Lionheart (42 page)

“Well, I can.” Joanna was regarding her brother in dismayed astonishment.

“That is two days hence, Richard! How could we possibly prepare for a royal wedding in so little time?”

“How hard could it be? I assume Berenguela did not intend to get married stark naked, so she must have a suitable gown in her coffers. I thought we’d have her coronation at the same time.” Richard glanced over at his mute betrothed and smiled. “I daresay you’ll be the first and the last Queen of England ever to be crowned in Cyprus, little dove.”

“But what about food? And entertainment? And—”

“I have complete confidence in you,
irlanda
, am sure you’ll do just fine. But it is only fair that we let the bride decide.” They’d been conversing in French. Richard switched now to
lenga romana
, a language more familiar to Berengaria. “So . . . what say you, Berenguela? Do you want to marry me on Sunday?”

Berengaria well knew what response was expected of her. For twenty-one years, she’d been taught that a highborn young woman must be demure and dutiful in the presence of men. She must keep her eyes cast down and not speak out of turn. Above all, she must be chaste and modest and guard against impure thoughts. The proper answer would be to defer to Richard as her lord and husband, to say she’d be guided by his wishes in this, as in all matters. But Joanna and Queen Eleanor were not at all demure or submissive, and it was obvious that he loved them dearly. She hesitated, sensing that she was at a crossroads, and then, disregarding the lessons of a lifetime, she followed her heart. Looking up into his face, she said, softly but clearly, “I would very much like to wed you on Sunday, Richard.”

CHAPTER 17

MAY 1191

Limassol, Cyprus

Berengaria was astonished by how much Joanna had been able to accomplish in so little time.She’d had the inspired idea to seek the assistance of the wives of the Italian merchants, who were delighted by the prospect of a royal wedding and eagerly volunteered the services of their cooks and household servants. After their shipboard ordeal, the women took particular pleasure in appropriating the Cypriot emperor’s personal effects. Isaac’s reputation for luxurious living was borne out by the contents of coffers and cupboards: finely woven linen tablecloths, gold and silver plate, gem-encrusted cups, ivory salt cellars, Venetian glassware, a silk baldequin canopy, silver-gilt candlesticks, and costly, exotic spices, all of which would be put to good use. It had been decided that the wedding ceremony and coronation would be held in the chapel of St George, and the guests would then return to Isaac’s palace for the revelries. The floor of the great hall was now covered with fragrant rushes, and scarlet flowers were everywhere, garlanding the doors and windows, floating in the ewers of scented water that would be provided for guests to wash their hands between courses.

Berengaria had no false pride, well aware that her experience in Navarre could not compare to Joanna’s, for the lavish hospitality of the Sicilian court had been famed far beyond its borders. She was thankful, therefore, that the other woman had taken over the wedding preparations. She was touched, too, that Joanna took care to consult her on every decision. There would be three courses, each with five dishes; did Berengaria think that would be adequate? One of the Venetian cooks suggested a risotto of rice and chicken baked in pomegranate juice; did Berengaria agree? Did she want a Lombard stew of pork, onions, wine, and spices? What about a fruit pottage with strawberries and cherries? Berengaria gratefully approved the bountiful menu: oysters, roast venison, sturgeon eggs which Isaac had imported from the Black Sea, haunches of the native sheep called
agrinon
, egg custard, blancmange, fried eels, and salmon in jelly. She also approved Joanna’s selection of wines from Isaac’s buttery: an Italian vernage, a wine named after the city of Tyre, sweet wines from Greece, local red wines, and the costly spiced wine known as hippocras.

When she fretted, though, that Joanna might be undertaking too much in light of her recent illness, the Sicilian queen brushed her qualms aside, saying staunchly, “I am not going to let my sister-by-marriage be wed in a cursory manner. Now . . . how does this sound to you? In addition to our own minstrels, we will have harpists and other musicians who can play the rebec and the lute. Also tumblers and a man who can juggle torches—or so he says. I suppose we can have pails of water on hand, just in case. And one of the Genoese merchants will provide a trumpeter to introduce the courses.”

Glancing around, then, to make sure the other women were not within hearing, Joanna lowered her voice. “How are you bearing up? Are you nervous? Most brides are,” she said quickly, lest Berengaria take the question as an implied criticism.

“Yes . . . a little. But not as much as I expected to be,” Berengaria confided. She was about to thank Joanna again, this time for her counseling about the marriage bed, when they were informed that André de Chauvigny had just arrived.

“Have you noticed how often André has been stopping by?” Joanna asked as they made their way toward the great hall. “He’s been paying court to Hélène, who told him forthrightly that he is very charming and very married. Apparently he is also very stubborn.”

But as soon as they reached the hall, they discovered that Joanna’s cousin had more on his mind than a casual dalliance. “Three sails were sighted on the horizon,” André reported even before greetings had been exchanged. “As these galleys were coming from the east, we thought they might be bringing word of the siege of Acre. The king, bless him, was not willing to wait patiently on shore, and went out to meet them in a small boat. He was soon back, sending me to tell you there will be highborn guests for dinner—Guy de Lusignan, his brother Joffroi, Humphrey de Toron, whose wife was stolen so shamefully by Conrad of Montferrat, the Prince of Antioch, the Count of Tripoli, and the brother of the Prince of Armenia.”

Joanna stared at him, and then looked at Berengaria, the same dismayed thought in both their minds: As if they did not have enough to do, with the wedding scheduled for the morrow! “The de Lusignans,” Joanna said wearily, “have always had a deplorable sense of timing.”

GUY DE LUSIGNAN was quite handsome, tall and well formed, with curly brown hair and hazel eyes, clean-shaven in the fashion of Outremer. And he was young to have gained and lost a kingdom and a queen, not that much older than Richard. He was very attentive to Joanna and Berengaria, flirtatious and lavish with the practiced charm that had served him so well in the past. Neither woman liked him at all.

They both felt some sympathy for Humphrey de Toron, Queen Isabella’s discarded husband. He, too, was very handsome, but without Guy’s swagger, his dark eyes filled with intelligence and sadness, a poet in a land that venerated soldiers. They felt even more sympathy for his young wife, though, pulled from his gentle embrace and thrust against her will into the arms of Conrad of Montferrat, a man as unlike Humphrey as a sword blade was unlike a lute. How alone and abandoned she must have felt, a young girl of eighteen confronted with Conrad’s iron will, with an ally in her own mother. But Humphrey had failed her, too. A husband unwilling or unable to fight for his wife was not a husband either of them would want. The world was too dangerous a place to depend upon the protection of poets.

After the meal was done, the conversation turned to politics. Richard was infuriated to learn that Philippe had arbitrarily recognized Conrad as King of Jerusalem, and he agreed to aid Guy in reclaiming the crown, giving the destitute king without a kingdom the sum of two thousand silver marks, for Guy had expended the last of his resources upon the siege of Acre. Watching as Guy, his brother, Humphrey, and one hundred sixty of their knights knelt and did homage to Richard, Joanna was grimly amused by the irony inherent in that dramatic scene, for the de Lusignans had long been a burr under the Angevin saddle.

Berengaria was shocked by Joanna’s sotto voce account of de Lusignan sins; not only had they rebelled repeatedly against Richard’s father and against Richard himself when he was Count of Poitou, they’d even dared to ambush Queen Eleanor, who’d been saved from capture by the courage of the young Will Marshal. By an absurd twist of fate, Joanna revealed, it was his family’s perfidy that had gotten Guy a crown. His older brother Amaury had fled to the Holy Land to evade the king’s wrath, and eventually summoned Guy to join him. The de Lusignans were as surprised as everyone else when Guy snared the Leper King’s sister. Lowering her voice even further, Joanna said, “When his brother Joffroi learned of Guy’s good fortune, he is said to have commented, ‘If they’d make Guy a king, they’d have made me a god.’ Joffroi later joined his brothers when Richard forced him to take the cross after one rebellion too many, and he and Amaury won respect for their military skills. But Guy was the feckless little brother, not taken seriously by anyone until Sybilla took him as her husband.”

Joanna smiled. “The lords of Outremer would not recognize her as queen after her brother’s death unless she first divorced Guy. But as soon as she was crowned, she announced that she had the right to pick her own consort and put the crown herself upon Guy’s handsome head. She was clever, was Sybilla. A poor judge of men, though, for Guy’s flawed leadership would result in the disaster at Ḥaṭṭīn. Richard says that was one of the most inept and inexcusable military blunders since the dawn of time. He gets angry every time he talks about it. He grudgingly gives Guy credit for courage, but says he has not the sense God gave a goat!”

“Then how can he be so friendly to Guy?” Berengaria said, looking across the hall where Richard was engaged in amiable conversation with the de Lusignans.

Joanna blinked in surprise. “Because he is a king, dearest. Because the de Lusignans, whatever their manifest failings, are still his vassals and he owes them his protection.” Honesty then compelling her to add, “And because Philippe has chosen to back Conrad.”

To Berengaria, Outremer was beginning to sound more and more like a labyrinth. Once Richard got in, could he ever get out? She did not understand how Christians could feud so fiercely with their fellow Christians whilst the Saracens laid claim to the Holy City. No one’s motives seemed utterly pure or untainted by political considerations. Even Richard was influenced by his rivalry with the French king, and she feared that Philippe saw Richard as the enemy, not Saladin. But then she banished these disquieting thoughts, determined not to let forebodings cast a shadow over the most important day of her life. On the morrow she would become Richard’s wife, would be crowned as his queen. Nothing mattered more than that.

FROM THE TWELFTH-CENTURY chronicle
Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi
: “On the following day, a Sunday, on the Feast of St Pancras, King Richard and Berengaria, daughter of the King of Navarre, were married at Limassol. The young woman was very wise and of good character. She was there crowned queen. The Archbishop of Bordeaux was present at the ceremony, as was the Bishop of Evreux, and the Bishop of Bayonne, and many other magnates and nobles. The king was merry and full of delight, pleasant and agreeable to everyone.”

RICHARD COULD NOT even remember the last time he’d bedded a virgin, for he’d long ago concluded that coy or skittish maidens were more trouble than they were worth. He’d always taken a very matter-of-fact, pragmatic approach to his body’s needs. When he was tired, he slept. When he was hungry, he ate. And when he felt lustful, he looked around for a bedmate, with convenience and proximity being important considerations. He was amused when his friends became besotted with concubines or light o’ loves, knowing it would not last; fevers of the flesh never did. A flame fed by lust was bound to burn out once the craving was satisfied, and for that, one woman would usually do as well as another. Although he enjoyed writing courtly poetry, he had no great interest in the workings of the female brain, for women were too often lacking in logic or backbone, either overly headstrong or weak-willed and timid. Like Sybilla, who’d well nigh doomed her kingdom because she’d wanted Guy de Lusignan in her bed. Or her sister Isabella, who’d let herself be bullied into marrying Conrad.

Thankfully, the women in his own family were not like most of their sex. His mother could think like a man, and rule better than most kings. And his sisters had been blessed with courage and common sense, especially Joanna, Marie, and Tilda, may God assoil her sweet soul. He had hopes for her daughter, too, as Richenza did not seem prone to feminine whims or foolishness. And so far, what he’d seen of Berenguela was encouraging. She might look as fragile and unsubstantial as a feather floating on the wind, but she’d showed fortitude and bravery when faced with hardships and outright danger.