once he is crowned as emperor, he’ll lead his army into Sicily to claim the throne.”
Frederick’s death would be a blow to Richard and the other crusaders, for Heinrich was not likely to take the cross, at least not until he’d been crowned as King of Sicily. It would be an even greater blow to Tancred, for now Heinrich could draw upon all the resources of the Holy Roman Empire to win his war. The ramifications of Frederick’s death would be felt throughout Christendom. But it would begin in Lodi, with this chance meeting of Richard’s mother and an avowed enemy of their House.
“Well,” Eleanor said, after several moments of silence, “this ought to be interesting.”
BECAUSE HEINRICH WAS AN ALLY of the French king, they decided that it would be best if Berengaria’s true identity was not made known to him, and she agreed to pose as one of Eleanor’s ladies. The Bishop of Milan already knew that she was the Navarrese king’s daughter, but he was quite willing to honor Eleanor’s request for secrecy. Although it was almost thirty years since Heinrich’s father had deliberately reduced the city of Milan to rubble and charred timbers, the Milanese had long memories.
Berengaria’s parting from her brother had been painful, for she did not know when they’d meet again. She kept her grieving to herself, though, and prepared to follow Eleanor’s lead when they met the new Holy Roman Emperor and his consort. She was not sure what to expect, given Heinrich’s hostility toward the English Crown. But when she broached the subject with Eleanor, the older woman laughed, saying that she and Heinrich would be poisonously polite, scrupulously observe all the proprieties, and then studiously avoid each other for the balance of their joint stay in Lodi. She even sounded grimly amused at the prospect, and to Berengaria, that was further proof that she’d never fully understand the enigmatic English queen. They are not like us, little one.
HEINRICH VON HOHENSTAUFEN was not as Berengaria had envisioned him. He was of moderate height, but seemed shorter because of his slight, almost frail physique. His face would have been handsome if it was not so thin, and his fine blond hair and patchy beard made him seem even younger than his twenty-five years. He could not have been more unlike her brother Sancho or her betrothed, the Lionheart, and her first impression was that he was not at all kingly. But she changed her mind as soon as she looked into those piercing pale eyes, for what she saw in their depths sent an involuntary shiver up her spine.
Thinking that she’d not have wanted to be wed to this man, Berengaria had glanced toward his wife with both sympathy and curiosity, for her father’s sister Margarita had often written to them about life at the Sicilian court. Constance de Hauteville was as tall as her husband, very elegant in a lilac gown embroidered with gold threads and tiny seed pearls. Her veil and wimple hid her hair, but Berengaria was sure she’d been blessed with the flaxen tresses so praised by troubadours, for her skin was very white and her eyes were an extraordinary shade of blue, star sapphires framed by thick golden lashes. Berengaria had expected her to be fair, for the de Hautevilles were as acclaimed for their good looks as Henry and Eleanor’s brood. Time or marriage had not been kind to Constance, though; in her mid-thirties now, she was almost painfully thin, and what remained of her beauty had become a brittle court mask. Her manners were flawless, her bearing regal. But Berengaria could see in this aloof, self-possessed woman no traces of the girl in her aunt Margarita’s letters, the fey free spirit who’d been privileged to grow up in Eden.
Just as Eleanor had predicted, the conversation was coldly correct. She’d offered her condolences for the death of Heinrich’s father and received an appropriate response in return. They then talked of the weather and their respective journeys through the Alps, both agreeing that his had been the easier route, for the Brenner Pass was at a much lower altitude than Montgenèvre. The stilted dialogue was rendered even more awkward by their language barrier, and long pauses ensued while Heinrich’s German was translated into French for Eleanor’s benefit and her replies were then repeated in his native tongue. The visibly nervous Bishop of Lodi had finally begun to relax, thinking this unsettling encounter was almost over, when Heinrich chose