When she left the library, Sati, waiting by the door with two eunuchs, greeted her with a smile. “A message for you. The king will come to your apartments after supper. We must hurry to prepare.”
Already disgruntled by the tutor’s treatment, she found Sati’s news further cause for frustration. William ignored her except to come to her bed.
Sati and another slave, Fatima, drew her bath while Charisse aired the bed linens and swept the chamber. Sati rubbed her skin with a saffron-tinged oil, leaving it tingling with a faint yellow glow. Charisse brought an armload of blue pimpernel from the garden to decorate the washstand and left the balcony door open for air. The breeze felt deliciously cool after the heat of the bath. Sati provided a light cotton chemise, dyed pale green and embroidered around the neck and hem with primroses. Cotton was even softer than Sicilian silk, and Joan giggled as the cloth brushed her skin.
“There are some things I do like about Sicily,” she murmured.
A tray had come from the kitchen, so she ate her supper quickly then rinsed her mouth with rosewater. She walked around her bedchamber, enjoying the cool air rustling against her chemise. She felt a ridiculous urge to run down into the garden and dip her feet in the fountain. Instead, she merely walked to the door and stared over the balcony.
A quarter-moon shone thinly through the clouds. Had it been day or night when Ermengarde found Lord Raymond alone? She imagined meeting Raymond in her moonlit garden.
“Lady? The king is here,” Charisse said.
Joan hurried to her bed and climbed under the sheet. “Let him enter.”
William walked into the room.
“It’s chilly in here,” he said, frowning. He noticed the balcony door and started to close it, but instead he paused and gazed into the darkness. He stood quietly for what seemed a long time.
At last, he shut the door and turned. “Did you enjoy your friend’s visit?” he asked. “The one with child?” he added as if she had so many visiting friends he needed to make himself clear.
“Yes,” she said. She shouldn’t be annoyed by his fatuous attempt at conversation—at least he was making an effort. Then she guessed—of course, that was why he had come. Someone had informed him she had not conceived; he must try again.
He paced across her floor twice before stopping beside a chair. He sat and pulled off his shoes, then stood to lift the hem of his tunic and peel off his stockings. He dropped the hem and faced her. With the Greek-style tunic covering him from shoulders to floor, he might as well have been fully dressed.
He sat on the edge of her bed. She thought he looked distracted.
“Would you like…some wine?” he asked.
She shook her head, then added quickly, “Would you, my lord?”
He nodded but made no move to summon a servant. Seeing no other option, Joan left her bed. She crossed the room, feeling naked in her chemise, and pushed the door open a crack.
“Charisse. Bring some wine, please. And two cups.” Her voice shook. Perhaps wine might help, after all.
She walked back, aware of William watching her. He pushed the sheet to the foot of the bed and gestured for her to sit. When she reached for the sheet to cover herself, he said, “Don’t,” the word rattling in his throat.
She remembered snippets of troubadours’ lays—of men’s covetous glances and lovers’ scorching stares. She forced herself to meet his gaze and found it not appraising, but troubled. He blinked and turned his head.
Charisse knocked, then brought in the wine. Averting her eyes, she set the jar and two cups on the table by the bedside and hurried out. William poured and handed Joan a cup. She sipped slowly, watching him drink. When he set his cup aside, she took another large gulp and handed hers to him to place on the table. He lay back on the bed beside her, and she wondered if she was expected to touch him.
William sat up abruptly. He drank more wine. Then he stood, unwrapped his girdle, and pulled his tunic over his head. His chest was thin beneath the white shirt, his hips narrow, his arms soft. Had he ever lifted a sword, she wondered?
He flopped back onto the bed. “Oblige me,” he said brusquely.
“What do you want me to do?”
With a grimace of what seemed to be irritation, he sat upright, shook his head, and stared past her. She couldn’t bear to look at him either.
“Joanna?” he said suddenly.
“Yes?”
He made a noise, as if he meant to say something, then thought better of it. For a long moment, he sat without speaking on the edge of her bed. “How old are you, Joanna?”
“Fourteen.”
“How old is your friend?”
Her gut knotted. “Ermengarde? Sixteen, perhaps.”
She heard his breath come out through his teeth. He muttered something she could not catch. He thought she was too young. Two years was too long to wait. The count of Toulouse had waited but ten months.
“My lord?” she said, panicked.
“Hmm?”
What could she say? She said nothing, just picked at the sheet until he looked at her. His eyes were round and sorrowful, edged by dark crescents.
He had been strange tonight, gazing outside, approaching her with reluctance. It would be difficult for him to lie with her, she realized, when he had experienced no such difficulty the first time.
“Are you well?” she asked bluntly.
His eyes widened in surprise, then he shifted away from her. “Do I seem ill?”
“You look tired.” She thought she should not comment on the other.
“Tired? I suppose I am.” He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly.
She wanted to ask what he did that made him so tired. The palace was full of secretaries, notaries, and clerks, but she had no idea what any of them did. She wanted to understand how William governed.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.
He stared at her with the wrinkled forehead that annoyed her so much. “No. No, there is nothing. I’m tired because I haven’t been sleeping.”
“Why not?”
“Why?” He smiled his disinterested half smile and answered not to her but to a space above her head. “I haven’t been sleeping because I am agitated with the archbishop.”
“Archbishop Walter?”
“He was my tutor once, did you know? He taught me how to appreciate architecture, how to search for meaning in Greek philosophies, how…” William sighed. “But now, he searches for obstacles to throw in my path. He spends enormous sums on his cathedral, in hope of convincing the pope we don’t need another archbishopric in Sicily.”
“But we do?”
“Yes.”
Clambering to sit up on her heels rather than reclining, she begged, “Explain to me why.”
“To thwart the archbishop.”
Joan laughed. “That is circular logic.”
This time he looked straight at her, the absent look gone. “The kings of Sicily have been granted authority over the Sicilian Church equal to that of a papal representative. This privilege was bestowed upon my grandfather in gratitude for services rendered to the Holy Father, passed down to my father, then me, and confirmed by each successive pope. The archbishop claims the rights should now revert back to the Church.”
Joan understood all too well the politics of king against archbishop, the tenuous balance of power between church and state. “That’s why you’re building the cathedral in Monreale?”
“A cathedral and an abbey. The abbey will be of the Benedictine order; its abbot will automatically be accorded archiepiscopal status. Palermo’s archbishop will have no authority over Monreale.”
“And will Archbishop Walter find his diocese reduced?”
“Several parishes have already been transferred to the control of Monreale.”
Joan smiled at his cleverness. William had substantially diminished Archbishop Walter’s power—and enhanced his own.
“How did you get the pope to agree to such a scheme?”
He cleared his throat. “You wanted to see the construction? We’ll go tomorrow, after morning prayers.”
“Thank you.” She untucked her legs and sat back on the bed. William waited a moment longer, then stood and gathered his things. He was leaving. He might be too tired to lie with her, but was he coming to like her better?
“Sleep well, my lord.”
He had already turned away. “Perhaps I will.”
SATI AND CHARISSE SKIPPED MORNING PRAYERS TO PACK THE queen’s trunk, in case they were delayed in Monreale overnight; Sati ordered Fatima to accompany Joan to the chapel. As they entered the balcony, Princess Constance whirled around and slapped the slave for stepping on her hem. Joan slid between them at once. The dress was not torn, not even soiled.
“I will discipline my own maids,” she said stonily. Constance glared.
Joan walked past the princess, allowing Fatima to scuttle into place. Constance’s face was a thundercloud, while the queen mother smiled and smiled. One was never happy unless the other was sullen. Joan shook her head. A careless maid was not the source of Constance’s irritation, yet whatever the issue this morning, she didn’t care. She wanted no part of their rivalry. God forbid they would expect her one day to take sides.
She peeked once or twice at William, but he was fervent in his prayers. She prayed earnestly also—that she would soon carry William’s heir, that he would enjoy her company.
Charisse and Sati met her outside the chapel, where a litter waited. For the brief walk from the front gate, all three wore heavy veils as protection from sharp-eyed would-be gawkers. Joan couldn’t imagine anything more absurd. Except, perhaps, being required to travel in a litter as if she did not know how to sit on a horse. It would slow the entire cortege. She hoped William would not resent the pace.
It was well after midday when the quiet of the countryside gave way to the noise of the city. At last the litter halted, shifted, and she heard William’s voice.
“You may come out.”
They veiled their faces and Charisse pushed apart the curtains. William offered his hand to help Joan disembark. She took his arm as they mounted the steps to the north porch of the cathedral.
“God’s teeth,” she swore, tripping. She could scarcely see through the opaque veil. Her legs were clumsy and tingling from the long, cramped ride. “I might as well be blind in this fool hawk’s hood.”
She thought she heard a gruff chuckle. William pushed back her veil.
“I won’t tell my mother if you don’t,” he murmured in her ear. She smiled at him, but he was already looking elsewhere, sweeping his hand out across the view. “It will be grander than the cathedral in Cefalù.” He sounded awed, as well he should. The gleaming, white stone building, even incomplete, was massive. “There is a cloister behind. You should see it now—you won’t be allowed once the monks move in.”
He walked quickly up the stairs, with no trace of the previous night’s lassitude. She had to skip to keep up. He paused before the entrance, a large brass door intricately engraved with Greek archers, saints, and a frightening depiction of Christ’s descent into hell.
Joan caught her breath. It was sublime.
“Barisanus’s work?” she asked, glad to remember the name of the artisan.
He smiled. “Yes. See?” He gave it a light push and the door swung open. Perfectly set on its hinges, it did not even squeak.
“Marvelous,” she said, following him inside.
Sunlight filtered through the casements and unfinished roof. It was the largest cathedral she’d ever seen and the only time she’d ever seen one being erected. Workmen crawled about the scaffolding, seemingly oblivious to the presence of the king. The sound of hammer on stone rang from all corners in a discordant chorus, while dust burst forth at intervals and rained down from above.
“How splendid,” she murmured.
“Yes. Well, it will be. The walls will be covered from one end to the other in mosaics.”
“So many?”
“Ah, Joanna, yes.”
“The greater glory to God.” A man’s deep voice boomed.
Joan jumped. “Bishop Palmer!”
“Sire. My lady queen.” The bishop bowed to William first, then Joan. “Impressive, is it not?”
William slipped his arm from her hand. “Richard, the queen must be returned by sundown, but that should give you an hour or two.”
“More than adequate, my lord.”
“Be sure she sees the cloister.”
The bishop nodded. “Yes, sire.”
“My lord, where will you be?” Joan demanded.
William’s head jerked back as if the sound of her voice startled him.
“The king has a conference with the chief engineers,” the bishop answered smoothly.
Joan fixed her eyes on William, hoping her disappointment was not evident. With feigned indifference, she asked, “You’ll return tomorrow?”
“No.” He wrinkled his brow. “Afterward, I’ll be hunting.”
“At the Cuba?” He kept his harem there. If he had had trouble lying with her, it was not because there was something wrong with him.
He nodded, then his gaze faltered. “In the deer park,” he amended.
Joan heard a shattering of glass somewhere off in the distance. William heard it, too, because he cringed. She hoped it was something large and beautiful and expensive.
E L E V E N
MASTER EUGENIUS SNATCHED A YELLOWING SCROLL FROM her hands. “Queen Joanna, I must insist you confine your studies to what I’ve assigned.”
“I thought King William did not believe in censorship.”
“For scholars, lady.” Eugenius sniffed. “Some things are inappropriate for a wife.”
“Pah.” The scroll had been loose on the library table, in plain view, and the artful Arabic lettering caught her eye. It was a love poem—she’d deciphered that much before Eugenius’s confiscation. “My Arabic would improve more quickly if you gave me something interesting to read.”
“Not this interesting,” he grumbled. He rolled the scroll tightly and stuck it in a basket on the floor.
The suffocating humidity of too many long August days had made her testy. Being trapped in the library—stale-aired and close, even at dusk—did not improve her mood.
“Has the king read it?” she demanded.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I thought you said he’s read everything in here.”
“Everything of worth,” he said, reaching for his copybook and quill pen. “You left off—”
“But you have read it.”
Eugenius’s quill paused above the vellum. He began again. “You left off at the eighteenth line of book six.”
“Why did my husband bother to acquire a work without worth?”
“It was a gift.”
“A gift?” Love poetry? She narrowed her eyes. “From whom?”
“My lady, I don’t—”
“From whom?”
“The Greek Emperor Manuel Comnenus.” She must have appeared dumbfounded because one side of the tutor’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Did you expect a lovely Almohad princess?”
“No. Although that would be a more interesting tale.” Joan did not wait for him to accuse her of frivolousness. “So, when did the emperor send my husband this gift? When William was supposed to marry his daughter?”
He nodded, apparently unsurprised that Joan knew of her husband’s previous betrothal.
“Was the king disappointed the girl did not arrive?”
“He was insulted,” Eugenius said. Then he cocked his head and bit the end of his quill. “Rather the realm was insulted. The king mourned,” he mumbled around the pen.
“Oh.”
The quill fell to the table. “Lady, he did not mourn the loss of Princess Maria. His younger brother accompanied him to Taranto to meet her. On the return to Palermo, the prince was struck with a l
ethal fever.”
“How terrible for William,” Joan murmured. Losing a brother was one tribulation she had been spared.
“More cause for him to hate the Comneni.”
Joan eyed him sidelong. Here was an interesting avenue to explore. “Master Eugenius, I am shocked. Does my husband truly hate the Greek emperor?”
“That question would be better directed to him.”
His response dug a hollow in the pit of her stomach. She had not spoken alone with William in six months, not since he had abandoned her in Monreale. Turning her palms up and forcing a smile, she said, “You know the king speaks ill of no man.”
Eugenius snorted. “Which will serve him better in heaven’s kingdom than here.”
“Was his father any different?”
“The old king mistrusted everyone. With good reason. It’s hard to believe he lived long enough to die a natural death.”
She paused, knowing if she interrogated him he might clamp his mouth shut; yet curiosity drove her on. “Are any of the old king’s enemies still living?”
“Huh. You know of Tancred.”
“Only that he exists. Are there others?”
Eugenius shuffled away, slippered feet scuffing loudly, to feign concentration on a row of codices on one of the shelves. Joan rose and followed until she stood at his side.
He said, “Perhaps the king does not want you concerning yourself with—”
“He abhors ignorance, even in a wife. That is why I have a tutor.”
Eugenius licked his lips and would not look at her. “It is not what I am supposed to teach.”
“Who decides what I am allowed to learn?”
He turned his back to her again.
“Who tells you what is acceptable? Queen Marguerite?”
He didn’t answer.
She ran her finger along the shelf, making a trail in the thin layer of dust. “Are you a teacher or aren’t you?”
Finally, slowly, he turned around. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about Sicily’s past. How it shaped King William.”
The Queen's Daughter Page 14
