Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 9

SEPTEMBER 1190

Palermo, Sicily





Sixteen years. Those two words had become Joanna’s lifeline, for whenever she despaired, she reminded herself that her mother had survived sixteen years of confinement, and had suffered far greater deprivations and indignities. At least she still had a few of her ladies for company—the faithful Beatrix, the young widow Hélène, little Alicia, and Mariam, as loyal as any blood sister could be—whereas Eleanor had lacked any companionship whatsoever in her first two years of captivity. Joanna’s jewelry had been confiscated so she could not use it to bribe servants, but she did have access to her own clothes, her dogs, her books, all of which had been denied her mother in the beginning.

Where had Maman found the strength to face those endless days? How could she have borne the inactivity, she who’d always been occupied from dawn till dusk? How had she abided the isolation, not knowing what was happening in the world beyond those castle walls? That was what Joanna found most difficult—the lack of news. Was Richard on the way to Outremer? Or had he been detained by another war with France? Did he still intend to stop over in Sicily? Did he even know of her plight? Had Tancred denied him the use of Sicilian ports? How secure was Tancred’s throne? When would Heinrich lead a German army into Sicily to claim Constance’s crown?

Joanna had no illusions, did not see Heinrich von Hohenstaufen as her savior. Constance would do all she could, but would Heinrich pay her any heed? Joanna doubted it. A man known to be cold-hearted and vengeful, he would be sorely tempted to punish Richard by continuing her captivity or forcing her to make a deliberately demeaning marriage to a German lord of low rank. That was the fate Joanna most feared, being wed against her will to a husband of Tancred or Heinrich’s choosing. Tancred had implied that he might reconsider her position once he’d defeated his enemies. Joanna doubted that, too. Most likely he’d marry her off to a man he could trust, just as her father had done with her brother Geoffrey’s widow, Constance of Brittany.

Putting up a brave front before the other women, Joanna acted as if she was certain that she’d regain her freedom. She’d not lost faith in her brother, was sure that Richard would do all in his power to rescue her. But she’d learned some painful lessons in the mysterious Ways of the Almighty, which were so often beyond the understanding of mortal men. Why had God taken William so suddenly? Their infant son? Hal and Geoffrey and Tilda? Those were questions she could not answer, so how could she know what He intended for her?

As September drew to a close, Joanna found it harder and harder to maintain her confident pose, for she was dreading the days to come. In less than a fortnight, she would mark her twenty-fifth birthday. In November, it would be a year since her husband’s death. And in December, she’d begin her second year of confinement. She resorted to her talisman, whispering, Sixteen years, in those lonely hours when sleep would not come, but it was losing its potency. How, Maman? How did you endure it?



JOANNA WAS STARTLED by the unexpected appearance of her gaoler, Hugh Lapin, as church bells were summoning the faithful to Compline. Hugh had always treated her with respect, but he’d also made sure that she was kept secluded, in adherence to his new king’s command. He and his brother Jordan had profited handsomely from their support of Tancred; Hugh was now Count of Conversano and justiciar of Apulia, while Jordan fared even better, as Count of Bovino and Governor of Messina. She acknowledged Hugh’s greeting courteously, for it made no sense to antagonize her warden, but her women were not as prudent. Gathering around her protectively, they glared at him with open hostility. William’s dog had become Joanna’s shadow after his master’s death and, sensitive to the sudden tension in the chamber, Ahmer growled low in his throat. Resting her hand reassuringly upon the hound’s head, Joanna sought to appear unconcerned. But all the while her mind was racing. Why was he here at such an hour? What did he want?

“My lady queen, I ask your pardon for giving you so little warning, but I had none myself. A ship is waiting in the harbor for you, ready to sail tonight. Will your women be able to pack your belongings within the hour? If not, I will send servants to be of assistance.”

Joanna’s breath hissed through her teeth. “Where am I going, my lord?”

Looking uncomfortable, he shook his head apologetically. “I am sorry, Madame, but I am not able to tell you.” If it were up to him, he’d have answered what was a very reasonable question under the circumstances. But he was not about to risk offending his king, for Tancred’s terse command had been smoldering with barely suppressed fury.

Joanna stared at him in dismay. The secrecy was alarming, as was the fact that she was being hurried out of the city under cover of night, so the citizens of Palermo would not know of her departure. What would be awaiting her at the end of this ominous voyage? A less comfortable prison than the Zisa? An unwanted husband? “I am taking my dogs,” she said, raising her chin defiantly.

The count was glad that he could accommodate her wishes, since he’d had no orders to the contrary. “As you will, my lady.” His gaze shifting then to Beatrix, he said, “Be sure to pack all of the queen’s possessions. She will not be returning to Palermo.”



THEIR SHIP STAYED CLOSE to the coast, and by the eve of Michaelmas, it was approaching the Straits of Messina. Joanna had retreated into the canvas tent set up to shelter the women, saying that she needed to comfort Alicia as they entered the turbulent waters of the Faro, where her brother had drowned. Mariam knew that Joanna had another reason for her withdrawal; she did not want the crew or the arrogant ship’s master as witnesses if she became queasy. She was no longer that little girl who’d suffered so much from seasickness that she’d had to continue her marital journey by land but, like Alicia, she would take to her grave a deep-rooted fear of the sea. Mariam preferred to stay out in the open air, and she was leaning over the gunwale, watching seagulls swoop and circle overhead when the ships came into view.

During the last year of William’s reign, he’d sent the Sicilian fleet to cruise the waters of Outremer, keeping the Saracens from blockading Tyre. But Mariam was not surprised that it would have been recalled by Tancred, given his precarious grasp on power. The fleet was under the command of the renowned admiral, Margaritis of Brindisi, who happened to be Mariam’s brother-in-law, for he was wed to her half-sister Marina, another of the out-of-wedlock daughters sired by the first King William. For a fleeting moment, Mariam wondered if she could coax Margaritis into speaking up for Joanna, then laughed at her own foolishness. The admiral was a man of many talents, a born sailor who’d been a highly successful pirate before he’d won royal favor, but he was more likely to sprout wings than to be swayed by an appeal to sentiment. Moreover, Mariam had not been close to Marina. Like her other half-sisters, one of whom was wed to the Emperor of Cyprus, they were all much older than Mariam, who’d been born in the last year of her father’s life.

As their galley began to maneuver among the anchored ships, Mariam was pleased when Joanna joined her on deck. “Margaritis is back from the Holy Land, Joanna. I did not realize the Sicilian fleet was so numerous, did you?”

“That is not the Sicilian fleet.” Joanna’s voice sounded so oddly muffled that Mariam swung around to face her. Joanna was smiling, though, one of the most blindingly radiant smiles Mariam had ever seen. “Look,” she said, pointing. Following her gesture, Mariam gazed upward and saw, for the first time, the gold and scarlet banner flying from mastheads, silhouetted against the brilliant blue of the September sky—the royal lion of England.



THE SHIP’S MASTER HAD BEGUN to regret that Messina was a deepwater port, with ships able to dock at the city wharves. If he’d anchored out in the harbor, he’d not be arguing with this troublesome woman; he knew she was a queen, but since he was not Sicilian, he wasn’t impressed by her status. “As I have explained, Madame,” he said impatiently, “my orders are very clear. I am to hand you over to the governor, and he will then escort you to the English king’s camp.”

Joanna scowled, not liking the image conjured up by the phrase “hand you over,” as if she were a sack of flour to be delivered to a local baker. “And how long do you expect me to wait? It has already—” When her frown vanished, replaced by a triumphant smile, the master had an unpleasant premonition. She was looking past him, and he turned, already suspecting what he would see. People on the wharves were clearing a path for approaching riders. They were clad in mail, the sun reflecting off the metal links of their hauberks, the man in the lead astride a snorting grey stallion that seemed bred for the battlefield, not the city streets of Messina. Realizing that he was staring defeat in the face, the master brusquely ordered his crew to lower the gangplank.



JOANNA WANTED TO GREET Richard in a dignified fashion; after all, she was no longer the cheeky little sister he remembered, but a wife, mother, widow, and queen. Her resolve lasted until she set foot on the dock. Swinging from the saddle, Richard tossed the reins to one of his men and strode toward her, smiling. Picking up her skirts then, she ran into his arms. They’d attracted a crowd and people were jostling to get closer, having recognized their queen. The arrival of the large English army had not been welcomed by the citizens of Messina, and already there’d been some hostile clashes between the locals and soldiers. But for now, all of those watching were beaming, touched by this dramatic reunion of brother and sister.

When Richard released her, Joanna felt as if the air had been squeezed from her lungs, so tightly had he hugged her, and her eyes were brimming with tears, she who’d cried so rarely during those miserable months of captivity. “Oh, Richard . . . I have never been so happy in all of my born days!”

“Me, too, irlanda,” he said, and that forgotten pet name caused her tears to fall in earnest. Her brothers had delighted in finding teasing and affectionate endearments for their baby sister; Hal had called her “imp” and Geoffrey “kitten,” but Richard had preferred “swallow” and “lark” and “little bird,” always in the lenga romana of their mother’s homeland.

“Joanna . . . you must tell me the truth.” Richard was no longer smiling. “Have you been hurt?”

The tight line of his mouth and the grim tone told her what he was asking, and she hastened to shake her head. “No, Richard, no. My honor is quite intact, I promise you. To give the Devil his due, Tancred saw to it that I was always treated with respect. My confinement was a comfortable one,” she insisted, thinking again of their mother’s captivity, and then she grinned. “Mind you, the wretched man did hold me hostage and steal my dower lands, so I’d not want to praise him too much!”

Richard put his arm around her shoulders again, saying, “Well, you’re safe now, lass.” And in the security of her brother’s embrace, Joanna could finally admit to herself just how frightened she’d been.



RICHARD HAD TAKEN JOANNA to the nunnery of St Mary’s, for he was lodging in a house on the outskirts of the city, the royal palace having been given over to the French king and his entourage. After a celebratory meal in the guest hall, the other women had retired for the evening, while Joanna and Richard sought to fill in the gaps of the past fourteen years. Only Mariam had not gone to bed. Sometime after midnight, she’d dozed off, awakening with a start to find Joanna leaning over her.

“I told you not to wait up for me,” she chided, as Mariam sat up, yawning.

“And when do I ever listen to you? What time is it? Is it dawn yet?”

“Soon,” Joanna said, climbing onto the bed beside her. “There was so much to say, Mariam! I wanted to tell him about William and my life in Sicily, and I wanted to know about the strife that tore our family apart. But Richard had few answers for me, not when it came to our father and brothers.” Joanna pulled off her veil and shifted so Mariam could free her hair from its pins. “It is almost as if some evil spell was cast upon them all. . . .”

“And is your brother as you remembered him?”

“Indeed—confident, prideful, amusing, and stubborn,” Joanna joked, leaning back with a contented sigh as Mariam began to brush out her hair. “He says we cannot stay in Messina, that it is not safe. There have already been fights between his men and the townspeople and he fears it will only get worse, so he means to find us a secure lodging across the Faro. I told him I wanted to remain here in Messina with him, but he would not heed me. As I said,” she smiled, “stubborn!”

“I’d say that was a family trait,” Mariam teased, and Joanna gave the other woman a quick, heartfelt hug.

“You are as dear to me as my own sisters,” she proclaimed, “and I will never forget your loyalty in my time of need. To prove it, I am going to divulge a secret. But you must promise not to speak of it to anyone else.”

“Of course I promise. What is it?” Mariam prodded, for she shared Joanna’s love of mysteries.

“I’ve told you about Richard’s long-standing plight-troth with the French king’s sister. Well, it will never come to pass. I know, hardly a surprise, for it is obvious to all but the French king that Richard has no intention whatsoever of marrying Alys. That is not the secret. This is—that Richard has agreed to wed Berengaria, the daughter of Sancho, the King of Navarre, and she is coming to join him in Sicily.”

Mariam knew more of Navarre than most people, for William’s mother had been a princess of that Spanish kingdom, Sancho’s sister. “Then you’ll be getting a cousin as well as a sister by marriage,” she said, “since her father was William’s uncle.” The Navarrese connection made the news more interesting than it would otherwise have been, but she was still surprised that Joanna seemed so excited about the arrival of a woman she did not know—until Joanna told her the rest, the heart of her secret.

“And guess who is bringing her to Richard? My mother! Yesterday I was not sure that I’d ever see any of my family again and now . . . now I have not only been reunited with my brother, but my mother is on her way to Sicily, too.” Stretching out on the bed, Joanna confided, “I never dared hope for so much. . . .”

Mariam was more eager to meet the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine than Sancho’s daughter, and she was delighted that Joanna would be given this rare opportunity to see her mother again; a foreign marriage usually meant lifelong exile for highborn young women like Joanna. Rising, she crossed the chamber to pour two cups of the night wine sent over by the abbess. “I am so pleased for you, dearest. Fortune’s Wheel has truly turned with a vengeance, has it not?”

When Joanna did not answer, Mariam glanced over her shoulder, and then smiled, for the young queen had fallen asleep in the time it had taken to lay her head upon her pillow. Returning to the bed, Mariam covered her with a blanket. “Sleep well,” she murmured, “and God bless your brother for justifying your faith in him.”



RICHARD RETURNED to the nunnery the next day, bringing two kinsmen for Joanna to meet: their maternal cousin, André de Chauvigny, and their paternal cousin, Morgan ap Ranulf. But Richard and Joanna had soon withdrawn to the nunnery’s parlor for more private conversation, as they’d just scratched the surface the day before. Left to amuse themselves, André began a dice game with several of their knights and Morgan took Joanna’s dog out into the cloisters.

He was intrigued by Ahmer’s appearance, for the Sicilian cirneco had ears like a rabbit and fur as red as a fox. Sicily was an unusual land in all respects, so it seemed only natural that even its dogs would be unlike dogs elsewhere. Morgan had never seen palm trees before, or birds that looked like feathered jewels, or churches that had once been mosques, giving the city an exotic aura all its own. The women were exotic, too, sashaying about the streets in silks and fluttering veils, bejeweled fingers decorated with henna, wellborn Christian ladies choosing to dress like Saracens. Morgan wondered if it was Sicily’s alien aspects that seemed to unsettle so many of Richard’s men. It did not help that the Messinians were overwhelmingly of Greek heritage, followers of the Greek Orthodox Church. Were they even true Christians? All knew that Rome was God’s City, after all, not Constantinople.

As a Welshman, Morgan had an outsider’s perspective, so he was willing to give the Messinians the benefit of the doubt, at least until they proved him wrong. But in less than a week, most of his comrades and fellow crusaders had become convinced that the citizens of Messina were bandits in the guise of merchants, vintners, and shopkeepers. Seated on a bench under a fragrant citrus tree in the convent’s guest cloisters, within sight of the turquoise waters of the straits, Morgan thought he’d rarely looked upon a scene so lovely or so tranquil, although he suspected that the tranquility was an illusion, a candle soon to be guttered out by the storms gathering along the horizon—the growing hostility between the townspeople and the crusaders.

Several of their knights had entered the cloisters, plucked an orange from a nearby tree, and began a boisterous game of catch. They paused, though, at sight of the woman gliding up the walkway. She attracted Morgan’s eye, too, for she was a vision in embroidered gold silk, with jangling bracelets, gilt slippers, and a delicately woven veil the color of a sunset sky. He’d been throwing sticks for Ahmer to chase, and he reached now for another one, meaning to toss it into the vision’s path, saying softly, “Go get it, boy. Act as my lure.” But one of the knights was quicker, swaggering across the mead to intercept the woman as she passed. Morgan shook his head, marveling that men could be such fools. Her elegant garb proclaimed that she was of high rank, either a nunnery guest or a member of the queen’s own household, definitely not someone to be accosted as if she were a street whore. “Come on, Ahmer,” he said. “Let’s go rescue a damsel in distress.”

He soon saw there was no need of that. She turned upon the would-be lothario with such outrage that none could doubt her privileged status. Morgan was still out of hearing range, but he could see the knight wilting under her scorn. By the time Morgan reached them, the man was in full retreat, his friends were roaring with laughter, and the woman was threatening him with the fate that all males most dreaded. To the Welshman’s astonishment, she switched then from fluent, colloquial French to an alien tongue, so foreign that he decided it could only be Arabic.

At the sound of Morgan’s footsteps on the pathway, she spun about, ready to take on another antagonist, and he hastily raised his hands in playful surrender. “I come in peace, my lady. My dog and I thought—erroneously—that you might be in need of our assistance. But I soon saw the poor fellow was the one needing help!”

She was taller than many women, with more curves than was fashionable, at least in France and England, her face half hidden by her veil. He was fascinated by what he could see, though, for her eyes were so light a shade of brown that they appeared golden in the sun. She’d glanced down at the dog, saying, “What strange company are you keeping these days, Ahmer?” But then she turned those mesmerizing eyes upon him, and he found he could not look away. “I must thank you then,” she said, “for your good manners, since so many men have no manners at all.”

“I’ll give you no argument about that,” he said cheerfully. “May I pose a question, though? I could not help overhearing some of the tongue-lashing you gave that fool. Was the tongue Arabic?”

Those almond-shaped eyes seemed to narrow, ever so slightly. “Yes,” she said, “it was Arabic. No other language can match its creative insults or its colorful curses.”

“Mayhap you could teach me one or two of them, then?” Morgan gave her his most beguiling smile. “In return, I will gladly teach you a few of mine.”

“I rather doubt that you know any I do not.”

“Ah, but do you speak Welsh, my lady? Or English?”

“No, I cannot say that I do. In fact, I’ve never even heard either of those tongues spoken.”

“The pleasure is mine, then. Beth yw eich enw? Thou may me blisse bringe.”

“Judging from your honeyed tone, I do not think those are curses, sir knight.”

“You’ve caught me out, my lady. I asked your name and then I dared to hope that you may bring me bliss. A smile would do it.”

“You are easily satisfied, then.” But as she reached down to pat Ahmer, her veil slipped, as if by chance, and his pulse quickened, for she had skin as golden as her eyes and a full, ripe mouth made for a man’s kisses. She did not attempt to replace the veil, instead saying coolly, “Staring like that may not be rude in your homeland, but it is very rude in mine.”

“Mea culpa, demoiselle. But I could not help myself. For you are truly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes upon.”

“Indeed?” She sounded very skeptical. “I assume you are one of King Richard’s men. So surely you’ve met his sister, the queen.”

“Yes, I had that honor this morn.”

“Then either your vision is flawed or you are a liar, for the Lady Joanna is far more beautiful than I am.” Drawing the veil across her face again, she moved around him and began to walk away.

Morgan was not about to give up yet. “Yes,” he called after her, “but can the Lady Joanna swear in Arabic?”

She didn’t pause, nor did she answer him. But Morgan watched her go with a grin, for he was sure he’d heard a soft murmur of laughter floating back on the breeze.



JOANNA HAD NO TROUBLE reconciling her memories with reality; the nineteenyear-old brother who’d escorted her to Marseille and the waiting Sicilian envoys was recognizable in the thirty-three-year-old man who’d pried open the door of her gilded prison. But for Richard, those fourteen years had wrought dramatic changes in the little girl he’d remembered with such affection. “Are you sure you’re my sister?” he joked. “I have never seen such a remarkable transformation. Well, not since I last saw a butterfly burst from its cocoon!”

“Are you calling me a caterpillar?” Joanna feigned indignation, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow, so easily had they slipped back into their familiar family roles. “I was an adorable child!”

“You were spoiled rotten, irlanda, for you took shameless advantage of your position as the baby of the family. You managed the lot of us like so many puppets.” Richard paused for comic effect. “Though I suppose that was good training for marriage.”

“Indeed it was,” she agreed, for she believed that a woman with brothers had a decided advantage over other women when it came to understanding the male mind. “But I was not the baby of the family. That was Johnny.”

Richard did not want to talk about John, for he knew that would inevitably lead to further conversation about Hal and Geoffrey and then their father. So far he’d been successful in avoiding a serious discussion of their family feuding, but he knew sooner or later he’d have to answer her questions. Just not yet. He sensed she’d be hurt by the truth—that he’d detested Hal and Geoffrey—for she’d had an inexplicable fondness for the pair of them. She did not know how Hal had plotted with rebel lords in Aquitaine to overthrow him, how Geoffrey had twice led armies into his duchy, once with Hal and then with Johnny. He held no grudge against Johnny, for he’d been only seventeen at the time. But he was not sorry that Hal and Geoffrey were dead. Nor was he sorry that their father was dead, although he did regret that the ending had been so bitter. He’d not wanted it to be that way, had been given no choice. How could he expect Joanna to understand all this, though? A pity their mother would not be here for months. It would have been so much easier if he could have left the explanations to her.

To deflect any questions about their family’s internal warfare, he said quickly, “When I warned Tancred that you must be released straightaway, I demanded the return of your dower lands, too. Moreover, I told him to include a generous sum as recompense for your ordeal.”

“Did you truly, Richard? Very good!” By Joanna’s reckoning, Tancred owed her a huge debt, and she thought it was wonderful that she had so formidable a debt collector in Richard. “Tancred owes you a debt, too.”

Richard was immediately interested. “What do you mean?”

“William died without a will. But he meant to leave our father a vast legacy, to be used in freeing Jerusalem from the infidels. He would have wanted that legacy to pass to you now that Papa is dead, for the fate of the Holy City mattered greatly to him.”

“Do you know what he intended to bequeath, Joanna?”

“Indeed I do. A twelve-foot table of solid gold, twenty-four gold cups and plates, a silk tent large enough to hold two hundred men, sixty thousand measures of wheat, barley, and wine, and one hundred armed galleys, with enough provisions to feed their crews for two years.”

“Bless you, lass!” Richard swept her up into a jubilant embrace. “I bled England white for this holy quest, would have pawned the crown jewels if Maman had let me. A bequest like this is worth more than I can begin to tell you, and might well make your husband the savior of Outremer.”

“William would have been so pleased to hear you say that.” Tilting her head so she could look up into his face, she gave him a smile that somehow managed to hold sadness, satisfaction, mischief, and even a hint of malice. “And if Tancred balks at honoring the legacy, I might remember other items that William wanted to bestow upon you. Be sure to tell him that, Richard.”

Richard was laughing, delighted to discover that his little sister shared the family flair for revenge. But just then they were interrupted by one of his men with surprising news. The French king had arrived to pay his respects to Joanna.



PHILIPPE WAS NOT looking forward to his courtesy call upon Joanna, for he found it stressful to spend any time in Richard’s company. Moreover, he was bone-weary of the fuss Richard had made over his sister’s predicament, for he was convinced that the English king had an ulterior motive for his most innocent act. Since he found it hard to believe that Richard could still be so fond of a woman he had not seen for fourteen years, he’d concluded that the other man was using Joanna in a subtle attempt to make him look bad, wanting people to contrast Richard’s concern for Joanna with his own lack of concern for his youngest sister, Agnes. He found it very irritating. What was he supposed to have done—launched a war against the Greek Empire? Led an army to lay siege to Constantinople?

But like it or not, he felt obligated to welcome Richard’s sister to Messina, knowing that failure to do so would have made him seem petty and discourteous; she was a queen, after all. Accompanied by his cousin Hugh, the Duke of Burgundy, Jaufre of Perche, and Mathieu de Montmorency, he was in a better mood by the time they reached the convent, for they’d been cheered in the streets by the townspeople. The Messinians were showing far more friendliness to the French than to their English allies, and Philippe was gratified that they had not been seduced by Richard’s usual theatrics.

The abbess herself escorted them into the guest hall. The irrepressible young Mathieu came to an abrupt halt at sight of the woman standing by Richard’s side. “My God, she’s gorgeous!” Jaufre had taken the teenager under his wing, having seen how easily he irked Philippe, and he gave the boy a reproachful look, for lavishing praise on Richard’s sister was no way to regain the French king’s favor. But when he glanced toward Philippe, Jaufre was astonished to see that he was staring at Joanna with the same rapt expression as Mathieu. He was even more astonished when Philippe strode forward to greet Richard with impeccable courtesy and Joanna with outright enthusiasm.

“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Madame. I do have a bone to pick with your lord brother, though, for he never told me how very beautiful you were.”

This was familiar ground to Joanna, who was an accomplished flirt. “My brother has indeed been remiss, my lord king, for he did not tell me how gallant you were, either.” And when Philippe offered his arm, she allowed him to escort her toward a window-seat so they could converse in greater privacy.

This was a side of Philippe that none had ever seen before, not even his own men, and they watched in amazed amusement as the dour French king was suddenly transformed into a courtier, ordering wine to be brought for Joanna, displaying so much animation that he seemed to shed years before their eyes, reminding them that he was but twenty-five and in need of a new queen to grace his throne and his bed.

Richard showed no obvious reaction to the French king’s unexpected interest in his sister, for he’d long ago mastered that most valuable of kingly skills—showing the world only what he wanted it to see. But those who knew him well were not deceived, and the Duke of Burgundy could not resist sauntering over to make mischief. “Our king and your sister seem right taken with each other, even smitten. Passing strange, the ways of fate. Who knows, mayhap there might be a double wedding in the future, you and the Lady Alys and my cousin Philippe and the Lady Joanna.”

Richard had long borne the Duke of Burgundy a legitimate grievance, for Hugh and the Count of Toulouse had joined forces with Hal in his attempt to lay claim to Aquitaine, hastily abandoning that sinking ship once Hal had been stricken with a mortal ailment. Richard had not called the duke to account, but he rarely forgave a wrong and never forgot one. He was not about to give Hugh the satisfaction of seeing his barb had drawn blood, though, and refused to take the bait, saying only, “Passing strange, indeed. Life is filled with turns and twists and we never know what lies around the next bend in the road.” All the while thinking that Hugh would one day find an unpleasant surprise awaiting him on that road, and thinking, too, that he’d see Joanna wed to Lucifer himself ere he’d let her marry Philippe Capet.



“JOANNA, WE NEED TO TALK. I think it is only fair to tell you that under no circumstances would I consent to a union between you and the French king. The man is sly, craven, and untrustworthy—” Richard got no further, for Joanna had begun to laugh.

“Philippe and me? Good Heavens, Richard, the thought never crossed my mind!”

Richard felt a surge of relief. “I am very glad to hear that, lass! The way he was doting upon you, I half expected him to make an offer for you then and there, and I was not the only one who thought that. But if you had no interest in him, why were you encouraging his courtship?”

“I was flirting with him, Richard, not inviting him into my bed! What was I supposed to do—publicly humiliate him by rejecting his overtures? Not only would that have been the height of bad manners, it would have been foolish, too. Offending a king is never a wise move, especially when that king is supposed to be my brother’s ally.”

He looked at her in surprise, for few people dared to speak so forthrightly to him. “You are right, of course,” he conceded. “Since Philippe can vex me merely by breathing, you can imagine how much I enjoyed watching him pant over you like a lovesick calf. I’d not trust him with the lowliest of sumpter horses, much less my sister!”

“I am glad that you value me more than a sumpter horse,” she said, seeking to match his playful tone, although she’d not been misled by it. She found it troubling that he was trapped in an alliance with a man he scorned; that did not bode well for their success in the Holy Land. But there was naught she could do about it. Even if Philippe was truly smitten with her—and she very much doubted that—it would change nothing. According to Richard, their father had saved Philippe’s kingship repeatedly in the early years of his reign, protecting him from his mistakes of youth and inexperience. And yet he had turned upon Henry without hesitation when the opportunity arose, hounding him to that wretched end at Chinon. A man so utterly incapable of gratitude was not one to be swayed by lust.

“You need not worry, Richard. Philippe let his guard down this afternoon, and I daresay he is already regretting it. I am sure he quickly realized that my charms could not compensate for the misery of having you as his brother-in-law.”

Richard blinked and then it was his turn to laugh. By God, she was her mother’s daughter. “I hope you are right. It would be awkward if he actually made an offer for you. To save his pride, I’d have to tell him you were already spoken for, and then I’d need to find a husband for you in such haste that any fool with a pulse would do.”

“It is reassuring to know you’ll have my best interests at heart, Brother,” Joanna said wryly. “But I’d rather you not be in such a hurry to marry me off. I do not know what the future holds for me. I am eager to find out, though.”

“I want to talk with you about that, Joanna. It is my hope that you’d be willing to accompany me to Outremer. I think your presence would be a comfort to Berengaria.”

He was asking a great deal, for life was not easy for women in the Holy Land, not even for queens. Just getting there would mean severe hardships and danger—and a daunting sea voyage. But Joanna did not hesitate, for how could she refuse him? If not for Richard, she’d have had no future at all. And she found it rather touching that he’d realized Berengaria would be in need of comfort; she would not have expected that of him.

“Yes,” she said, “of course I am willing, Richard. I owe you so much, welcome a chance to do something for you in return. Besides, it will be a great adventure!”

“Yes, it will,” he said, pleased that she understood that. “You are indeed a sister to be proud of, Joanna. And who knows,” he added with a grin, “mayhap we’ll find you a husband in the Holy Land!”

“So you think Saladin may be in need of another wife?” she riposted and they both laughed, for they were finding in each other what had often been lacking for the Angevins: a sense of family solidarity.



THE FOLLOWING DAY, Richard crossed the Faro, took possession of the town of Bagnara, and installed Joanna and her household in the Augustinian priory of St Mary, with a strong guard of knights and men-at-arms to see to her safety. Returning to Messina the next morning, he then seized the Greek Orthodox monastery of the Holy Saviour, located on a strategic spit of land outside the harbor; summarily evicting the monks, he turned the abbey into a storage facility for his siege engines, provisions, and horses. The citizens of Messina were enraged by his high-handed action, but alarmed, too, for now that he held both Bagnara and the monastery, he controlled the straits, and they began to wonder what his intentions were. So did Tancred.