Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 11

OCTOBER 1190

Pamplona, Navarre





Pamplona was an ancient city, founded by the Roman general Pompey. Located on the pilgrim road to the holy shrine of San Juan Compostela, it was the Navarrese city best known to the world beyond the Pyrenees, and at one time Navarre had even been called the Kingdom of Pamplona. But Sancho de Jimenez spent little time there, for it was an Episcopal city, and his relationship with its bishop was a tense one. So the impending arrival of the English queen posed a dilemma for him. He’d have preferred to entertain her at Tudela, yet it seemed very inhospitable to expect her to travel another sixty miles after such a long journey; even his palace at Olite was still almost thirty miles farther south. He’d been building a residence in Pamplona, but it was not completed. He’d finally decided that Eleanor’s comfort mattered more than his reluctance to request a favor from a man he disliked. The bishop was quite willing to play host to his king and his royal guest, relishing an opportunity to have Sancho in his debt and curious, too, to meet the woman who’d been the subject of so much gossip for more than half a century.



ELEANOR’S WELCOME had been lavish enough to please all concerned: a princely feast meant to show her that Pamplona could match the splendors of Poitiers and Paris. The guests had not departed to their lodgings in the bishop’s palace or within the city until long after darkness had descended upon the Arga River valley. But not all were ready for their beds, and Sancho’s eldest son and namesake was walking in the gardens with his sister.

“So . . . what did you think of your future mother-in-law, little one?”

“I found her to be gracious, charming, and rather formidable,” Berengaria said and then paused. “As long as she lives, there will be two Queens of England.”

“For some brides, that would be one queen too many. But not you?” Sancho asked, even though he was sure he already knew the answer.

“She is Richard’s mother. I will be Richard’s wife. I do not see why we must be rivals, much less adversaries. I am sure we can both carve out our own domains, hers in the council chamber and mine in the bedchamber. Besides,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would be foolish, indeed, to begin a war I could not hope to win.”

Sancho smiled, too. “How did one so young become so wise?” he teased before saying, on a more serious note, “You’ll need to keep your wits about you in that family, for they are not like us, little one.”

“The Devil’s Brood?”

“Ah, so you heard that, did you? You know I count Richard as a friend, but he and his brothers could have taught Cain and Abel about brotherly strife. And his war with his sire was proof to many that St Bernard was right when he said the Angevins came from the Devil and to the Devil they’d go. It will not be easy for you to understand them, coming from a family as tightly knit as ours.”

“But their family is not utterly lacking in love, Sancho. Richard is fond of his sisters, and all know he and his mother are like spokes on the same wheel.”

Sancho knew how deeply Berengaria missed their own mother, who’d died in childbirth when she was nine, and he was not surprised that she sounded wistful of Richard’s close bond with Eleanor. He hoped she had no illusions about Eleanor filling that void for her. Fortunately, his sister had always been sensible, for he suspected that a starry-eyed romantic would not have fared well as Richard’s wife. He knew Berengaria’s delicate appearance and serene demeanor belied an inner will as strong as his own. He was protective of her, nonetheless, and found himself asking now, even though it was too late, “You are content with this match . . . truly?”

“Of course I am, Sancho,” she said at once, wanting to put his mind at ease. She was scrupulously honest, though, and felt compelled to confide, “I confess it is not the destiny I’d expected for myself. I have always yearned for tranquility and I suspect life with Richard will be anything but tranquil.”

Coming from anyone else, he’d have taken that for a droll understatement. But his sister lacked any sense of the absurd and would not see the irony in it—that a young woman who’d once thought of becoming a nun, craving neither attention nor influence and comfortable in the shadows, was about to wed the most renowned king in Christendom, a man who gloried in his fame and wielded power as zestfully as he handled a sword.

Berengaria read faces well and saw the shadow that crossed his. “But it is the destiny that the Almighty and our father chose for me, Sancho, and I do not question it. It is flattering, too, that Richard should have picked me, for he has seen me and knows that I am no great beauty.” When he would have protested, she stopped him with a smile. “Bless you, dearest, but I possess a mirror. Mind you, I am not saying I am plain or drab. I think my eyes are my best feature, and I’ve been told I have a pleasing smile. But I am not a beauty as Richard’s mother was, or as his sisters are said to be. So it is good that we’ve already met and I need not worry that he might be disappointed.”

Sancho was touched by her matter-of-fact appraisal of her attributes. “Richard is a lucky man,” he said and snatched her up in his arms, whirling her around while she protested this was not seemly, but laughing, too.

Neither one had heard the footsteps on the path or realized that their father was watching with a fond smile. As always he was amused by the contrast they presented. Berengaria was barely five feet and Sancho towered above her like a vast oak, for he was said to be the tallest man in all of Navarre, more than seven feet in height, one reason why he’d become known as Sancho el Fuerte—Sancho the Strong. Sancho senior had been given an accolade of his own, Sancho el Sabio—Sancho the Wise—a tribute to his shrewdness in dealing with his powerful, predatory neighbors in Castile and Aragon. Berengaria’s marriage had further enhanced his reputation in the eyes of his subjects, for what better ally could Navarre have than the redoubtable Lionheart?

But on this moonlit October night in the Bishop of Pamplona’s garden, the king found himself beset with a father’s misgivings. He loved all five of his children, even more fiercely since the tragic loss of his wife, but Berengaria had always been his secret favorite. He knew he was being foolish, for she was nigh on twenty-one, well past the age when princesses were wed. It was time for her to try her wings. Yet how empty the nest would be without her.

“Papa!” Berengaria blushed at being caught in such tomfoolery and made Sancho put her down. Coming toward him, she turned her cheek for his kiss. “The revelries were truly spectacular. People will be talking of it for weeks to come.”

“I daresay even the most illustrious Queen of England was duly impressed,” Sancho said with a grin, for their father’s admiration of Eleanor of Aquitaine had long been a family joke. He’d met her in Limoges nigh on twenty years ago, and had returned to Navarre singing her praises so enthusiastically that his own queen had feigned jealousy. He’d even interceded on Eleanor’s behalf after her ill-fated rebellion, asking Henry to show her mercy, a gallant gesture that had pleased Sancho’s wife and irked the English king. In welcoming Richard’s mother to Pamplona, he was also entertaining a glamorous ghost from his past, and the obvious pleasure he’d taken in the reunion gave his children pleasure, too.

“Yes, it did go well,” he agreed modestly, as if he’d not fretted over every detail beforehand. “Our esteemed bishop is claiming full credit, of course. But at least he is no longer grumbling about being a member of your escort, Berenguela. He is finally seeing it as the honor it is.” He glanced questioningly then at Sancho. “Have you told her yet, lad?”

Sancho shook his head, for he’d known their father would want to do it. He watched, still smiling, as their sire took Berengaria’s hands in his. “Your brother and I have been discussing it, sweetheart, and we’ve decided that he will accompany you on your bridal journey.”

Berengaria’s delight was revealing, showing how much she was dreading that final farewell. For once utterly oblivious to her dignity, she embraced her father with a squeal of joy, and then pulled her brother’s head down so she could scatter haphazard kisses into his beard. Laughing, Sancho warned that he could not escort her all the way to Messina, not daring to spare so much time away from Navarre. But he would see her safely across France and through the alpine passes into Italy, he promised, and saw that he could not have given her a more welcome wedding gift.

Berengaria soon retired for the evening, but before returning to the great hall to collect her duennas, she bade them good night with a smile radiant enough to rival the silvered Spanish moonlight. They watched her go in silence, and as soon as she was out of earshot, Sancho’s father said softly, almost as if to himself, “Am I doing right by her?”

Sancho looked at him in surprise. “Papa, you’ve arranged a brilliant future for her!”

“Yes . . . but will she be happy?”

Sancho doubted that there was another king under God’s sky who’d have asked a question like that. But his parents’ marriage had been that rarest of rarities, a political union that had evolved into a genuine love match. He was sure that his father had never been unfaithful to his mother, and he was still faithful to her memory. In the eleven years since her death, he’d taken concubines from time to time, but he’d not taken another wife, and Sancho did not think he ever would.

“Yes, Papa,” he said, with all the conviction at his command, “I do think Berenguela will be happy as Richard’s queen.”

He could see that his father took comfort from his certainty, and he was glad of it. It was not as if he’d lied, after all. Why would Berenguela and Richard not find contentment together? The ideal wife was one who was chaste, obedient, and loyal. Berenguela would come to her marriage bed a virgin and would never commit the sin of adultery. She believed it was a wife’s duty to be guided by her husband. And she would be loyal to Richard until her last mortal breath—whether he deserved it or not.



RICHARD’S FATHER had been renowned for the speed of his campaigns; Henry had once covered two hundred miles in just four days. Most travelers set a more measured pace and would be very pleased to manage thirty miles a day in summer and twenty in winter. Traveling with a large retinue slowed the rate of speed, however, and Eleanor and Berengaria were averaging only about fifteen miles a day, for they were accompanied by Poitevin bishops and barons, Navarrese prelates and lords, ladies-in-waiting, grooms, servants, knights, and enough soldiers to guarantee their safety. The presence of women inevitably slowed them down, for they had to ride sidesaddle or in horse litters. But so far they’d not encountered any severe storms and Eleanor remained confident that they would be able to reach Naples by mid-February, where Richard’s ships would be waiting to convey them to Messina.

Within a month of departing Pamplona, they’d reached the city of Avignon, where they crossed the River Rhone over the splendid new St Benezet Bridge, and then followed the old Roman road north along the River Durance. As they’d traveled through southern France, they’d accepted the hospitality of the local nobility—the Trencavels of Carcassonne, Viscountess Ermengard of Narbonne, the ailing Lord of Montpelier—although they’d detoured around Toulouse, whose count was no friend to the Angevins. When castles were not available, they stayed at monasteries, but rarely for more than a night, as Eleanor was determined to get to Sicily before February 27 and the start of Lent, when marriages would be banned.

That was the only intimate confidence she’d shared with Berengaria so far—her confession that she very much wanted to attend Richard’s wedding. She was quite willing to discuss politics and statecraft with her son’s betrothed, and she was willing, too, to indulge Berengaria’s curiosity and tell her stories of Richard’s boyhood. But she revealed nothing of herself, to Berengaria’s disappointment, for the younger woman hoped that they might forge a bond during their long journey.

Berengaria did form an unexpected friendship, though, with one of Eleanor’s ladies, the Countess of Aumale. Wary initially of the countess’s sarcastic asides, she was gradually won over by Hawisa’s often startling candor. Hawisa had proven to be a good source of information, too, for her first husband had been a close friend of the old king. From her, Berengaria learned that Nicholas de Chauvigny, the courtly middle-aged knight in charge of Eleanor’s household, had been with her when she was captured by Henry’s men and had been imprisoned for his loyalty to the queen. She pointed out one of the notorious de Lusignan clan and shocked Berengaria by telling her how they’d dared to ambush Eleanor in a foolhardy abduction attempt after Henry had seized their major stronghold. A young knight, William Marshal, had held them at bay long enough for the queen to escape, thus beginning his illustrious career in the service of the English Crown.

Berengaria thought the de Lusignans sounded more like brigands than vassals, yet she had to admit their history could have come straight from a troubadour’s tale. After numerous rebellions, several brothers from the unruly family had sought their fortunes in Outremer, where Guy de Lusignan had unexpectedly made a brilliant marriage with Sybilla, the elder sister of Baldwin, the Leper King. After Baldwin’s death, the crown had eventually passed to Sybilla and Guy, and this highly unpopular knight, a younger son with limited prospects, found himself the King of Jerusalem. His reign had been a disaster, for he’d rashly led his army against Salah al-Dīn at the Horns of Ḥaṭṭīn and suffered a devastating defeat, one which led to the capture of the Holy City. Freed by Salah al-Dīn, who’d said that kings did not kill kings, he’d returned to Tyre, the only city still in Christian hands. But Tyre was now under the control of Conrad d’Aleramici, son of the Marquis of Montferrat, an Italian-German aristocrat and adventurer who’d won the gratitude of the citizens by staving off a Saracen attack, and Conrad not only refused to acknowledge Guy as his king, he’d refused Guy entry into the city. Guy had no political skills or sense, but he’d never lacked for courage and he’d ridden off to lay siege to Acre. To the surprise of Saracens and Christians alike, this gallant, foolhardy gesture inspired others; and as the siege dragged on, more and more men joined Guy before the walls of Acre. He was still a king without a kingdom, though, his fierce rivalry with Conrad yet another problem confronting Richard and Philippe upon their arrival in the Holy Land.

The winter had been mild so far, but it was snowing when they reached the town of Sisteron, situated on both sides of the Durance in a narrow gap between two mountain ranges. Here they hired the local guides known as “marons” and encountered travelers who’d trekked from Italy into France and were eager to share their stories of hardship and peril, dramatic tales of deadly avalanches and steep alpine paths and dangers so great that it was easy to conclude Hell was an icy, frigid wasteland, not the fiery pits of flame proclaimed by priests.

Their progress slowed dramatically; on some days, they only covered three or four miles. The marons led the way, using long staves to test the snow’s depth, setting out wooden stakes to mark the path. It was bitterly cold now, their breaths lingering in the air like wisps of pallid smoke, men’s beards stiff with hoarfrost, tears freezing in the time it took to trickle down chapped, reddened skin. The cloud-shrouded jagged peaks sometimes blotted out the sun, and the winds roared relentlessly through the ravines, the eerie echoes reminding them that dragons were said to dwell in ice caves on the barren slopes. The routier Mercadier scoffed at these legends, though, wanting to know why any sensible dragon would choose to freeze its bleeding ballocks off instead of flying away to warmer climes.

Berengaria disapproved of his crude language, but appreciated his pointing out the obvious to their men; there was enough to fear in the Alps without adding dragons and monsters to the list. She had very ambivalent feelings about Mercadier, for Hawisa had acquainted her with his fearsome past. This dark-haired man with the sinister scar had an even more sinister reputation, one of the most notorious of the routiers who sold their swords to the highest bidder. It was said that grass withered where he’d walked, Hawisa murmured, eyeing Mercadier with fascinated horror. But he’d served Richard faithfully for the past seven years, she assured Berengaria, and his presence here showed the king’s concern for the safety of his mother and his betrothed. Berengaria agreed that Mercadier’s very appearance would be enough to frighten off most bandits, for he looked like one of Lucifer’s own. She found it disquieting, though, that Richard would admit an ungodly routier into his inner circle, and she realized how little she really knew about the man she’d soon wed.

The women had to ride astride now, for sidesaddles were too dangerous. They’d been forced to leave their carts behind in Sisteron, transferring the contents to pack mules and bearers, men who made their living as the marons did, by braving the mountain passes in all but the worst weather. The air was so thin that some were suffering headaches, queasiness, and shortness of breath, common complaints of those unaccustomed to such heights, according to the marons. They spent Christmas in the village of Briançon, just a few miles from the Montgenèvre Pass, but a storm blew in soon afterward, trapping them for more than a week, and they were not able to continue their journey until the approach of Epiphany.

They passed the night at a travelers hospice and departed at first light, after kneeling in the snow as one of the bishops prayed to the “Holy Lord, Almighty Father, and Eternal God,” entreating Him to send His angels of peace to show His servants the way and to let the Holy Spirit accompany them in their time of need. And then they began their trek up Montgenèvre.

The sky was a blanched blue-ice that seemed as bloodless and frozen as the lifeless, empty landscape, and the surrounding drifts of snow were so blindingly bright that they had to squint and shade their eyes. They were vastly relieved to reach the summit of the pass, only to realize that the worst still lay ahead of them. The men would have to dismount and lead their horses, the marons directed, and the queen and her ladies must be strapped into ox hides so they could be slid down the slope. None bridled at the marons’ assertiveness, for on the alpine heights of Montgenèvre, theirs was the command of kings. Seeing the dismay on so many faces, the marons tried to reassure these novice mountaineers that it could have been much worse. There had been journeys when the horses had to be lowered on ropes, their legs bound. This time they need only blindfold the more fearful of the animals, they said cheerfully. After an oppressive silence, Hawisa stirred nervous laughter when she said, as if ordering a cup of wine, “I’ll take a blindfold, too, if you please.”

Eleanor had crossed the Alps once before; she’d been much younger then, though. “I never expected to be sledding down a mountain at my age,” she muttered to Hawisa, but she was the first to allow herself to be wrapped in an ox hide, for queens led by example. It was a rough, bumpy ride, but she made only one concession to the brittle bones and physical frailties of a woman of sixty-six, closing her eyes during the most perilous part of the descent. She could hear horses whinnying in fright, could hear men’s muffled oaths as they edged along the trail, sometimes on their hands and knees, and then, hysterical sobbing. She was thankful when the cries were abruptly cut off, for they’d been warned that even loud talking could bring on an avalanche. She wondered if that terrified woman was one of her ladies or one of Berengaria’s. She wondered, too, if any queen had ever been swallowed up in an alpine crevice. Was Harry watching from Purgatory and laughing? And how in God’s Name had the Carthaginian general Hannibal ever gotten elephants across the Alps?

A hospice was nestled at the foot of the pass, its monks waiting to welcome the shaken, shivering travelers with mulled wine and the promise of food and beds for the night; they knew from experience that even highborn guests would not complain if the wine was weak, the blankets frayed, and the straw mattresses infested with fleas, so thankful would they be to have survived their pilgrimage through the Montgenèvre Pass. The women were escorted to safety first; it would be hours before the pack mules and the last of the bearers trudged into the hospice. They huddled in front of the open hearth, seeking to thaw frozen fingers and feet, expressing their heartfelt relief that the worst was over. Until they had to return in the spring, Hawisa reminded them darkly, and it would be almost as dangerous then, for the marons claimed avalanches were more common when the snows began to melt. “I may well start life anew in Sicily,” she declared, so dramatically that Eleanor could not help smiling, and held out her wine cup for Hawisa to share, a gesture of royal favor that caused some of the other women to look askance at the countess.

Hawisa drank deeply, sighing with pleasure as the wine’s warmth flowed into her veins. “Did you hear that Spanish girl, Uracca?” she asked the queen. “She was on the verge of panic, and it might well have spread. But Mercadier strode over and stopped her screams by clamping his hand over her mouth. She was quiet as a mouse after that!”

“I daresay she was,” Eleanor said dryly, for she’d noticed Mercadier’s unsettling affect upon women; they were either appalled or secretly attracted in spite of themselves. When she said as much to Hawisa, the countess laughed, saying she’d never confess which response was hers, and Eleanor laughed, too, for the younger woman’s blithe insouciance stirred echoes of a dearly missed friend, Maud, the Countess of Chester.

“Of course, once we were safe, Uracca went off in a fury to Berengaria, complaining that a ‘lowborn routier’ had dared to lay his hands upon her. But Berengaria surprised me. She gave the girl a right sharp talking to, saying that she’d put us all at risk. She then told her, more kindly, that it is only natural to be afraid, but a gentlewoman must not give in to it.”

Eleanor glanced across the chamber, where Berengaria was conversing quietly with her brother; she missed no opportunities to spend time with Sancho, for he’d soon be leaving them, planning to go no farther than Milan. “Blood does tell,” she agreed. “Berengaria has shown commendable courage so far. I am sure she has not endured hardships like these, but she never complains. I think she will make Richard a good wife.”

“Mayhap you ought to tell her that, Madame.”

Eleanor was taken by surprise. “Mayhap I will,” she said at last, and Hawisa hoped that she would, knowing how much her praise would mean to Berengaria. She’d not expected to like Richard’s young bride as much as she did, and she wished the girl well, even though she was certain that a wife would always be incidental to a military man like Richard. But that did not mean their marriage would not be a success. All that truly mattered was that Berengaria fulfilled her duties as a queen—that she provide Richard with a son and heir.



ALL OF THEM were thankful to leave the Alps behind, but Eleanor was particularly happy to cross into Italy, for she hoped now to be able to reestablish contact with Richard. She hoped, too, to learn the reason for her daughter’s disquieting silence. As soon as they reached Turin, where they accepted the hospitality of the young Count of Savoy, she immediately dispatched a courier with instructions to ride with all possible speed to Genoa and there take ship for Messina, carrying a letter to her son. The teenage count knew nothing of the events in Sicily, though. She had somewhat better luck at Milan, where the bishop had heard of a peace made between Richard and the Sicilian king, Tancred. But he could tell her nothing of Joanna. Eleanor consoled herself with common sense; surely word would have gotten out if evil had befallen Joanna? She was not surprised by the lack of information, for Sicily must seem as remote to the people of the Piedmont region as the moon in the heavens. At least she’d learn more in Rome, for the papacy had a vested interest in the fate of the Sicilian kingdom.

Bishop Milo insisted upon accompanying them through Piedmont, an act of commendable courtesy in light of the fact that their next stop would be Lodi, which had long been a bitter rival of Milan. Eleanor had already contacted the bishop of that riverside town to arrange for accommodations, and they departed Milan before dawn, for Lodi was more than twenty miles away. They set a faster pace than usual, but darkness had long since fallen by the time they saw the city walls in the distance. Cursing the weakness of age, Eleanor had been forced to ride the last part of the journey in her horse litter, and she leaned out the window at the sound of shouting. The young knight who’d ridden on ahead to let the Bishop of Lodi know of their impending arrival was back. His mount was lathered, evidence of haste, and Eleanor beckoned to him. “Is something amiss? The bishop is still expecting us?”

“Yes, Madame, he is. But he is as flustered as a rabbit in a fox den,” the youth said and then grinned. “He did not expect to be entertaining the Queen of England and the King and Queen of Germany at the same time, but that is what he’s facing. Heinrich von Hohenstaufen and the Lady Constance arrived this morn with a vast entourage—a baker’s dozen of bishops, several German counts, Lord Boniface of Montferrat, and so many knights and men-at-arms it would take half a day to count them all.”

Eleanor sat back against the cushions as she processed this startling news. “So his war against Tancred has begun. Passing strange that he’d not have waited until the spring. Few campaigns are fought in winter.”

“He has a pressing need to get to Rome, Madame—to be crowned by the Holy Father without delay.”

Eleanor drew a sharp breath. “His father is dead?”

“Yes, my lady, he is. According to the bishop, the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa drowned last summer whilst trying to cross a river in Armenia. His younger son led their army on to the Holy Land, but most of them died or deserted along the way. Heinrich did not learn of his father’s death until last month, and set out for Rome as soon as he could. The bishop says that once he is crowned as emperor, he’ll lead his army into Sicily to claim the throne.”

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.



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.