Chapter Four
The setting sun threw long shadows across the plains to the east. A week had passed since Richard’s ships had arrived in Cyprus. From the roof of Limassol Palace, Joanna could see in all directions. To the south, behind her, the English ships bobbed on a gold-streaked sea. She had turned her back on the water, having seen more than enough of it in the last month. To her left, to the west, the land curled down to embrace the bay of Limassol. East of the palace the city sprawled out, from this vantage point a jumble of roofs littered with washing spread out to dry or dyers’ vats or storage jars of grain and oil. She could see down into some of the courtyards where children played and old women in black sat and gossiped. In front of her, to the north, a narrow winding road, dusty white against the scrubby grass, led up into the hills. A man was urging a laden donkey along the road, hurrying to get into the city before the gates closed for the night. There were tiny farmhouses with mud walls and thatched roofs beyond the city walls. The plowmen had already come in with their oxen. Soon the angelus would ring.
There was a burst of laughter from the men, and Joanna withdrew her gaze from the distant road to look at them. Richard sat with his chair tilted dangerously back, his feet on the low table spread with figs and olives and goat’s cheese.
“Now I know why he needs such a fleet horse,” he said, grinning. “Fleet for fleeing!”
“Fleet in flight,” William took it up. “He flees very fleetly.”
“Quick to quit?” someone called out and another shouted, “To disappear apace?”
Richard covered his face with his hand and groaned. “Pax, pax, gentlemen.” He stretched out his left hand with the cup in it and a page hastened forward to refill it.
“All the same,” he said more seriously, “it’s a waste of a good horse. I would dearly love to have such a one.”
“If he could be retrained to run towards the enemy instead of away from him, my lord,” someone answered and they all laughed again.
Richard lifted his cup and drank. The sun glinted on little drops of wine in his red-gold beard. Above the cup his nose was peeling and his forehead was burned deep red. With a pang, Joanna noticed that his thick, springy golden hair, which she used to call his lion’s mane, was beginning to recede at the temples. He was in his middle thirties now, a big, long-limbed man with the blue eyes and straight nose of the Normans and the quickness and grace of the Aquitanians. There was nothing English about this King of England. He could not even speak English. When he spoke, his French still rolled with the warm vowels of the south. His eyes met Joanna’s over the rim of the cup, blue eyes narrowed against the sun looking into wide-set cool green eyes. Apart from the color of their eyes, she knew they were alike, the same thick wavy red-gold hair and pale skin that burnt or freckled in the sun, the same tall long-legged frame, though Richard, who had once been as slender as she, had now broadened in the shoulders and chest and neck.
“Well, sister,” he said, smiling at her, “I promised you that you would sleep ashore that night, didn’t I?”
* * *
Almost a week had gone by since that Sunday when Richard’s ships had at long last been sighted. The Trenchemer, Richard’s galley, had come alongside the dromon amid the cheers of all the men, and Richard himself had been the first across the boarding-plank. In her relief, Joanna had rushed to hug him and only remembered afterwards that it was now and henceforth Berengaria’s right to greet him first. Richard seemed not to notice this. He acknowledged Berengaria with a cool kiss on the hand and then turned back to Joanna to hear how she had fared during the storm and how things stood with the Emperor of Cyprus.
When he heard from William and Roger of the treatment accorded to the shipwrecked men, his geniality turned to fury.
“By God, I’ll make that traitor regret he ever treated any men of mine in such fashion!” he roared. “Did he think I’d not avenge them? And thought to hold my wife and sister to ransom, too?” He stared angrily across the water at Limassol. “Offered you his so-called hospitality, did he? We shall accept it, whether he will or no. I promise you that you shall sleep ashore tonight, in Isaac’s palace, and if there are any captives there, they’ll be Cypriots, not good Englishmen.”
He ran his fingers through his beard, still staring across the water, then rapidly made up his mind. “William and Roger, you shall be my emissaries. I think he will not dare to do you harm with my ships here in the bay. Tell the Emperor that I, Richard, King of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Count of Anjou and Poitou, demand satisfaction for the injuries received. He is to repay the money he plundered, restore the stolen weapons, and pay a compensation for each man killed in the fighting. Go now and bring me back his answer.”
William and Roger were delighted to go. They stood grinning while their squires armed them and boasted to the assembled company that they would make Isaac eat umble pie if any men could.
They were not gone long, and when they returned, with their cloaks swirling around them and their helmets under their arms, the faces of both were flushed with indignation. William’s brows were pulled down in an angry frown and his nostrils flared. Roger’s eyes snapped angrily and his mouth was drawn into a thin line.
“I see,” Richard said slowly. “You did not convince Isaac to eat umble pie, then?”
“My lord, he was abusive in the extreme,” Roger burst out.
“Anyone would think he was the offended party,” William said indignantly. “Aside from insults, which we shall not tax my lord with hearing, the burden of his answer was that he had nothing to do with a king or duke or count since his authority is imperial. Since there is none higher on earth than an emperor, he confides wholly in impunity from heaven and will act just as it pleases him.”
“Says he so?” A dangerous light gleamed in Richard’s eyes and he smiled a little. “Does he think heaven grants impunity to traitors who kill or capture holy pilgrims, who transgress the laws of hospitality and of Christian charity, who thwart God’s crusaders in their mission?” His voice had risen to a roar. “What do you say, men? Shall we teach this Emperor a lesson?”
There was a resounding shout of “Yea!”
“Our cause is just. Not only vengeance for our own, but for all the others he has waylaid and killed. We are God’s arm in this, to strike him down who dares to claim impunity from heaven. To arms!”
Joanna stood well back out of the way. All over the deck the men were arming hastily. She looked landwards and saw that they were at least as active there. Troops of men were blocking the port with every kind of obstacle they could lay their hands on, casks with hoops, benches and ladders, planks laid crosswise. They were even taking the doors and windows from the houses and adding them to the pile. Old galleys and abandoned vessels, dirty from months or years of disuse, were torn apart and handed up, bucklers and shields, utensils of every kind, in short, everything portable of wood or metal or stone that could be found in the city of Limassol was being piled up on the shore.
Behind this barricade, the Emperor himself appeared, riding up and down the beach at the head of his troops. He was magnificently dressed, with sleeves of many colors and armor that shone gold in the afternoon sun. His destrier champed at the bit and tossed its head as it paced back and forth, a spirited black Arabian deep through the barrel but with slender legs. Behind him the gorgeous pennons and banners of his knights floated in the breeze.
There were also slingers and archers on foot, and as the small boats from the ships approached the shore, these let fly their stones and arrows. Joanna and Berengaria watched anxiously, their hands gripping the rails. The men in the boats seemed exposed, unable to use their own weapons with any accuracy because of the tossing of the sea, and exhausted by the long journey they had just ended. On the shore, the Cypriots ran up and down taunting them, shouting insults and barking like dogs. Steadily, the boats pulled closer to the shore, the men holding their shields above them in an unbroken roof. From beneath this roof, the archers shot at the enemy.
For a long time, no progress was made. The Cypriots still held the beach and Richard’s men were unwilling to expose themselves by leaving their boats. At last, with a mighty yell one knight leapt from his barge into the water and raised his arm for the others to follow him. As he surged up onto the beach, arrows stuck quivering in his chainmail so that he looked like a bristling porcupine, but he did not falter.
Berengaria gripped Joanna’s arm painfully hard. “It’s Richard,” she said. “Joanna, that’s Richard!”
It was indeed Richard. And a typical gesture of Richard’s, Joanna thought. He had no fear. His men were following him now, one after the other leaping into the breaking surf with battle cries, and the Griffons were retreating. Bodies littered the beach and the foam at the sea’s edge was tinged with pink. The sky above the shoreline was darkened by the shower of arrows, and the air was filled with the screams of the wounded and the yells of the attackers.
In a rush, the English went up the beach. The Cypriots turned and, seeing themselves hemmed in by their own barricade, flung aside their bows and slings as they scrambled madly to climb over it. On their heels, the English followed and as they came down on the other side they drew their swords and clashed with the Emperor’s mounted men. The horses reared in confusion, some turned to flee, and the battle turned to a rout before it had properly begun. The English drove the Cypriots first into the city and then on to the plains beyond.
Richard had found a riderless horse and vaulted onto its back. Above the noise of the battle, Joanna heard his famous stentorian voice raised. “My lord emperor, I challenge you to single combat …”
But Isaac was fleeing already. Joanna could see his colored sleeves as he crouched over his horse’s neck. Richard’s common mount was no match for the swift Arabian and he soon abandoned the pursuit.
The city was theirs. When the dromon tied up at the port, Richard came to hand them ashore. He still had on his helmet and his blue eyes shone jubilantly on either side of the nasal. There was a smear of blood on his cheek, his scarlet surcoat hung in tatters, and there was still the point of one arrow left wedged in his chainmail hauberk.
On either side, the foot soldiers were working to clear a way through the barricade. Richard, with Joanna and Berengaria on either side of him, walked up through the city to Isaac’s royal palace. As they left, he called back an order over his shoulder.
“Land the horses now and care for them. We may need them tomorrow.”
“Will Isaac come back tomorrow, do you think?” Joanna asked.
“I would in his place. He should attack early while we are still asleep, tired out from this landing skirmish and settling in. He thinks we have no horses, but next time we shall meet his cavalry with our own. In the meantime, we shall enjoy Isaac’s hospitality.”
In the palace, they were met by wailing servants who prostrated themselves, tearing their hair and banging their heads on the floor.
Richard surveyed them cynically. “Do we have anyone here who speaks Greek?” he asked.
“My lord, I do.” A young man stepped forward from behind them. “Gilbert FitzGilbert, at your service, my lord.”
“Well, Gilbert, tell them I’ll spare their lives if they prepare a worthwhile feast for us within two hours. Nothing but the best. And if I don’t like it …” He raised his gauntleted hand and drew it significantly across his throat.
At this gesture, the servitors who had been watching him breathlessly fell to wailing again and beating their breasts. Gilbert stepped forward to speak to them and Richard turned away.
“Do they think I make war on servants?” he said disgustedly. “Still, putting the fear of God into them may provide us with a decent meal, and God knows I could do justice to one.”
Richard, it seemed, had indeed inspired them with fear, though of himself rather than of God. In less than two hours the steward came, bowing and trembling, to say that if it was the great lord’s pleasure, they could serve him now. Even Joanna, accustomed as she was to the luxuries of the Sicilian court, was impressed by the array of dishes. Course followed course, cygnets and fat capons and heron, venison in frumenty and stuffed pig and quails, quinces in comfits and glazed meat-apples, stuffed dates and spicy eggs, cinnamon figs and almond cakes, and everything washed down with the best Cypriot wine.
They ate as though they had eaten nothing for weeks, and indeed they had not, at least nothing of this quality. At last Richard pushed away his trencher and sat back, cup in hand. “What do you think of Isaac’s hospitality now?” he said, laughing.
Joanna raised her goblet, laughing with him. “I think it’s worth drinking to. Here’s to Isaac’s huntsmen, Isaac’s cooks, and Isaac’s vintners!”
“I’ll drink to that! And now let’s see if Isaac’s minstrels are worth drinking to. Gilbert! Tell them we’ll have some music now, unless the musicians all fled with the knights.”
A minstrel was found, a little, bald-headed, plump fellow of middle years. He explained to them through Gilbert that he would sing a lay of the great Achilles, and in flowery compliments he likened Richard to the Greek hero: godlike, all-conquering, invincible. Richard accepted this with a smile and waved him to begin.
After a few trial chords on his harp, the man began to sing in a high, sweet voice. Not understanding the words, the company talked idly as he sang, but presently as the song increased in tempo, the little man began to gesture and to prance. He drew an imaginary sword and feinted with it, holding his harp as a shield. He stalked into an invisible tent and drew the door flap across with an angry gesture. Between chords on the harp, he played out before them Achilles’ duel with Hector, darting back and forth, his plump body quivering and his bald pate gleaming in the candlelight. At the end, triumphant over Hector’s fallen body, he kissed his illusory sword, knelt before Richard, and offered it to him.
Richard applauded enthusiastically and ordered his treasurer, Stephen, to throw a purse to the minstrel.
“The fellow’s a better actor than he is a singer,” he commented to Joanna, “and certainly a better singer than harpist. Come here, sirrah,” he called, “show me your harp.”
The man stepped somewhat nervously up to the dais and handed the harp to Richard. Sweat shone on his fleshy jowls and neck. Richard plucked the strings thoughtfully, inspecting the harp.
“Do you speak Latin, fellow?” he asked in that language.
“I do, great King.”
“Show me, then, how you tune it. This string here is flat, it seems to me. Is it here? So?”
Their heads bent together over the harp. In the hall, the knights had gone back to drinking and talking. The Normans were throwing pieces of bread at each other and the noise level rose steadily.
Richard strummed a chord, then another. “Yes, I see. It’s smaller than I am used to, but I’m getting the feel of it.” He sang a phrase, stopped and tightened another string. “It has a good tone, though too muted for my taste. I prefer a vielle.”
He sang again, a random phrase from a popular ballad, then frowned and thought for a moment. His fingers rippled over the strings. Gently, as if to himself, he began to sing.
Joanna looked sideways at him. He seemed concentrated, unaware of everyone. His voice swelled as he moved into the song and his fingers slid skillfully over the harp strings as though he had played it all his life. He was singing in the langue d’oc and the rich, warm French of the South blended with the plangent tones of the harp. Gradually, like spreading ripples on a pond, the room fell silent, starting from the High Table where Richard sat, and passing on down the long tables to where the squires sat below the salt until even the ushers and cupbearers stood silent and still in the corners of the room.
Joanna’s throat constricted. He was singing a song of their childhood, and the rise and fall of the melody transported her to the long elegant hall at Poitiers. She closed her eyes and could almost smell the roses, hear the frogs that croaked at night in the moat, see her mother and Marie on the dais. Tears squeezed from under her lids.
Lancan vei la folha
Jos dels albres chazer,
Cui que pes ni dolha
A me deu bo saber.
It was not just nostalgia for the past, she knew. It was a yearning, she no longer knew for what. In those days when, as a child, she had crept to the gallery to spy on her elders feasting below, she had known what she wanted. She would stare at her mother, the cynosure of the court. She wanted to be a Queen like her mother. She had been a Queen. For thirteen years she had been William’s Queen in Sicily. But the yearning was still in her, unsatisfied. More than anything, she wanted to know what she wanted. Even this Crusade, this journey to the Holy Land, which had seemed an unattainable dream, was only a postponement. When they returned, as they would eventually, she would have to decide what she wanted. She could not return to Sicily, where her enemy, Tancred the Bastard reigned. She would not go to England. There was only France and she had no one there. If only she and William had had children, she would have had a purpose in her life.
She opened her eyes. Richard was gently playing the closing chords of his song. Around the hall, the men dreamed of far-off France, of Normandy and Anjou, of Aquitaine and Maine, Poitou and Touraine, the provinces that Richard ruled and that they had left to follow him. Her gaze shifted to Berengaria. Berengaria sat leaning forward, her hands clasped before her, and her eyes fixed on Richard. She had forgotten all else, it was clear, but Richard and his singing. Her lips were slightly parted, she seemed to hold her breath and her whole face shone. At the sight of her, Joanna felt another pang. Berengaria at least knew what she wanted. What must it be like to love someone like that? She would not be happy with Richard, Joanna knew. Richard had clearly shown his indifference, and Berengaria would be hurt in many little ways. But there was a focus to her life that Joanna envied and happiness was not everything.