by Rachel Bard
By tacit agreement, William and Joanna never spoke any more about their hopes for an heir. Both had ceased to see it as a likely event, though Joanna occasionally reminded God that she was doing all she could to serve him and he could so easily show his gratitude by granting her this one thing.
But apparently God, like William, had other things on his mind. Namely, the Crusade.
The morning after Federico's lesson, William suggested that she join him in an after-breakfast stroll in the inner courtyard.
“I have something to tell you,” he said. She felt a pang of unease.
Neither spoke as they descended the broad marble steps into the airy atrium. Sunlight streamed down through the open roof far above. They walked along the tiled pathway bordered with pots of greenery. In some, almost hidden in clusters of spear-like leaves, pale narcissi were in bloom, though it was only March. In others, bushy lavender plants flourished. Joanna picked a sprig of the feathery gray-green foliage, pinched it, held it to her nose and inhaled deeply. “Ahhh—how I love the smell. Ibn Hakim says lavender has a tranquilizing effect and I believe him. I feel calmer already, though I'm so eager to know what you have to tell me.”
They'd reached the fountain in the center of the courtyard. They sat on the bench and she took his hand. “Now, William, what is it?”
“I have decided to go with the Sicilian forces on the Crusade.”
She felt a sinking in her stomach and bowed her head for a moment. She’d been suspecting he’d want to do this, but hoping desperately that he'd decide against it. She turned to look him in the face.
“I won't try to dissuade you. But how shall I bear it, knowing you're in danger every moment?” She clung to him.
With one arm around her, he tilted her head up and looked into her eyes. “I promise you, I'll take no foolish chances. I've no experience in drawing up plans of warfare and don't intend to lead troops into battle. I shall accompany them not as their general but as their king, around whom they can rally. My presence, I hope, will remind them of the importance of our mission and inspire them to press on. Can you understand that?”
“Yes, I think so. Or I'll learn to. But oh, William, if only I could go with you!”
“I know, I know. But without you here at home to keep the kingdom on an even keel, I wouldn’t dare to leave. I shall depend on your wisdom and good sense.”
She sniffed, wiped her eyes and kissed him, a gentle, wifely kiss. “I shall try to be wise and sensible.”
“Of course, it’s still months before I can leave. If only Henry and Philip would forget all their differences and concentrate on this far more important war! But I’ll need some time to prepare myself so perhaps it’s just as well. I must see to my armor, I must review the manpower requirements with Tancred, and practice my horsemanship. And I’ll need to find a proper steed soon, so we can get used to each other.”
Already his mind was leaping ahead to a vision of the king of Sicily, mounted on a magnificent stallion, lance at the ready, exhorting the troops to attack the enemies of Christendom. There would be danger, there would be bloodshed and carnage, but eventually there would be a glorious victory. And leaping even farther ahead, he saw a brilliantly colored new mosaic portrait at Monreale of William, the Crusader King.
Like all mortals, William knew that some day he would die. But like all mortals, he was sure it could not happen to him before he accomplished all that he intended to do.
Chapter 40
At last the far-famed Tancred arrived, the brilliant general who had saved the day for the Sicilians at Constantinople. Who better to lead them to victory against Saladin?
William arranged a banquet in his honor. He conducted Joanna into the dining hall, where tapestries depicting naval battles and warriors on horseback had been hung to honor the guest and keep out November drafts. Joanna looked her most queenly in a white satin gown and her state crown with its six points, each bearing a diamond.
She wasn’t expecting the hero’s appearance to match his achievements. She’d heard he wasn’t prepossessing. But when William introduced her to him, she saw with a shock how apt was his nickname, “The Monkey.” He was short, hardly taller than she was. His head was round as a ball and covered with tight black curls. His dark-complexioned face was broad and looked as though someone had placed a hand on top of his head and another under his chin and squeezed. A flourishing black mustache drew attention to the lower part of his face, with its receding chin ungraced by a beard. But his broad smile—and he smiled at her as William introduced them—redeemed the initial impression of hopeless ugliness.
She smiled in return. She wanted to like him because William thought so highly of him. But when she found herself seated next to him, she wondered what they would talk about. What did they have in common?
She needn’t have worried. After her initial “A good evening to you, Sir Tancred,” he took charge of the conversation.
“Yes, a very good evening, especially since at last I meet the beautiful lady that King William was fortunate enough to marry. He’s told me more than once how blessed he is to have you as his queen. It was an arranged marriage, was it not? Or had you met and decided you were meant for each other?”
She was displeased by the intrusiveness of the question, but charmed by that open guileless smile.
“No, we hadn’t met. My parents came to an agreement with William and then they told me about it.”
“And off you sailed from far-off England to meet your bridegroom on his island in the sunny south! How romantic! You were still quite young—twelve, I believe? Were you apprehensive about your marriage, may I ask?”
She was just saved from answering “No, you may not!” when a servant placed an oval silver platter before her with a flourish and carefully adjusted the spray of rosemary encircling a thick slice of something pale and pink that looked as though it had once swum in the sea. It was studded with cloves and peppercorns and reposed on a bed of tiny shrimp. What was it? Joanna had never quite learned to appreciate the Sicilian idea of edible seafood. She looked up to ask but the servant had moved on.
“I believe this is what in your country would be called tunny,” said Tancred. He cut off a chunk from his own platter, impaled it on his knife and transferred it to his mouth. “Yes, that’s it. And very nicely pickled it is, too.” She still looked uncertain. “You need not fear it, my lady. It’s quite dead and won’t fly up and attack you.”
She couldn’t help laughing.
William, on Tancred’s other side, heard her. Good, he thought. They’re getting along. He resumed his discussion with Count Florian about his plans for the next few days. A galleon had just arrived with three young horses that William had ordered from Frisia.
“That’s where the strongest, most reliable warhorses come from, you know.”
Florian looked blank. “Frisia?”
“I wouldn’t have known about it either if I hadn’t been looking into these matters for some time, ever since I decided to go on the Crusade. It’s far to the north, just beyond Holland.”
“I see.” Florian tried to envision what might lie just beyond Holland. “Cold there, I expect.”
“No doubt. Maybe that’s why the horses are so powerful—they have to keep moving to keep warm. Anyway, I’ll go down and have a look at them tomorrow, ride them around a bit and choose the one that suits me best.”
He paused to sip from his goblet. “And I’d like you to come with me. You’re said to be an excellent judge of horseflesh.”
Florian cleared his throat. “Ah—I don’t know about that. But I have had some experience over the years and I’ll be glad to help if I can.”
“Good. Now, listen to what I have in mind for the next day. I plan to lead a procession from the port to the palace square. I’ll be mounted on my new horse. I’ll want all the palace knights mounted as well, and in full armor. Can you arrange that with Sir Alan?”
“Yes, I’ll do so.”
“We’ll ride ar
ound the square to show ourselves to the citizenry and to salute my queen and the court. From there we’ll proceed to the cathedral, where I’ll formally take the cross.”
Florian looked at him with dawning realization of the importance of this ceremonial royal progress.
“I applaud you, my lord! This will send a signal to those procrastinating French and English and Germans that Sicily is ready even if they aren’t. And to make sure they’re aware of it, perhaps we should immediately send messengers to the European courts, men with the ability to describe the scene and reaffirm your invitation to all armies to meet in Sicily for the launch of the Crusade.”
“A wise suggestion. I’ll speak to Umberto about it. Now Florian, of course I’ll want you in the procession, and Sir Matthew if we can hoist him into the saddle. And Tancred, naturally.” He turned to his left and began to explain to Tancred what he was planning, but Tancred was ahead of him.
“I’ll be honored, my lord king.” He must have heard the whole conversation. It seemed, Joanna thought, that his ears operated independently, one listening to her, the other to William and Florian.
The latter was still concerned with the details of the procession. “Would you like a herald to precede you, and a trumpeter?”
They were interrupted, as though on cue, by a blast from a trumpeter who led in a line of servants bearing huge platters with the main courses of the banquet. Everybody stopped talking to watch, then to exclaim. First came roasted partridges—six of them, each snuggled into a realistic-looking nest of twigs and grasses. Next was a roast kid stuffed with chestnuts, surrounded by mounds of saffron-colored rice. Bringing up the rear marched three men, each bearing an enormous pie. These proved, when the diners’ plates were heaped with all this bounty, to be filled with a savory concoction of pork, apples and onions.
Comments and conversation died down as the diners devoted themselves to the serious business of the evening. To spur them on, two musicians settled themselves on stools in a corner and began to play. The flutist produced a cheery tune while his companion beat out a catchy accompaniment on his tabor. With this encouragement, Joanna did her best to make inroads on the partridge and was just considering the roast kid when Tancred, who had been silent for at least five minutes, resumed their conversation where he’d left it, with her arrival in Sicily.
“So you and William were married, and quite happily it seems. Yet no children have been born of this union? Except, alas, the little son who died so soon?”
“That is true.”
“Ah well, you’re still young. There’s time. I wonder, did your mother Queen Eleanor and her husband King Henry have many children?”
“Eight.” She’d decided the best way to deal with this inquisition was to answer him as briefly yet politely as she could.
“I was sorry to hear of King Henry’s death last summer. A sad loss for England, and for you of course. But apparently Prince Richard wasted no time in assuming the crown. I wonder what kind of king he’ll be.”
She glared at him with her lips pressed together to hold back an angry retort. But he was busy with his pork pie and didn’t notice. It was true, her father had died in July, and she had mourned him, in spite of feeling she’d hardly known him. She hoped her letter had reached him safely and given him some comfort. But Tancred’s leap from sympathy to conjecture about Richard was crude and tasteless.
Oblivious to her displeasure, he kept at her, as the courses succeeded each other. Had she seen Richard lately? Was he likely to come to Sicily to join the Crusading forces? Did she have any idea when that might be? With each query came the disarming smile, as though to say “Please forgive me for being so inquisitive, but it’s only that I like you so much and I want to know all about you.”
When he had just poked a large spoonful of pork pie into his mouth, she saw her chance.
“You’ve learned so much about me, Sir Tancred, but I know so very little about you, except for your service as my husband’s brave general. Have you a wife, a family?”
“I have, God be praised.” He chewed industriously and swallowed, then turned on the smile. “My wife Sibylla and my two young sons, Roger and William, are in Lecce, my native county in Italy. I hope you and Sibylla will have a chance to get to know each other someday.”
Roger and William, she thought. Named for Norman kings of Sicily.
Before she could comment, Tancred fixed her with his black, hypnotic gaze and resumed his questioning.
“And speaking of our families, you were well acquainted, were you not, with Constance, your husband’s aunt, before she left to marry Prince Henry?”
“Yes, very well acquainted.”
She thought she detected a hint of irritation with her brief answers. The smile had been abandoned.
“Well enough, perhaps, to tell me this. In the unlikely event that King William should die without a son, do you think she would claim her rights as his designated heir?”
It was Joanna’s turn to smile, brightly and without warmth. “Sir Tancred, I see now how you have earned your reputation as a master of the attack. You are not to be deterred in your relentless pursuit of your objective. But I have wearied of the engagement. Now, if you will excuse me.”
She rose swiftly, put her hand on William’s shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear, received his smile and pressure on her hand, and left the room.
Lady Marian, seated across the table from Joanna and a few places down, had observed all this though without catching more than a few words except for the parting salvo. She followed Joanna up to her chamber and laughingly took both her hands.
“My dear, tonight I have seen you as a true daughter of Queen Eleanor. Maybe she would have lost patience with that toad a little sooner, but how resoundingly you trounced him in the end!”
Two days later, William’s ceremonial progress from the port to the palace went just as he’d planned. The horse he’d chosen was a three-year-old stallion, tall and sturdy, with all the strength and spirit of youth and with a high-stepping trot. He was completely black except for a small white star on his forehead. William named him Black Warrior.
“If it were up to me,” Sir Alan muttered to one of the knights, “I’d call him Pretty Boy. Just look at that long black mane, as curly and wavy as a lady’s hair when she’s going to the ball.” Sir Alan himself rode a strong English shire horse with no pretense to elegance.
“It will be a little while before we are completely comfortable with each other,” William said to Tancred while they were mounting, “but I’ve ridden him enough by now to know his ways pretty well. He has his own ideas sometimes, but he responds to a firm hand on the reins.”
It was a crisp, dry November day, ideal for a show of royal might and purpose. Up the avenue toward the town the procession rode, with the scarlet-clad trumpeter in the lead, blowing with all his might, his cheeks puffed out like ripe red apples. His silver instrument flashed in the sunlight, and its loud, far-reaching blare brought the citizens to the streets to watch and cheer.
Behind him came the herald, also in scarlet. The pennant that he held aloft didn’t bear the usual royal heraldry, the golden lion striding across a field of peacock-blue. Instead it was the battle standard that went with the Sicilian kings on their holy wars: a gold cross on a field of crimson.
Ten paces behind the herald rode William on his magnificent black steed. He wore a white cloak over his black velvet tunic and leggings. One hand rested on the silver hilt of the sword at his side, the other held the reins. The jewels in his crown caught the rays of the sun and shone like stars. Black Warrior was as royally garbed, in a fringed purple robe that fell almost to the ground.
The spectators shouted lustily, first for William and then for those who followed: Tancred, Florian and Matthew of Ajello, then Sir Alan and a troop of two dozen armored knights riding at a brisk trot.
The queen and the court, seated at the top of the palace steps, heard the trumpet and the shouting long before the proce
ssion entered the square. Joanna's golden throne had been brought out. Her costume echoed William’s though in reverse—a white satin gown, over which she wore a black fur robe. Federico stood at attention behind her. When he’d first come to court, he couldn’t see over the high back of the throne but now, a year later, he’d grown so tall that he had a full view of the square.
Presently, the procession came into view and rode once around the square before pausing before the palace. Joanna had never been prouder of William. He looked solemn yet exalted. Black Warrior was tossing his head and prancing, but William put a hand on his neck and spoke soothingly, and the horse stood still. William raised his sword in a salute. Joanna wasn’t sure what the proper response should be, but stood as though at attention, clasped her hands in front of her, bowed her head and then raised it, looking steadily at William.
The riders moved on at a ceremonial pace.
Suddenly Tancred’s horse, just behind William, bucked as though startled, perhaps by a scarf waved by an enthusiastic citizen, then lunged ahead and crashed into Black Warrior’s side.
Joanna gasped. Frozen, unable to move, she saw William tilt sideways from the force of the collision. She saw his left foot lose the stirrup. She saw him fall from the saddle and land heavily on the stone paving.
It seemed to have taken forever but it was over in a few seconds. Joanna screamed, leaped to her feet and ran down the steps. She flung the cloak from her shoulders and ran across the square to where William lay motionless. He was surrounded by stunned men. Tancred was trying to stanch the flow of blood from his forehead where he’d struck the paving. Joanna knelt, cradled his head on her lap and cried “Somebody go get the doctor!” Federico, who had been just behind Joanna, took off like an arrow.
William’s face was ashen. His eyes were open but unseeing. Joanna, weeping now, implored, “William, speak to me!” and caressed his cheek with one hand while with the other she pressed the skirt of her white gown against the gushing crimson blood.
