to veer off the road paved with platitudes.
His translator gave him a startled look, and then lowered his eyes discreetly as he relayed the message to Eleanor. “My lord king says that he was pleased to hear of your arrival, Madame, for he is sure that you could not have reached such a venerable age without acquiring the prudence and wisdom that your son so obviously lacks. It is his hope that you will exert your influence with the King of the English ere it is too late. His rash decision to embrace that bastard Tancred and even to sanctify their unholy alliance by wedding his heir, Arthur of Brittany, to the usurper’s daughter is one that will cost England dearly—unless you can convince him that he has made a monumental blunder.”
Berengaria was grateful that no eyes were upon her, for she could not suppress a gasp. When she looked toward Eleanor, she felt a flicker of admiration, for the queen did not even blink at the astonishing news that her son John had been disinherited in favor of a Breton child who was not yet four years old. “Tell Lord Heinrich,” she said, with a smile barbed enough to draw blood, “that I have the utmost confidence in the judgment of my son, the English king. I will overlook his blatant bad manners, though, as reaching such a ‘venerable age’ has given me a greater understanding of the human heart. It must be unbearably humiliating and humbling for him—being rejected by the lords and citizens of Sicily in favor of a man born out of wedlock.”
The translator looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue. “Madame, I . . . I cannot tell him that!”
“Of course you cannot,” the Bishop of Milan interceded smoothly. “Let me do it.” And Milo gleefully proceeded to do just that, in fluent Latin. By the time he was done, Heinrich’s pale skin was blotched with hot color. He spat out something in German, then turned on his heel and stalked away, as the counts of Eppan and Shaumberg and the Bishop of Trent jettisoned their dignity and scurried to catch up with him.
Constance did not follow. Instead she accepted a wine cup from a passing servant and smiled blandly at Eleanor. “I’d rather not translate that last remark, if you do not mind, my lady.” Eleanor smiled just as blandly, saying that sometimes translations were unnecessary and, to Berengaria’s amazement, the two women then began to chat nonchalantly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Listening as they discussed benign topics of interest to neither of them, Berengaria wondered if she’d ever achieve that sort of icy aplomb. How did they learn to immerse the woman in the queen? Could she learn to do that, too? Did she even want to learn?
The conversation soon turned to music, for Boniface of Montferrat was a noted patron of troubadours, with one of the best known in his entourage here at Lodi: Gaucelm Faidit. Gaucelm was native to Eleanor’s world, a son of the Limousin, and she assured Constance that they could look forward to an evening of exceptional entertainment. “Gaucelm Faidit was often at my son Geoffrey’s court in Brittany and with Richard in Poitou ere he became king. I’ve been told that Gaucelm and Geoffrey once composed a tenso together, and I would dearly love to hear it.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged. I know your son Richard is a poet. Geoffrey was one, too, then?”
“He turned his hand to poetry from time to time, but not as often as Richard, who derives great pleasure from music. If you’ll overlook a mother’s pride, I can honestly say that several of his sirventes are as sardonic and witty as any composed by Bertran de Born.”
“Does he write in French or in lenga romana?” Constance asked, sounding genuinely curious, and nodded thoughtfully when Eleanor said he composed in both languages but preferred the lenga romana of Aquitaine. “My lord husband is a poet, too . . . did you know that, Madame? Heinrich could easily compose in Latin, or even French. But like your son, he prefers his native tongue, and has written several songs of courtly love that are quite good—if you’ll overlook a wife’s pride.”
“Indeed? Most interesting. Lord Heinrich is a man of hidden talents,” Eleanor murmured, all the while seeking to decipher the message cloaked in those seemingly casual words. Constance had just alerted her—and with a subtlety that Eleanor could appreciate—that