THE
QUEEN’S
DAUGHTER
S U S A N C O V E N T R Y
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
Henry Holt and Company, LLC
Publishers since 1866
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, New York 10010
www.HenryHoltKids.com
Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
Text copyright © 2010 by Susan Coventry
Map copyright © 2010 by Henry Holt and Company
All rights reserved.
Distributed in Canada by H. B. Fenn and Company Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Coventry, Susan.
The queen’s daughter / Susan Coventry.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: A fictionalized biography of Joan of England, the youngest
child of King Henry II of England and his queen consort, Eleanor of
Aquitaine, chronicling her complicated relationships with her warring
parents and many siblings, particularly with her favorite brother
Richard the Lionheart, her years as Queen consort of Sicily, and
her second marriage to Raymond VI, Count of Toulouse.
ISBN 978-0-8050-8992-9
1. Joan, of England, 1165–1199—Juvenile fiction. [1. Joan, of England,
1165–1199—Fiction. 2. Princesses—Fiction. 3. Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—
Fiction. 4. Great Britian—History—Angevin period, 1154–1216—Fiction.
5. Sicily (Italy)—History—1016–1194—Fiction.] 1. Title.
PZ7.C83395Qu 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009024154
First Edition—2010
Map by Laura Hartman Maestro
Printed in the United States of America
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
for
B R A D
P R O L O G U E
THEY SAID HER FAMILY DESCENDED FROM THE DEVIL. BY the age of seven, Princess Joan knew the oft-sung tale by heart. She loved to roll the heroine’s wondrous name around on her tongue—Melusine.
One of the earliest counts of Anjou, Fulks the Black, had returned from an unexplained journey with a mysterious bride, a woman of unearthly beauty—Melusine. The countess bore four sons in quick succession. For their sakes, Count Fulks suffered his wife’s hot temper and strange ways.
Her most provoking habit was to leave mass before the consecration of the Host. When Fulks could no longer tolerate the resulting scandal, he commanded three of his knights to prevent her next departure from church. The following Sunday, when Melusine rose during mass, two men seated behind her stood to block her exit. The third knight barred the door.
The priest marched down the aisle, determined to see her take Communion. But as he brought the body of Christ to her lips, Melusine turned away, eyes flashing fire. At once her skin sloughed, revealing scales. Serpents writhed in her hair, and a twisted tail emerged from beneath the hem of her skirt. Recognizing a daughter of Satan, the knights fell back in horror. Melusine gathered her howling sons in her claws and flew out the window but, in her haste, dropped the youngest.
The later counts of Anjou descended from that boy.
Joan’s father, King Henry II of England, was born count of Anjou. He took fierce pride in the tale, blaming his own hot temper on Melusine’s blood. Joan’s mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, often added that the king had no lack of sins to excuse. Sometimes, when her brothers ran wild, courtiers crossed themselves, whispering, “From the devil they’ve come, to the devil they’ll return.” Joan hid her own temper as best she could. Even so, once, in a fury, she bit her nurse, and the woman called her “Devil’s child.”
Her mother found her weeping. She smoothed Joan’s hair and petted her. She said, “Remember, a good girl says her prayers and listens to her mother.”
Eleanor said the devil could not claim a girl who was good.
P A R T O N E
P R I N C E S S J O A N
O N E
Poitiers, Poitou County, France, February 1173
WE’RE GOING ON A JOURNEY, TESSIE,” JOAN SANG TO HER poppet. The words were drowned by grousing men dragging wooden trunks along the floor. Lifting the rag doll to eye level, she waggled the limp head back and forth so Tessie could acknowledge her delight.
Her father had been in London and came to Poitiers on his way south to the city of Limoges, another of his French fiefdoms. He was going to bring them along—Joan, all four of her brothers, and Mama. Did it mean he was no longer angry? She squeezed Tessie tighter. It must; she couldn’t bear it when Papa was angry.
“Hurry. The king is waiting,” her nurse said, coming up behind. “Must you bring that dirty toy?”
Joan tucked the doll under her arm. The trick was to ignore Agnes, not argue.
“Oh, no!” Agnes said, her eyes drawn to two men lifting a heavy cedar trunk. “Not that one, the smaller. And be quick.”
Joan pressed her lips tight to keep from laughing. Her father had arrived in Poitiers two days ago. He had said they wouldn’t depart until Friday, three days hence; but this morning at dawn he altered his plans. The servants were just as flustered as Agnes, who swore the king enjoyed turning the household upside down.
“I’m ready,” she said. “I’ll wait out—”
“Child, if you step outside that door…” Instead of finishing the threat, Agnes took one last squint-eyed look around. The beds were stripped bare. The traveling trunks, packed to their limit, made a labyrinth across the floor. “Lord help us if we’ve forgotten anything.”
Joan snatched the nurse’s bony hand and pulled toward the door. “I want to get to the wain before John.”
She always fought with her younger brother over the best spot. Straw mattresses would pad the cloth-canopied wains carrying the queen’s retinue, but the mattresses never reached into the far recesses. Those unlucky enough to be seated near corners would spend half the ride trying to keep their bottoms from slipping onto the wood.
Agnes followed her downstairs, but without enthusiasm. When they emerged from the stairwell, the gallery stretched before them, lit along both sides by tapers, black smoke painting the gray stone walls. At its end, an arc of pale winter sunlight marked the doorway to the courtyard. Joan slipped her hand from her nurse’s, her body tensed to run.
Agnes sighed. “Don’t act like a wild sprite of the woods, child. Look. There’s your mother.”
Queen Eleanor had stepped from an adjoining gallery, the sunlight framing—so troubadours attested—the most beautiful woman in the world. Listening to those singers had taught Joan how men measured beauty: white hands, red lips, a crown of dark hair, eyes full of light. Though she was fifty years old, Eleanor of Aquitaine continued to inspire poetry, every word of which rang true to Joan.
“Mama!”
“Good morning, sweetling,” Eleanor called, then turned back and beckoned. “Hurry, John. Your father is waiting.”
Still clutching Tessie, Joan ran to where two streams of people and baggage converged at the intersection of the passages. She saw John trailing behind his nurse, clinging to her skirts.
“Come, John, I’ll race you,” Joan called, knowing the challenge was unfair. Six years old—a year her junior—he was also small for his age and timid. John’s face was taut, but he nodded. Agnes caught up in time to overhear.
“Joan, don’t—”
“Let them go,” Queen Eleanor said. “They may as well run now. They’ll be cooped up in the wain until daybreak tomorrow.”
That was all Joan needed to bolt, John at her heels. She decided to let him win. He passed her on the steps to the courtyard, where they crashed into the wain
almost simultaneously. The groom tending the horses glowered. Her father’s journeys put everyone in a bad mood.
“Help me up, John,” she said, smashing Tessie as she grabbed the iron handles jutting up from the side of the wain.
“No, I want to go first.”
A deep voice scolded, “Where are your manners, boy?”
She smiled. It was Richard—her champion. Though all of fifteen, her second-eldest brother never treated her like a baby the way Henry and Geoffrey did. Henry, eighteen this month and puffed with pride, condescended to her and thought himself generous. Fourteen-year-old Geoffrey fixed his efforts on impressing his brothers; when he paid her any attention at all, it was to tease.
Richard said she should love him best because she took after him. They both had red-gold hair, wide foreheads, and blue eyes. Mama once jested they both also had Angevin dispositions—like Melusine. When their father said that was a good trait, Mama had laughed.
The memory stole away her smile. Her parents hadn’t laughed together in so long. Papa used to summon them to his other castles all the time, but now, he rarely bothered. And when he came to see them in Poitiers, he generally stormed off in a temper after only a few days. It seemed whenever Mama and Papa were together, they argued.
Richard scooped Joan up like a kitten and tossed her through the curtain. She landed on the scratchy mattress.
“Tessie!” she yelled, poking her head out.
Richard picked up the doll and handed it to her. He turned to their brother. “What about you, Johnny-boy? Will you ride to your lady on horseback or be delivered in a wain?”
John looked up at his brother. His mouth hung open, and his dark eyes were blank.
“What lady?” Joan asked Richard. They ignored John as he struggled to grasp handles too high for him, hopping and bumping against the wain.
Richard smirked. “Never mind. It wasn’t meant for your ears.”
She hated when her brothers kept secrets. Her mother said a queen’s daughter had to be aware of everything happening around her. If men wouldn’t tell her, it was her duty to find out.
“I’ll ask Mama.”
He mimicked the high pitch of her voice. “Ask Mama.” Then: “Or be patient for once. You’ll find out.”
Knees scraping against the wood, John hauled himself over the edge of the wain and landed in a heap. He popped up triumphantly. “I did it!”
The queen’s retinue approached. Richard backed away to let a groom set a stool behind the wain. Their mother stepped onto it.
“Richard says we’re going to see John’s lady,” Joan said.
Eleanor glanced over her shoulder at Richard and scowled.
“I didn’t know it was a secret,” he said, sulking. Joan was glad he didn’t look at her. She hadn’t meant to tattle, not really.
“It isn’t.” Eleanor faced the wain to address Joan. “We are going to Limoges to meet the count of Maurienne. Your father thinks his daughter will be a good match for John.”
Joan frowned—he was no prize for any man’s daughter. He was “John Lackland” unless one of their older brothers died. The king of France had assigned the mocking epithet, pointing out that Papa had more sons than lands to bequeath.
“Why would the count give his daughter to John?” Joan asked.
“He won’t. Unless your father promises Chinon, Mirabeau, and Loudun.”
“But those castles are supposed to be Henry’s.”
“Your father expects Henry to yield them to John.”
Joan’s joy dripped away like water through her fingers. Henry and Papa did not need another reason to fight. Richard said nothing, but his face was sullen.
“What does Henry think about that?” she pressed.
Her mother looked away. “Richard, find your horse. Your father is ready to start.”
QUEEN ELEANOR SAID ONLY FOOLISH RULERS WERE UNFAMILIAR with their own domains, so Joan peered through the gap in the russet curtains and studied Limousin’s countryside until it grew dark. They passed through fields brown with last year’s grain, edged with clusters of neat cottages. Here and there, villagers emerged to watch them pass. Some waved their hats—they looked like flailing spiders. She didn’t mind when Agnes pulled her from the curtain and told her to sleep.
When day broke, they were near enough to the city that she could recognize the terrain. Limoges was built largely of stone and sat on the bank of the river. Joan watched the walls grow larger until they filled her sight. The aged brown castle had a few narrow windows set high in the towers, and forbidding ramparts overhung with wooden hoardings.
The portcullis stood open in welcome. Though King Henry was not due for another three days, the lord of Limoges knew her father. The court had probably been prepared for a week.
Amid the disorder of unloading, Joan tied Tessie to her skirt, beckoned John, and slipped away from their guardians. There were children in the castle; there must be something to do. She led John into the courtyard, crowded with men and horses. A ramshackle cart partially blocked her path; it held barrels of ale, some of which had been cracked open. She hurried past the sour smell of rot and drink.
Across the yard, by the far wall, Richard stood surrounded by what her mother would call a gaggle of brigands. Joan waved but he didn’t see. She didn’t recognize most of the swaggering youths flaunting their swords and talking loudly. Closer, a group of boys about her age crouched in a circle fraught with motion. What were they doing?
“Come, John.”
She crept up and squeezed between two of the boys. Field mice, prodded with sticks, skittered down lanes drawn in the dirt. Disgusted, she stepped backward, crunching the toes of boys who closed in around her. One wrested her arms behind her back and yelled, “She wants to see!”
Another plucked up a brown mouse by its tail. He thrust it, arch-backed, limbs splayed, into her face.
“John!” she shrieked, turning her head and shutting her eyes. She heard scuffling. Tiny feet scrabbled in her hair. Squeaking near her ear—
“Richard! Riii-chaaard!”
A smack sounded, and her tormentors scattered. Strong hands caught her under the arms. She looked up, expecting her brother. Instead, she saw a stranger.
“Are you hurt?” He looked Richard’s age and was similarly lean and compactly muscled. But his eyes were nothing like Richard’s. They were gray as mail, soft as petals. Strands of tangled brown hair curled across a beardless chin. His mouth was set in a thin, hard line.
“No.” She felt queasy.
“Just frightened.” The hardness disappeared from his lips; he sounded amused.
She pulled from his hands. “I’m not frightened.”
“Then I must compliment your convincing imitation.”
Why come to her aid just to mock her? She tried to answer as her mother might. “Your imitation of courtesy, to the contrary, leaves much to be desired.”
“Oh-ho! Fine thanks, lady!” he said, laying folded hands across his heart. His voice held the accent of the south—Occitan, her mother’s native language. “After I rescued you—”
“From a mouse, not a dragon. How much gratitude—”
Interrupting with laughter, Richard came at last. “So, you’ve met my sister.”
“Your sister?” Her defender’s mouth dropped open.
“Couldn’t you guess? My mother’s image.”
The knight looked at her. She flushed. She stood before him, a ragamuffin in her traveling dress and a layer of dirt, plaits mussed by a frantic rodent, all too aware she would never match her mother. Staring back with offended dignity, she resisted the urge to smooth her dress or rub the dust from her face.
Richard said, “My mother’s tongue, I meant. The poor girl looks like me!” Laughing again, he clapped the knight’s arm and turned him back toward the far wall where the others waited. He called back over his shoulder, “Joan, does Agnes know you’re scuffling in the courtyard with stableboys?”
Angry with him, she didn�
�t answer. She looked at John, whose hunched shoulders and long face told her how frightened he’d been.
“I tried to kick them,” he mumbled, rubbing his arm.
“If you hadn’t slowed them, they’d have put the mouse down my dress. You are my champion, John.”
He straightened his shoulders and beamed.
“OUCH!”
“Sit still and it won’t hurt.” Agnes raked the comb against Joan’s head. She gritted her teeth. Agnes was not allowed to beat her, so when she misbehaved, her nurse combed her hair.
Agnes cared little for all she had suffered. As if the mouse and the fair knight’s insults were not enough, now she couldn’t find Tessie. Charisse, the kindest of her mother’s attendants, had helped look through the baggage, although Joan knew the hunt would be fruitless. Tessie must have fallen loose in the courtyard, and Agnes would not let her return to search.
Joan sat on a stool in her mother’s antechamber, where several of Eleanor’s ladies were primping. The room was awash in fluffing dresses and the wafted scent of flower petals and sweet herbs the ladies tied in packets to their underskirts. Chattering blended to a low-level hum.
She tried to hear everything. Her father and mother had been in council all afternoon. Clenching her hands in her lap, she prayed her father hadn’t given any of Henry’s castles to John. This journey was turning out to be unpleasant enough.
Charisse, in a brown robe and blue girdle that flattered her blond hair and slender figure, threaded through the ladies. “I’ll do the plaits, Agnes.”
Charisse was famous for her plaiting—long, even, intricate braids that lay perfectly flat. The queen let no one else touch her own smooth black hair.
Agnes sniffed and stood aside. Joan sighed with relief when the comb changed hands.
She heard one of the maids giggle. “No, he’s a brute. But did you see the fair son of Toulouse?”
She perked up. Toulouse?
“Wet behind the ears. Let him grow a few inches first.” The scornful voice belonged to Amaria, Mama’s pretty, green-eyed favorite.
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