Lionheart (27 page)

Frederick’s death would be a blow to Richard and the other crusaders, for Heinrich was not likely to take the cross, at least not until he’d been crowned as King of Sicily. It would be an even greater blow to Tancred, for now Heinrich could draw upon all the resources of the Holy Roman Empire to win his war. The ramifications of Frederick’s death would be felt throughout Christendom. But it would begin in Lodi, with this chance meeting of Richard’s mother and an avowed enemy of their House.

“Well,” Eleanor said, after several moments of silence, “this ought to be interesting.”

BECAUSE HEINRICH WAS AN ALLY of the French king, they decided that it would be best if Berengaria’s true identity was not made known to him, and she agreed to pose as one of Eleanor’s ladies. The Bishop of Milan already knew that she was the Navarrese king’s daughter, but he was quite willing to honor Eleanor’s request for secrecy. Although it was almost thirty years since Heinrich’s father had deliberately reduced the city of Milan to rubble and charred timbers, the Milanese had long memories.

Berengaria’s parting from her brother had been painful, for she did not know when they’d meet again. She kept her grieving to herself, though, and prepared to follow Eleanor’s lead when they met the new Holy Roman Emperor and his consort. She was not sure what to expect, given Heinrich’s hostility toward the English Crown. But when she broached the subject with Eleanor, the older woman laughed, saying that she and Heinrich would be poisonously polite, scrupulously observe all the proprieties, and then studiously avoid each other for the balance of their joint stay in Lodi. She even sounded grimly amused at the prospect, and to Berengaria, that was further proof that she’d never fully understand the enigmatic English queen.
They are not like us, little one.

HEINRICH VON HOHENSTAUFEN was not as Berengaria had envisioned him. He was of moderate height, but seemed shorter because of his slight, almost frail physique. His face would have been handsome if it was not so thin, and his fine blond hair and patchy beard made him seem even younger than his twenty-five years. He could not have been more unlike her brother Sancho or her betrothed, the Lionheart, and her first impression was that he was not at all kingly. But she changed her mind as soon as she looked into those piercing pale eyes, for what she saw in their depths sent an involuntary shiver up her spine.

Thinking that she’d not have wanted to be wed to this man, Berengaria had glanced toward his wife with both sympathy and curiosity, for her father’s sister Margarita had often written to them about life at the Sicilian court. Constance de Hauteville was as tall as her husband, very elegant in a lilac gown embroidered with gold threads and tiny seed pearls. Her veil and wimple hid her hair, but Berengaria was sure she’d been blessed with the flaxen tresses so praised by troubadours, for her skin was very white and her eyes were an extraordinary shade of blue, star sapphires framed by thick golden lashes. Berengaria had expected her to be fair, for the de Hautevilles were as acclaimed for their good looks as Henry and Eleanor’s brood. Time or marriage had not been kind to Constance, though; in her mid-thirties now, she was almost painfully thin, and what remained of her beauty had become a brittle court mask. Her manners were flawless, her bearing regal. But Berengaria could see in this aloof, self-possessed woman no traces of the girl in her aunt Margarita’s letters, the fey free spirit who’d been privileged to grow up in Eden.

Just as Eleanor had predicted, the conversation was coldly correct. She’d offered her condolences for the death of Heinrich’s father and received an appropriate response in return. They then talked of the weather and their respective journeys through the Alps, both agreeing that his had been the easier route, for the Brenner Pass was at a much lower altitude than Montgenèvre. The stilted dialogue was rendered even more awkward by their language barrier, and long pauses ensued while Heinrich’s German was translated into French for Eleanor’s benefit and her replies were then repeated in his native tongue. The visibly nervous Bishop of Lodi had finally begun to relax, thinking this unsettling encounter was almost over, when Heinrich chose to veer off the road paved with platitudes.

His translator gave him a startled look, and then lowered his eyes discreetly as he relayed the message to Eleanor. “My lord king says that he was pleased to hear of your arrival, Madame, for he is sure that you could not have reached such a venerable age without acquiring the prudence and wisdom that your son so obviously lacks. It is his hope that you will exert your influence with the King of the English ere it is too late. His rash decision to embrace that bastard Tancred and even to sanctify their unholy alliance by wedding his heir, Arthur of Brittany, to the usurper’s daughter is one that will cost England dearly—unless you can convince him that he has made a monumental blunder.”

Berengaria was grateful that no eyes were upon her, for she could not suppress a gasp. When she looked toward Eleanor, she felt a flicker of admiration, for the queen did not even blink at the astonishing news that her son John had been disinherited in favor of a Breton child who was not yet four years old. “Tell Lord Heinrich,” she said, with a smile barbed enough to draw blood, “that I have the utmost confidence in the judgment of my son, the English king. I will overlook his blatant bad manners, though, as reaching such a ‘venerable age’ has given me a greater understanding of the human heart. It must be unbearably humiliating and humbling for him—being rejected by the lords and citizens of Sicily in favor of a man born out of wedlock.”

The translator looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue. “Madame, I . . . I cannot tell him that!”

“Of course you cannot,” the Bishop of Milan interceded smoothly. “Let me do it.” And Milo gleefully proceeded to do just that, in fluent Latin. By the time he was done, Heinrich’s pale skin was blotched with hot color. He spat out something in German, then turned on his heel and stalked away, as the counts of Eppan and Shaumberg and the Bishop of Trent jettisoned their dignity and scurried to catch up with him.

Constance did not follow. Instead she accepted a wine cup from a passing servant and smiled blandly at Eleanor. “I’d rather not translate that last remark, if you do not mind, my lady.” Eleanor smiled just as blandly, saying that sometimes translations were unnecessary and, to Berengaria’s amazement, the two women then began to chat nonchalantly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Listening as they discussed benign topics of interest to neither of them, Berengaria wondered if she’d ever achieve that sort of icy aplomb. How did they learn to immerse the woman in the queen? Could she learn to do that, too? Did she even want to learn?

The conversation soon turned to music, for Boniface of Montferrat was a noted patron of troubadours, with one of the best known in his entourage here at Lodi: Gaucelm Faidit. Gaucelm was native to Eleanor’s world, a son of the Limousin, and she assured Constance that they could look forward to an evening of exceptional entertainment. “Gaucelm Faidit was often at my son Geoffrey’s court in Brittany and with Richard in Poitou ere he became king. I’ve been told that Gaucelm and Geoffrey once composed a tenso together, and I would dearly love to hear it.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged. I know your son Richard is a poet. Geoffrey was one, too, then?”

“He turned his hand to poetry from time to time, but not as often as Richard, who derives great pleasure from music. If you’ll overlook a mother’s pride, I can honestly say that several of his sirventes are as sardonic and witty as any composed by Bertran de Born.”

“Does he write in French or in
lenga romana
?” Constance asked, sounding genuinely curious, and nodded thoughtfully when Eleanor said he composed in both languages but preferred the
lenga romana
of Aquitaine. “My lord husband is a poet, too . . . did you know that, Madame? Heinrich could easily compose in Latin, or even French. But like your son, he prefers his native tongue, and has written several songs of courtly love that are quite good—if you’ll overlook a wife’s pride.”

“Indeed? Most interesting. Lord Heinrich is a man of hidden talents,” Eleanor murmured, all the while seeking to decipher the message cloaked in those seemingly casual words. Constance had just alerted her—and with a subtlety that Eleanor could appreciate—that she should guard her speech in Heinrich’s hearing, for if he understood enough French to compose in it, he’d had no need of a translator. What she did not understand was why the other woman was giving her this warning.

She soon had her answer, though. Constance glanced about the hall, saw that they were no longer attracting attention, their conversation too banal to stir suspicions, and lowered her voice, pitching it for Eleanor’s ears alone. “You said that you were traveling to Rome, Madame. Since you’ve come so far, I assume you’ll continue on to see your son in Messina. If I give you a letter for your daughter, will you deliver it to Joanna for me?”

Eleanor did not hesitate, instinctively sure that the other woman was acting for herself, not for Heinrich. “Of course I will. Joanna often mentioned you in her letters, saying you’d done much to ease her loneliness when she arrived in Palermo.”

For the first time, Eleanor saw a genuine smile light Constance’s face. It had a transforming effect, shedding years and cares and calling up the ghost of the carefree young girl she’d once been. “I always thought of Joanna as if she were my flesh-and-blood. Mayhap not a daughter since there were only eleven years between us, but most definitely a little sister. During our stay in Lodi, I would be pleased to share with you stories of Joanna’s girlhood at William’s court.”

“That would give me great pleasure, Lady Constance.” Eleanor proved then that Constance had won her trust by saying with unguarded candor, “Do you know what has befallen my daughter? William’s death was followed by a strange and ominous silence. She did not write and I very much fear it was because she was unable to do so. I’d hoped to learn more in Rome, but I am guessing that your lord husband hears of it as soon as a tree falls in a Sicilian forest.”

“Indeed, he does. You had reason for concern, Madame, for Joanna was ill treated by Tancred. He seized her dower lands and then held her prisoner in Palermo, fearing her popularity with the people and her fondness for me. But she is safe now, has been free since last September. Have you ever heard of a
scirocco
? It is the name we use for a wind that comes out of the African desert and rages across the sea to Sicily, where it wreaks great havoc. Well, your Richard swept into Messina like a
scirocco
, and Tancred not only set Joanna at liberty, he soon settled her dower claims, too. I daresay his sudden change of heart had something to do with the fact that Richard had seized control of Messina. It is called negotiating from a position of strength, I believe.”

Eleanor paid Constance a rare compliment, allowing the younger woman to see the vast relief that flooded through her soul. “Thank you,” she said simply, and they exchanged a look of silent understanding, the mutual recognition that women like them, however high of birth and resolute of will, would always be birds with clipped wings, unable to soar in a world ruled by men.