred discovered they found pleasure in each other’s company, and the brief confrontational visit stretched into a five-day sojourn, with excursions to Mount Etna and the holy shrine of St Agatha, with feasting as lavish as Lenten rules allowed, and an exchange of royal largesse. Richard presented the Sicilian king with Excalibur, the sword of the fabled King Arthur, discovered at Glastonbury Abbey. Tancred offered a more practical gift: fifteen galleys and four horse transports for the crusade.