CHAPTER 3

NOVEMBER 1189

Palermo, Sicily

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TAKING ADVANTAGE of her privileged position as Joanna’s childhood nurse, Dame Beatrix was reproaching Joanna for “not eating enough to keep a nightingale alive. I know you’ve no appetite, but you must force yourself lest you fall ill. Indeed, you are much too pale. Should I summon a doctor?”

“There is no need,” Joanna said hastily. “I am not ailing, Beatrix. I have not been sleeping well.”

Beatrix’s brisk, no-nonsense demeanor crumbled. “I know, my lamb, I know. . . .”

“None of it seems real,” Joanna confessed. “I cannot count how many times I have awakened in the morning, thinking I’d had a truly dreadful dream. It is almost like reliving that moment of William’s death, over and over again. When am I going to accept it? When am I going to be able to weep for him, Beatrix? I feel . . . feel as if there is ice enclosing my heart, freezing my tears . . .”

Beatrix sat beside Joanna on the bed, putting her arm around the younger woman. “I remember my late husband, may God assoil him, telling me about battlefield injuries. He said that sometimes when a man was severely wounded, he did not feel the pain straightaway. He thought it was the body’s way of protecting itself.”

Joanna leaned into the older woman’s embrace even as she said with a rueful smile, “So you are saying I should be patient? That the pain is lurking close at hand, waiting to pounce?”

Beatrix would have sacrificed ten years of her life if by doing so she could spare Joanna sorrow. But she had never lied to Joanna, not to the homesick little girl or the grieving young mother or the bewildered new widow. “Scriptures say for everything there is a season. Your tears will come, child. In time, this will seem all too real to you.”

Joanna did not reply and after a few moments she rose, crossing the chamber toward the window. The blue Sicilian sky was smudged with smoke to the west, and she thought reality was to be found out in the streets of Palermo. “The rioting continues,” she said bleakly, “with men taking advantage of William’s death to pillage the Saracen quarters. Barely a fortnight after his death and his people are already turning upon one another, putting the peace of the kingdom at risk. How he’d have hated that, Beatrix. He was always so proud that there had been no rebellions or plots after he came of age and that Christians, Muslims, and Jews lived in harmony under his rule . . .”

“Saracens make good scapegoats in times of trouble.” This new voice came from the doorway, and Joanna turned toward the speaker, nodding in unhappy agreement as Mariam entered the chamber. “The palace seneschal is waiting outside, Joanna. He says the Archbishop of Palermo is here, seeking to speak with you.”

Joanna’s mouth tightened. Her first impulse was to send him away. She was not sure she trusted herself to be civil to the man who’d defied William’s express wish to be buried at Monreale, ordering the royal sarcophagus to be taken to his own cathedral in the city. Faced with the outraged opposition of Joanna, the Archbishop of Monreale, and Matthew of Ajello, Archbishop Walter had eventually backed down and William was interred at Monreale, but he’d spitefully refused to surrender the magnificent porphyry tomb William had commissioned for his final resting place.

Joanna spat out an imprecation that would have done her profane father proud. But then she said, “Tell the seneschal to escort him to William’s audience chamber.” Seeing their surprise, she said, grimacing, “He is the only one who supports Constance’s claim to the crown. I owe it to her to hear what he has to say.”

THE AUDIENCE CHAMBER had always been Joanna’s favorite room, an elegant vision of gold and green and blue artistry. Now, though, the colors seemed subdued, the designs static and flat. It was as if the archbishop’s very presence leeched all the vibrancy and life from the mosaics. Interrupting his diatribe against the other members of the royal inner council, Joanna said impatiently, “So you are saying the council is split over the succession?”

“That vile miscreant and his accursed puppet are up to their necks in the muck, Madame. They began intriguing as soon as the king was stricken, plotting to put Tancred of Lecce on the throne, and they paid us no heed when my brother and I reminded them that all of the kingdom’s nobility had sworn their fidelity to the Lady Constance ere she departed the realm to wed Lord Heinrich.”

Joanna had no difficulty interpreting his intemperate language; the “vile miscreant” was the vice chancellor, Matthew of Ajello, and the “accursed puppet” the Archbishop of Monreale. She thought it was a sad irony that Constance’s adversaries were men far more capable and trustworthy than her advocates, the archbishop and his weak-willed brother, whose service as Bishop of Agrigento had been utterly undistinguished so far. With men of their caliber in her camp, Constance was bound to lose. It was so unfair. Constance was the legal heiress of the House of Hauteville, King Roger’s daughter, while Tancred of Lecce was merely an illegitimate son of Roger’s eldest son. What greater proof could there be of their desperation that Matthew and the archbishop were willing to embrace a man bastard-born rather than see the crown go to Heinrich? Why had William been so shortsighted? If only he’d chosen another husband for Constance, anyone but a hated German prince! By marrying her off to Heinrich, he’d robbed her of her rightful inheritance.

Joanna did her best to suppress her anger, for there was no undoing William’s mistake. “What of the other lords? Do all the noble families support Tancred, too?”

“I regret to say most do, my lady. Naturally I am not privy to their conspiracy, but I have my own ears and eyes. The Count of Andria has advanced a claim, too, but many feel his blood ties to the Royal House are tenuous, and they have settled upon Tancred as their choice, overlooking his base birth, may God forgive them. My informants say they wasted no time in sending Matthew’s son to Rome to argue Tancred’s case with the Holy Father. So our only hope is that Pope Clement will recoil at the thought of crowning a man not lawfully begotten.”

“If that is Constance’s only hope, then she is well and truly doomed. Nothing frightens the papacy more than the prospect of seeing the Kingdom of Sicily united with the Holy Roman Empire.” Not for the first time, Joanna marveled that she must point out something so obvious. “The Pope will gladly overlook Tancred’s tainted birth if that will prevent Heinrich from claiming the Sicilian crown. He’ll keep his support covert, not daring to openly antagonize the emperor and Heinrich, but covert support will be enough to carry the day for Tancred.”

Joanna had begun to pace, wondering if there was any chance England might intercede on Constance’s behalf. No, that hawk would not fly. Her father would no more aid the son of the Holy Roman Emperor than he would ally with the Sultan of Egypt. Turning, she saw that Archbishop Walter was looking at her in befuddlement. He seemed surprised that a woman could have any understanding of political matters. Did he think she’d never discussed statecraft with William? She was the daughter of the greatest king in Christendom and Eleanor of Aquitaine, not one of William’s secluded harim slave girls, and she longed to remind the archbishop of that. No longer able to endure his odious presence, she was about to end the audience when the door burst open and the Archbishop of Monreale strode into the chamber, flanked by her seneschal, Mariam, Beatrix, and a monk clad in the black habit of the Benedictine order.

Joanna was startled by this blatant breach of protocol, but Archbishop Walter was incensed. “How dare you come into the queen’s presence unbidden and unannounced! You’ve the manners of a lowborn churl, a great irony given how often you’ve maligned my family origins!”

Archbishop Guglielmo responded with the most lethal weapon in his arsenal; he ignored the other prelate entirely, not even deigning to glance in his direction. “My lady queen, I seek your pardon for my abrupt entrance; I mean no disrespect. But it was urgent that I speak with you at once. I bear a message of great import from the English king. I regret to be—”

It had been months since Joanna had heard from either of her parents, and she interrupted eagerly. “A letter from my lord father? Where is it?”

The archbishop hesitated. “No, Madame,” he said at last, “a letter from your brother.”

“But you said the king . . .” Joanna’s words trailed off. “My father . . . he is dead?”

“Yes, Madame. He died at Chinon Castle in July, and your brother Richard was crowned in September.”

“July? And we are getting word in December?” Archbishop Walter was incredulous. “What sort of scheme are you and the vice chancellor hatching now?”

The Archbishop of Monreale swung around to confront him. “How could I possibly benefit by lying to the queen so cruelly? King Richard sent a messenger several months ago. But the man fell ill on the journey, got no farther than the abbey at Monte Cassino. He was stricken with a raging fever and the monks did not expect him to live. But after some weeks, he regained his senses and confided his mission to the abbot. Since he was too weak to resume his travels, the abbot dispatched Brother Benedict with the letters, one from King Richard and one from Queen Eleanor. He took the overland route, loath to sail during winter storms, and just reached my abbey this morn—”

“Your abbey?” Archbishop Walter was sputtering, so great was his fury. “And why should the letters—assuming they are even genuine—be sent to you? What greater proof of a plot—”

“He sent the letters to me because Monreale is a Benedictine abbey like Monte Cassino and he knew I could be trusted to deliver these letters to the queen!”

By now they were both shouting at each other, but Joanna was no longer listening. William had often told her about the great earthquake that had struck Sicily twenty years ago, describing the sensations in vivid detail, and she felt like that now, as if the very ground were quaking under her feet. Turning aside, she clung gratefully to Beatrix for support as she sought to accept the fact that her world had turned upside down yet again.

WORD HAD SPREAD swiftly through the palace and Joanna’s chaplain was awaiting her by the door of the palatine chapel. He’d been in her service since her arrival as a child-bride, and after one look at her face, he knew she did not want his comfort, not yet. “I would have a Requiem Mass for my lord father on the morrow,” she said, her voice sounding like a stranger’s to him, faint and far away. When he would have followed her into the chapel, she asked to be alone and he positioned himself in the entrance, ready to repel an army if need be to give her privacy to pray and to grieve.

Joanna felt as if she were in a waking dream; nothing seemed familiar or real. How could her father be dead? He had dominated his world like the Colossus of Rhodes, towering above mortal men, stirring awe and fear in his wake for more than thirty years. To imagine him dead was like imagining the sun blotted out. Stumbling slightly, she knelt before the high altar and began to recite the Pater Noster. “Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.” She still clutched the letters, not yet ready to read them. She found herself struggling to remember the rest of the prayer, one she’d known by heart since childhood, and then she crumpled to the ground, overwhelmed by a torrent of scalding tears, her body wracked with sobs as she wept for her father, for her husband, and for Sicily, the land she’d come to love.

WILLIAM’S DEATH had destroyed the sense of security that Alicia had gained in the months since the sinking of the San Niccolò. Suddenly Sicily had become an alien place again, a dangerous place. She grieved for the young king and for Joanna, who seemed like a lost soul, pallid and frail-looking in her stark black mourning gowns and veils. She was frightened by the outbreaks of street violence and she could tell that the palace’s Saracen servants were frightened, too. Almost overnight, everything had changed.

Alicia had seen little of Joanna in the weeks after William’s death, and when she did, the queen seemed distant and preoccupied. The royal household was in a state of turmoil. Two of Joanna’s ladies-in-waiting had already departed her service, for they were kin to the Countess Sybilla, the wife of Tancred of Lecce. But Alicia knew that several others were talking of leaving, too, hoping that Sybilla might take them on. A reigning queen was a far more attractive mistress than a widowed one.

After finding Alicia crying, Beatrix had reassured the girl that Joanna’s future was secure. She held the Honour of Monte St Angelo, with the revenues from all its cities and towns, Beatrix explained, thinking it best not to mention that Monte St Angelo was on the mainland, far from Palermo. Alicia took comfort from that, for her trust in Joanna was absolute and she felt sure that Joanna would take her along when she moved to her dower lands. But then they got word of the English king’s death and everything changed yet again.

After the Requiem Mass for her father, Joanna had withdrawn into her bedchamber, and Alicia sought out Emma d’Aleramici and Bethlem de Greci for answers. The news of the English king’s passing seemed to have alarmed everyone and she wanted to know why.

She found them in the process of packing their belongings, obviously planning to leave Joanna’s service. Last week she’d overheard them discussing their chances of entering Sybilla’s household once she was crowned, reluctantly concluding that she was not likely to accept them and it was better to remain with Joanna than to return to the tedium of their own homes. So what had changed their minds?

They were quite willing to tell her, always welcoming an opportunity to gossip. Joanna’s influence had died with William, they said bluntly. It would have been different if she’d given William a son, for then she’d have been regent until he came of age. She had still been more fortunate than most barren, widowed queens, though, for she was the daughter of a great and powerful king, a man known to be very protective of his children, at least the females in the family. All knew how he’d come to the aid of his daughter Matilda when her husband, the Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, had been driven into exile by the Holy Roman Emperor, giving them refuge at his court whilst he maneuvered to get their banishment edict revoked.

But once he died, Joanna was vulnerable, fair game for those who might want to abduct her and force her into marriage. She was a valuable prize, they told the horrified Alicia, for she was beautiful and her dower lands were rich enough to tempt any man. So they were looking after their own interests whilst they still could.

“But . . . but Lady Joanna still has a royal protector,” Alicia stammered. “Her brother is the English king now. Surely he’d come to her aid if—” She broke off in bewilderment, for they’d begun to laugh at her.

“You are such a child, know nothing of the ways of the world. Brothers rarely show much concern for sisters sent off to distant lands. That is especially true when the needed alliance died with a sister’s foreign husband. If you want proof of that, consider the sad history of Agnes Capet, the French king’s little sister.”

Alicia sensed that she did not want to know Agnes’s story, but she made herself ask, not wanting to display timidity before these women she disliked. “What happened to her?”

Bethlem hesitated, suddenly realizing that Alicia was too young to hear of these horrors. Emma had no such qualms, however. “Agnes was betrothed to Alexius, the son of the Emperor of the Greeks, sent off to Constantinople at age eight and wed to the boy the following year when she was only nine. That was well below the canonical age for marriage, of course, but the Greeks are barbarians and care little for such niceties. That same year the emperor died and Agnes and Alexius, who was ten, ascended the throne. But two years later a cousin named Andronicus Comnenus seized control of the government. Shall I tell you what happened next?”

By now Alicia was positive she did not want to know, already feeling great pity for the little French princess sent to live amongst barbarians. She shook her head mutely, but Emma was enjoying herself and forged ahead.

“When Andronicus took power, he began to get rid of anyone he saw as a threat. He poisoned Alexius’s sister Maria and her husband, the very same Maria who was to wed our King William until the emperor changed his mind. He then forced Alexius to sign his own mother’s death warrant and had her strangled. The next year he had himself crowned co-emperor with Alexius. You can guess what he did then. He murdered Alexius and had the boy’s body thrown into the River Bosphorus. Poor Agnes found herself widowed at age twelve, but the worst was still to come. Andronicus forced her to marry him. Can you imagine wedding your husband’s murderer?

“He was more than fifty years older than Agnes, too,” Emma said with a fastidious shudder. “The thought of bedding a man so aged is enough to make me want to take a vow of chastity! Andronicus soon revealed himself to be a monster, began a reign of terror, and within two years, the people of Constantinople rose up against him. He fled with Agnes and his favorite concubine, but they were captured and brought back to the city, where he was subjected to torture and then turned over to the mob. He was doused with boiling water, had his eyes gouged out, his hand cut off—”

“Stop!” Alicia cried in a strangled voice, fighting back nausea.

Emma cocked a finely plucked brow. “I hope Agnes is not as squeamish as you, Alicia, given all she has had to endure. Surely you want to know what became of her? Sadly, we do not know. That was four years ago and her fate remains a mystery. I assume she is still alive, still dwelling in Constantinople, unless her ordeal drove her mad. But the point of my story is that Agnes is the full sister of Philippe Capet, the powerful King of France, and he did nothing whatsoever on her behalf. Brothers cannot be relied upon, Alicia, and that is why Bethlem and I are leaving your beloved queen’s service. A woman’s lot is not an easy one, and once she has no husband or father to protect her—”

“That is enough!” They all spun around as Mariam stalked toward them. Alicia shrank back, but then realized that she was not the target of Mariam’s wrath. “The two of you ought to be ashamed,” she said scathingly, “scaring the child with such ghastly tales. What do you plan to do next, torture Alicia’s new puppy or poison the garden songbirds?”

“It was not me!” Bethlem protested, her voice rising in a squeak. Emma attempted to stand her ground, but she was soon squirming under the heat in Mariam’s blazing brown eyes, and when Mariam told them to get out, neither woman argued. Once they’d fled the chamber, Mariam took Alicia’s hand and led the trembling child over to the window-seat.

“You must not pay any heed to those spiteful cats, Alicia. They have not a single brain between the two of them, just more malice than the law ought to allow.”

“Was . . . was it true, though?”

“Alas, what she said about Agnes was true. But her tragedy has naught to do with Joanna, who is in no peril. This is Palermo, not Constantinople. Ours is a more civilized society. And Joanna is far from friendless. Have you forgotten that her brother rules the greatest empire in Christendom?”

“Yes, but . . . but the French king—”

“Philippe and Richard are as unlike as chalk and cheese. I know Joanna has told you stories of her brother. He is a brilliant battle commander, utterly without fear, so courageous that men call him the Lionheart. No one would ever call Philippe that, trust me. Mayhap Rabbitheart,” Mariam added, and succeeded in coaxing a smile. “Now do you feel better?”

Alicia nodded, realizing to her surprise that she did indeed trust Mariam. “But what will happen when this Tancred becomes king? Emma and Bethlem said he is bastard-born, that he rebelled against King William’s father and spent years in gaol, that he is so ugly men call him the ‘monkey,’ that—”

“Alicia, by now you ought to know better than to believe anything Emma or Bethlem says. Yes, Tancred was born out of wedlock, but he is of good blood; his mother was the daughter of a lord. And yes, he did rebel against William’s father. But he was pardoned by Queen Margarita and served William loyally during his minority and afterward. He is a brave soldier and a capable administrator and I believe he truly cares about Sicily. He is not a man to maltreat a woman, least of all Joanna, his cousin’s widow.”

“Thank you, Lady Mariam,” Alicia said gratefully. “But . . . but you did not deny that Tancred looks like a monkey?”

“Well, there you have me,” Mariam admitted, “for poor Tancred has been cursed with a face that would scare a gargoyle,” and they both laughed, a moment that would mark a turning point for Alicia. From then on, she viewed the Lady Mariam as an ally, and she jettisoned the last of her brother Arnaud’s values, adopting the beliefs of Joanna’s Sicily as her own.

THE RAINY SEASON began in the autumn and when Tancred of Lecce’s ship dropped anchor in Palermo’s harbor at dawn on December 11, a steady, chill rain had been falling for days. Undaunted by the winter weather, he hastened to a council meeting with Matthew of Ajello, the Archbishop of Monreale, and the highborn lords of the realm. Despite the dynastic nature of the Sicilian kingship, Tancred was elected king by unanimous consent, for those who disapproved, such as the Archbishop of Palermo and his brother, had not been invited. That evening Tancred, his fourteen-year-old son Roger, and a military escort rode to the royal palace for a task that was both necessary and unpleasant. Tancred was not looking forward to it, but he refused to delegate it to others, for honor demanded that he be the one to tell the queen; he owed her that much.

As they approached the Joharia, Tancred noticed that Roger’s steps were lagging, and he found himself torn between amusement and impatience, for he understood Roger’s reluctance. The boy was totally besotted with Joanna, could not speak to her without blushing, squirming, and stammering.

“Roger,” Tancred said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. When Roger met his eyes, he felt a surge of parental pride, for his son was all that he was not: tall and well formed. “Would you rather wait here whilst I speak with the queen?” He thought it was only fair to offer Roger that choice, for Matthew of Ajello had also begged off from accompanying them, using his gout as an excuse to avoid facing Joanna, whom he’d always liked.

Roger was silent for a few moments and then shook his head resolutely. “No, Papa, I will come with you.” Tancred smiled and they continued on.

JOANNA WAS AWAITING THEM in the royal audience chamber, accompanied by her seneschal, her chaplain, several of her household knights, and her ladies Beatrix and Mariam. She had already heard of the day’s events, and while she was not happy that Tancred should claim the crown that belonged to Constance, she knew there was nothing she could do about it. She did not know Tancred very well, but what she did know was to his credit: He’d served William loyally and had distinguished himself in William’s disastrous military campaign against the Greeks. She could only pray that he was up to the challenge and would be able to restore peace to their island kingdom.

Refusing Joanna’s polite offer of wine and fruit, Tancred wasted no time in getting to the heart of the matter. “Madame, I have come to tell you that I have been chosen by the lords of this realm to rule as king. The election was held this afternoon, and the coronation will take place after Epiphany, at which time I shall name my son the Duke of Apulia.”

Although Joanna liked Roger, it still hurt to think of him bearing the title that had so briefly belonged to her infant son. “My congratulations, Roger,” she said with a smile before turning back to his father. Tancred’s cool formality was a change from past occasions when he’d affably chatted with “Cousin William” and his “lovely lady.” She wondered if he felt as uncomfortable as she did. Taking her cue from him, she addressed him now as “My lord,” saying that she wished him well. To say more would be hypocrisy and they both knew it.

“You say the coronation is set for January? I will be sure to vacate the palace by then,” she assured him. “I may choose to rent a house in Palermo until the spring, as I would rather not make the long journey to Monte St Angelo during the winter months.” Her smile this time was not as warm as the one she’d bestowed upon Roger, for it was not easy to ask when it had always been hers to command. “I assume that meets with your approval, my Lord Tancred?”

She’d made the request as a mere courtesy, and she was shocked when he said, “I am sorry, Madame. That will not be possible.”

Was he so eager to get her out of Palermo? “As you wish,” she said coolly. “I will depart as soon as the arrangements can be made.”

“I am afraid you do not understand, Madame. Whilst Monte St Angelo is a wealthy province, its greatest importance is strategic. It controls the roads from the Alpine passes, the route that Heinrich von Hohenstaufen will take when he leads an army into Italy. It is imperative that Monte St Angelo remains under royal control. I regret, therefore, that I cannot permit it to be given over to you.”

Joanna had never expected this. “I am sure I need not remind you that my dowry is guaranteed both by my marriage contract and the inheritance laws of the realm. So what do you propose to offer in exchange for Monte St Angelo, my lord?”

“I do not deny the truth of what you say, my lady. But I am facing a rebellion. Many Saracens have fled to the hills after the unrest in Palermo and have begun to fortify villages, whilst some of the mainland lords continue to support the Count of Andria’s false claim to the crown. An even greater threat is posed by the Germans, for we know Heinrich will wage war on his wife’s behalf, with all the resources of his father’s empire to draw upon.”

Joanna’s mouth had gone dry. “Just what are you saying, my lord?”

“I am saying that I cannot afford to compensate you for the loss of your dowry lands,” he said bluntly, and Joanna’s knights began to mutter among themselves, their anger all the greater for their sense of helplessness. Roger was no longer looking at Joanna, and Tancred wished he were elsewhere, too. He’d known it would not be easy, and was hoping she’d not burst into tears, for he felt awkward and ill at ease with weeping women. He saw now that he needn’t have worried, for she’d raised her chin and was staring at him defiantly.

“So you plan to turn me out penniless? Or do you have some other surprises in store for me, my lord?”

Tancred did not try to sweeten the brew; it was bound to go down hard. “I will speak candidly with you, Madame. You and your lord husband were well loved by the people, and I am sure there will be much sympathy for your . . . situation. Your own sympathy for the Lady Constance is well known, too. Should you fall into Heinrich’s hands, either by choice or by chance, he would make good use of you to advance his wife’s cause. I think it best, therefore, that you remain here in Palermo.”

By now there were outraged protests by Joanna’s knights and gasps from her women. She was stunned, too. But she’d not give this man the satisfaction of seeing how shaken she was. She knew how her mother would have reacted to such a threat and she responded accordingly. “So I am under arrest? Is it to be the palace dungeon, or have you someplace else in mind?”

Tancred had dreaded female hysteria. Now, though, he found himself irked by her icy composure. “Of course not!” he snapped. “You will be lodged in comfortable quarters and will be treated with courtesy and respect; upon that, you have my word. And once I am secure upon my throne, I hope to be able to review your circumstances. But for now, you may consider yourself a guest of the Crown.”

“I consider myself a hostage, my lord,” Joanna snapped back. “It is obvious that there is no point in arguing with you. But this I will say, and I hope you heed it. You think I am utterly defenseless now that my lord husband and my father the English king are dead. That is a great mistake, and you will answer dearly for it.”

“I believe the Almighty will understand, my lady.”

Joanna’s lips curved in an angry, mocking smile. “The Almighty may, but my brother, the Lionheart, will not.”

Tancred was not a vindictive winner and was willing to concede her the last word. He bowed stiffly and withdrew, leaving her standing in the wreckage of the life that just a month ago had seemed well-nigh perfect.