scene, for the de Lusignans had long been a burr under the Angevin saddle.
Berengaria was shocked by Joanna’s sotto voce account of de Lusignan sins; not only had they rebelled repeatedly against Richard’s father and against Richard himself when he was Count of Poitou, they’d even dared to ambush Queen Eleanor, who’d been saved from capture by the courage of the young Will Marshal. By an absurd twist of fate, Joanna revealed, it was his family’s perfidy that had gotten Guy a crown. His older brother Amaury had fled to the Holy Land to evade the king’s wrath, and eventually summoned Guy to join him. The de Lusignans were as surprised as everyone else when Guy snared the Leper King’s sister. Lowering her voice even further, Joanna said, “When his brother Joffroi learned of Guy’s good fortune, he is said to have commented, ‘If they’d make Guy a king, they’d have made me a god.’ Joffroi later joined his brothers when Richard forced him to take the cross after one rebellion too many, and he and Amaury won respect for their military skills. But Guy was the feckless little brother, not taken seriously by anyone until Sybilla took him as her husband.”
Joanna smiled. “The lords of Outremer would not recognize her as queen after her brother’s death unless she first divorced Guy. But as soon as she was crowned, she announced that she had the right to pick her own consort and put the crown herself upon Guy’s handsome head. She was clever, was Sybilla. A poor judge of men, though, for Guy’s flawed leadership would result in the disaster at Ḥaṭṭīn. Richard says that was one of the most inept and inexcusable military blunders since the dawn of time. He gets angry every time he talks about it. He grudgingly gives Guy credit for courage, but says he has not the sense God gave a goat!”
“Then how can he be so friendly to Guy?” Berengaria said, looking across the hall where Richard was engaged in amiable conversation with the de Lusignans.
Joanna blinked in surprise. “Because he is a king, dearest. Because the de Lusignans, whatever their manifest failings, are still his vassals and he owes them his protection.” Honesty then compelling her to add, “And because Philippe has chosen to back Conrad.”
To Berengaria, Outremer was beginning to sound more and more like a labyrinth. Once Richard got in, could he ever get out? She did not understand how Christians could feud so fiercely with their fellow Christians whilst the Saracens laid claim to the Holy City. No one’s motives seemed utterly pure or untainted by political considerations. Even Richard was influenced by his rivalry with the French king, and she feared that Philippe saw Richard as the enemy, not Saladin. But then she banished these disquieting thoughts, determined not to let forebodings cast a shadow over the most important day of her life. On the morrow she would become Richard’s wife, would be crowned as his queen. Nothing mattered more than that.
FROM THE TWELFTH-CENTURY chronicle Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi: “On the following day, a Sunday, on the Feast of St Pancras, King Richard and Berengaria, daughter of the King of Navarre, were married at Limassol. The young woman was very wise and of good character. She was there crowned queen. The Archbishop of Bordeaux was present at the ceremony, as was the Bishop of Evreux, and the Bishop of Bayonne, and many other magnates and nobles. The king was merry and full of delight, pleasant and agreeable to everyone.”
RICHARD COULD NOT even remember the last time he’d bedded a virgin, for he’d long ago concluded that coy or skittish maidens were more trouble than they were worth. He’d always taken a very matter-of-fact, pragmatic approach to his body’s needs. When he was tired, he slept. When he was hungry, he ate. And when he felt lustful, he looked around for a bedmate, with convenience and proximity being important considerations. He was amused when his friends became besotted with concubines or light o’ loves, knowing it would not last; fevers of the flesh never did. A flame fed by lust was bound to burn out once the craving was satisfied, and for that, one woman would usually do as well as another. Although he enjoyed writing courtly poetry, he had no great interest in the workings of the female brain, for women were too often lacking in logic or backbone, either overly headstrong or weak-willed and timid. Like