The Heart of the Lion

Chapter III JOANNA

In the castle at Palermo, Queen Joanna of Sicily was asking herself what would become of her. In the last few months her future had become threatening and she could not know what would happen to her from one day to another. She, the honoured Queen, daughter of Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine, once beloved of a doting husband now found herself virtually a prisoner.

Who would have believed while William lived that his cousin Tancred could have behaved in such a villainous manner? She had always known Tancred was ambitious – what man was not? And Tancred was a bastard and they always seemed to have an even greater love of power than their legitimate relations. He had seemed loyal but, as soon as William was dead, his true character had emerged and because she had opposed him, here she was a prisoner.

She was not a woman to accept such treatment lightly. She was after all a descendant of the great Conqueror himself; if her father had been alive Tancred would never have dared behave as he did; but in July her father had died and in November of the same year her husband had followed him to the grave. So she had lost two powerful protectors within a few months.

She was twenty-five years of age and comely. She had lived fully those twenty-five years. She had learned to stand on her own feet as members of the royal family must. She scarcely knew her family. She had caught glimpses of her brothers now and then, and it had been comforting to know of their existence. Her father had been a power throughout Europe. Now she felt bereft and lonely.

What could she do in her apartments which were in fact a prison, for she was not allowed to leave them without an escort? She could only think over the past and wonder what the future held.

As a young daughter of the family – only John was younger – she had not seemed of any great account until her marriage. Born in Angers she had been brought up in Fontevraud but there had been a time when she had been in England. She could remember the Princess Alice’s being in the nurseries with her and her brother John. Alice had seemed a good deal older than she and John were but it could only have been a few years. What scandal there had been later concerning Alice! She could remember her father’s visiting the nursery and how she and John had been a little jealous of the attention he gave to Alice. And what now he was dead? Would Richard marry her? It seemed hardly likely. Alice’s situation, she reflected, was no more pleasant than her own.

What are we, the princesses of royal houses? she thought bitterly. Nothing but counters in a game. If it suits the country’s politics we are married – wherever the most advantage is to be found, no matter what bridegroom we must take.

She herself had been fairly fortunate with her husband although the marriage almost did not take place. William had been a good husband, ten years her senior, but that was not such a bad thing as she had been only eleven years old when his emissaries had come to take her to Sicily.

The betrothal had previously been set aside as William who had been at this time seventeen did not want to wait for a child of seven and he had hoped to marry a daughter of the eastern emperor, Manuel Comnenus. This scheme did not come to fruition and in due course William had sent his ambassadors to England to inspect the little Princess Joanna.

This was the time when she had been brought to Winchester and shared a schoolroom with her brother John and Princess Alice, Richard’s betrothed. She would never forget her father’s coming to the schoolroom and there telling her that some very important noblemen had arrived from Sicily with the express purpose of seeing her. He had told her that she must conduct herself with decorum, for what these gentlemen thought of her could have a great effect not only on her future but on his.

She had stood before them and answered their questions and she knew that she had done well, for her father had laid his hand on her shoulder and pressed it affectionately and she had heard one of the men exclaim: ‘But her beauty is outstanding. The King of Sicily will be pleased exceedingly.’ Back in the nursery she had told a curious John and Alice what had taken place.

‘Oh,’ had said the knowledgeable Alice, ‘it is a betrothal.’

She had told them that the King of Sicily would be exceedingly pleased.

‘It is because you are pretty,’ Alice had explained.

‘Richard must have been exceedingly pleased with you,’ Joanna had said.

‘Like our father is,’ John had added, at which beautiful Alice had blushed deeply.

‘She’s prettier than ever pink,’ John had commented.

And now Joanna knew what the blush had implied.

We are surrounded by intrigue from our cradles, she thought.

And so she had come to Sicily when she was a girl of eleven. When she had landed in Normandy she had been met by her eldest brother, Henry. King Henry he had called himself because he was so proud of the fact that their father had allowed him to be crowned. He was so handsome and charming that she loved him and was proud to have such a brother. He was also kind, gentle and full of fun. He wanted her to remember the time she spent with him. When they stopped at various castles on the way he would organise entertainments for her, and there had been tournaments where she could see him joust. He used to say: ‘I’m going into this for you. You are my lady – my little sister Joanna.’ Oh yes, Henry had had great charm. He was quite different from his namesake their father. Yet she knew now that he had been weak, that the charm had been superficial; that he had lied to his father and grieved him sorely. But to the young Joanna he had seemed perfect. How sad it was that childhood illusions must be shattered! She had wept bitterly when he had died and had prayed constantly for his soul. She feared it might be in torment for his going had been violent. He had betrayed his father; he had desecrated monasteries and robbed them of their treasures in order to pay his soldiers for his wars against his father. It was a sorry story and how far she had been from guessing its climax during those golden days when he had entertained her on the journey across Normandy and had done his best to make her forget she was going to a stranger husband in a strange new land!

He had conducted her to the borders of Aquitaine where another brother was waiting for her. She had thought that never could a princess have had two such wonderful brothers. If Henry had been the most handsome man she had ever seen, Richard was the most distinguished. She had thought this must be how the gods looked when they came down from Olympus. He too was tall, his hair fair and shining, and he looked noble and invincible.

He was not as warm and friendly as Henry had been, but he gave her a greater sense of comfort. He implied that while he was with her it was quite impossible for any harm to befall her.

Down to the coast she had ridden with this godlike brother beside her and at St Gilles her bridegroom’s Sicilian fleet had been waiting for her.

She had taken a tender farewell of Richard but she did not weep. She felt that Richard would have despised tears. It would have been different with Henry. They would have wept together; she had wondered when she would see her brothers again and was very sad until rocked on that angry sea she was too sick to think of anything but her own misery and the desirability of death. So ill was she that the captain of her vessel had decided that they could not continue the journey and they had come ashore at Naples. By then it was Christmas time. Her attendants and the sailors had been entertained there and they did their best to make it a merry time and afterwards they had travelled by land across Calabria so that the only sea she must traverse was the strait of Messina.

This had been a good sign, showing as it did that her new husband was eager for her comfort and she was already grateful to him before she saw him.

And when he saw her he smiled with pleasure. He had heard reports of her good looks, but it was said that all princesses were good looking when they were marriageable – at least so those who were eager to promote the union always averred. Occasionally they were true and so afforded a very pleasant surprise to their bridegrooms. This was what had happened in her case and William had been delighted with his bride. So were the Sicilians.

She would never forget coming ashore. Mercifully she had not been ill and was fresh and beautiful on that first meeting. William could not stop himself looking at her. He stroked her hair and kissed her hands. She was enchanting, he said.

She was young – twelve years old – but that was not too young for marriage and he had been eager for the ceremony to take place without delay. Her father would expect it, he told her.

She was given attendants who combed her long hair and petted her; and each day there were costly gifts from her bridegroom. She had felt cherished from the moment she set foot on Sicilian soil and some two weeks after her arrival, the Archbishop of Palermo officiating at the ceremony, she and William were married.

It was pleasant to look back on those days. He had been kind and tender and she knew now that it could so easily have been otherwise. It was true that she had brought with her a fine dowry which included a golden table twelve feet long which was very valuable, a silken tent and a hundred very fine galleys, enough corn that would need sixty thousand mules to carry it and the same quantity of barley and wine. There had also been twenty gold cups and twenty-four plates of the same precious metal. It was advantageous for a King of Sicily to be linked by marriage with the King of England, but even so William might not have been such a tender doting husband, and she had been fortunate.

So she had learned to love Sicily and had thought herself the most fortunate of queens when she gave birth to her son whom she called Bohemond. Alas, Bohemond had delighted her life only briefly and to the sorrow of his parents and the whole of Sicily he died soon after his birth. But perhaps not to the sorrow of all. There was Tancred.

Tancred! He was the source of her troubles. But for Tancred she would not now be kept in restraint. Tancred had appeared at court when William was alive. He had constantly sought to distinguish himself, being clearly piqued by the fact that he was a bastard. William, easy going and a little sorry for him, had always made him welcome but Joanna had believed that his ambition was dangerous.

As William was but in his thirties and appeared to be healthy Tancred’s ambitions must have been dormant for some years, and the fact that little Bohemond had died did not mean that Joanna and William would not have more heirs. Joanna had proved that she could have sons and the fact that the first one had not survived was no indication that there would not be others. But when the baby died it was a fact that the only male heir to the Sicilian throne was Tancred, bastard though he was.

William’s sister Constancia was married to Henry of Germany, eldest son of the Emperor Frederic known as Barbarossa, and should William die without male heirs it was logical to suppose that Constancia would inherit Sicily. When William had known he was dying he had asked Joanna to come to his bedside that he might talk with her. He was deeply concerned for her. Before he had known that death was close he had made provision that in the event of his death, and Joanna’s being left a childless widow, her dowry was to be returned to her father that it might be used again to provide her with another husband. William, like most of the noblemen of his age had had dreams of joining a crusade, such an undertaking promising not only exciting adventures and rich spoil but at the same time remission of past sins, and he had been amassing treasure which would provide the means of financing such an expedition. He had decreed that if he should be unable to go these funds were to be given to the King of England to be used for his crusade.

King Henry had died in July, and it was August before the news reached Sicily. By that time William was sick.

He was comforted by the presence of Joanna whom he had loved dearly, but he was even more anxious for her welfare now that her father was dead.

‘I thank God that you have a strong brother who will protect you,’ he said. ‘If our son had lived it would have been your duty to stay here and bring him up as King. But alas our little Bohemond was not destined for such a role. The true heir is my sister Constancia. Sicily will be well governed through her and her husband and one of her sons will in due course be King of Sicily. That is taken care of. But it is your future which concerns me.’

She bade him cease to fret. ‘My father is dead, but my brother Richard is now King of England,’ she reminded him. ‘I know that he will care for me. I shall never forget how he looked after me when I arrived in Aquitaine on my way here. There is something invincible about him. I beg of you do not think of me. Prepare yourself. You have been a good husband to me, William.’

He could not bear her to leave his side and she was with him at the end. Then she went to her apartments to brood on her loss.

She had been amazed when Tancred came to her. Scarcely before William was cold, he had taken his place. Sicily needed a strong man he declared, and he was that man. He was of royal blood. It was inconceivable that the crown should go to the wife of the German Emperor when he, Tancred, was here on the spot.

She had protested indignantly. ‘It was not William’s wish that it should go to you,’ she cried.

‘William’s wishes, he being dead, are no longer of moment.’

‘That’s where you are wrong,’ cried Joanna.

‘Nay,’ said Tancred. ‘You will see that I am right.’

‘Do you think the Emperor Henry will allow you to snatch the crown from Constancia?’ she demanded.

‘Henry is far away. I am on the spot. You are to go back to England and it is in truth no concern of yours.’

‘William’s wishes are my concern.’

‘What mean you?’

‘That I cannot stand by and see you usurp the throne.’

His face was dull red. He was furiously angry with her. This was another slur on his birth. If he had been legitimate would there have been this question about his inheritance? Of course there would not. He was going to show them that bastard or not, he was a king. The finest example of a bastard’s greatness was William the First of England who was known as the Conqueror.

‘What will you do to prevent me, Madam?’ he had asked.

‘Anything in my power.’

Angrily he had left her, asking himself what she could do. She was powerless. She was merely William’s widow who had failed to give him a son. Yet, she would have the people’s sympathy as the grieving widow determined to carry out her husband’s wishes. He did not want her rousing the people against him.

Soon after he had left her the guards appeared to tell her she had been put under arrest. And thus she had remained through the winter. From the windows of her prison she had watched the spring and summer come to Palermo.

‘How long will it last?’ she had constantly asked.

It was one day in late summer when one of her attendants came to her in a state of great excitement.

‘Good news,’ she said. ‘I had it from one of the serving men who had it from a messenger who had come from afar. The King of England is setting out on a crusade to the Holy Land. The King of France is to accompany him. They are bringing their fleets to Messina and will sail from there to Acre.’

‘My brother coming to Sicily!’

‘Think not, my lady, that Richard King of England will allow you to remain Tancred’s prisoner.’

‘Nay,’ she cried. ‘He never will.’

‘Great events are afoot, my lady.’

Joanna nodded slowly. Yes indeed, she was certain of it. Great events were afoot.

Richard’s journey was taking longer than he had planned it should. He must make sure that his lands were well guarded against attack while he was away. He refused to listen to those advisers who suggested that having inherited the throne but a few months before it was a little soon to leave it. There were not many who put forward this view. They were afraid to. Giving voice to such an opinion could offend two mighty powers – Richard and Heaven – and both were believed capable of dire revenge.

There were some who raised their voices in criticism though. Fulke of Neuilly, although in favour of the crusade, doubted whether Richard was the man to lead it. That he was a great general, the finest soldier known to Europe, was accepted. But, preached Fulke, this was a holy war. How holy was Richard? There were certain ugly rumours about his private life. His passionate friendship with the King of France was remembered. And these two were the leaders of their crusades! True enough it was meet and fitting that such enterprises should be led by kings, but should not those kings mend their ways before they set themselves up as Heaven’s generals?

Richard was present when Fulke was preaching and Fulke fearlessly ended his fiery sermon by crying out: ‘Thou hast three dangerous daughters, oh Prince. They are leading you to the brink of a precipice.’

‘You are a mistaken hypocrite,’ responded Richard. ‘I have no daughters.’

‘Indeed you have,’ retorted Fulke. ‘They are Pride, Avarice and Lasciviousness.’

The King threw up his arms and cried to the assembly of peers who were present. ‘Is it so then? I will give my Pride to the Templars and Hospitallers, my avarice to the Cistercian monks and my lasciviousness to the prelates of the Church.’

There was a murmuring among the congregation and it was of approval for the King, for although he might be proud was he more so than the Templars? The Cistercians were noted for their greed; and immorality was rife in the clergy. The titter of amusement, the applause of his friends and the discomfiture of the preacher made of that occasion a victory for Richard.

The proposed crusade was very popular. On his progress throughout Normandy people came out to wish him well and many to join his ranks. It was unthinkable that the Holy City should remain in the hands of the Infidel. Those who delivered it would be for ever blessed.

There was an uncomfortable incident at Tours where the Archbishop, when blessing the proposed crusade, presented Richard with the pilgrim’s staff and wallet. Richard unfortunately leaned on the staff and as he did so it broke under his weight.

There was a cry of dismay from the watching crowd, who took it as a sign that no good would come of the crusade.

Richard wondered what his great ancestor would have done. He remembered then that when William the Conqueror had landed in England he had slipped and fallen, and with great presence of mind had seized a handful of the sand and declared that the land was already his.

Now he laughed aside the broken staff. It was a sign of his great strength, he said. It was a signal that nothing was strong enough to stand against him and everything would be broken by the weight of his strength.

This crusade must succeed, thought Richard. Nothing must be allowed to go wrong with it. He had a great adversary he knew in the form of the Sultan Saladin. Saladin it was who had taken Jerusalem and had held it now for several years. He was a great warrior it was said. Well, Richard swore, there should be a greater, and that should be himself, and he longed to come face to face with Saladin.

But there must be no hurrying over preparations. Many an expedition had failed for just that. There was often a lack of discipline in such enterprises, and Richard was determined that his crusade should not fail for that reason. So many men joined the company not for religious reasons but for love of gain. They looked for rich spoils; they wanted to fight because fighting could unleash their natural cruelty; the greatest sport in their minds was the pillaging of towns and the raping of terrified women and children; but perhaps above all they wanted the rich ornaments, the fortune that could come to them through war. To be able to enjoy all this under the guise of religion was a heaven-sent opportunity. The Infidel on the other hand was the defender of what he believed was his by right and this gave him the advantage. Many of them were protecting their homes and their religious motives were as strong as those of the Christians. Richard knew full well that they would never be easily conquered. But he was determined that his armies should be as efficient as he could make them, and he saw that this could only be achieved by a fierce discipline. He had discussed this with Philip. Philip was too lenient with his armies he said. Philip’s answer was that men should not follow their leader through fear. They should do so through affection.

Richard would not have conflict within his own ranks. He had made new laws for his crusading armies and he was determined that they should be enforced. If two men fought together and one killed the other, he should die in the following manner: if they were on board ship, the survivor should be bound to the dead man and the two of them thrown overboard; if the fight was on land, they should be bound together in the same way and buried together. Any man who drew a knife against another or struck another and drew blood was to have his hand cut off. If no blood was drawn the miscreant was to be thrown into the sea and if he could save himself he should be thrown in again twice more. If he managed to survive after three immersions he would be considered to have paid for his crime. The penalty for uttering foul language was a fine of an ounce of silver. A thief should be shaved, tarred and feathered, boiling pitch poured over his head and a feathered pillow be shaken over him and he should be set ashore on the first land the ship touched.

Each man knew that these punishments would be carried out if he offended, for Richard was not a king to show mercy. Therefore there was little trouble in the ranks of his followers by the time he had reached Marseilles.

It was a great disappointment to discover that the fleet he had expected to find waiting for him had not yet arrived. He waited in great impatience for a week, after which he could endure the delay no longer. It seemed almost certain that Philip, in taking a more overland route, had been wiser. It was all very well for the English to sneer at the French and murmur that they were afraid of the sea. At least Philip had had the good sense not to expose his men to that uncertain element. What had become of his navy? wondered Richard and he was frustrated and anxious. In desperation he engaged twenty galleys and ten busses which could transport him with a proportion of his army, and set out, leaving the rest to wait for the navy and follow with it.

When he arrived at Genoa it was to learn that Philip was there. He was resting in one of the palaces which had been put at his disposal for he was recovering from a fever.

Richard at once went to see him, and found the French King looking pale and ill, but his face lit up with pleasure when he saw Richard.

‘I had thought you would be at Messina by now,’ said Richard.

‘Nay,’ replied Philip. ‘You see me laid low with this accursed fever.’

‘And I have been held up in Marseilles awaiting my fleet.’

‘It came to no ill, I trust.’ There was something in the French King’s eyes which betrayed his thoughts. He was hoping Richard’s fleet had met with some ill fortune – that he might come to his rescue. He would have been gratified to take him along with him in an inferior position and longed for their relationship to be as it had when Richard was a hostage in his camp and he had loved him dearly. He loved him still in a way. It was a strange relationship to exist between two rival kings.

Richard said firmly: ‘I doubt not it is now on its way to Messina. And your army, brother? I trust your men are not dispirited to see their leader in such sickness.’

‘They know I shall recover. I am not an old man. Ten years younger than you, remember.’

‘I remember it well,’ said Richard with a faint scowl.

‘Why when we first met I thought you were quite an old man. Thus do the young think of those who are ten years their senior.’

‘Age is a matter of health. If a man feels young then so he is.’

‘’Tis true and at this time I am the feeble one, you the strong. I remember when you had fits of fever. Pray tell me, Richard, have you had any bouts lately?’

‘Nay, nay. I know no discomfort save that of delay.’

‘You are too impatient, my dear friend.’

‘Are you not?’

Philip hesitated and Richard went on: ‘I fancy you have lost your passion for the fight.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Yet you seem less eager.’

‘My affairs have changed. You know what care I took to leave my realm in good hands. I trusted my Queen, Richard. I knew she would look after my affairs as none other could. There is Louis my little son. He is but a child. He needs paternal care. The Queen’s death has made me sad and sober. I think perpetually of France.’

‘But you have set up a Regency, have you not?’

‘Yes. My mother will serve me well as will my uncle the Cardinal of Champagne. But I could have wished that Isabella was there to care for our son.’

‘It is because you are weak that you fret. Wait until you are well, then you will forget these trifling matters. I do not fret for my kingdom. If I could win back the Holy City to Christianity I would ask nothing more in life. I would give everything I possess to do that.’

‘You,’ said Philip, ‘are a fanatic. I am merely a king.’

‘Which of us think you will be in Messina first?’ asked Richard.

‘You have the advantage now.’

‘What matters it? There we will meet. There we will make our further plans. We will sail together for Acre.’

Philip looked at Richard’s face and said simply: ‘It pleases me to see you. You have done me more good than all the doctors. You have aroused in me the determination to reach Messina before you.’

They kissed tenderly when Richard took his leave. Rivals, passionate friends and enemies.

Arrived at Naples the King disembarked and rested a while. He was expecting to hear news of the arrival of the fleet at Marseilles where he had left orders that when they came they were to go direct to Messina. It was important that he should not arrive before them with only the ships he had been able to muster.

It was while he was in this neighbourhood that he came near to losing his life through his own reckless folly. While he was out walking with but one attendant they passed through a hamlet and there he saw a peasant standing at the door of his cottage with a magnificent hawk. Passionate hunter that he was, Richard was immediately interested in anything concerning it and the hawk having caught his fancy he longed to possess it. Had he been with a party he would have commanded that the hawk be taken and the man given more than it was worth in money or goods. As he had but one attendant he went to the man and took the hawk meaning to bargain with him.

‘What a fine creature,’ he said to his attendant. ‘I shall enjoy testing it.’

The peasant, not realising who he was, began to shout to his neighbours that he had been robbed and in a very short while Richard and his attendant were surrounded by a vicious mob.

Richard drew his sword. The peasants armed with sticks sought to beat off the pair. Then one of the peasants drew a knife which he attempted to plunge into Richard’s heart.

Skilled in combat as he was, the King could have slain them all, but this he had no wish to do. He wanted to tell them that he would reward the owner of the hawk, but he saw at once that words were no use. Calling to his attendant not to kill any of them but to use the flat side of his sword, as he would, he began to fight his way through the mob.

With the flat side of his own sword he broke the knife in two and the peasants realised that this was clearly a knight practised in any form of warfare. Even so Richard needed all his skill to save them from the righteous wrath of the peasants.

Finally, hawkless, they managed to escape.

‘The fools,’ said Richard. ‘I would have given them two or three times what the bird was worth.’

‘They would never have believed that, my lord,’ said his attendant.

‘And now I shall never be able to test it.’

‘I am grateful, Sire, for your skill in bringing us safely out of that.’

‘Ah, you were afraid, my man. If they had harmed you I would have slain them all.’

And as they walked to their ships which lay at anchor he was thinking of what Philip would have said had he been there. He would have taunted him with making strict rules for his men which he himself flouted. Philip could never resist making a long discussion over such a point. There was little Philip liked better than an argument and the reason was that he always emerged the victor.

’Twas not robbery, Richard reminded himself. I would have paid the fellow. No one can accuse me of a lack of generosity.

‘It is not the point ...’ He could almost hear Philip’s voice.

He must stop thinking of Philip. He should be preoccupied with thoughts of his bride, for by now his mother would be waiting with Berengaria for him to have extricated himself from the engagement with Alice so that he might, to the satisfaction of the world, take to be his bride the daughter of the King of Navarre.