Mariam was no more eager than the vast majority of William’s subjects to see Sicily swallowed up by the Holy Roman Empire. She loved Constance as much as Joanna did, but she loved her Sicilian homeland, too, and had no doubts that the kingdom would suffer under Heinrich’s iron yoke. Damn William’s stubbornness for refusing to see what a great risk he was taking! This spurt of anger shamed her. How could she be wrathful with her brother when he could well be dying?
Two of William’s African bodyguards moved aside respectfully as she approached the door to his bedchamber. It was then that she saw the reddish-brown creature huddled on the floor. Recognizing Ahmer, her brother’s favorite Sicilian hound, she frowned. But her disapproval was directed at William’s Saracen doctors, not Ahmer. Muslims looked upon dogs as dirty animals, and she knew they were responsible for banishing Ahmer from his master’s bedside. The hound whimpered as she scratched his head, and she found herself smiling as a memory surfaced, one of William debating his chief physician, Jamal al-Dīn, about the status of dogs. Jamal had insisted that they were ritually unclean and were to be shunned by Believers, and William, whose Arabic was fluent enough to allow him to read their holy book, had pounced gleefully, pointing out that there was only one reference to dogs in the Qur’an and it was a positive one, citing the Companion in the Cave sura as proof. Her smile faded then, for she could not help wondering if they’d ever be able to engage in such good-natured arguments again. Each time she saw William, he seemed to be losing more ground.
Opening the door, she let Ahmer squeeze in ahead of her. She had a moment of concern, fretting that he’d jump onto the bed, but he seemed to sense the gravity of the situation and sat down sedately at Joanna’s feet, his almond-shaped eyes never straying from William’s motionless form. Joanna’s drawn face and slumping shoulders bespoke her utter exhaustion, but she mustered up a smile, saying, “Your sister is here, my love.”
Mariam sat in a chair by the bed, reaching for William’s hand as she tried to conceal her dismay at the deterioration in his appearance. Her handsome brother looked like an ashen, spectral version of himself, his eyes sunken and his cheeks gaunt. He’d lost an alarming amount of weight in so brief a time, and his skin felt cold and clammy to her touch. “Zahrah,” he said hoarsely, bringing tears to Mariam’s eyes with the use of this Arabic childhood endearment. He was obviously in great pain. He seemed pleased, though, when she told him she’d sneaked his dog in, and dangled his fingers over the edge of the bed for Ahmer to lick.
The physicians had been conferring in a corner, studying a vial of liquid that Mariam assumed was William’s urine. Glancing over, Jamal al-Dīn noticed the dog and glared at Mariam, who favored him with an innocent smile. When he approached the bed to take his patient’s pulse, Mariam took advantage of the distraction to implore Joanna to get some sleep, but the other woman stubbornly shook her head.
“He is calmer when I am here,” she said before lowering her voice still further to whisper an indignant account of the Archbishop of Palermo’s gaffe. “That wretched old man still bears a grudge against William for establishing an archbishopric at Monreale. But I never imagined that his rancor would impel him to contemplate burying William whilst he is still alive!”
Mariam concurred, but all the while she was regarding Joanna with sympathy so sharp it felt like a dagger’s edge. Joanna seemed to be the only one blind to the truth, that William’s labored breaths were measurable and finite. Barring a miracle, he was dying, and all knew it but his wife. While Jamal al-Dīn spoon-fed his patient an herbal remedy for intestinal pain, Mariam continued to urge Joanna to take a brief nap. When William added his voice to Mariam’s, she finally agreed, promising to be back before the bells rang for Vespers.
As soon as she was gone, William beckoned his sister to the bed. “Send for a scribe,” he murmured. “I want to list all that I bequeath to the English king for his campaign to recover Jerusalem. Joanna became distraught whenever I mentioned it. . . .” And as their eyes met, Mariam realized that there had been an odd role reversal between her brother and his wife. Joanna had always been the practical partner, William the dreamer, given to impulse and whims. Yet now she was the one in denial and he was looking reality in the face without blinking.
It took William a long time to dictate his letter, for his strength was ebbing and he had to pause frequently to rest. Mariam sat by the bed, holding his hand, half listening as he offered up the riches of Sicily for a crusade he would never see. “A hundred galleys . . . sixty thousand seams of wheat, the same number of barley and wine . . . twenty-four dishes and cups of silver or gold . . .” When he was finally done, she tried to get him to eat some of the soup sent up by the palace cooks in hopes of tempting his fading appetite, but he turned his head aside on the pillow and she put the bowl down on the floor for Ahmer, which earned her a weak smile from William and a look of genuine horror from Jamal al-Dīn.
William’s fever was rising and Mariam took a basin from the doctors and put a cool compress upon his hot forehead. “At least . . .” William swallowed with difficulty. “At least I need not worry about Joanna . . . Monte St Angelo is a rich county . . . ”
“Indeed it is,” Mariam said, her voice muffled. Joanna had been provided with a very generous dowry at the time of her marriage. It was to William’s credit that even in the midst of his suffering, he was concerned for his wife’s future welfare. Did he spare a thought, too, for his kingdom? Did he regret that foolhardy alliance now that it was too late? Gazing into William’s eyes, Mariam could not tell. She found herself hoping that he was not tormented with such regrets. He had been a careless king, but he’d been a kind and loving brother, and she did not want him to bear such a burden in his last hours. What good would it do, after all?
JOANNA JERKED UPRIGHT in the chair, ashamed to have dozed off. Her eyes flew to the bed, but William seemed to be sleeping. He had not looked so peaceful in days and her faltering hopes rekindled. Taking care not to awaken him, she smiled at his doctor. “He appears to be resting comfortably. Surely that is a good sign?”
Jamal al-Dīn regarded her somberly. “I gave him a potion made from the juice of the opium poppy. It eased his pain and helped him to sleep. Alas, it will not cure his ailment, Madame.”
Joanna bit her lip. “But he may still recover?”
“Inshallah,” he said softly, “Inshallah.”
Physicians were the same, no matter their religion. Joanna knew that when they said “God willing,” there was little hope. Leaning over the bed, she kissed her husband gently upon his forehead, his eyelids, and his mouth.
JOANNA PAUSED in the doorway of the palatine chapel, waiting until her eyes adjusted to the shadows. When a priest appeared, she waved him away. Approaching the altar, she sank to her knees on the marble floor, and began to pray to the Almighty and the Blessed Martyr, St Thomas of Canterbury, entreating Them to spare her husband’s life, not for her sake or even for William’s, but for his island kingdom and all who dwelled there in such peace. Never had she offered up prayers that were so heartfelt, so desperate, or so utterly without hope.
FEW MONARCHS were as mourned as William de Hauteville. His death was greeted with genuine and widespread sorrow by his subjects, for his reign had been a time of prosperity and security, in dramatic contrast to the troubled years when his father had ruled. For three days, they filled the streets of Palermo, lamenting in the Sicilian manner. Women wore black, dressed their servants in sackcloth, their hair unbound and disheveled, wailing to the beat of drums and tambours, their grieving magnified by their fear, for none knew what the future now held.
TAKING ADVANTAGE of her privileged position as Joanna’s childhood nurse, Dame Beatrix was reproaching Joanna for “not eating enough to keep a nightingale alive. I know you’ve no appetite, but you must force yourself lest you fall ill. Indeed, you are much too pale. Should I summon a doctor?”
“There is no need,” Joanna said hastily. “I am not ailing, Beatrix. I have not been slee
ping well.”
Beatrix’s brisk, no-nonsense demeanor crumbled. “I know, my lamb, I know. . . .”
“None of it seems real,” Joanna confessed. “I cannot count how many times I have awakened in the morning, thinking I’d had a truly dreadful dream. It is almost like reliving that moment of William’s death, over and over again. When am I going to accept it? When am I going to be able to weep for him, Beatrix? I feel . . . feel as if there is ice enclosing my heart, freezing my tears . . .”
Beatrix sat beside Joanna on the bed, putting her arm around the younger woman. “I remember my late husband, may God assoil him, telling me about battlefield injuries. He said that sometimes when a man was severely wounded, he did not feel the pain straightaway. He thought it was the body’s way of protecting itself.”
Joanna leaned into the older woman’s embrace even as she said with a rueful smile, “So you are saying I should be patient? That the pain is lurking close at hand, waiting to pounce?”
Beatrix would have sacrificed ten years of her life if by doing so she could spare Joanna sorrow. But she had never lied to Joanna, not to the homesick little girl or the grieving young mother or the bewildered new widow. “Scriptures say for everything there is a season. Your tears will come, child. In time, this will seem all too real to you.”
Joanna did not reply and after a few moments she rose, crossing the chamber toward the window. The blue Sicilian sky was smudged with smoke to the west, and she thought reality was to be found out in the streets of Palermo. “The rioting continues,” she said bleakly, “with men taking advantage of William’s death to pillage the Saracen quarters. Barely a fortnight after his death and his people are already turning upon one another, putting the peace of the kingdom at risk. How he’d have hated that, Beatrix. He was always so proud that there had been no rebellions or plots after he came of age and that Christians, Muslims, and Jews lived in harmony under his rule . . .”
“Saracens make good scapegoats in times of trouble.” This new voice came from the doorway, and Joanna turned toward the speaker, nodding in unhappy agreement as Mariam entered the chamber. “The palace seneschal is waiting outside, Joanna. He says the Archbishop of Palermo is here, seeking to speak with you.”
Joanna’s mouth tightened. Her first impulse was to send him away. She was not sure she trusted herself to be civil to the man who’d defied William’s express wish to be buried at Monreale, ordering the royal sarcophagus to be taken to his own cathedral in the city. Faced with the outraged opposition of Joanna, the Archbishop of Monreale, and Matthew of Ajello, Archbishop Walter had eventually backed down and William was interred at Monreale, but he’d spitefully refused to surrender the magnificent porphyry tomb William had commissioned for his final resting place.
Joanna spat out an imprecation that would have done her profane father proud. But then she said, “Tell the seneschal to escort him to William’s audience chamber.” Seeing their surprise, she said, grimacing, “He is the only one who supports Constance’s claim to the crown. I owe it to her to hear what he has to say.”
THE AUDIENCE CHAMBER had always been Joanna’s favorite room, an elegant vision of gold and green and blue artistry. Now, though, the colors seemed subdued, the designs static and flat. It was as if the archbishop’s very presence leeched all the vibrancy and life from the mosaics. Interrupting his diatribe against the other members of the royal inner council, Joanna said impatiently, “So you are saying the council is split over the succession?”
“That vile miscreant and his accursed puppet are up to their necks in the muck, Madame. They began intriguing as soon as the king was stricken, plotting to put Tancred of Lecce on the throne, and they paid us no heed when my brother and I reminded them that all of the kingdom’s nobility had sworn their fidelity to the Lady Constance ere she departed the realm to wed Lord Heinrich.”
Joanna had no difficulty interpreting his intemperate language; the “vile miscreant” was the vice chancellor, Matthew of Ajello, and the “accursed puppet” the Archbishop of Monreale. She thought it was a sad irony that Constance’s adversaries were men far more capable and trustworthy than her advocates, the archbishop and his weak-willed brother, whose service as Bishop of Agrigento had been utterly undistinguished so far. With men of their caliber in her camp, Constance was bound to lose. It was so unfair. Constance was the legal heiress of the House of Hauteville, King Roger’s daughter, while Tancred of Lecce was merely an illegitimate son of Roger’s eldest son. What greater proof could there be of their desperation that Matthew and the archbishop were willing to embrace a man bastard-born rather than see the crown go to Heinrich? Why had William been so shortsighted? If only he’d chosen another husband for Constance, anyone but a hated German prince! By marrying her off to Heinrich, he’d robbed her of her rightful inheritance.
Joanna did her best to suppress her anger, for there was no undoing William’s mistake. “What of the other lords? Do all the noble families support Tancred, too?”
“I regret to say most do, my lady. Naturally I am not privy to their conspiracy, but I have my own ears and eyes. The Count of Andria has advanced a claim, too, but many feel his blood ties to the Royal House are tenuous, and they have settled upon Tancred as their choice, overlooking his base birth, may God forgive them. My informants say they wasted no time in sending Matthew’s son to Rome to argue Tancred’s case with the Holy Father. So our only hope is that Pope Clement will recoil at the thought of crowning a man not lawfully begotten.”
“If that is Constance’s only hope, then she is well and truly doomed. Nothing frightens the papacy more than the prospect of seeing the Kingdom of Sicily united with the Holy Roman Empire.” Not for the first time, Joanna marveled that she must point out something so obvious. “The Pope will gladly overlook Tancred’s tainted birth if that will prevent Heinrich from claiming the Sicilian crown. He’ll keep his support covert, not daring to openly antagonize the emperor and Heinrich, but covert support will be enough to carry the day for Tancred.”
Joanna had begun to pace, wondering if there was any chance England might intercede on Constance’s behalf. No, that hawk would not fly. Her father would no more aid the son of the Holy Roman Emperor than he would ally with the Sultan of Egypt. Turning, she saw that Archbishop Walter was looking at her in befuddlement. He seemed surprised that a woman could have any understanding of political matters. Did he think she’d never discussed statecraft with William? She was the daughter of the greatest king in Christendom and Eleanor of Aquitaine, not one of William’s secluded harim slave girls, and she longed to remind the archbishop of that. No longer able to endure his odious presence, she was about to end the audience when the door burst open and the Archbishop of Monreale strode into the chamber, flanked by her seneschal, Mariam, Beatrix, and a monk clad in the black habit of the Benedictine order.
Joanna was startled by this blatant breach of protocol, but Archbishop Walter was incensed. “How dare you come into the queen’s presence unbidden and unannounced! You’ve the manners of a lowborn churl, a great irony given how often you’ve maligned my family origins!”
Archbishop Guglielmo responded with the most lethal weapon in his arsenal; he ignored the other prelate entirely, not even deigning to glance in his direction. “My lady queen, I seek your pardon for my abrupt entrance; I mean no disrespect. But it was urgent that I speak with you at once. I bear a message of great import from the English king. I regret to be—”
It had been months since Joanna had heard from either of her parents, and she interrupted eagerly. “A letter from my lord father? Where is it?”
The archbishop hesitated. “No, Madame,” he said at last, “a letter from your brother.”
“But you said the king . . .” Joanna’s words trailed off. “My father . . . he is dead?”
“Yes, Madame. He died at Chinon Castle in July, and your brother Richard was crowned in September.”
“July? And we are getting word in December?” Archbishop Walter was inc
redulous. “What sort of scheme are you and the vice chancellor hatching now?”
The Archbishop of Monreale swung around to confront him. “How could I possibly benefit by lying to the queen so cruelly? King Richard sent a messenger several months ago. But the man fell ill on the journey, got no farther than the abbey at Monte Cassino. He was stricken with a raging fever and the monks did not expect him to live. But after some weeks, he regained his senses and confided his mission to the abbot. Since he was too weak to resume his travels, the abbot dispatched Brother Benedict with the letters, one from King Richard and one from Queen Eleanor. He took the overland route, loath to sail during winter storms, and just reached my abbey this morn—”
“Your abbey?” Archbishop Walter was sputtering, so great was his fury. “And why should the letters—assuming they are even genuine—be sent to you? What greater proof of a plot—”
“He sent the letters to me because Monreale is a Benedictine abbey like Monte Cassino and he knew I could be trusted to deliver these letters to the queen!”
By now they were both shouting at each other, but Joanna was no longer listening. William had often told her about the great earthquake that had struck Sicily twenty years ago, describing the sensations in vivid detail, and she felt like that now, as if the very ground were quaking under her feet. Turning aside, she clung gratefully to Beatrix for support as she sought to accept the fact that her world had turned upside down yet again.
WORD HAD SPREAD swiftly through the palace and Joanna’s chaplain was awaiting her by the door of the palatine chapel. He’d been in her service since her arrival as a child-bride, and after one look at her face, he knew she did not want his comfort, not yet. “I would have a Requiem Mass for my lord father on the morrow,” she said, her voice sounding like a stranger’s to him, faint and far away. When he would have followed her into the chapel, she asked to be alone and he positioned himself in the entrance, ready to repel an army if need be to give her privacy to pray and to grieve.