A Reed in the Wind: Joanna Plantagenet, Queen of Sicily

by Rachel Bard

  Once again disorder befell the party as various members wandered around and into one or the other church. Sir Alan and his guardsmen stood in the square, mentally noting who was where. Constance and Joanna headed for San Cataldo.

  “Brother Jean-Pierre told me it was his favorite in all Palermo. I want to see why,” said Joanna.

  “I can hardly remember it, though I must have been there as a girl. Let’s go in.”

  They found themselves in a serene, almost austere space. They sat on a bench near the entrance and looked down the nave to the altar, its gold leaf gleaming in the light of a few candles. The only other illumination was from slivers of sunlight that filtered through the honeycomb windows in the ceiling domes. In the dimness they could make out a few frescoes of Biblical scenes—the Nativity, Christ preaching to the multitudes, the annunciation. A whiff of incense, lingering in the air from some recent service, almost dispelled the musty odor of a little-used church.

  “I like it,” said Joanna. “It’s peaceful, and it doesn’t intimidate me with blinding gold and blazingly bright mosaics.”

  “I know what you mean. You’re comparing it to the Palatine Chapel, and I’ve always felt the same way. It seemed that the idea there was to pay tribute to man’s works, not to God’s.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes, each wrapped in her own thoughts. Joanna was first to break the silence.

  “I feel in this church just as I did at the cathedral of Cefalù, yet the two couldn’t be more different.”

  Constance looked at her, curious.

  “When I was there, Constance, I felt for the first time in my life that Christ cared for me, for me, and that if I listened to him and prayed with an opened heart he would bring me the comfort I longed for.”

  “Why did you so especially need comfort, Joanna?”

  After a moment of uncertainty Joanna found herself confiding in Constance. She poured out the story of her joy at the birth of Bohemund, her anguish at his death, her months of despair, her turning aside of every effort to comfort her, her coldness to William—until at last she came face to face with the compassionate Christ at Cefalù.

  Constance clasped her hand. “My dear girl, I knew nothing of all this. What a very sad time for you! And though it’s not exactly a happy ending, at least you now seem to have found strength to face the future more calmly.”

  “Yes, and with hope and with trust in God’s wisdom. And with a greater realization of how blessed I am, with a loving husband and with so many close to me who wish me well. Like you, Constance. Already I feel we’ve been friends for ages.”

  “As do I. I’ll be sorry to leave, now that we’re getting to know each other. But Prince Henry’s waiting for me in Germany so I expect that one of these days the summons will come.”

  “What do you suppose he looks like?”

  “I can’t say. I’ve seen a miniature portrait that must have been made several years ago. He seems to have a great deal of hair but no beard, and big staring eyes with big black eyebrows, and quite a proper nose. Oh, and a crown that looks wobbly, too small for his head.”

  “Have you any idea of his character, his disposition? I hope they don’t turn out to be wobbly too!”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “I didn’t know much about William either when I came here to marry him. I’d been told he was handsome and wise. That was certainly true. But I wasn’t prepared for discovering how easy it was to love him, and that we’d be so happy together. I hope it’s like that for you, Constance.”

  “Time will tell,” Constance replied, sounding less than hopeful.

  The church door creaked. They turned to see Lady Marian come in. She peered around, adjusting her eyes to the gloom after the brightness outside, then caught sight of them on their bench.

  “Oh, there you are! King William says we must hurry back if we’re to have dinner before the cooks give up on us.”

  Back in the palace and after dinner—which consisted largely of cold meats and cheese, the cooks having indeed nearly given up—King William asked Joanna and Constance to accompany him to his study.

  “You aren’t going to scold us for staying so long in the church, are you?” Joanna asked, sitting primly in her straight chair before his desk.

  “Not at all. It’s the future we’re here to discuss. Constance, a messenger came this afternoon with word from your future father-in-law, Emperor Frederick. He intends to send emissaries from Germany to Rieti in Italy, from where they’ll escort you to Milan for your wedding to Prince Henry. He expects them to arrive in Rieti by the end of August. So you’ll need to start your journey from Sicily within four weeks.”

  “So soon!” Though she’d known for a year that she was to marry Henry, this setting of a date brought it starkly home. To leave this sunny island where she’d lived all her life, quietly and contentedly; to say goodbye to her old friend William and her new friend Joanna; to start over in a land that might prove cold and unwelcoming; and to marry a man she knew nothing about except that he was ten years her junior and would almost certainly succeed his father as Holy Roman Emperor before long—it was an overwhelming prospect. William saw how stricken she looked and that Joanna too appeared dismayed.

  “Yes, so soon. Sooner than I’d anticipated. We’ll barely have time to assemble your dowry and organize its transport. The emperor drives a hard bargain—we may need to conscript half the packhorses in Sicily to carry all the gold and jewels and finery he’s requesting.”

  “Am I worth so much, then?” asked Constance, trying to keep her tone light. But when she saw that tears had come to Joanna’s eyes, she put her arms around her. They clung to each other, wordless.

  “Now, now.” William spoke quickly. “Don’t be so downhearted. There’s more. I’ll escort you myself on your journey, Constance. Furthermore, I’ve decided that Joanna shall accompany us. And it’s very likely we’ll be able to continue with you to Milan for your wedding.”

  This postponement of the farewell was immensely heartening and within minutes they were peppering William with questions.

  “We’ll have to go through Messina, won’t we?” Joanna asked. “It’s so close to Mt. Etna—will we have time to see the volcano before crossing to Italy?”

  “And surely, William, we’ll stop in Rome? I’ve always dreamed of seeing the pope’s palace and maybe even the pope himself,” said Constance.

  The mood was rapidly brightening. Before long they were arguing amiably about the proper costumes for volcano-viewing or for an audience with the pope. William left them to it.

  Chapter 34

  The scene in the queen’s chamber was one of delectable domestic felicity.

  Joanna reclined against a pile of soft saffron-colored pillows, reluctant to leave the bed where she and William had spent such an agreeable night. Still in her white nightgown, she’d thrown a stole of feather-light wool around her shoulders, the color of the first tender leaves of the almond tree in spring. William in his robe of royal purple sat nearby in a chair, legs stretched out toward the glowing coals of a brazier.

  Mary appeared with breakfast trays and placed one on a table by William, then looked at Joanna. “Would you like yours up there in bed, my lady? I could find a nice flat pillow to put on your lap.”

  “No, thank you Mary. I’m sure I’d manage to spill something or lose the cheese in the bedclothes.” She descended from her aerie and joined William at the table.

  They surveyed with approval what lay before them: thick slices of bread, baked that morning; chunks of golden cheese; bowls of oat pottage, and a mug of ale for William, a goblet of watered wine for Joanna. For a few minutes they ate in companionable silence.

  “I’ve grown quite fond of your Aunt Constance,” remarked Joanna. “I’m so glad we’ll be together on the journey and won’t have to say goodbye just yet. It was rather awkward talking to her when she first came. But we’ve become more at ease with each other. She seems very intelligent and she puts on no air
s whatsoever.”

  “M-hm,” said William, with a mouthful of bread and cheese.

  “And I do like the way she dresses—simply, no fussiness, but so elegantly! I thought your council members were quite impressed with her.”

  The day before, William had gone through the formal ceremony of naming her as his heir before his council and the highest dignitaries of church and city. This was no surprise to most. Rumors had been flying and William’s pronouncement only confirmed what they expected.

  “Yes, I believe they were impressed. I was especially gratified that Sir Matthew refrained from rising to object. He glowered and disapproved, of course. But at least he kept his disapproval to himself.”

  He took a spoonful of pottage and Joanna distinctly heard a crunch.

  His jaws had stopped in mid-chew. “What’s this!” he exclaimed. “A bone! A bone in my pottage. The cook knows I like neither fish nor flesh nor fowl in my breakfast pottage.”

  “Maybe a mouse fell into the kettle when nobody was looking.”

  He looked startled, then he grinned. But he pushed the bowl away.

  “Never mind. As to Constance, I’m glad to say I’ve finally come to a satisfactory agreement with Emperor Frederick on her dowry when she marries Henry. I had to talk him down a good deal from his first demands. He must think Sicily has an unlimited supply of gold and silver.”

  “Why do you pay it, then?”

  “I suppose you might say it’s a kind of bribe. To keep him from poking about and interfering in our possessions in Italy while my army and navy are otherwise engaged.”

  “You mean while they’re chasing after that dreadful Andronicus in Constantinople? I do wish you wouldn’t go on with that, William. To risk so much on such a hazardous and uncertain adventure! Can’t you reconsider?”

  “Hardly. The preparations are well under way and it’s high time I consulted with my admiral, Tancred de Lecce. He should have arrived in Messina by the time we get there on our way to Italy.”

  She said nothing. She sat with head bowed. The set of her shoulders showed not submission but stubbornness.

  “So, my dear, while I’m meeting with Tancred, you and Constance will have plenty of time to examine Mt. Etna.”

  Even this tempting prospect failed to move her. William pushed his chair closer to hers and took her hand.

  “My love, the expedition makes more sense now than ever. Only yesterday I talked to a nephew of Manuel, the last legitimate emperor. He came all this way to let me know how desperate the situation is. He says the people are getting more restive and Andronicus’s days are numbered. Whether the tyrant’s subjects rise up and depose him or we do it, I want Sicilian forces to be there to act as a stabilizing influence. When he does fall, the Greeks will have to choose a new emperor.”

  He stood, paced up and down as though planning his next words, and stopped in front of her.

  “Who do you think would make a fitting emperor of Byzantium, Joanna?” He stared at her intently like a teacher willing his pupil to give the right answer.

  A pause. Then a realization.

  “You, William? Is that what this is all about?”

  He sat, he stood, he sat again and drummed his fingers on the table. For William these were signs of extreme agitation.

  “Yes. And why not?”

  “I’m not disputing you, William.”

  “No, but you’re wondering. I know that wondering look. I’ll try to explain. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. It makes perfect sense when you look at history. Byzantium, before the Romans came, was Greek. And Sicily, before the Muslims came, was Greek. There’s still a strong Greek heritage in both kingdoms. With the King of Sicily on the throne in Constantinople, we reunite the kingdoms and build a firm foundation for peace in the eastern Mediterranean. We might even begin to mend relations between the Greek and Roman churches.”

  “Aha. And at the same time you outdo your grandfather in adding to Sicily’s land and glory. What lofty goals!”

  “Too lofty, you think?”

  “I suppose not. It seems to me you generally get what you aim for. If you want so much to be an emperor, I’ll try to want it too.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see. But for now, let me toast the lady who may be the empress of Byzantium!” He raised his pewter mug of ale and saluted her as though it were a crystal goblet of the finest wine.

  “And I’ll drink to the emperor.” She tried to match his conviction but she couldn’t repress the thought that they were playing games. Oh well, she reflected. As William said, why not?

  Preparations for the journey became more frenzied as the August days passed. Both Constance and Joanna had splendid new wardrobes, which had required many visits to Simon’s shop and many long days and nights for the seamstresses of Palermo.

  William had dipped deeply into the royal treasury to provide Constance’s dowry. Gold and silver; rubies, emeralds and diamonds; perfumes, spices and silks from the Orient; precious, carefully packed porcelains—all added to the wealth in the hundreds of bags and chests. Constance’s supply of costly fabrics and furs was enough to keep her sumptuously and warmly clad for several lifetimes. As the only surviving child of King Roger, she was one of the wealthiest heiresses in Europe—a fact that canny Emperor Frederick was well aware of.

  Then only four days before they were to set out Joanna came to an inescapable conclusion.

  She was pregnant.

  She told William the news in the garden at La Zisa. They were sitting on the same marble bench on the same little island where she and William had had their first real conversation, the morning after her arrival in Palermo eight years ago. The cypress on the island was reflected in every detail in the still waters of the lake, just as it had been then. Only the showy, quarrelsome blue bird was missing.

  After William’s initial amazement, he held her close and kissed her. But he couldn’t stay still. He jumped up and looked down at her.

  “Dear Joanna—are you sure? Have you seen the physician? How do you feel? Shouldn’t you go in and rest?”

  He sat down again and put his arm protectively around her shoulders.

  “I’ve never felt better. And yes, good Doctor Ibn Hakim has examined me and assures me that all’s well. I know what you’re going to ask next. He expects the baby to be born next spring, possibly as early as February.”

  “Aha. I’ll be well back from my travels by then. As to that, I hope you agree with me that it would be foolish, now, for you to take this trip?”

  “Of course. I’ve already come to terms with that, though it gives me great sorrow. I’d been so looking forward to it. But I’d do nothing, nothing, to endanger this child we’ve hoped for.”

  He kissed her tenderly. “My dearest love…” There were tears in his eyes, a sight she’d never seen. They sat a moment in silence.

  “This will require some changes in the arrangements,”said William. “And you’ll want to tell Constance. She’ll be happy for you, I know, but the loss of your companionship on the journey will be a blow.”

  “It is to me too. It’s really my only regret.”

  They walked across the little bridge and back along the sunny path.

  “And while you’re gone, William, I shall go at least once a week to San Cataldo and give thanks to God. I’m convinced it was in that church where he finally heard my prayers and granted me this gift.”

  “Very well, splendid. But while you’re spreading your thanks around, could you spare a few for me? I don’t believe God would mind if you gave me at least a small amount of credit for your current condition.”

  Chapter 35

  William returned eagerly to Palermo on a blustery day in October, 1185.

  He felt his trip had gone quite well. First he and Constance had stopped at Messina so he could supervise the departure for Constantinople of his army and his fleet, which were under the command of his cousin Tancred. Then he’d conducted Constance across the strait to Salerno and then
ce to Rieti, where Emperor Frederick’s ambassadors took over.

  The parting had been hard. William and Constance had known each other most of their lives and in childhood were almost like brother and sister. He felt a pang at having torn her away from her home and plunged her into a new and unfamiliar world. But she was a mature and sensible woman and surely she would adjust. As for Constance, in spite of her own misgivings about the demanding new role she’d be called on to play, she managed to put on a brave and optimistic face. Her parting words were, “And tell my dear Joanna that I’m sure we’ll meet again some day.”

  During his homeward journey, William was encouraged by early reports of the progress of his expeditionary force. And soon he would be reunited with Joanna.

  Rain was spitting as his galley approached the harbor. A gusty east wind had been pursuing them all day, now filling the sails so they were stretched taut, now weakening so they fluttered and the ship barely made headway. Once beyond the headland and in sheltered waters, the crew lowered the sails and the oarsmen took over, propelling the vessel smoothly over the rain-dimpled waves. As they neared the pier in the lowering half-light of late afternoon, William threw back the hood of his cloak and scanned the shore anxiously, hoping to see Joanna. She was not there. But of course, he told himself, in her condition she’d been sensible enough to stay indoors on such a horrid day.

  Even before the galley had been secured at the pier, he leaped ashore. His horse was waiting. He rode at a gallop up to the town and dismounted before the palace steps. The sense of foreboding that had been gnawing at him increased when he saw Lady Marian, Brother Jean-Pierre and several servants at the top of the steps, but no Joanna.

  He took the stairs two at a time. One of the servants held out a dry cloak and quickly removed William’s soggy garment, while another pulled off his wet boots and placed dry slippers on his feet. He paid them no heed. He saw the somber expressions of Lady Marian and Jean-Pierre.