Roselynde, page 31
Absorbed by personal considerations, Alinor hardly noted what to the queen was most important. Philip had overreached himself by inciting suspicion in Tancred, and the Sicilian king had failed to smooth over his subjects’ resentments of the actions of Richard’s men. The original faults may have been equal, but minor incidents were allowed to develop to the point that, by the time Richard’s fleet arrived, the people of Messina closed the gates of their city, hurled not only insults but missiles at Richard’s men, and prepared for war. At first, Richard tried to keep the peace. He was furious with Tancred’s behavior in retaining most of Joanna’s dowry, but he had been willing to try diplomatic means of solving that problem. When the quarters of one of his major barons were attacked and his men slaughtered, however, Richard’s limited patience gave out and he flew into a true Angevin rage.
Raging or calm, Richard was a remarkable tactician. His own letter merely reported that they had taken Messina by the evening of the same day the insult was offered and that Tancred had capitulated on all points. Simon, however, became lyrical in his description of the battle, detailing how Richard’s forces had been ordered to hold their bolts until those of the overeager Sicilians were exhausted, how they had then driven the defenders from the walls with a fusillade of arrows so that the battering rams could burst in the gates. Then they had reduced every fortified building in the city in a series of lightning attacks, sparing only King Philip’s quarters and Tancred’s own palace.
Simon was far less enthusiastic about the settlement that had been made. Having finally realized what sort of man he had to deal with, Tancred brought to the negotiations letters signed and sealed by Philip that described Richard in far from flattering terms. He protested that he had been led to believe that Richard wished to conquer Sicily and depose him, that had he realized how honorable and magnanimous Richard was he would never have acted as he had. In fact he played so successfully upon Richard’s feelings that he gained far more than he had lost. Richard agreed to accept an additional forty thousand ounces of gold plus a gilt table and chairs and a set of golden cups and dishes in complete quittance of Joanna’s dowry. To that Simon had no objection. He did not think, he wrote, that much more could be squeezed out of Sicily without actually conquering the island.
It was the final clause in the agreement that disturbed Simon. To the queen he merely reported that Richard had agreed to the marriage of his three-year-old nephew Arthur to Tancred’s infant daughter, settling upon the girl twenty thousand ounces of Joanna’s gold at the time of the wedding and naming Arthur as his heir. In a separate enclosure to Alinor, he expressed his true feelings.
“He has thus destroyed any hope of peace between himself and his brother John. Perhaps, in view of the dangers into which the king is going and the fact that he has no heir of his body, Lord John would have been content to wait until the climate or the disease of the Holy Land or the forces of Saladin made him king. As soon as John hears this news, however, he will begin to build alliances and stir up enmities so that if the king dies Arthur will be rejected. I cannot know what is in Lord John’s mind, but seeing how Lord Richard has put his claim to the throne at naught, I fear that the same enmities and alliances will make it impossible for Richard to return to his kingdom without conquering John and his adherents by force of arms. Although I know the temptation will be great to side with Lord John against Longchamp, bid Sir Andre straitly not to do so. Let him, if it be possible, remain friends with both. If he must, he may resist Longchamp, even to the point of war, but by no means must he request aid from Lord John, neither men nor money nor arms. On the other hand, by no means should he offer defiance or insult to Lord John—remember that no matter what Richard says, it is not like a three-year-old will be accepted as king. If death overtakes Lord Richard, Lord John will be king, and he has a long memory. Sir Andre must find sweet words to resist any offer made to him.”
This close attention to her affairs abated Alinor’s jealousy not one whit. She knew quite well that wherever Simon’s affections wandered, he would neglect no detail of his duty with respect to her property. Alinor pinned her hopes on winning Simon back, but for that purpose she had to be with him. She set herself to win Berengaria’s confidence. This was no hard task, nor a distasteful one. The princess was a charming girl of very sweet disposition only two years older than Alinor and, because of lack of responsibility, she seemed in many ways younger.
At first Alinor did not press too much. Berengaria had her own friends and ladies. Once they had left Sancho’s Court, the two girls drew together. This was the natural attraction of similar age and some similar interests. As it turned out, Berengaria did not need information about Richard. She knew him quite well. Richard and her brother had been friends, traveling together to the jousts, and Richard had stayed some time at Sancho’s Court. He had, in fact, favored Berengaria with as full a treatment of courtly love as Simon had bestowed upon Alinor. It was this that Berengaria needed to talk about to a person of her own age—a true dream of love. She described at great length the delicacy of Richard’s attentions to her, how he had declared himself unworthy even to beg for a kiss.
Alinor was so horrified that tears came to her eyes, and Berengaria was greatly moved by what she thought was sympathy with the realization of her dream. Fortunately Alinor could not think of the proper words with which to warn Berengaria at first. By the time she had planned what to say, she recognized the stupidity of saying anything.
Richard might reform totally. If so, Berengaria was his choice and he might truly love her. Even if Richard did not reform but only desired to beget an heir upon his wife, his manners were beautiful. Berengaria might never realize that his passion was spurious. It never occurred to Alinor at that time that Berengaria might prefer the fairytale love to the real thing, but she did realize that to break Berengaria’s dream would be unkind and unnecessary as well as dangerous.
By November, when the queen’s party had safely recrossed the Pyrenees, Alinor was Berengaria’s chief confidante. She alone of the ladies, aside from the queen, could read and had read many of the tales that Berengaria loved and almost believed. Moreover, after more than a year of traveling with the queen, Alinor was inured to hardship in a way that Berengaria was not. She could offer little hints on the best ways to be comfortable, perform little services that would ease the princess physically.
To seal their friendship, Alinor told of her own fairytale love, but what she really felt and who her lover was she did not confess. If Simon had turned his eyes elsewhere, Alinor did not wish to be pitied. It took some time before Alinor realized that Berengaria’s curiosity and affection could be put to a practical use.
“I cannot tell you who my knight is,” Alinor said very gravely. “It would be dangerous to me and to him.”
“Do you think I would betray you?” Berengaria asked, lifting her eyes from the fine stitchery of a pair of gloves she was making for her future husband.
Temporarily there was time and warm enough hands for embroidery. Their hurried travels had been suspended while the queen met and conferred with Count Philip of Flanders. Related to both Philip of France and King Richard, the Count of Flanders could be presumed to be neutral between them. He was, however, being primed by the queen to be Richard’s advocate in breaking the betrothal to Alais so that the king would be free to marry Berengaria.
“I know you would not do so apurpose,” Alinor replied, “but I am the king’s ward, and a word there, where I know you to be weakest, would be the most dangerous.”
Berengaria considered that and smiled. “Oh, dear, I fear you might speak true. If Richard asked, I could not lie or even hold my tongue.” She pouted prettily. “But why should he ask?”
“He would not ask about me. I have never spoken more than a few words to the king, and I doubt he would remember my name or my face, but when lovers talk of love other lovers, especially those with sad tales, come into the talk.”
That was so true that Berengaria could not deny it. She had come to be fond of Alinor and did not wish any unhappiness to befall her. She would not ask any questions of others, which might bring unfortunate revelations, but she was very curious about the man who could attract so strong-minded a damsel.
“Can you tell me nothing? Not even why it is dangerous to you both to be in love? Is he a low person, a—a jongleur?”
Doubtless Berengaria had heard the tale of Bertrand de Ventadorn and the queen. Alinor shook her head indignantly. “Certainly not. He is a preux chevalier, a knight of great prowess and high honor but of little estate and little influence. My estate is great—not to be compared with yours, of course, but the king might gain a strong ally or a great price with my marriage.”
“Richard is not greedy!” Berengaria protested with sparkling eyes.
“No, he is not,” Alinor agreed, “but he is a king, and kings are sometimes constrained by affairs of state to act against the dictates of their hearts.”
“Not Richard,” Berengaria said softly.
Alinor lowered her eyes. It was probably true, but whatever Berengaria felt Alinor knew it was little credit to a king to be too much swayed by things of the heart.
“Alinor,” Berengaria exclaimed, “you said your knight was strong in battle. That, I know, Richard loves above all else. Could he not perform some great deed that will win the king’s notice and gain you—as it were—as a prize of war?”
“I think,” Alinor sighed, “that is what he plans, and I fear, oh how I fear, he will win his death instead of me.”
Berengaria drew herself up. “And so may Richard in his noble cause, but I will never show my fear lest it weaken him.”
Again Alinor bowed her head. Two fools well mated, she thought bitterly, he with dreams of glory and she with her head full of romances. There is a time for courage, but to rush out and seek trouble just so that one might display it was stupid. All she said, however, was, “I tell you of my fear, my lady, not him.”
Impulsively, Berengaria dropped her needle and took Alinor’s hands. “That is right. That is very right. Tell me and unburden your heart. Then you may put a brave face on when you see him. Oh, do not look amazed. I am not a fool. If you fear and he plans great deeds, he must be with Richard now. Alinor, I have a thought. I love you well and you me, I think.”
“Indeed I do,” Alinor replied with a smile. “How could anyone not love you? You are good and sweet and clever.”
“This is no time for flattery,” Berengaria said, but she smiled too. “If I asked the queen, I believe she would permit you to be one of my ladies. She has said to me that it is sad you have no one of your own age among her women, and I have no one of my age among mine. And then if Richard keeps me by his side— Oh, Alinor, I know he has said no women must go on this Crusade, but I long to see his great work. I will beg him and pray him. Then you may see your love and speak to him sometimes. I will help you, and I will not spy to see who it is.”
Alinor turned her hands so that she could clasp Berengaria’s and raised them and kissed them. “Thank you, my lady,” she said with heartfelt sincerity. “I would of all things like to be your lady and go with you wherever you go.”
Chapter Eighteen
If Sancho the Wise had been wiser in the ways of the queen, he might never have agreed to commit Berengaria into her hands at that time of the year, even to have her married to the King of England. Far from waiting for the spring to open the passes, the queen resumed her journey as soon as the Count of Flanders and she had reached an agreement on what he was to do. Her party then struggled over the Mont-Genevre pass in January. Alinor, who had thought kindly of snow in the mild climate of England, now thought never would be too soon to see it again. The awesome beauty, the bitter cold, the great white silence were too foreign to the green and gentle land in which she had been bred.
After they had descended into the plains of Italy, Alinor admitted it was an experience she would be glad to remember, and then she laughed and repeated, “To remember, not to endure again.”
Their route through the plains was no less hazardous, although they were no longer in danger from avalanche or crevasse. Each little city here had its own king, and each petty king desired to exact tribute. Some, not content with what the queen offered, desired to take all and, in addition, hold them hostage for still more from Richard. Alinor’s men saw heavy fighting and acquitted themselves so well that the queen complimented her on their training and mettle. Alinor saw the queen privately very seldom now. There had been no messengers while they were in the Alps and even now that they were easy to find, no letter came from Simon. In secret Alinor alternately raged and wept, but there was nothing more she could do.
As February waned into March, they were delayed two weeks in Lodi by a meeting with Henry of Hohenstaufen. The queen would have been glad to avoid him, but news had come to Henry of Richard’s acknowledgment of Tancred as King of Sicily. The queen did what she could, but it was little enough. Henry desired assurances she could not give him, and at last she had to go on, knowing she had left an enemy behind her.
At long last, at the very end of March, they reached Brindisi where a stout ship was waiting to bring them to Reggio. Richard was there to meet them, and by the hand he led one of the loveliest women Alinor had ever seen. Her hair was not so black as Alinor’s, it had a warmer hint of brown. Her eyes were darker and more velvety. If Joanna had a temper red lights would waken in their depths instead of brilliant sparks of gold and green. No rage lit Joanna’s eyes now, and happiness gave a warmth to her olive complexion so that her whole face glowed.
She and the queen fell into each other’s arms. Although she had been so long gone from her mother that the queen would not have known Joanna by sight nor would Joanna have known her mother, they were not really strangers. Letters of news and advice had crossed and recrossed sea, mountains, and plains. Queen Alinor had agonized with Joanna over her inability to bear William an heir, and Joanna had wept bitterly over her mother’s imprisonment. Alinor watched the joyful reunion with a tear-choked throat. She herself was an affectionate person bred up by grandparents full of love. It was impossible to hate that warm and glowing creature who now turned her soft, dark eyes on Berengaria and embraced her and called her “sister.” Then Richard came forward and kissed Berengaria’s hand and embraced her gently.
Alinor looked away. It was true Richard could not offer more than a formal embrace in public, but Alinor felt he could have been more fervent. She scanned the gentlemen with the king, hardly expecting to find Simon since naturally those of highest rank would be invited to meet the future queen. Her heart leapt and then sank like a stone. He was there, but his eyes were on Joanna and the queen who were conversing eagerly. He was not looking among the ladies for her, yet he must have known she would be there. She had written to tell him when she had been transferred to Berengaria’s service.
Now the gentlemen were coming forward, being named by Richard, bowing, kissing Berengaria’s hand, moving on to greet the queen. After the formal introduction, the strict grouping gave way to casual conversation. Several of the noblemen and churchmen knew Alinor and stopped to speak to her. A few asked if the queen had more recent news of England than they had. Alinor knew she must have replied sensibly and looked much as usual because no one seemed surprised by her manner, but if her life depended upon it she could not have recounted a word that was said nor to whom she said it. She spoke and smiled, but all she thought was, Simon had not come to her. With each moment her rage and desperation grew deeper. She dared not look around for him. If he was in the group surrounding Joanna and the queen, her control would break.
The arrival of the horses to take them to the hospice where they would be lodged was both a relief and a final disappointment. Alinor fought back her tears and turned to smile at the gentleman who had lifted her into her saddle. The smile froze on her lips. Young Lord Leicester was gone and Simon’s gray-blue eyes, sober and worried, stared up at her. He handed her her reins and swung up on his own mount. All of Alinor’s good resolutions took wing. She forgot completely how she had vowed she would be a model of maidenly decorum, at least long enough to ensnare her lover again. The flames of wrath mounted to her cheeks, her eyes lit. She turned toward her companion.
Simon smiled. “Ah, you look better,” he said.
“I do, do I?” Alinor replied in a dangerous, dulcet murmur. She was aware of the other riders around them and would not raise her voice. The group was spreading out, however. It would soon be safe to speak in ordinary tones. “And what lacked my looks a moment ago?”
“You were so pale. I thought the queen had driven you too hard.”
“You thought my strength unequal to the fatigues endured by a woman near three-score and ten?”
“I have seen strong men melted away by her will and energy.” Simon laughed.
“I assure you I am well able to endure the rigors of travel,” Alinor snapped. “If I was pale, it was doubtless my own idiocy which caused it. I was fool enough to worry because I have received no word from you for nigh four moons.”
“But, Alinor,” Simon protested, “I had no news. We did nothing but sit still and do round after round of feasts and entertainments. First Tancred did the honors, then Richard, then Philip, then the Bishop of Rouen, then Leicester, then the other great lords, then Tancred again. Did you think I would risk a man’s life to send you word of what we had eaten and how often I was drunk? Messengers travel none so safely in Italy.”
