Chapter Five
Isaac had not attacked in the night, nor yet in the morning. The men and horses were fed and somewhat rested before someone sighted the Griffons’ banners in a nearby olive-yard. The sun had just risen, and from the palace roof, they could see not only this avant-garde force, but, further back, the Emperor’s main army occupying a neighboring hill. To Joanna, it looked like a huge force, easily three times as many men as Richard had, but Richard seemed entirely unimpressed.
One of Richard’s clerks, Hugo de Mara, cried out, “My lord King, I think it would be wise to refrain from attacking such a large and powerful force!”
Richard only laughed and answered, “Sir clerk, you had better keep to your writing and leave war to us!”
Then he was gone, taking three at a time the steps from the roof and shouting for his armor. Though they were completely outnumbered, Richard’s men dispersed the Cypriots with ease. The latter, taken aback by the unexpected cavalry and by the vigor of the attack, gave way. Their line was broken, their horses scattered, and the English were able to take them on singly, one here, another there. Seeing this, the Cypriot knights lost heart and fled. Those who had swift horses escaped; the slow, and all the foot-soldiers and common people, were slain in all directions.
Richard came back crowing with delight. He had actually charged Isaac himself at full speed and knocked him off his horse with his lance. By the time he had pulled up his own horse and returned to the attack, Isaac’s companions had remounted him and he escaped in the crowd, but Richard recounted several times how his lance had taken Isaac squarely in the breast, lifting him neatly from the saddle, how Isaac had thumped into the dirt, flat on his back, arms and legs wriggling like an overturned beetle.
Richard had also struck down Isaac’s banner-bearer and they had brought the splendid banner back with them. They had pursued Isaac’s army for two miles then returned to ransack their tents. The booty was enormous. Richard had taken for himself the Emperor’s tent with all the gold and silver vessels they had found in it, also costly woven apparel and arms. His men found so much to take, coats of mail, helmets, choice swords, horses, wine and vestments, that they became selective and took only the best.
On their return to the city, Richard had a herald proclaim an edict. Anyone who came over to him might come and go as he pleased and would be safe from any harm from his men, but whoever took Isaac’s side and held Richard as an enemy would be treated by him as an enemy and woe betide him if he fell into the hands of the King’s men. As he expected, the citizens declared for him, and as the word spread, deserters from Isaac’s army came to join him. Isaac himself withdrew to a strong fort at Nicosia.
And so, for five days they stayed on in Limassol, putting up supplies for the rest of the journey to Acre, getting the men and horses back in fighting shape after the long sea voyage, and enjoying all the comforts of land. It was Saturday now. That morning Richard had announced quite suddenly that he would marry Berengaria the next day.
“We shall be sailing soon,” he said, “and God knows what we’ll find in Acre. We may as well do it now.”
That was all he said and he scarcely threw a glance at Berengaria. Joanna, watching them, wondered again at his casual attitude. She remembered how courteous he had been to Marie at Poitiers, composing ballads for her, paying her extravagant compliments, and how he had avoided Alice, his betrothed. It was very strange. Berengaria said nothing, but she went first white, then very red.
She was not with them now. Berengaria showed a modest reluctance to join these gatherings of the men on the palace roof in the evenings. They dined late here because of the heat, and the flat roof was a pleasant place to sit in the cooling breezes off the sea, watching the sun go down and drinking wine as they waited for dinner to be served.
The men were still laughing about Isaac’s horse and its prowess in flight when Robert called out, “There are ships coming in, my lord!”
They all stared at them, three galleys, one behind the other.
“What flags are those?” Joanna asked. She recognized none of them.
“From the Holy Land, aren’t they?” William answered, his eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure. Antioch, maybe, or Tyre, or even Jerusalem.”
Richard brought his chair’s front legs down with a bang and stood up. “Let’s go and find out. Who’ll come with me?”
“I’ll come!” William responded, and Roger echoed him.
In the space of a few minutes the roof was almost emptied. Joanna remained, and Robert and a few other knights. Pages moved about quietly, clearing cups.
Presently, a small group of chattering laughing men, with Richard at their head, emerged in the streets below the palace. Joanna watched as they made their way to the port and embarked in a small vessel. She saw them round up some sailors from the dock and point to the incoming galleys. The ropes were cast off and they were rowed out towards the galleys. When they were under the lee of the foremost ship, Richard stood up in the bow and hailed her. There was a brief exchange between the boat and the ship and then Richard sat down and the boat turned round and headed rapidly back to the harbor.
“At least they’re friendly,” Robert said beside her. “My lord King is sometimes … too venturesome.”
Joanna turned and looked at him.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” he said quickly. “There is none who admires the King more than I. And when we compare him with a man like the Emperor Isaac who turns to fly at the slightest reverse.… But there are times when we who love him are anxious that he risks his life so readily.”
Joanna turned away again and watched the boat unloading at the dock. Yes, Richard was foolhardy. She gloried in it as much as he did. Not for him the calculated caution of lesser men. Better to live boldly and maybe one day die of it than to lead a long and uneventful life and end it tamely in bed.
There were shouts from below in the palace. The galleys were tying up now. Berengaria came up onto the roof and crossed to Joanna’s side.
“What’s this I hear? My lord has ordered a great feast for tonight. I thought I heard him say the King of Jerusalem had come.”
Robert exclaimed softly and they all looked down at the ship. From the leading galley, a tall slender man came down the gangplank, followed by many others. Even at this distance they could see the glint of gold on his head.
“The King of Jerusalem!” said Joanna wonderingly. “Why, that’s … that’s Guy de Lusignan!”
Guy de Lusignan! The name recalled to Joanna one of her earliest memories. She had been—how old? Three? Five? It was when they first went to Poitiers, she remembered, she and her sister Eleanor, leaving the safe familiarity of Fontevrault Abbey. Guy de Lusignan had tried to abduct her mother and hold her to ransom. She still remembered that feeling of cold confusion, of fear, when they reached Poitiers and heard that her mother was missing, her escort killed, and no one knew where she was. Nothing had come of it, of course. Her mother had ridden in merrily a day later, amused to hear of their concern for her, and Guy had escaped to the court of France. But Joanna could not hear the name with equanimity.
She watched him, fascinated, at the feast that night. Guy was seated next to Richard at the High Table. He did not look villainous nor, in fact, impressive in any way, despite his elaborate garments and the gold circlet on his head. He was in his forties, tall and lean and still showing the ruins of the good looks that had captivated Sibylla, the heiress of Jerusalem. Streaks of grey swept back from his temples and his sandy moustache was almost white in patches. He had no beard and this looked odd to Joanna. She was used to clean-shaven men like her father and the Normans of his generation, and to men with full beards and moustaches like Richard, but Guy’s moustache and beardlessness seemed indecisive to her, a half-hearted attempt to have it both ways, and she thought it summed up the man. He spoke loudly and boastfully, but his eyes darted restlessly round the room. She noticed that even while Richard was speaking to him, Guy seemed unable to concentrate. His gaze would slide away to rest on a pretty woman or to check whether people were admiring him. In repose, his mouth had a petulant downturn at the corners, a look that suggested the world had not paid him his due. He was handsome and brave, it seemed to say, so why did people not respect him more? The failed attempt to kidnap her mother was, she reflected, probably typical of Guy, a reckless move lacking in judgment and botched in execution. It was Guy who had led his troops to the disastrous defeat of Hittin when Saladin had captured Jerusalem. And now he had come to ask Richard’s help in keeping his throne.
“I think, cousin,” Guy said slyly, leaning towards Richard, “that King Philip means to insult you in this.”
Richard’s gaze flicked to him over his cup and then back to the candelabra on the table in front of him, but he said nothing. He sat back squarely in his chair.
“Don’t you see,” Guy urged, “I am your vassal and your kinsman. To depose me is a direct insult to you. He has no grounds. There can be no other motive. I am the King of Jerusalem. There can be no argument about that. Yet he proposes Conrad of Montferrat. His own vassal, of course. But Montferrat has no right to the throne of Jerusalem. No right at all.”
“His brother was married to Sibylla before you and fathered Baldwin,” Richard pointed out. The child-King Baldwin had died the year before the overthrow of Jerusalem.
“And was it not Conrad of Montferrat who saved Tyre, the only city left unconquered in the whole Latin kingdom in 1187?” Joanna asked tartly.
Guy flushed and began to stammer a reply, but Richard raised a hand and interrupted him.
“Let us not argue about that now. We will discuss it at a more suitable time. For now, you are welcome here as my kinsman and I will take under advisement what you say of Philip. You have arrived at an opportune moment, cousin Guy. Tomorrow I celebrate my marriage, and you shall be my guest at the ceremony.”
* * *
The following day was the twelfth of May. Joanna went to Berengaria’s chambers to help her with her preparations for the wedding. Berengaria sat very still on her tiring-chair. One of her women began to braid her long dark hair.
“Why don’t you leave it loose today?” Joanna suggested. “It looks prettier and softer that way. Make one braid at each side, with a gold thread through it, and let the rest hang free.”
“Do you think so?” Berengaria asked nervously. She studied her reflection in the silver mirror her woman was holding. “Would he like it, do you think?”
“Yes, I think so.” Joanna smiled encouragingly at her. She did not tell Berengaria that she had seen Richard that morning and he had not mentioned Berengaria.
“I so much want to look my best for him today.” Berengaria pulled her long upper lip over her trembling lower lip and looked sideways, almost defiantly, at Joanna. “I know I am not beautiful, but he did choose me.”
“Yes, he did. And you should be proud of that.” Impulsively, Joanna seized Berengaria’s hands that were fluttering up to rearrange the brooch at her breast. “There’s nothing wrong with your features, Berengaria. You are as pretty as anyone. It’s the expression that counts. Act as though you are beautiful and expect to be admired and you will be.” Berengaria looked dubiously at Joanna and opened her mouth to speak, but Joanna went on, “I’ll tell you what Richard likes. He likes self-assurance, he likes gaiety, and he likes pride. Some men like modest, demure women. I don’t think Richard does. He hates to see a long face, it depresses him. More than anything, he admires courage.”
Berengaria was silent for a long moment. Her large, dark, long-lashed eyes studied Joanna.
“Women like you and Queen Eleanor,” she said at last. “I am not like that. I wish I could be more like you, unafraid, decisive. You were so wonderful in that storm.”
Joanna interrupted impatiently, “I was afraid. I’m often afraid. Everyone is.” She added, with a little smile, “Except perhaps Richard. But I’ve learned to hide it. When I was married, I was so terrified I could hardly walk or talk. You take the anger that you feel at yourself for being so stupidly nervous and use that to fight the fear. Act the part, Berengaria. Hold your head high and smile today.”
“Thank you,” Berengaria said seriously. She still stared into Joanna’s eyes. Suddenly she smiled and her little heart-shaped face was transformed. Her wide smiling mouth revealed that rare thing, perfect teeth, and dimples appeared in her cheeks. She looked ten years younger. It could have been a merry child who sat there smiling at Joanna, but for the understanding that gleamed in her dark eyes.
“Like this?” she asked.
* * *
It was as well, Joanna thought, that she had given Berengaria this advice if she were not to be completely overwhelmed by Richard. Joanna had seen her momentary hesitation when Richard entered the cathedral, seen her eyes widen and then her head lift. Berengaria was small but she stood as tall as she could. Her voice could not compete with Richard’s battle-trained sonority, but she spoke her responses clearly and audibly.
Standing close behind them, Joanna studied them. Berengaria looked her best this morning. Her long dark hair hung down her back, the gold-filleted braids in front falling forward from under the diaphanous blue veil pinned to her head by a gold and pearl circlet. She was wearing a creamy silk gown under a long-skirted blue tunic that trailed on the floor behind her, and sapphires and pearls shone at her throat and ears. But next to Richard even this finery passed unnoticed.
Richard was dressed in a rose-colored surcoat worked with rows of solid silver crescents. The light falling through the high windows of the chapel of St. George struck off the silver as he moved and made it flash and sparkle. His woven belt was clasped with silver, too, and under his arm he carried a scarlet bonnet covered with birds and beasts of various kinds in rich orphrey work. His hair shone out in a great fiery halo round his head. He looked more than human, some great glittering rose-red giant.
The newlyweds were following the Bishop of Evreux up to the altar now and the choir suddenly burst into song, the Latin words of the psalm soaring into the rafters. Joanna started. For a moment this Byzantine chapel could have been the Palatine chapel in Panorme where she had married William fourteen years before. The same mosaics glittering on the walls, the same gentle dark-eyed Christ looking down from the apse and now the same music filling the chapel. She stared at Richard and Berengaria’s backs, trying to concentrate, but their figures blurred and flickered like the candle flames on the altar before them. One day she would have to remarry. There was nothing else to do. But she would not think of that now. The Crusade lay ahead of them, the recapture of the Holy Land and the pilgrimage to Jerusalem itself. Time enough on their return to France to think of remarriage. Besides she was a widow now and could marry to please herself this time. Richard could be selfish, she knew that, but even he could not force her to marry against her will now. And there would be no lack of suitors for the sister of the Lionheart. Her fingers tightened on her missal. That was what she did not want. Any number of men would no doubt like to become Richard’s brother. She wanted one who would marry her for herself.
Beside her, Guy de Lusignan bent his head and murmured to her. “A handsome couple, don’t you think so? Richard looks splendid today. A fine-looking man, your brother. And you are very much like him. I suppose everyone tells you that?”
She looked at him blankly. His mumbling had interrupted her thoughts. He was still a handsome man, Guy de Lusignan, she thought, considering him impartially. He was well past his prime, of course, and she did not like him, but Richard was backing him and he was King of Jerusalem. She smiled politely at him. Out of the blue, she wondered what her William would have looked like if he had lived to Guy’s age. She had never seen a man to equal William for beauty. She had not thought of him for months, but now she recalled him vividly. Yet his was not a beauty that moved her. He had looked too effeminate for her taste, with his fine, fair hair, smooth skin, and long lashed eyes. Not that he was effeminate in any way. She remembered his harem that had caused her so much anguish, and the nights she had spent in his embrace. She struggled to suppress the thoughts that leapt suddenly into her mind. Not here, in church … she must not think of such things.
Richard and Berengaria had turned to face the congregation. They walked slowly down the steps hand in hand. Richard smiled broadly as he caught an eye here and there, Mercadier his captain, Hugh of Poitou his marshal, the Earl of Leicester, and Joanna herself. Berengaria, for once, was beautiful.
The feasting went on all day. Richard had brought many of his own minstrels with him in the fleet and there were jugglers and acrobats. Richard was in his element, moving up and down the room, stopping to talk and joke with one group, sitting down to share a hanap of wine with another. Joanna remembered how her father King Henry would stride up and down the hall in just such a restless way. But her father had never sung and played as Richard did. When Richard sang his own songs in the langue d’oc of Southern France, the noisy room fell silent until he finished, then the applause was deafening.
Berengaria, meanwhile, remained in her place on the dais, looking down over the room with a small fixed smile. Her eyes followed Richard’s tall figure as he mingled with their guests. From time to time someone would come and sit in Richard’s chair next to her and keep her company. Guy de Lusignan came and talked with her, and the portly Bishop of Evreux, and William de Bois and Roger de Hardecurt came together and succeeded in turning her smile into frank laughter.
When the dancing started in the afternoon, Berengaria came into her own. Richard returned to the dais to claim her hand to open the dancing. The tables had been removed and the rushes swept away, and in the clear space they danced together. Around the edges of the room the nobles clapped in time to the beat. At first decorously, they paced up and down the hall, linked hands held high, with Richard shortening his long stride to match hers. Then the music grew faster and Berengaria began to whirl and stamp her feet in some Navarrese dance that Joanna had never seen. The nobles cheered and Richard, laughing, imitated her. Faster and faster they moved, with Berengaria’s braids jumping on her shoulders and her sallow cheeks flushed pink. Her little feet pointed and stamped and her fingers snapped. Richard, for all his bulk, was agile and quick to learn, and he was soon improvising his own turns and spins. At the end of the dance, amid cheers, he lifted Berengaria and spun round with her so that her feet flew above the floor.
Then everybody began to dance. The sun went down and candles were lit. Their shadows danced, crazily elongated, on the walls. The room smelled of wax and perfumed rushes and sweat. Dinner was served and Richard took his place at the center of the High Table, with Berengaria and Joanna on either side of him. Guy de Lusignan sat next to Joanna.
“I timed my arrival well, did I not?” he said, offering her the cup they shared. “A happy occasion, the King’s wedding. Your brother seems very happy. As he should be, of course. A most accomplished and graceful lady, Berengaria.” He belched softly, then leaned towards her. “Between ourselves, though, she would not be my first choice of all the ladies in this room. No, indeed …”
He was drunk, Joanna thought. Her lips tightened. How dared he make advances to her, the sister of the Lionheart, and in her brother’s presence, too? An old man, a failure of a King, a lecher—it was disgusting. Looking round the room, her sudden anger subsided. It was, she supposed, a compliment of sorts, even if it was inspired by her relationship to Richard. All down the long tables, heads were together, fingers interlaced on goblets. She saw Berthe, giggling, accept a cup from her neighbor who had just kissed its rim. A wedding feast was always like this. It turned one’s thoughts to lust. She herself felt a stirring of lust, but not for Guy. Nor for any man here in particular. Guy aroused only antipathy in her, but he was a guest, a kinsman, and a King. She turned back to him.
“I will not pretend to misunderstand you, Sir Guy, so I thank you for the compliment.”
“Oh, not Sir Guy!” he protested. “So formal! We are cousins. Yes, a happy occasion, a wedding,” he went on dolefully. “I remember my own wedding. She loved me very much, my wife did. Poor Sibylla! I’m a widower now. Yes, you know that. And you’re a widow, too. We have that in common. Not good, not good to live alone …” His voice mumbled off and he sat tearing off little pieces of bread and rolling them into balls.
Queen of Jerusalem, she thought. Not impossible. If she were to suggest it to Richard, Guy would jump at it, she was sure. There had been a moment, back in Sicily, when she had thought she could be Queen of France. Philip had said almost the same thing, about their both being widowed, not good to be alone. But that was before he knew definitely that Richard would never marry his sister Alice. Whether he had forgiven Richard for that, Joanna did not know, but either way she would never marry Philip, cold, shrewd, one-eyed, lantern-jawed Philip, even to be Queen of France. Nor would she marry shifty Guy with his dissipated good looks, his vanity and foolishness, for all that he was King of Jerusalem. Better a simple knight, so long as he was young and merry and looked one straight in the eye and had broad shoulders and a flat belly and gentle hands … She dug her nails into her palms until it hurt.
“He’s too big for her!” Guy said, emerging suddenly from his drunken stupor. “Look at them! Imagine them in bed tonight! He’ll tear her apart or crush her to death, poor damsel!”
Joanna looked where he was looking, at Richard and Berengaria walking arm in arm between the tables talking to the nobles. Berengaria did not come up to Richard’s shoulder even. She looked like a child beside him, slight, fine-boned, with breasts no bigger than a twelve-year-old’s. And Richard at six feet and four inches, with his long legs and arms, his broad chest and shoulders and great heavy head set on his bull neck—Guy was right. It was hard to imagine them making love. She pushed the pictures out of her mind. He was her own brother and she would not even think of him like that. Dimly she realized that if he were not her brother, he would have been the man for her. He had everything she admired, the golden looks, the soldier’s bravery, the courtier’s polish, the charm, and vital energy. There was no one to equal him.