He was not in a cheerful frame of mind, for it had been raining for most of the day and wet weather aggravated his gout. He knew why he’d been summoned at such an hour. Tancred had heard of the English king’s arrival in Messina.
He was escorted at once up to Tancred’s private chamber, where he found the king, his wife Sybilla, her brother Riccardo, the Count of Acerra, and their eldest son, Roger. So this was to be a family conference, was it? Matthew did not blame Tancred for taking his troubles to heart. God knows, he had enough of them. They’d finally put down the Saracen rebellion, and a German force led by the Bishop of Mainz had been repelled that past May. But the Saracens did not have the same loyalty to Tancred that they had to William. It was only a matter of time until Heinrich launched a full-scale invasion. And now they had the English king to deal with, a man with the Devil’s own temper, and a genuine grievance against Tancred. No, Matthew understood why Tancred had so many wakeful nights and uneasy days. What he did not understand was why Tancred was suddenly balking at taking his advice. Who’d have thought that it would be so much easier to make him king than to keep him one?
Matthew took a seat as close as he could get to the brazier of smoldering sea coals, for at his age, the cold and damp seemed to penetrate into his very bones. He smiled gratefully when Roger hurried over with a stool so he could prop up his throbbing foot. He was a good lad, Roger, would make a good king one day—if they made no foolish mistakes now, if he could get Tancred to listen to reason.
Sybilla, a conscientious hostess even in the midst of a crisis, had seen to it that a cup of his favorite wine was waiting for Matthew. Before he could touch it, Tancred leaned across the table and thrust a letter toward him. “A message from the English king,” he said. “Read it.”
Matthew had barely scanned the letter before Tancred erupted. “He demands that I send his sister to him in Messina with an escort to see to her safety, that I restore all of her dower lands to her, and for good measure, that I compensate her for the ‘suffering’ she endured at my hands. From the hostile tone of this letter, you’d think I’d been holding the woman in an underground dungeon instead of at the Zisa Palace!”
“For all we know, he may have been told that she was being maltreated,” Matthew said, reading the letter again, more deliberately this time.
“I do not care if he thinks I sold her to the Caliph of Baghdad! You’ve read the letter, Matthew. This is not the language that one king uses to another king.”
“No . . . it is the language of an angry brother, one with a formidable fleet at his command and the largest army ever to set foot on Sicilian soil.”
Tancred gave Matthew a sharp look. “I do not want to have that argument again, Matthew. You made it quite clear that you think we’d do better in seeking an alliance with England, not France. But I will not be treated as if I am of no consequence. I am an anointed king, and by God, he will acknowledge me as one!”
Glancing around the chamber, Matthew saw that Tancred had the full support of his brother-in-law. That did not surprise him, for Riccardo was a man of action, not given to contemplation. Sybilla looked worried, though, and he took hope from that, for he knew how much influence she wielded with Tancred. Roger had withdrawn into the shadows filling the corners of the room, but Matthew knew he’d do whatever his father wanted, even if he had doubts himself. Matthew decided it was time to call for reinforcements; on the morrow he’d summon the Archbishop of Monreale to Catania.
Taking the letter back, Tancred was reading it again, heat rising in his face and neck. “The English king does not seem to realize that he is not in a position to make threats. This is my kingdom, not his. And his sister is in my hands, not his. Suppose I hold her as a hostage for his good behavior?”
There was an involuntary movement from Roger, quickly stilled. Matthew suppressed a sigh, wondering why Tancred did not see that one