Lionheart (6 page)

As fascinated as Alicia was with the indoor fountain, she was even more interested in the royal menagerie, home to lions, leopards, peacocks, a giraffe, and elegant cheetahs which Joanna swore could be trained to walk on leashes. Afterward, they took advantage of the warm spell known as St Martin’s summer and had a light meal by the large artificial lake, sitting on blankets and rooting in the wicker baskets packed by palace cooks with savory wafers, cheese, sugar plums, and oranges. Joanna would later look back upon this sunlit November afternoon as a final gift from the Almighty, one last treasured memory of the privileged life that had been hers in the island kingdom of Sicily. But at the time, it seemed only a pleasant interlude, a favor to an orphaned child in need of days like this.

Joanna’s knights were flirting with her ladies, her dogs chasing unseen prey in the orchards behind them. Finding herself briefly alone with the queen, Alicia seized her chance and bravely broached the subject that had been haunting her for weeks. “May I ask you a question, Madame? The Lady Mariam . . .” She hesitated and then asked bluntly, “Is she truly a Christian?”

“Yes, she is, Alicia. Her mother died when Mariam was very young, just as your mother did. Mariam was brought up in the palace and naturally she was raised in the Truth Faith, for it would have been cruel indeed to deny her salvation.” Joanna finished peeling an orange before saying, “I know why you are confused. You’ve heard the talk, the gossip that the Saracens who’ve converted are not true Christians, that they continue to practice their infidel faith in secret . . . have you not?”

When Alicia nodded shyly, Joanna handed a section of fruit to the girl. “That is most likely true,” she admitted composedly. “The Palace Saracens take Christian names and attend Mass, but I am sure many of them do cling to the old ways. My husband and his father and grandfather before him believed that this is a matter between a man and his God. People ought not to be converted by force, for that renders their conversion meaningless. I’ve heard men accuse us of turning a blind eye, and I suppose we do, but it is for the best. Judge the results for yourself, child. Where else in Christendom do members of differing faiths live in relative peace?”

“But . . . but my brother said that nothing was more important than recovering the Holy City from the infidels,” Alicia whispered, relieved when Joanna nodded vigorously.

“Your brother was right. The Saracens in Outremer are our enemies. But that does not mean the Saracens in Sicily must be our enemies, too. Think of old Hamid, who tends to the royal kennels. Remember how patiently he talks to you about the dogs, promising to help you teach your puppy. Do you think of him as an enemy?”

“No,” Alicia said slowly, after a long pause. “I suppose I do not. . . .”

“Exactly,” Joanna said, pleased that Alicia was such a quick study. “Let me tell you a story, lass, one that was told to me by my husband. Twenty years ago, a dreadful earthquake struck our island. Thousands died at Catania, but Palermo was luckier and the damage was less here. The people were still very fearful and William heard nothing but cries and prayers to Allah and His Prophet from those who had supposedly embraced the Christian faith. He did not rebuke them, though, instead told them that each one should invoke the God he worships, for those who have faith would be comforted.”

Alicia was still bewildered, but if Joanna and William did not believe all Saracens were the spawn of the Devil, she would try to believe it, too, she decided. “And Lady Mariam . . . she is a true Christian, not a pretend one?”

Joanna laughed, assured her that Mariam was indeed a “worshipper of the Cross,” as the Muslims called those of the Christian faith, and then rose to her feet, brushing off her skirts, for she saw one of the palace servants hastening up the pathway toward them.

“Madame.” He prostrated himself at her feet in the eastern fashion, waiting for her permission to rise. When he did, she caught her breath, for his eyes were filled with fear. “You must return to the palace, my lady. It is most urgent. Your lord husband the king has been stricken with great pain and is asking for you.”

“Of course. Alicia, fetch the others.” Joanna studied the man’s face intently. “What do his doctors say, Pietro?”

He looked down, veiling his eyes. “They say that you must hurry, my lady.”

CHAPTER 3

NOVEMBER 1189

Palermo, Sicily

As the Lady Mariam approached the king’s private quarters in the Joharia, she saw the vice chancellor, Matthew of Ajello, hobbling toward her. For more than thirty years, he’d been a powerful force in Sicilian politics. Ambitious, ruthless, shrewd, and farseeing, he’d been an effective ally and a dangerous foe, but he was now in the winter of his life, suffering from the relentless ailments of age, and some of his enemies believed his influence was waning. Mariam thought they were fools, for those heavy-lidded dark eyes still blazed with intelligence and vitality. She smiled at the sight of that stooped, wizened figure, for she had a fondness for the old man, rogue though he may be.

He greeted her with a courtly flourish, but when she asked if there had been any change in the king’s condition, he slowly shook his head. “My poor William,” he said sadly, “my poor Sicily . . . ”

Mariam felt a chill, for he seemed to be offering an epitaph both for her brother and his kingdom. Seeing how his words had affected her, Matthew sought to sound more cheerful, saying with a surprisingly youthful grin, “A pity you were not here at noon, my dear, for that pompous ass, the Archbishop of Palermo, made a ridiculous spectacle of himself—again. He actually began to argue with the Archbishop of Monreale about where the king ought to be buried, insisting that his cathedral was the proper site even though we all know the king founded Monreale as his family’s mausoleum. The Archbishop of Monreale was understandably horrified that he’d bring up such a subject at such a time and tried to silence him ere the queen overheard. But Archbishop Walter plunged ahead unheedingly and ran straight into a royal tempest.”

“Joanna heard?” Mariam said and winced when he nodded.

“I met her mother once . . . did I ever tell you, my dear? The incomparable Eleanor of Aquitaine. It was more than forty years ago, but the memory is still green. She and her husband—it was the French king then—were on their way home from the Holy Land when their ships were set upon by pirates in the pay of the Greek emperor. Fortunately, our King Roger’s fleet was in the area and came to the rescue. But the queen’s ship was blown off course and by the time it dropped anchor in Palermo’s harbor, she was quite ill. Once she’d recovered, I was given the honor of escorting her to Potenza, where her husband and King Roger were awaiting her. She was a remarkable woman, very beautiful, of course,” he said, with a nostalgic sigh. “But she did have a temper. I saw today that she passed it on to her daughter. Our bombastic archbishop wilted before the Lady Joanna’s fury, shed his dignity like a snake shedding its skin, and bolted, his robes flapping in the breeze.”

Mariam could not share his satisfaction, even though she did share his dislike of Archbishop Walter. What must it have been like for Joanna, keeping vigil by her husband’s sickbed and hearing the prelates squabble over where he was to be buried? Bidding the vice chancellor farewell, she continued on her way. When she glanced back, she saw Matthew was almost out of sight, moving with surprising speed for a man so crippled by gout. He would never be as inept as the archbishop, but he’d been bitterly opposed to Constance’s German marriage, and she was sure he was already plotting how best to thwart Heinrich should William die.

Mariam was no more eager than the vast majority of William’s subjects to see Sicily swallowed up by the Holy Roman Empire. She loved Constance as much as Joanna did, but she loved her Sicilian homeland, too, and had no doubts that the kingdom would suffer under Heinrich’s iron yoke. Damn William’s stubbornness for refusing to see what a great risk he was taking! This spurt of anger shamed her. How could she be wrathful with her brother when he could well be dying?

Two of William’s African bodyguards moved aside respectfully as she approached the door to his bedchamber. It was then that she saw the reddish-brown creature huddled on the floor. Recognizing Ahmer, her brother’s favorite Sicilian hound, she frowned. But her disapproval was directed at William’s Saracen doctors, not Ahmer. Muslims looked upon dogs as dirty animals, and she knew they were responsible for banishing Ahmer from his master’s bedside. The hound whimpered as she scratched his head, and she found herself smiling as a memory surfaced, one of William debating his chief physician, Jamal al-Dīn, about the status of dogs. Jamal had insisted that they were ritually unclean and were to be shunned by Believers, and William, whose Arabic was fluent enough to allow him to read their holy book, had pounced gleefully, pointing out that there was only one reference to dogs in the
Qur’an
and it was a positive one, citing the Companion in the Cave
sura
as proof. Her smile faded then, for she could not help wondering if they’d ever be able to engage in such good-natured arguments again. Each time she saw William, he seemed to be losing more ground.

Opening the door, she let Ahmer squeeze in ahead of her. She had a moment of concern, fretting that he’d jump onto the bed, but he seemed to sense the gravity of the situation and sat down sedately at Joanna’s feet, his almond-shaped eyes never straying from William’s motionless form. Joanna’s drawn face and slumping shoulders bespoke her utter exhaustion, but she mustered up a smile, saying, “Your sister is here, my love.”

Mariam sat in a chair by the bed, reaching for William’s hand as she tried to conceal her dismay at the deterioration in his appearance. Her handsome brother looked like an ashen, spectral version of himself, his eyes sunken and his cheeks gaunt. He’d lost an alarming amount of weight in so brief a time, and his skin felt cold and clammy to her touch.
“Zahrah
,
”
he said hoarsely, bringing tears to Mariam’s eyes with the use of this Arabic childhood endearment. He was obviously in great pain. He seemed pleased, though, when she told him she’d sneaked his dog in, and dangled his fingers over the edge of the bed for Ahmer to lick.

The physicians had been conferring in a corner, studying a vial of liquid that Mariam assumed was William’s urine. Glancing over, Jamal al-Dīn noticed the dog and glared at Mariam, who favored him with an innocent smile. When he approached the bed to take his patient’s pulse, Mariam took advantage of the distraction to implore Joanna to get some sleep, but the other woman stubbornly shook her head.

“He is calmer when I am here,” she said before lowering her voice still further to whisper an indignant account of the Archbishop of Palermo’s gaffe. “That wretched old man still bears a grudge against William for establishing an archbishopric at Monreale. But I never imagined that his rancor would impel him to contemplate burying William whilst he is still alive!”

Mariam concurred, but all the while she was regarding Joanna with sympathy so sharp it felt like a dagger’s edge. Joanna seemed to be the only one blind to the truth, that William’s labored breaths were measurable and finite. Barring a miracle, he was dying, and all knew it but his wife. While Jamal al-Dīn spoon-fed his patient an herbal remedy for intestinal pain, Mariam continued to urge Joanna to take a brief nap. When William added his voice to Mariam’s, she finally agreed, promising to be back before the bells rang for Vespers.

As soon as she was gone, William beckoned his sister to the bed. “Send for a scribe,” he murmured. “I want to list all that I bequeath to the English king for his campaign to recover Jerusalem. Joanna became distraught whenever I mentioned it. . . .” And as their eyes met, Mariam realized that there had been an odd role reversal between her brother and his wife. Joanna had always been the practical partner, William the dreamer, given to impulse and whims. Yet now she was the one in denial and he was looking reality in the face without blinking.

It took William a long time to dictate his letter, for his strength was ebbing and he had to pause frequently to rest. Mariam sat by the bed, holding his hand, half listening as he offered up the riches of Sicily for a crusade he would never see. “A hundred galleys . . . sixty thousand seams of wheat, the same number of barley and wine . . . twenty-four dishes and cups of silver or gold . . .” When he was finally done, she tried to get him to eat some of the soup sent up by the palace cooks in hopes of tempting his fading appetite, but he turned his head aside on the pillow and she put the bowl down on the floor for Ahmer, which earned her a weak smile from William and a look of genuine horror from Jamal al-Dīn.

William’s fever was rising and Mariam took a basin from the doctors and put a cool compress upon his hot forehead. “At least . . .” William swallowed with difficulty. “At least I need not worry about Joanna . . . Monte St Angelo is a rich county . . . ”

“Indeed it is,” Mariam said, her voice muffled. Joanna had been provided with a very generous dowry at the time of her marriage. It was to William’s credit that even in the midst of his suffering, he was concerned for his wife’s future welfare. Did he spare a thought, too, for his kingdom? Did he regret that foolhardy alliance now that it was too late? Gazing into William’s eyes, Mariam could not tell. She found herself hoping that he was not tormented with such regrets. He had been a careless king, but he’d been a kind and loving brother, and she did not want him to bear such a burden in his last hours. What good would it do, after all?

JOANNA JERKED UPRIGHT in the chair, ashamed to have dozed off. Her eyes flew to the bed, but William seemed to be sleeping. He had not looked so peaceful in days and her faltering hopes rekindled. Taking care not to awaken him, she smiled at his doctor. “He appears to be resting comfortably. Surely that is a good sign?”

Jamal al-Dīn regarded her somberly. “I gave him a potion made from the juice of the opium poppy. It eased his pain and helped him to sleep. Alas, it will not cure his ailment, Madame.”

Joanna bit her lip. “But he may still recover?”

“
Inshallah
,” he said softly, “
Inshallah
.”

Physicians were the same, no matter their religion. Joanna knew that when they said “God willing,” there was little hope. Leaning over the bed, she kissed her husband gently upon his forehead, his eyelids, and his mouth.

JOANNA PAUSED in the doorway of the palatine chapel, waiting until her eyes adjusted to the shadows. When a priest appeared, she waved him away. Approaching the altar, she sank to her knees on the marble floor, and began to pray to the Almighty and the Blessed Martyr, St Thomas of Canterbury, entreating Them to spare her husband’s life, not for her sake or even for William’s, but for his island kingdom and all who dwelled there in such peace. Never had she offered up prayers that were so heartfelt, so desperate, or so utterly without hope.

FEW MONARCHS were as mourned as William de Hauteville. His death was greeted with genuine and widespread sorrow by his subjects, for his reign had been a time of prosperity and security, in dramatic contrast to the troubled years when his father had ruled. For three days, they filled the streets of Palermo, lamenting in the Sicilian manner. Women wore black, dressed their servants in sackcloth, their hair unbound and disheveled, wailing to the beat of drums and tambours, their grieving magnified by their fear, for none knew what the future now held.