The Lute Player (23 page)

We read in the Gospels that the early Christians “held all things in common.” We are not told for how long or short a time such an idealistic affair lasted, nor in what confusion it ended, but we know that it did end. To the ordinary well-meaning Christian person this crusade appeared to call for a return to communal effort, communal ideas of property. So the imaginative (and singularly well informed) nuns of Brittany all combined their resources and forwarded a considerable sum of money “to be used to provide camel transport in the desert.” The Guild of Clothworkers in Amsterdam contributed eight scaling ladders “to be reared in our name against the walls of Jerusalem.” Every woman in Aquitaine whose name was Mary contributed a coin great or small and sent the total, “to be used to liberate the places where she whose name we bear walked and sorrowed.” There were thousands of such offerings, worthy, touching, mostly wasted. ‘Devil take the camels, I want a hundred donkeys
now
,’ Richard is said to have shouted at one juncture and that summed up the whole situation. If every gift could have been labelled, “For Richard Plantagenet, to use as seems him best,” nothing would have been wasted or misused. A communal spirit is an excellent thing; all men and women of good will pouring all their efforts and all their resources into a common cause could be invincible but only if such efforts and such resources are at the command of one person, the most capable and vigorous and in complete authority.

Mary the Virgin
was one of six ships contributed to the crusade by the mighty and wealthy College of Cardinals. One of the six bore an English name and was manned chiefly by English sailors; one was entirely French; one German, one Italian; one Flemish; one Spanish. They were the largest and most modern ships afloat and they were all under the vague but comprehensive authority of “The Leaders of This Crusade.” Richard, who found the entirely English ships of the fleet rather small and in need of different rigging for the Mediterranean, had settled on the English-flavoured
Mary the Virgin
as the vessel to carry us to Cyprus. But the ship’s master, a surly misogynist, the illegitimate son of a Bristol archdeacon, demurred at the arrangement and said that his commission was to carry crusaders and their armaments, not women and their gear. Richard, who could never bear any hint of opposition in a menial, said bluntly that the master’s trouble was that he was afraid to set sail ahead of the main fleet and ordered him an escort of baggage vessels. The man, extremely offended, mustered the five other masters of what was known as the “Cardinals’ Fleet,” and the six waited upon Richard to tell him that since their duties were undefined they would welcome the decision of the College of Cardinals who had commissioned them and in whose pay they were. The College of Cardinals had a nominal headquarters in Rome but the full body met only at the election of a new pope, so heaven knows to whom, or exactly where, they would have lodged their appeal. However, Richard was resourceful. He asked, ‘Which one of you has a grievance?’ The man from Bristol—Saunders, they called him—stood out.

‘And the ships were to be devoted to the service of…?’

‘The leaders of the crusade, sir.’

‘And they are, at this moment, in this island?’

‘Yourself and the King of France, sire.’

‘Very well, you, the aggrieved, and we, the leaders, will meet at supper and discuss this matter. Is that agreeable to you?’

Master Saunders said that that was fair enough.

He spoke no French; Philip of France spoke no English. Richard could understand English, though he spoke it rarely. But over the meal, while he plied Master Saunders with strong wine, he acted most agreeably as interpreter. What he said to Philip nobody knows but at the crucial moment he called in Robert of Boxford, who spoke both French and English, and asked him to translate to Saunders Philip’s decisive word which was:

‘This crusade cannot be pursued without all sorts. Your ship and every other ship must carry all sorts. The leaders of the crusade decide that in the name of God you must carry all sorts.’

‘Women and their gear?’ Saunders asked.

Robert of Boxford put the question in French to Philip who obligingly said again, ‘All sorts.’ And Philip was known by everybody to be more than half a churchman; the nearest thing to the College of Cardinals that Saunders was likely to reach with any ease. So he gave in, albeit ungraciously. And Richard compromised by packing the vessel so full of crusaders’ gear that she lay low in the water and shipped it in the slightest wind; and he crammed the stern with archers who lived in supreme discomfort envying, no doubt, the ladies who, equally cramped, were to live on the foredeck with a canopy for shade and curtains for privacy. The cardinals had meant well, Richard had meant well; possibly Master Saunders had meant good rather than evil but the ladies would have been far happier on a small, entirely English ship where the captain would have welcomed them. A trivial and silly business but typical of much that took place.

VII

My trouble began as soon as we found ourselves lodged in a half-ruined castle on the inland fringe of Messina, not more than half an hour’s ride from the camp which lay on the other side of the town, a short distance along the coast. The tents and the pavilions with their pennants and standards had been clearly visible as we sailed into the harbour and Berengaria had looked towards them with great intensity and said, ‘Isn’t it strange to think that Richard is there?’ And Joanna, who should have known better, for I had warned her—but she was always a simple fool at heart—had gasped out, ‘And doesn’t it seem hard that we shall not even have time to
see
him?’

At that moment time—or the lack of it—was my ally and friend. I still thought that as soon as our gear was shifted we should be off for Cyprus where both young women could amuse themselves with arrangements for the wedding. But Master Saunders, little knowing what he did, put up his protest and time ceased to be my friend. There we were, with some days of waiting ahead of us, and there was Richard within easy distance and the whole situation became very awkward indeed.

Joanna was easily quelled. I could say to her, ‘I forbid you to mention the possibility of seeing Richard. And if you forget my orders I shall forget that you are a woman and clout your ears as I did when you were a disobedient child.’ But I could not speak thus to the Princess of Navarre. So the war of attrition started.

As soon as it was known that our sailing was to be delayed Berengaria began, very sweetly and gentle, with, ‘Surely, madam, now that there is time, we could visit Richard or he could visit us. You know it is two years or more since I saw him and then only once for a moment.’

She said this in the presence of Joanna, the duchess, and the Lady Pila and although they held silence I could see by the expression on their faces that they thought she had reason on her side. I couldn’t say bluntly that Richard didn’t wish to visit her or be visited by her or that flaunting the new betrothal would rub salt into Philip’s wound and make him difficult to handle. So I fell back upon procrastination, that dangerous device, and said that if our stay in Messina were really prolonged I would see what could be done. I had a frail hope that when Richard knew that we were waylaid here he might, if only from curiosity, suggest a meeting. But so far as he was concerned a thousand miles might have stretched between the camp and the place where we were lodged. And Berengaria kept worrying the subject as a dog worries a bone. I remembered, against my will, all that Sancho had told me; how she had seen Richard and wanted him and pined and fretted and refused the Emperor of Cyprus, taken to her bed and seemed as though to die. This wasn’t the conventional betrothal with the bride shy and reluctant, dreading the moment of meeting. Strange as it seemed to be a spectator and participant in such an affair, one had to admit that the whole thing was a little like the stories which the minstrels sang.

Finally I was driven to say that I would send and ask Richard to sup with us. I had no alternative, for Berengaria had said bluntly that if I didn’t, she would. At least she didn’t
put
it so bluntly; she made the suggestion with that sweetness which I was beginning to suspect: ‘Madam, would the invitation not sound better coming from you, his mother?’

I made it sound as well as I could. I even mentioned the lute player and invited Richard to enjoy our music as well as our food. I sent the letter by my own page, Gascon, who was soon back with a verbal message that we should be hearing from His Majesty. The girls, less experienced than I, spent the day bullying the cooks and preparing the table and their dresses. Blondel was dragged in to practise the songs they thought Richard would like. Joanna called to mind the ditties Richard had favoured in his youth. Anna, pestered by Berengaria to think up “something new,” rattled off in a matter of moments some lines, so witty and so topical—they dealt with Master Saunders, his ship and the College of Cardinals—that for a moment we all forgot ourselves and were united in gusts of hearty laughter. Blondel set the lines to music very admirably. Even I found myself thinking that when Richard did come he would be extremely and most pleasantly surprised. So beautiful a bride, an atmosphere so gay and so informal…

An hour before the time for supper Berengaria and Joanna disappeared to brush one another’s hair and make themselves beautiful. Lady Pila went with them but after a time came out, declaring that they needed none of her help and sniffing greedily at the food scent which was beginning to reach us from the kitchen. The Duchess of Apieta, most sumptuously dressed and bejewelled, joined us and I noticed with interest that she shared my nervousness.

Presently there came the rapid clatter, the sudden halting of hooves in the courtyard; one horse, but then Richard was quite likely to come unattended. The Lady Pila, unheeding, lolled on the settle, picking at the small sweetmeats, thinking of the meal; but the duchess and I, moved by the same impulse, were on our feet and as our eyes met I realised that for once we were entirely, and without reserve, in sympathy. We waited. In a moment or two a man was ushered in. He went on his knees to me and then, rising, stood bolt upright and gave his message in a flat, wooden recitative:

‘To the Queen Mother of England and the Princess of Navarre, greetings from His Majesty of England. He cannot wait upon you. A boat loaded with casks of beef capsized this morning in the harbour and we hope that with the turn of the tide this evening some may wash in.’ He hesitated, began to fumble, changed foot as it were. ‘Madam, the King said that the great ones about him scorned such little things and the lesser men did not understand that one day a cask of beef might make all the difference. And, madam, he gave me a word for your ear alone.’

The little duchess laid her claw on Pila’s shoulder and they went out together.

‘Madam, the King said you knew his wishes and bade you not trouble him again.’

I said, ‘Will you tell him that I know his wishes and that I will try not to trouble him again but that I find myself in a very difficult position? Very well. You may go.’

I pretended that the private message had consisted of apologies to Berengaria. She accepted them placidly, seeming quite unmoved. It was Joanna who cried from disappointment. I could have cried too. It all seemed such a pity. But at the same time I could visualise the moment when a cask of beef might make the difference between victory and defeat; a siege, a forced march; here you are, my lads, food for another day, we aren’t beaten yet; this is a cask that I dragged out of the turning tide and it will turn our tide! I could see romance in that; not the romance of candlelight in the wine, pretty faces, pleasant songs, but the stronger, tougher romance of complete devotion to one cause, of the negligible detail that changed the whole course of a campaign.

I tried to make Berengaria understand. I tried to make her see the drama of her situation: the hard, virile, preoccupied man who had taken a great cause so much to heart that in its service he could deny even his own inclinations; who would, when the right moment came, turn to her with the same singlemindedness.

‘And when you ride by his side in triumph into Jerusalem, you will forgive him,’ I said.

‘I forgive him now, if there is anything to forgive. But I do want to see him,’ she said.

From that moment the words “want to see him” or “like to see him” were continually on her lips, either in their artless simplicity or with reinforcements.

‘I don’t wish to disturb him or waste his time. I only want to see him.’

Once she added, ‘Not that he should see me,’ words which, coming from a woman so lovely, who must have been aware of her loveliness and its effect upon all who looked at her, were peculiarly disarming:

Then she said, ‘If I could just look down on him from the musicians’ gallery…’ And I said, ‘My dear, where Richard is there is no such thing. By all accounts he lives in a tent like a common archer.’

But she was never convinced. In other circumstances I might have been amused to see how a young woman of such natural dignity and impeccable manners could become so brash and outspoken under the prick of desire but, as it was, every reference to Richard made me feel uncomfortable and obscurely guilty.

There came an evening when Berengaria and Joanna were huddled together over the baldric, work upon which Berengaria, out of her affection, allowed Joanna to share; the little duchess was reading and I was stitching a tuck into the bodice of a gown. Barbara would have done it far more quickly and expertly, for I was unhandy with a needle, but Barbara and I had recently had an argument. She had said that despite all the food now at my command I was growing thinner and I contradicted her but it was true; I knew that every dress hung on me slackly, so I was taking in tucks unbeknown to my woman.

The girls murmured softly over their work; the log on the hearth crackled. Then suddenly through the quiet I heard Berengaria say, ‘I must see him. I can’t leave for Cyprus without seeing him. One of us might drown on the way and then I should never see him again. It’s not to be borne!’ There was a new wild note in her voice. I looked up and was astonished to see that tears were running down her cheeks. Not a muscle in her face moved, her eyes were not screwed up, her mouth was not contorted. I had never seen a woman cry so beautifully. Joanna, of course, immediately began to cry, too, square-mouthed, shaky-chinned, snuffle-nosed. I sat for a moment thinking, What a weapon! To be able to cry without becoming repulsive, for most women take to tears as a final resort and thus defeat their own ends.