occurred to her that it would be easy for Constance to deny she’d heard anything, and what would she do then? But to her relief, the German queen nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I was not intending to eavesdrop,” she said, with the faintest hint of a smile, “but yes, I did hear some of your conversation. Am I correct in assuming you are the King of Navarre’s daughter?” She did smile then, at Berengaria’s unguarded amazement, saying, “I do not have second sight, I assure you. Bishop Milo mentioned that King Sancho’s son had accompanied Queen Eleanor as far as Milan. Since he is known to be friendly with the English king, I thought his escort was a courtesy to Richard. But once I overheard the countess extolling the advantages of marital ambiguity, I saw Lord Sancho’s presence in another light.”
That Constance de Hauteville was so clever only increased Berengaria’s despondency. She could never outwit this woman. “I am Berengaria de Jimenez,” she said, “the daughter of King Sancho, sixth of that name to rule the kingdom of Navarre. It is my earnest hope, Madame, that you will consider keeping my identity to yourself. My betrothal to King Richard has not been made public yet and . . .” She could go no further, overcome by the futility of her entreaty. Why would Constance agree to assist Richard, the man who’d allied himself with Tancred, who’d usurped her throne? But Constance was waiting expectantly, and she said drearily, “It was a foolish idea. Why would you want to do a service for the English king?”
“You are right,” Constance said. “I have no reason whatsoever to oblige the English king, nor would I do so. But I am willing to keep silent for the King of Navarre’s daughter.”
Berengaria’s brown eyes widened. “You��you mean that?” she stammered. “You will say nothing to your lord husband?”
“Nary a word. Consider it a favor from one foreign bride to another.”
Overwhelmed with gratitude, Berengaria watched as Constance turned away then, crossing the hall to join her husband. It was ridiculous to feel pity for a woman so blessed by fortune. She knew that. But she knew, too, that she’d never seen anyone as profoundly unhappy as Constance de Hauteville, on her way to Rome to be crowned Empress of the Holy Roman Empire.
CHAPTER 12
FEBRUARY 1191
Messina, Sicily
In the span of one week, Richard received two messages from his mother, dispatched from Turin and Lodi,a letter from Chancellor Longchamp’s cojusticiars in England, complaining of his arrogance and refusal to heed any opinion but his own, and a warning from Longchamp himself, reporting that Count John had recently returned to England in a disgruntled frame of mind, having learned of Arthur’s designation as Richard’s heir. But these messages were eclipsed by the one that arrived on February 1 from Outremer, an urgent appeal for aid from Guy de Lusignan, his desperation proven as much by the timing of his letter as by his words themselves, for few ships ventured from Mediterranean ports during the stormy winter months.
RICHARD HAD RIDDEN OFF after getting Guy’s message, heading for the royal palace to inform Philippe of the latest developments in Outremer. André de Chauvigny had been privy to the letter’s contents, and he was soon surrounded by Baldwin de Bethune, Morgan ap Ranulf, and Robert Beaumont, the new Earl of Leicester. Robert had been given the earldom by Richard that very morning, word having reached them in the past week of his father’s death. The elder Beaumont had chosen a land route to Outremer, and it had proven to be as unlucky for him as it had been for Frederick Barbarossa; he’d died in Romania that past September.
André glanced from face to face, then nodded. “The king will be announcing the news soon enough, so I see no reason to make you wait. The word from Outremer was not good. There have been many deaths, more from sickness than Saracen swords, and they are suffering from famine as well as plague. Amongst those who’ve died at Acre are Thibault, the Count of Blois, and his brother, the Count of Sancerre. The Archbishop of Canterbury was also taken ill, dying on November nineteenth. But the most significant death was that of the Queen of Jerusalem. The Lady Sybilla died of the plague in October, a few days after her two young daughters were called home by God.”
The other men exchanged troubled glances, understanding now why Richard had seemed so grim as he’d ridden out