“Thank God,” Mariam said fervently, for she’d come to see Rome as a gilded cage. “But . . . Marseille? I thought you told me that Richard had to turn back when he learned he could not land safely at Marseille?”
“I know, and neither Berengaria nor I are at all happy at having to ask the King of Aragon for help. But we have no choice, not unless we want to remain in Rome until Richard can come himself to fetch us.”
Mariam was not too proud to admit her ignorance of French geography. “I am Sicilian, Joanna, remember? Marseille is a city on the French coast. How does the King of Aragon come into it?”
“King Alfonso is also Count of Barcelona and Marquis of Provence, which gives him control over Marseille. The Holy Father told us he’d written to Alfonso several months ago, asking for his aid once it was safe for us to venture from Rome, and Alfonso promised that he would make sure we got safely from Marseille to Poitiers. I suspect he feels guilty for betraying Richard and allying with that viper in Toulouse. And indeed, he ought to feel guilty, for he and Richard had been friends since they were fifteen!”
The mention of “that viper in Toulouse” jogged Mariam’s memory. She knew Joanna’s mother had a claim to Toulouse, for her grandmother had been the only child of one of its counts, her inheritance usurped by her uncle. That had occurred a hundred years ago, and the dukes of Aquitaine and counts of Toulouse had been feuding ever since. Two years ago, the current Count of Toulouse, Raimon de St Gilles, had somehow inveigled Alfonso into an alliance against their mutual enemy, Navarre, and as a result, Richard had been forced to make his way home through Germany. “I know you say Alfonso was once Richard’s friend, Joanna. But do you think he can still be trusted? What if he hands you and Berengaria over to the Count of Toulouse?”
“No, Alfonso would never do that. He is not utterly without honor like St Gilles. He guaranteed our safety to the Pope and would not renege upon it. Moreover, we will be escorted to Marseille by Cardinal Melior, of San Giovanni e Paolo in Pisa. He is French,” Joanna said, making a wry face, “but he is also a papal legate. I’ve spoken to him on several occasions and he seemed truly indignant about Richard’s plight. He’ll not let us come to harm.”
“A cardinal and a papal legate? I am impressed, Joanna. Dare we hope that the Holy Father is finally heeding his conscience?”
“I suspect his newfound solicitude is due more to fear of my mother than belated conscience pangs,” Joanna said with a sudden grin. When the Pope would no longer meet with them, Joanna had begun to cultivate other sources of information and had easily found a sympathetic ear in one of the papal secretaries, for even men who’d taken holy vows were not immune to a beautiful woman’s charm. She’d not revealed the name of her new friend, playfully calling him the “Good Samaritan,” and she referred to him as that now, saying that he’d told her Eleanor had been assailing Pope Celestine with letters, by turns beseeching and accusing.
“He said she expressed outrage that the Holy Father had not sent a ‘single nuncio, not the humblest subdeacon’ to negotiate on Richard’s behalf. She wrote movingly of a mother’s grief, saying she’d lost ‘the staff of my old age, the light of my eyes,’ whilst she is ‘tortured by the memories of my dead,’ the sons who ‘sleep in the dust.’ She warned him that his failure to act cast a shadow over the Church, demanding to know how he could be unmoved whilst her son is ‘tortured in chains.’ She reminded him of the great evil Heinrich had done against the Church—the murder of the Bishop of Liege, the imprisonment of five other bishops. She accused him of ‘keeping the sword of Peter sheathed,’ of yielding to ‘human fear.’ She wrote, ‘Restore my son to me, man of God, if indeed you are a man of God.’”
“She truly dared to say that, Joanna?”
Eleanor’s daughter nodded proudly. “She signed one of the letters ‘Queen of England by the Wrath of God.’” She added, with another grin, “My Good Samaritan swears the Holy Father shudders at the mere sight of a letter with my mother’s seal.”
When Joanna laughed, Mariam joined in, both women grateful for a moment of levity in a season of such gloom. Neither one heard the soft footsteps approaching, not turning until Ahmer gave a welcoming whine. Berengaria was smiling at them, her expression curious. “What is so amusing?”
“I was telling Mariam about my mother’s letters to the Pope,” Joanna explained, sliding over on the bench to make room for her sister-in-law.