But a good marriage did not need love to flourish, and people did not enter into matrimony with expectations of finding their romantic soul mates. Joanna had many reasons to be thankful that she was William’s wife, and she knew she was much luckier than the vast majority of women, including those secluded slave girls in her husband’s harim.
It was true that as she matured, she began to have misgivings about William’s prudence and his political judgments. He pursued a very aggressive foreign policy, one motivated as much by revenge as ambition, for he bore a bitter grudge against the emperor of the Greek Empire, who’d betrothed his daughter to William and then changed his mind, leaving William waiting in vain for her arrival at Taranto. William never forgot that public humiliation, and never forgave. He’d bided his time and saw his chance midst the chaos that followed the emperor’s sudden death. He dispatched the Sicilian fleet and a large army to capture Constantinople, but the result was a costly, embarrassing defeat.
Joanna had been troubled by his determination to conquer the Greek Empire, for it did not seem likely to succeed. In that, she was her father’s daughter, a pragmatist at heart. She was even more troubled by the marriage that William made to pave the way for his war. There had long been great enmity between the Kingdom of Sicily and the Holy Roman Empire, but when Emperor Frederick Barbarossa had unexpectedly offered a marital alliance, William accepted, for that would free him to devote all his efforts to the conquest of the Greek Empire. And so he’d wed his aunt Constance to Heinrich von Hohenstaufen, the King of Germany and the emperor’s eldest son and heir. The marriage created an uproar in Sicily, for it raised a frightening specter. If William were to die without a son or daughter to succeed him, Constance would be the heiress to the Sicilian throne, and the Sicilians would rather have the Devil himself rule over them than Constance’s hated German husband.
Joanna had shared the public distaste for this alliance, for the Holy Roman Emperor had long been a foe of her family’s House. Moreover, she hated to see Constance, whom she’d grown to love, sent off to exile in Germany, a cold, harsh land to a woman accustomed to the sun-splashed warmth of Palermo. Heinrich was only twenty at the time of the marriage, eleven years younger than Constance, but he’d already earned a reputation for brutality, and Joanna doubted whether even an empress’s crown would compensate Constance for the life she’d lead with Heinrich. William had brushed aside her misgivings, though, just as he ignored the impassioned, panicky objections of his subjects. He was young and healthy, after all, and Joanna had proven herself capable of bearing a son, so he was confident that Heinrich would never be able to claim Sicily on Constance’s behalf, and it irked him that others remained so adamantly opposed to their union.
Joanna had kept her qualms to herself after Constance’s marriage, for what was done was done. Nor did she blame William for not heeding her advice. Unlike her mother, who’d ruled Aquitaine in her own right, she was merely William’s consort and the power was his, not hers. She’d done her best to comfort him after his army’s devastating defeat by the Greeks, for that was a wife’s duty, but to her dismay, he vowed to continue the war at a later date. She was greatly relieved when he had to put his Greek ambitions aside, even if the cause was the disastrous news out of Outremer. The King of Jerusalem’s army had been destroyed by the forces of Salah al-Dīn, and before the year was out, he’d taken the Holy City itself. William was horrified, and he’d immediately dispatched the Sicilian fleet to the aid of Tyre, the last bastion of Christian control, while offering his harbors, riches, and armed forces to the kings who’d taken the cross and sworn to recapture Jerusalem from the Saracens.
Joanna felt some guilt that the catastrophic loss of Jerusalem should be the cause of joy, but the crusade would mean that she’d get to see her father and her brother Richard, for they’d both taken the cross. It had been thirteen years since she’d left her home and family, and she was elated at the prospect of their reunion. When word trickled across the Alps and into Italy of fresh discord between Henry and Richard, she’d refused to let it discourage her. Her father and Richard were often at odds, for they were both stubborn, strong-willed men and Richard remained embittered by the continuing confinement of their mother. She had no trouble convincing herself that they’d patch up this latest squabble, too, as they’d done in the past, and she continued to lay plans for their arrival, for she wanted their welcome to be truly spectacular. She wanted to show them that they’d made the right decision in wedding her to William.
She’d even entertained the notion of accompanying them to the Holy Land. Her mother had done so while wed to the French king Louis, had risked her life and reputation by taking part in a crusade that was an abysmal failure, one that eventually led to the end of her marriage to Louis and remarriage to Joanna’s father. Joanna would gladly have followed in her mother’s footsteps, for it would be the experience of a lifetime. But she could not be sure that William meant to join the crusaders. He’d been very generous in the help he offered. Would he actually leave Sicily, though? He never had done so in the past. He’d launched military expeditions to Egypt, North Africa, Greece, and Spain, but not once had he taken a personal role in one of his campaigns. And this was Joanna’s secret fear, one she could not even acknowledge to herself, that William would again stay safely at home while he sent men out to die in his name.
His harim and faulty political judgment were minor matters compared to this dark shadow. Theirs was a world in which a king was expected to lead his men into war. Her father had done so since the age of sixteen. So had all her brothers and her mother’s male relatives. Even Philippe Capet, the French king, who had a known distaste for war, still commanded his own armies. So had William’s grandfather and his father. Joanna could think of no other ruler in Christendom who’d never bloodied his sword in combat. Only William.
Joanna had not allowed herself to venture any farther along this dangerous road. She was by nature both an optimist and a realist, believed in making the best of what she had rather than yearning for what might have been. She could be happy with William even if she did not love him. But she did not think she could find contentment in marriage to a man she did not respect, and so she kept that door tightly shut and barred. Of course William would accompany her father and brother to the Holy Land. He’d been deeply grieved by Jerusalem’s fall, had withdrawn for days to mourn its loss, even donning sackcloth. It was true he’d not yet taken the cross himself, but surely he would do so when the time came. She firmly believed that. She had to believe that.
She finally fell asleep, but her rest was not a peaceful one, for she was awakened several times by her husband’s tossing and turning. They both slept later than usual in consequence, and when Joanna opened her eyes, the chamber was filled with light. William was stirring, too. His hair had tumbled onto his forehead, giving him a youthful, disheveled look that she found very appealing. He still retained his summer tan, his skin bronzed wherever it had been exposed to the hot Sicilian sun, and as he started to sit up, she found herself watching the play of muscles across his chest. She could feel her body warming to desire, thinking that she was indeed lucky compared to those countless wives who shared their beds with men potbellied, balding, and foul-smelling. William had an eastern appreciation for bathing and she enjoyed breathing in the clean, seductive smell of male sweat.
“God’s Blessings upon you, O Musta’z,” she murmured throatily, playfully using one of his Arabic titles, which they’d turned into a private joke, for it meant “The Glorious One.” Sliding over, she nestled against his body, trailing her hand across his stomach to let him know her intentions were erotic, not merely affectionate.
His response stunned her. “Do not do that!” he snapped, pushing her hand away. Sitting up, he grimaced and then glanced over, saw the stricken look on her face. “Ah, Joanna . . . I am sorry, darling,” he said quickly. “I did not mean to growl at you like that. But that ache in my belly has gotten much worse since yesterday and even
your light touch caused pain.”
Joanna had never known anyone as concerned with his health as her husband. He insisted that his physicians live in the palace and when he heard of the new arrival of a doctor of renown, he would make it worth the man’s while to remain in Sicily and enter his service. Because he rarely seemed sick, Joanna had learned to view his preoccupation as an endearing quirk. She remembered now that he had been complaining last night of soreness in his abdomen, and when he revealed that he’d slept poorly and the pain had moved down into the lower right side of his belly, she showed the proper wifely sympathy, feeling his forehead for fever and asking if he wanted her to summon one of his physicians straightaway.
“No . . . I think not,” he decided. “I’ll see Jamal al-Dīn later if I do not feel better.” He offered amends then for his earlier rudeness with a lingering kiss and, peace made between them, they rose to begin their day.
JOANNA HAD PROMISED to take Alicia to see Zisa, their nearby summer palace in the vast park called the Genoard, and after making sure that her husband had consulted his chief physician, Jamal al-Dīn, she saw no reason not to keep her promise. Accompanied by several of her younger attendants and household knights, they made a leisurely progress down the Via Marmorea, acknowledging the cheers of the market crowds and throwing handfuls of copper follari to the shrieking children who sprinted alongside their horses.
Joanna’s obvious popularity with her subjects was a source of great pleasure to Alicia. She was already in high spirits, for Joanna’s favorite Sicilian hound had whelped and she’d been promised one of the puppies for her own. She’d spent the morning with a tutor, for Joanna was determined that she learn to read and write, and feeling like a bird freed from its cage, she was talking nonstop, pointing out sights that caught her eye and blushing happily when the queen complimented her riding style, for that was another of her lessons.
Joanna was gratified to see the difference that the past few months had made; this cheerful chatterbox could not have been more unlike that mute, terrified child she’d first encountered in the abbey infirmary. Upon their arrival at Zisa, she enjoyed taking Alicia on a tour of the palace’s remarkable hall, where a marble fountain cascaded water into a channel that flowed across the hall and then outside into a small reflecting pool. Alicia was awestruck, kneeling to study the mosaic fish that seemed to be swimming in the ripples generated by a hidden pump, and giggling in polite disbelief when Joanna told her that during special feasts, tiny amphorae of wine were borne along by the water to the waiting guests.
As fascinated as Alicia was with the indoor fountain, she was even more interested in the royal menagerie, home to lions, leopards, peacocks, a giraffe, and elegant cheetahs which Joanna swore could be trained to walk on leashes. Afterward, they took advantage of the warm spell known as St Martin’s summer and had a light meal by the large artificial lake, sitting on blankets and rooting in the wicker baskets packed by palace cooks with savory wafers, cheese, sugar plums, and oranges. Joanna would later look back upon this sunlit November afternoon as a final gift from the Almighty, one last treasured memory of the privileged life that had been hers in the island kingdom of Sicily. But at the time, it seemed only a pleasant interlude, a favor to an orphaned child in need of days like this.
Joanna’s knights were flirting with her ladies, her dogs chasing unseen prey in the orchards behind them. Finding herself briefly alone with the queen, Alicia seized her chance and bravely broached the subject that had been haunting her for weeks. “May I ask you a question, Madame? The Lady Mariam . . .” She hesitated and then asked bluntly, “Is she truly a Christian?”
“Yes, she is, Alicia. Her mother died when Mariam was very young, just as your mother did. Mariam was brought up in the palace and naturally she was raised in the Truth Faith, for it would have been cruel indeed to deny her salvation.” Joanna finished peeling an orange before saying, “I know why you are confused. You’ve heard the talk, the gossip that the Saracens who’ve converted are not true Christians, that they continue to practice their infidel faith in secret . . . have you not?”
When Alicia nodded shyly, Joanna handed a section of fruit to the girl. “That is most likely true,” she admitted composedly. “The Palace Saracens take Christian names and attend Mass, but I am sure many of them do cling to the old ways. My husband and his father and grandfather before him believed that this is a matter between a man and his God. People ought not to be converted by force, for that renders their conversion meaningless. I’ve heard men accuse us of turning a blind eye, and I suppose we do, but it is for the best. Judge the results for yourself, child. Where else in Christendom do members of differing faiths live in relative peace?”
“But . . . but my brother said that nothing was more important than recovering the Holy City from the infidels,” Alicia whispered, relieved when Joanna nodded vigorously.
“Your brother was right. The Saracens in Outremer are our enemies. But that does not mean the Saracens in Sicily must be our enemies, too. Think of old Hamid, who tends to the royal kennels. Remember how patiently he talks to you about the dogs, promising to help you teach your puppy. Do you think of him as an enemy?”
“No,” Alicia said slowly, after a long pause. “I suppose I do not. . . .”
“Exactly,” Joanna said, pleased that Alicia was such a quick study. “Let me tell you a story, lass, one that was told to me by my husband. Twenty years ago, a dreadful earthquake struck our island. Thousands died at Catania, but Palermo was luckier and the damage was less here. The people were still very fearful and William heard nothing but cries and prayers to Allah and His Prophet from those who had supposedly embraced the Christian faith. He did not rebuke them, though, instead told them that each one should invoke the God he worships, for those who have faith would be comforted.”
Alicia was still bewildered, but if Joanna and William did not believe all Saracens were the spawn of the Devil, she would try to believe it, too, she decided. “And Lady Mariam . . . she is a true Christian, not a pretend one?”
Joanna laughed, assured her that Mariam was indeed a “worshipper of the Cross,” as the Muslims called those of the Christian faith, and then rose to her feet, brushing off her skirts, for she saw one of the palace servants hastening up the pathway toward them.
“Madame.” He prostrated himself at her feet in the eastern fashion, waiting for her permission to rise. When he did, she caught her breath, for his eyes were filled with fear. “You must return to the palace, my lady. It is most urgent. Your lord husband the king has been stricken with great pain and is asking for you.”
“Of course. Alicia, fetch the others.” Joanna studied the man’s face intently. “What do his doctors say, Pietro?”
He looked down, veiling his eyes. “They say that you must hurry, my lady.”
CHAPTER 3
NOVEMBER 1189
Palermo, Sicily
As the Lady Mariam approached the king’s private quarters in the Joharia, she saw the vice chancellor, Matthew of Ajello, hobbling toward her. For more than thirty years, he’d been a powerful force in Sicilian politics. Ambitious, ruthless, shrewd, and farseeing, he’d been an effective ally and a dangerous foe, but he was now in the winter of his life, suffering from the relentless ailments of age, and some of his enemies believed his influence was waning. Mariam thought they were fools, for those heavy-lidded dark eyes still blazed with intelligence and vitality. She smiled at the sight of that stooped, wizened figure, for she had a fondness for the old man, rogue though he may be.
He greeted her with a courtly flourish, but when she asked if there had been any change in the king’s condition, he slowly shook his head. “My poor William,” he said sadly, “my poor Sicily . . . ”
Mariam felt a chill, for he seemed to be offering an epitaph both for her brother and his kingdom. Seeing how his words had affected her, Matthew sought to sound more cheerful, saying with a surprisingly youthful grin, “A pity you were not here at noon, my dear, for th
at pompous ass, the Archbishop of Palermo, made a ridiculous spectacle of himself—again. He actually began to argue with the Archbishop of Monreale about where the king ought to be buried, insisting that his cathedral was the proper site even though we all know the king founded Monreale as his family’s mausoleum. The Archbishop of Monreale was understandably horrified that he’d bring up such a subject at such a time and tried to silence him ere the queen overheard. But Archbishop Walter plunged ahead unheedingly and ran straight into a royal tempest.”
“Joanna heard?” Mariam said and winced when he nodded.
“I met her mother once . . . did I ever tell you, my dear? The incomparable Eleanor of Aquitaine. It was more than forty years ago, but the memory is still green. She and her husband—it was the French king then—were on their way home from the Holy Land when their ships were set upon by pirates in the pay of the Greek emperor. Fortunately, our King Roger’s fleet was in the area and came to the rescue. But the queen’s ship was blown off course and by the time it dropped anchor in Palermo’s harbor, she was quite ill. Once she’d recovered, I was given the honor of escorting her to Potenza, where her husband and King Roger were awaiting her. She was a remarkable woman, very beautiful, of course,” he said, with a nostalgic sigh. “But she did have a temper. I saw today that she passed it on to her daughter. Our bombastic archbishop wilted before the Lady Joanna’s fury, shed his dignity like a snake shedding its skin, and bolted, his robes flapping in the breeze.”
Mariam could not share his satisfaction, even though she did share his dislike of Archbishop Walter. What must it have been like for Joanna, keeping vigil by her husband’s sickbed and hearing the prelates squabble over where he was to be buried? Bidding the vice chancellor farewell, she continued on her way. When she glanced back, she saw Matthew was almost out of sight, moving with surprising speed for a man so crippled by gout. He would never be as inept as the archbishop, but he’d been bitterly opposed to Constance’s German marriage, and she was sure he was already plotting how best to thwart Heinrich should William die.