Lionheart (28 page)

DESPITE THE PRESENCE of a king and two queens, the center of attention soon proved to be the younger son of an Italian marquis. Boniface of Montferrat was a magnet for all eyes, for he was strikingly handsome, with curly fair hair, vivid blue eyes, and the easy smile of a man who well knew the potent appeal of his own charm. He had a reputation for battlefield heroics and reckless gallantry, his exploits often celebrated by the troubadours who frequented his court, and, unlike his German cousin Heinrich, he was outgoing and affable. Fluent in four languages, one of which was the
lenga romana
of Aquitaine, he and Eleanor were soon chatting like old and intimate friends. He continued to hold sway over the high table during their elaborate meal, flattering Heinrich, flirting with Constance, jesting with Eleanor and Bishop Milo. But when the talk turned to the struggle with the Saracens, he related a story about his brother Conrad that caused an astonished silence to settle over the hall.

For the benefit of those unfamiliar with his family history, he explained that his eldest brother William had been wed to the Lady Sybilla, sister of Baldwin, the Leper King, but he’d died soon afterward, and Sybilla had then made that accursed marriage to Guy de Lusignan, which resulted in the loss of the Holy Land to the infidels. “My lord father was amongst those taken prisoner at the Battle of Ḥaṭṭīn. When my brother Conrad took command of Tyre, Saladin brought our father to the siege, demanding that Conrad yield the city or our sire would be put to death before his very eyes. He did not know my brother, though. Conrad shouted down from the walls that he’d never surrender Tyre, that his father had lived a long life and Saladin should go ahead and kill him!”

Boniface paused then for dramatic effect, and burst out laughing at the dumbfounded expressions on the faces turned toward him. “Conrad does not lack for filial devotion, I assure you. But he would never surrender the only city still under Christian control, and if the price of Tyre’s survival was our father’s death, so be it.”

Most of those listening were greatly impressed by Conrad’s piety. Only Eleanor thought to ask what had happened to his father. Boniface’s answer was somewhat anticlimactic. “Oh, Saladin eventually freed him, and he was allowed to join Conrad in Tyre.”

Boniface then diplomatically shifted attention back to his royal cousin, asking Heinrich about his Sicilian campaign. Eleanor was no longer listening, for Boniface’s offhand revelation had stirred an old memory from the waning years of England’s civil war. At the age of five, Will Marshal had been offered up by his father as a hostage, a pledge of John Marshal’s good faith. But Marshal had broken his oath, and when the outraged King Stephen had warned that his son would die if he did not surrender Newbury Castle as he’d promised, his ice-blooded reply had passed into legend. Go ahead and hang Will, he’d said, for he had the hammer and anvil with which to forge other and better sons. John Marshal had gambled the life of his son upon his understanding of his foe, sure that Stephen could not bring himself to hang a child—and indeed, Will had been spared. Eleanor wondered now if Conrad had been wagering, too, upon an enemy’s honor.

THEIR HOST HAD ENGAGED harpists to play while his guests dined. Afterward, Boniface’s renowned troubadour took center stage. Gaucelm’s repertoire was an extensive one, offering cansos of love and the dawn songs known as albas, interspersed with the stinging political satire of the sirvente. When he retired to thunderous applause, several of Boniface’s joglars were summoned next. They began with a tactful tribute to Boniface’s liege lord, performing one of Heinrich’s songs of courtly love, although only the members of the royal retinue understood German. They then accepted audience requests, and the hall was soon echoing with popular songs of past troubadour stars like Bertran de Born, Jaufre Rudel, and a female trobairitz who’d composed under the name Comtessa de Diá.

As the evening progressed, the songs became increasingly bawdy, culminating in Heinrich’s request for a song by Eleanor’s grandfather, Duke William of Aquitaine, a man often called “the first troubadour,” who’d delighted in outraging the Church both in his life and in his songs. The one chosen by Heinrich was surely his most ribald, the rollicking tale of a knight who’d pretended to be mute so two highborn ladies would think it safe to dally with him. After testing him by letting a savage tomcat rake its claws along his bare back, they’d taken him to bed, where he boasted that he’d sinned so often that he’d been left in a woeful state “with harness torn and broken blade.” When he’d recovered from his amorous ordeal, he’d sent his squire back to the women, requesting that, in his memory, they “Kill that cat!”

The song was a carnal celebration of sin, but if Heinrich had hoped to embarrass the English queen, he’d misread his adversary. Eleanor was proud of her incorrigible, scandalous grandfather, and she laughed as loudly as anyone in the hall at his amatory antics. It was her son’s betrothed who was embarrassed by the blunt language and immoral message. Berengaria had listened with discomfort as the songs became more and more unseemly. She’d been particularly offended that a woman could have written the lascivious lines penned by the Comtessa de Diá, “I’d give him reason to suppose he was in Heaven, if I deigned to be his pillow,” for the comtessa’s song was a lament for an adulterous lover. Berengaria kept her disapproval to herself, sipping her wine in silence as the hall rocked with laughter, but she’d not yet mastered one of the subtleties of queenship: the art of subterfuge. Her face was still the mirror to her soul and her unease was noticed.

As the evening revelries drew to an end, Hawisa seized the first opportunity to draw her aside. “You seemed disquieted earlier,” she said with her usual forthrightness. “Is something preying upon your mind?”

By now Berengaria had become accustomed to the countess’s disregard for propriety. Sancho’s departure had left her feeling dispirited and forlorn, her loneliness exacerbated by her inability to join in the evening’s merriment, and she welcomed Hawisa’s concern, for tonight she was in need of a friend. “I was downcast,” she admitted shyly. “I miss Sancho already. And the entertainment was not to my liking.”

Hawisa’s plucked blond brows shot upward. “You do not fancy troubadour poetry?”

“No, not really. It has not flourished in Navarre, not as it has in Aragon or Aquitaine. And to be honest, I find much of it distasteful. I can understand why the Church disapproves of the troubadours, for some of their songs glorify infidelity.” Berengaria did not think she’d said anything out of the ordinary and she was surprised to see an expression of dismay cross the other woman’s face.

“Because you speak their
lenga romana
, the queen and Richard took it for granted that you’d take pleasure in their music. You do know that Richard composes troubadour poetry himself?” After a moment to reflect, though, Hawisa shrugged. “Well, no matter as long as you’ve been forewarned. We’ll just keep this as our secret and no harm done.”

Now it was Berengaria’s turn to stare in dismay. “Are you saying I should lie to Richard? I could not do that, Lady Hawisa, for I believe there ought to be truth between a husband and wife.”

“Good heavens, child, marriages are made of lies!” Hawisa said, laughing. “They can no more withstand the truth than a bat could endure the full light of day. I am simply suggesting that you practice a harmless deception. If the husband is content, most often the wife will be content, too, for he’ll be less likely to take out his bad moods on her. I assure you that other women weave these small falsehoods into the daily fabric of their lives, be it feigning pleasure in the bedchamber or feigning interest in the great hall, and they see no need to confide such falsehoods to their confessors!” Hawisa beamed at the younger woman, pleased to be able to instruct her in the intricacies of wedlock, oblivious to the fact that she’d never applied any of these lessons in either of her marriages.

Berengaria was too well mannered to admit that she found Hawisa’s advice to be cynical and demeaning. So she merely smiled politely. But then she stiffened, for she’d just noticed the woman standing a few feet away. When heat flamed into Berengaria’s face, Hawisa was touched by her innocence, thinking she’d been embarrassed by the talk of marital sex. But she was mistaken. Berengaria’s consternation was due to the alarming realization that Heinrich’s wife had overheard them discussing her marriage to his enemy, the English king.

Berengaria was horrified by her blunder. How could she have been so careless? The queen had cautioned them that her identity must remain secret from Heinrich, lest he warn Philippe of Richard’s intention of repudiating Alys. And now her secret had been delivered into the hands of Heinrich’s queen. She was utterly at a loss, not knowing how to remedy her mistake. She shrank from the thought of confessing to Eleanor, her pride rebelling at the very notion, for she did not want Richard’s mother to think less of her, to know that she’d failed in so simple a task. Nor did she want to implicate Hawisa, and how could she confess without admitting the part the countess had played in their heedless conversation? Yet Eleanor must be alerted to the danger, so how could she stay silent?

In the end, desperation drove her to approach Constance. The other woman listened impassively as she made a halting request for a private word. It was only when the queen murmured in German and her ladies withdrew that Berengaria knew her plea had been granted. As their eyes met, Berengaria felt dwarfed in comparison to Constance, who was so much taller, so much older, and so much more experienced in the ways of statecraft. Not knowing what else to do, she fell back upon candor, saying quietly, “I believe you may have overheard my conversation with the Countess of Aumale, Madame.”

It occurred to her that it would be easy for Constance to deny she’d heard anything, and what would she do then? But to her relief, the German queen nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I was not intending to eavesdrop,” she said, with the faintest hint of a smile, “but yes, I did hear some of your conversation. Am I correct in assuming you are the King of Navarre’s daughter?” She did smile then, at Berengaria’s unguarded amazement, saying, “I do not have second sight, I assure you. Bishop Milo mentioned that King Sancho’s son had accompanied Queen Eleanor as far as Milan. Since he is known to be friendly with the English king, I thought his escort was a courtesy to Richard. But once I overheard the countess extolling the advantages of marital ambiguity, I saw Lord Sancho’s presence in another light.”

That Constance de Hauteville was so clever only increased Berengaria’s despondency. She could never outwit this woman. “I am Berengaria de Jimenez,” she said, “the daughter of King Sancho, sixth of that name to rule the kingdom of Navarre. It is my earnest hope, Madame, that you will consider keeping my identity to yourself. My betrothal to King Richard has not been made public yet and . . .” She could go no further, overcome by the futility of her entreaty. Why would Constance agree to assist Richard, the man who’d allied himself with Tancred, who’d usurped her throne? But Constance was waiting expectantly, and she said drearily, “It was a foolish idea. Why would you want to do a service for the English king?”

“You are right,” Constance said. “I have no reason whatsoever to oblige the English king, nor would I do so. But I am willing to keep silent for the King of Navarre’s daughter.”

Berengaria’s brown eyes widened. “You��you mean that?” she stammered. “You will say nothing to your lord husband?”

“Nary a word. Consider it a favor from one foreign bride to another.”

Overwhelmed with gratitude, Berengaria watched as Constance turned away then, crossing the hall to join her husband. It was ridiculous to feel pity for a woman so blessed by fortune. She knew that. But she knew, too, that she’d never seen anyone as profoundly unhappy as Constance de Hauteville, on her way to Rome to be crowned Empress of the Holy Roman Empire.

CHAPTER 12

FEBRUARY 1191

Messina, Sicily

In the span of one week, Richard received two messages from his mother, dispatched from Turin and Lodi,a letter from Chancellor Longchamp’s cojusticiars in England, complaining of his arrogance and refusal to heed any opinion but his own, and a warning from Longchamp himself, reporting that Count John had recently returned to England in a disgruntled frame of mind, having learned of Arthur’s designation as Richard’s heir. But these messages were eclipsed by the one that arrived on February 1 from Outremer, an urgent appeal for aid from Guy de Lusignan, his desperation proven as much by the timing of his letter as by his words themselves, for few ships ventured from Mediterranean ports during the stormy winter months.

RICHARD HAD RIDDEN OFF after getting Guy’s message, heading for the royal palace to inform Philippe of the latest developments in Outremer. André de Chauvigny had been privy to the letter’s contents, and he was soon surrounded by Baldwin de Bethune, Morgan ap Ranulf, and Robert Beaumont, the new Earl of Leicester. Robert had been given the earldom by Richard that very morning, word having reached them in the past week of his father’s death. The elder Beaumont had chosen a land route to Outremer, and it had proven to be as unlucky for him as it had been for Frederick Barbarossa; he’d died in Romania that past September.

André glanced from face to face, then nodded. “The king will be announcing the news soon enough, so I see no reason to make you wait. The word from Outremer was not good. There have been many deaths, more from sickness than Saracen swords, and they are suffering from famine as well as plague. Amongst those who’ve died at Acre are Thibault, the Count of Blois, and his brother, the Count of Sancerre. The Archbishop of Canterbury was also taken ill, dying on November nineteenth. But the most significant death was that of the Queen of Jerusalem. The Lady Sybilla died of the plague in October, a few days after her two young daughters were called home by God.”

The other men exchanged troubled glances, understanding now why Richard had seemed so grim as he’d ridden out of camp. Guy de Lusignan’s hold upon power had always been precarious, given his widespread unpopularity, but with the death of his queen and daughters, he was rendered truly superfluous, for the bloodright to the throne had been vested in Sybilla.

“Who does the crown pass to now, then?” Leicester asked, for he was quite unlike his late, unlamented father and, having no false pride, was willing to ask if he did not know. “Does Sybilla have any other kin?”

“Yes, a younger half-sister, Isabella. But she was wed to a man even less respected than Guy de Lusignan, a lord named Humphrey de Toron who’d long been regarded as a weakling and milksop. Knowing that none wanted to see Humphrey crowned, Conrad of Montferrat saw his chance and seized it. Conspiring with the Bishop of Beauvais and Isabella’s mother, Queen Maria, who is now wed to one of the powerful Ibelin family, he argued that Isabella’s marriage to Humphrey was invalid because she’d been only eight when the marriage was arranged and eleven when it took place.”

“And how did Conrad benefit from this?”

André smiled. “Ah, Morgan, you Welsh do get right to the heart of the matter. Conrad offered to wed Isabella himself once she was free of Humphrey—for the good of the kingdom, of course. I daresay he’d have taken her if she’d been a misshapen, poxed hag, but Conrad has always had the Devil’s own luck, for the girl is just eighteen and said to be a beauty. Humphrey balked, though, and so did Isabella, saying she’d freely given her consent. There was some sympathy for Humphrey at first, but he lost it all when one of Conrad’s men challenged him to a duel to settle the matter and he refused. Isabella showed more backbone, insisting she loved her husband and did not want to be parted from him. But Conrad and her mother eventually bullied her into going along with it, arguing that only a strong king could save Outremer from Saladin. The Archbishop of Canterbury was made of sterner stuff, though, and flatly refused to annul the marriage, saying it was valid in the Eyes of God. But then he was stricken with the plague. As soon as he died, Conrad got the Archbishop of Pisa to annul Isabella’s marriage and they were quickly wed by Philippe’s cousin, the Bishop of Beauvais. So now Conrad is claiming the crown as Isabella’s husband and Guy de Lusignan is entreating Richard to come to his aid as soon as possible, arguing that he is the rightful king.”

There was silence after he was done speaking, for they understood the implications of Guy’s plea. Conrad was cousin both to the French king and the new Holy Roman Emperor, while Guy was Richard’s vassal, with the right to claim his liege lord’s protection. They could well end up fighting one another instead of the Saracens.

RICHARD WAS STILL in a foul mood the next day, infuriated that these political rivalries were putting the crusade at risk. Rather than brooding about it, he decided to exercise his stallion, setting out along the coastal road with his cousins and some of his household knights. It was remarkably mild for Candlemas, the sea shimmering like blue-green glass, the sun warm on their faces, their horses eager to run, and by the time they headed back toward Messina, Richard was in better spirits.

“Guy says that Conrad bribed the archbishop and others to gain their support,” he told André and Morgan, “and he claims Conrad was not even free to wed, having left a wife back in Montferrat and another one in Constantinople. Of course Conrad swore that they both were dead,” he said, with such obvious skepticism that Morgan saw he’d already made up his mind. He was going to support his vassal, just as Philippe would surely support Conrad, his cousin. As he glanced over at the English king, a Welsh proverb popped into Morgan’s head.
Nid da y peth ni phlyco
warned it was a bad bow that would not bend. From what he’d so far seen in Sicily, neither Richard nor Philippe were ones for bending.

“As if you did not have troubles in abundance,” André sympathized, “now you must quickly act to fill the vacancy at Canterbury. Lord knows who those fool monks would elect if left to their own devices.”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that for some time,” Richard admitted. “Archbishop Baldwin was elderly, not in good health, and likely to die in the Holy Land. So I already have a man in mind—the Archbishop of Monreale.” Richard grinned then, for he enjoyed catching others by surprise. “During our negotiations over Messina, he impressed me with his intelligence and integrity. He has taken the cross, too, unlike so many of his fellow prelates who were loath to give up the comforts of home. The Canterbury monks are as stubborn as mules, so they might well balk at electing one they consider a foreigner. But I’ll soon—” Breaking off suddenly, he reined in his horse. “What is happening up ahead?”

The road was blocked, men on horseback milling about, others dismounted, all of them watching a bohort, an informal tournament taking place in an adjacent field. Some of the bystanders were English, but most were French, and they were laughing and shouting rude advice as knights engaged one another with long reeds called sugar canes by the Sicilians. At the sight of his wife’s uncle, Jaufre swung his mount around to greet the English king. “We came upon a peasant taking his canes to market,” he said, pointing toward an elderly farmer; holding the reins of his donkey, he was watching with bemusement as these foreigners wielded his canes like lances. He did not seem indignant, but Richard still asked if he’d been paid for his crop, for he wanted no more trouble with the townspeople during the remainder of their stay.

“We kept handing over coins until he smiled,” Jaufre assured Richard, for Philippe was just as adamant that the Messinians not be cheated. “Why not join in, my liege? We have more than enough canes. Unless of course your men fear defeat?”

The challenge was good-natured, given with a grin, and Richard saw that his knights were eager to accept it. “Go on,” he said indulgently, and most of them quickly dismounted, squabbling with one another over the longest, sturdiest canes. Richard had no interest in joining them, for he had no need to hone his own skills and dismissed tournaments as mere rehearsals for the real event. But then the young Mathieu de Montmorency noticed the new arrivals.

“My lord king,” he cried out gleefully, “you are just in time! Surely you are not going to pass up a chance to knock a French knight on his arse? You can have my own cane to smite them!”

Mathieu offered it then with a dramatic flourish, and to the surprise of Richard’s men, he reached out and took it. They knew Richard deliberately encouraged the boy’s hero worship because it obviously annoyed Philippe. But they knew, too, his indifference to tourneys. “He must be as just as bored as we are,” André murmured to Morgan. As he followed the direction of Richard’s gaze, though, he drew a sharp breath. “Ballocks!”

Morgan and Baldwin looked, too, saw nothing out of the ordinary. When they turned questioningly to him, André said softly, “There’s the reason for his sudden interest, the man on that bay stallion—Guillaume des Barres.”

They both knew of the French knight, of course, for he was almost as celebrated for his martial skills as William Marshal. It made sense to them that Richard should want to test himself against such a worthy foe, and they saw no cause for concern; it was only a bohort, after all. But then André quietly told them of Richard’s history with the other man.

“It happened the year ere the old king died. Richard had not yet forged an alliance with Philippe, and when he got word that the French king was at Mantes, he made a raid into the surrounding countryside. There was a skirmish with the French and he captured Guillaume des Barres. Because he was a knight, Richard accepted his pledge, and continued the fight. But des Barres broke his parole and escaped by stealing a sumpter horse.”

Seeing their surprise, André shrugged. “I do not know why he dishonored himself like that. Mayhap he acted impulsively when he saw a chance to flee. Mayhap he feared he’d not be able to pay the ransom Richard would demand. I can only tell you that Richard was outraged when he learned of it and has borne des Barres a grudge ever since.”

Baldwin and Morgan agreed that Richard had a legitimate grievance. They did not share André’s unease, though, for when had a man ever been run through with a sugar cane? And surely des Barres would have the sense to keep out of Richard’s way.

Now that there was to be a French–English clash, the impromptu bohort seemed more like a genuine tournament, and Richard’s unusual participation ratcheted up the excitement. The knights lined up on opposite sides of the field, and since no one had a trumpet, the signal was the battle cry of the first crusade.
“Deus vult!”
“God wills it!” Their stallions kicking up clouds of dust, the men charged toward one another as the spectators shouted and cheered.

Just as André had suspected, Richard headed straight for Guillaume des Barres, his path as true as an arrow. Guillaume urged his mount forward and they came together in the center of the field. Richard got the worst of the exchange, for his cane broke when Guillaume parried the blow. He was circling around to get another cane from one of his squires when he saw the triumphant smile on the other man’s face. Disregarding the outstretched cane, he spurred his stallion forward as if they were on the battlefield, slamming into Guillaume’s bay with such force that he stumbled and Guillaume would have gone sailing over his head had he not grabbed the mane. But Richard had not emerged unscathed, for the impact loosened his cinch and his saddle started to slip. He swiftly dismounted, snatched the reins of the nearest horse, and vaulted up into the saddle to continue the attack.

By now they had attracted the attention of the spectators and even some of the men on the field, who’d lowered their canes to watch. Guillaume had managed to regain his balance. When Richard’s stallion charged him again, his bay shied and only his skilled horsemanship kept him from falling. Before he could right himself, Richard grabbed his arm and yanked, expecting to pull him from the saddle. He had not often encountered a foe with his physical strength, but now he found himself unable to dislodge the other man. Guillaume clutched his horse’s neck, clasping his knees tightly against the animal’s sides, and when Richard angrily demanded that he yield, he stubbornly refused, resisting the English king’s attempts to unseat him as if his very life depended upon the outcome.