by Jean Plaidy
“And there was Richard. Oh, my lady Mother, he is so magnificent. More like a god than a man. He is so much taller than the others; he stands well above them. The trumpets rang out. Do you know what the people said of him? ‘Such a one is worthy to rule an empire. He is rightly made King over people and kingdoms. He is greater even than we have heard of him.’ How different it was when the French fleet came in.” She laughed. “They had suffered storms and stress, and the French King was very ill. I believe he is losing his enthusiasm for the crusade.”
She went on to tell me what a difference Richard’s arrival had made. He had immediately demanded that Tancred free his sister, and so afraid was Tancred that he arranged for her to join her brother, and all that he had stolen from her was restored.
“I was taken to the hospital of St. John’s which Tancred had arranged should be made ready, so that I might reside there in comfort. Richard came to me there. What a wonderful reunion! And with him, my lady, was the King of France. He was most gracious and complimentary to me. People were saying that he would want to marry me, but I do not think that was so.”
She was very friendly with Berengaria. Indeed, it would have been difficult to be anything else, for the girl was so eager to please. Richard had received her with a cool courtesy which sent flickers of alarm through me.
I heard, too, what had happened to him.
When he had crossed to Calais at the beginning of the journey, he met Philip Augustus at Gu St.-Rmi. They had been together awhile, then they parted to meet again at Dreux. They were in complete amity—lovers, I presumed. However, they swore to defend each other’s kingdom as they would their own. Richard’s great desire was not only to win back Jerusalem in the name of Christendom but to make the way there safe for pilgrims.
In Gascony he was seeking Walter de Chisi who had been robbing pilgrims on their way to Compostela, and when he found him he threw him into prison and confiscated his wealth.
Richard was certainly eager to fill his treasury. He knew that crusades were often more costly than had first been realized, and he wanted to make sure that he was not impeded by lack of money. Whenever he saw a chance of adding to his resources, he took it with both hands; and when he came to Sicily and found his sister in distress, he felt that it was his duty not only to rescue her but to fill his coffers at the same time. Such a purpose was worth a little delay, a little divergence from the main project.
He knew that for years King William had been collecting money because he himself planned to go on a crusade. Where was that money? It was said that, when he knew he was dying, William had left the money to his father-in-law, Henry of England, for Henry at that time had vowed to go on a crusade. Richard now claimed the money. It had been saved for a crusade. He was the leader of this one, and the money was rightly his, as he was his father’s heir.
Finally something was settled with Tancred about the money, and Richard promised that Tancred’s daughter should marry Arthur of Brittany, the posthumous son of his brother Geoffrey, whom he had named as his heir in the event of his having no children of his own. So there was no fighting between Richard and Tancred. Tancred was too wise to enter into that kind of conflict with the mighty Richard; and in any case Richard had what he wanted without it.
Tancred, a mischievous man, had done his best to drive a wedge between the French and English Kings. He had tried to get Philip Augustus to side with him against Richard. Philip Augustus, however, declined to betray his friend.
All this time there was between the Kings of France and England this tiresome matter of Alais. Philip Augustus thought that Richard ought to marry her. He wanted to see his sister Queen of England. It was no use Richard’s protesting that he had no desire to marry at all, certainly not one who had been his father’s mistress and very likely borne his child. There was something indecent about it. He would not have it.
Philip Augustus said this was nonsense. Alais was a Princess of France. She had been kept more or less in captivity by Richard’s father. It was Richard’s duty to right the wrong his father had done her and marry her.
Richard said he would not. Philip Augustus said he must.
Unable to snare Philip Augustus into treacherous intrigue against Richard, Tancred tried to incriminate the French King in Richard’s eyes.
Richard said to me: “I did not in my heart believe Tancred. But he showed me letters which he said Philip Augustus had written to him. In these letters it was suggested that he and Tancred had plotted against me. I guessed the letters were forgeries.”
“Tancred is a dangerous man.”
“We are all dangerous men, Mother.”
“But you did not believe that Philip Augustus would work against you!”
“It is what was suggested. But it was clumsily done. I did not believe that of Philip Augustus. But I made him think I did. He was so angry that I should have doubted him. To tell the truth, I was heartily tired of the subject of Alais. He would not leave it alone. He was always bringing it up. I quarreled with him. I told him our friendship was at an end. He had betrayed me, I said, and therefore I was freed from the bond which bound me to his sister. I said: ‘My mother will arrange for me to marry Berengaria of Navarre, and that is what I shall do.’”
“So you are no longer friends?”
“Nothing will ever be the same between us.”
“That is good,” I said. “It was not a healthy friendship. And now, Richard, you will have a wife. You must devote your time to her. I have come so far. I want the marriage to take place now.”
I saw the evasive look in his eyes.
“But it is Lent,” he said. “A king’s marriage could not take place in Lent.”
“She is here, Richard. It will have to be soon.”
“When Lent is over, we shall see about it.”
“It must be then,” I said firmly.
I was very worried about what might be happening in England and the rest of the dominions. I tried to arouse Richard’s anxieties but he was so immersed in the crusade that he could not spare more than a fleeting thought for his subjects at home.
I said: “Richard, you have only just been crowned King. It is dangerous to have left your country so soon. What will the people think?”
“They should be proud that I am fighting God’s war,” he replied.
“That is a superficial emotion. They are already groaning under the taxes which they paid to finance it. Primarily people are interested in that which is happening to them. And what of John?”
“Well, what of John?”
“Do you realize that he wants the crown?”
“He has no chance. Arthur is the undisputed heir.”
“That is the trouble. John thinks he is the heir, as his father’s son. He is trying to persuade others that this is so.”
“If they believe him, they will be traitors.”
“That may be. But John is there, and many will not want a foreign boy to be heir to the throne. The situation is full of danger. If you were there, all would be well. Your father would never have gone away and left his kingdom unless he had to.”
“And look what he came to.”
“For the main part he ruled wisely and well. It was only because he was old and ill and heartbroken and because his sons were against him that he died as he did.”
“I do not intend to go his way. I shall be able to fight for my kingdom if necessary.”
“But it must not be necessary. Richard, I must go back. For your sake I must watch over England and Normandy and the rest of the provinces.”
“If you were there, I should know all was well.”
I sighed. “I had wished to see you married.”
“After Lent, dear Mother.”
“Will you promise me that you will marry Berengaria as soon as Lent is over? We cannot have her here like this . . . unmarried. Sancho will take offense.”
“I promise.”
I was relieved. I knew he would keep his promise.
“You will be leaving ere long,” I said. “Joanna can act as companion to Berengaria. It will be better that the two of them are together.”
“It shall be.”
“John and Longchamp are bickering together. Longchamp was not a good choice, Richard.”
“Perhaps not. But . . .”
“I know. He paid a good price for the post.” I shook my head. “This crusade is an obsession with you, Richard. I hope it does not destroy you.”
“Destroy me! My dear Mother, I am going to free Jerusalem for the glory of God.”
“It may be necessary to curb Longchamp. Have I your authority to deal as I think fit with them all?”
“You have.”
“And Geoffrey the Bastard? He is a good man. I believe John is trying to win him to his side. He should have the See of York. Your father always meant him to. I want to do all I can to get him installed in the post.”
“Do as you think fit. I know that will be the wisest and best for me. You have my complete trust.”
“And I have your word that the marriage will take place as soon as Lent is over?”
“You have.”
“Then I must return.”
I said a fond farewell to Richard.
“My heart goes with you,” I said. “And I long for the day when I shall see you again.”
He replied that he would think of me and he placed the care of his kingdom in my hands because I was the one whom he loved and esteemed beyond all others.
I was gratified, honored and touched, but I wished he had shown a little more enthusiasm for his marriage with Berengaria.
It was a sad parting with Joanna. “Such a brief meeting,” I said, “after all these years. Sometimes I wish I had been born in humble circumstances so that I could have my family about me.” I kissed her tenderly. I went on: “Take care of Berengaria. She needs your care. She will soon be your sister in truth, for the marriage with Richard is going to take place as soon as Lent is over.”
Joanna was wise and worldly. She understood that Richard was not eager for marriage and she was quite fond of Berengaria in a protective kind of way. I was glad of that.
Berengaria clung to me. She adored Richard and was happy at the prospect of marrying him, but she was a little afraid of him. He was not exactly an ardent lover, although always courteous to her in a detached way. She was proud of him because everywhere he went people deferred to him; there could never have been a doubt that he was the leader of them all. But I daresay she wished he would have shown a little tenderness toward her.
However, I must leave them. But for the urgent need to get Richard married I should not be here now. I was deeply worried about John and the incompetence of Longchamp; and in such a mood I set out on the long journey back.
When I arrived in Rome, I was received by Pope Celestine III, who was gracious and helpful over the See of York. He agreed with me that, as it had been the wish of the late King that his son Geoffrey should have it, illegitimate though he was, this should be done. I did explain that Geoffrey had always been treated as a member of the family and brought up in the royal nursery; he had been a good and faithful son and was with his father at his death.
“Then he is your Archbishop of York,” said the Pope.
I was very tired and feeling my age. But I had achieved a great deal. I had taken Berengaria to Richard and he had given his word that he would marry her. I did not believe he would break that word; and I had settled this matter of the See of York.
Now I must rest awhile in Rouen, where I could be watchful of what was happening in Normandy and across the Channel.
It was a good task done, but my work was by no means completed.
It soon emerged that there could be plenty to disturb me.
John, of course, was bent on worming his way into power. He was spreading rumors that Richard had no intention of returning from the Holy Land and would doubtless become King of Jerusalem.
He was quarreling with Longchamp.
Geoffrey, who had been in Normandy, attempted to return to England to take up his new post and was arrested on Longchamp’s orders and put into prison in Dover.
John, who looked upon Longchamp as his enemy, seized the opportunity this offered; he had the bishops and barons on his side and they, with the justiciars, summoned Longchamp to appear before them and defend his conduct. Longchamp made use of the time-honored excuse of illness and did not appear. He was forthwith excommunicated by the bishops. Meanwhile Longchamp tried to ingratiate himself with John and agreed to stand trial, but when he realized that his enemies were determined to be rid of him, he decided it would be wise to leave the country.
His escape turned out to be quite a comic interlude. Fearing that he might be prevented from leaving the country, he disguised himself as a woman. He wore a rather showy gown and was mistaken for a harlot. One of the sailors made advances to him; there was a scuffle, and during it the sailor became aware of his sex. He shouted to his companions that this was no woman but a man. They gathered around, pulling at his clothes and taking off his wig.
He was held a prisoner until he gave up the keys of the Tower and Windsor which he held as Chancellor; and then he was allowed to depart.
In France Longchamp made his way to Paris, where he sought out a cardinal friend, explained his plight and begged the cardinal to help him to an audience with me so that he could tell me of the troubles which were being stirred up by my son John.
As I was well aware of the troubles John was stirring up, I saw a good way of ridding the country of the arrogant and incompetent Chancellor, and I turned a deaf ear to his pleading.
What I needed more than anything was to hear that Richard was married. News was so difficult to come by. But at last messengers arrived and then I felt more contented than I had for a long time. Richard and Berengaria had been married in Limassol, on the island of Cyprus. We were over the first hurdle; now I wanted to hear more than ever that a son had been born to them.
I was horrified when I heard of their adventures. None knew better than I the dangers they would be facing. But at least I was comforted by the knowledge that they were safe so far. I thanked God that my practical, indomitable Joanna was there to look after Berengaria.
They had sailed from Sicily in their fleet of ships—Richard taking up the rear, a huge lantern at the poop of his favorite vessel, the Trenc-the-Mere, in which he was traveling. Berengaria was not in his ship as he had said that they were not yet married and it would be improper for her to be with him. She was traveling with Joanna.
Good Friday dawned. The wind had risen and was blowing angry clouds across the sky and Richard, speaking through the large trumpet he kept for the purpose, warned his fleet to be prepared for storms. When they came, it was difficult for the ships to keep together; the sails were useless, and Richard’s voice was lost in the roar of the wind. The storm continued for some hours and when it was over Richard decided that they must call in at Crete to assess the damage to some of his ships. Then to his horror he noticed that some ships were missing, among them his treasure ship and the one in which Joanna and Berengaria were sailing.
I suffered with them when I heard how they had thought their last moment had come. Richard should have had them in his ship. Who cared for propriety at such times? But perhaps it was not propriety in Richard’s case. I could well imagine he wanted a little respite from the adoring Berengaria.
However, when the storm abated, the ship in which Joanna and Berengaria were sailing was still afloat and before them was the island of Cyprus. While they lay at anchor, they were made aware of the precariousness of their position, for a party of English sailors rowed out to them with a story which set them tingling with alarm. They had been in one of the other ships which the storm had cast up on this coast. The Cypriots had helped them salvage what they could from the vessel, but when the goods were safely ashore, the islanders had taken possession of them and put the sailors into prison. When they heard that an English ship was
lying off the coast, they had escaped from their prison, found a boat and rowed out to warn their compatriots what would happen to them if they came ashore.
Berengaria and Joanna were frightened. Here they were, off the coast of Cyprus and no sign of Richard. While they were wondering what would happen to them, they saw a small boat rowing out toward the ship. In it was a very splendidly attired naval man, who told them that the Emperor Isaac Comnenus knew who they were and would like to offer them hospitality. Would they therefore allow him to take them ashore?
I was glad that Joanna was there. Having heard the tale the English sailors had to tell, she was wary. She knew that, if she and Berengaria were captive in the hands of Isaac Comnenus, a big ransom could be demanded for them. The last thing Richard would want to do was spend money on them!
She said: “Please bring the Emperor to us.”
“He is so eager to honor you,” she was told, “that he wants to entertain you in his palace.”
Joanna said that they needed time to consider the invitation. They needed time to recover from their ordeal at sea.
“The Emperor will have luxurious apartments prepared for you,” they were told.
Joanna was adamant. They needed time to make ready. They knew that the Emperor would understand, and they thanked him most warmly for his consideration.
Clever Joanna! I tremble to think what would have happened had Berengaria been alone. I was sure she would have trusted the wily Emperor.
The captain of the vessel was greatly relieved that the ladies had avoided accepting the invitation. Later that day some of the shipwrecked sailors who had been imprisoned were fighting their way to the shore; several of them escaped and came out in little boats. They all had the same story to tell: they had salvaged the goods on their ships and these had been seized and they themselves taken away to prison and left to starve. They had been desperate and when they heard that an English ship was close by, they had broken free and made their way to it.
The weather did not improve. Each day they looked eagerly for Richard; each day they wondered how long they would be allowed to remain in peace. Fortunately the bad weather was a help to them. The Emperor was hurt that his invitation had not been accepted, said more messengers; they hinted that continued rejection might anger him.
