Joanna was easily quelled. I could say to her, ‘I forbid you to mention the possibility of seeing Richard. And if you forget my orders I shall forget that you are a woman and clout your ears as I did when you were a disobedient child.’ But I could not speak thus to the Princess of Navarre. So the war of attrition started.
As soon as it was known that our sailing was to be delayed Berengaria began, very sweetly and gentle, with, ‘Surely, madam, now that there is time, we could visit Richard or he could visit us. You know it is two years or more since I saw him and then only once for a moment.’
She said this in the presence of Joanna, the duchess, and the Lady Pila and although they held silence I could see by the expression on their faces that they thought she had reason on her side. I couldn’t say bluntly that Richard didn’t wish to visit her or be visited by her or that flaunting the new betrothal would rub salt into Philip’s wound and make him difficult to handle. So I fell back upon procrastination, that dangerous device, and said that if our stay in Messina were really prolonged I would see what could be done. I had a frail hope that when Richard knew that we were waylaid here he might, if only from curiosity, suggest a meeting. But so far as he was concerned a thousand miles might have stretched between the camp and the place where we were lodged. And Berengaria kept worrying the subject as a dog worries a bone. I remembered, against my will, all that Sancho had told me; how she had seen Richard and wanted him and pined and fretted and refused the Emperor of Cyprus, taken to her bed and seemed as though to die. This wasn’t the conventional betrothal with the bride shy and reluctant, dreading the moment of meeting. Strange as it seemed to be a spectator and participant in such an affair, one had to admit that the whole thing was a little like the stories which the minstrels sang.
Finally I was driven to say that I would send and ask Richard to sup with us. I had no alternative, for Berengaria had said bluntly that if I didn’t, she would. At least she didn’t put it so bluntly; she made the suggestion with that sweetness which I was beginning to suspect: ‘Madam, would the invitation not sound better coming from you, his mother?’
I made it sound as well as I could. I even mentioned the lute player and invited Richard to enjoy our music as well as our food. I sent the letter by my own page, Gascon, who was soon back with a verbal message that we should be hearing from His Majesty. The girls, less experienced than I, spent the day bullying the cooks and preparing the table and their dresses. Blondel was dragged in to practise the songs they thought Richard would like. Joanna called to mind the ditties Richard had favoured in his youth. Anna, pestered by Berengaria to think up “something new,” rattled off in a matter of moments some lines, so witty and so topical—they dealt with Master Saunders, his ship and the College of Cardinals—that for a moment we all forgot ourselves and were united in gusts of hearty laughter. Blondel set the lines to music very admirably. Even I found myself thinking that when Richard did come he would be extremely and most pleasantly surprised. So beautiful a bride, an atmosphere so gay and so informal…
An hour before the time for supper Berengaria and Joanna disappeared to brush one another’s hair and make themselves beautiful. Lady Pila went with them but after a time came out, declaring that they needed none of her help and sniffing greedily at the food scent which was beginning to reach us from the kitchen. The Duchess of Apieta, most sumptuously dressed and bejewelled, joined us and I noticed with interest that she shared my nervousness.
Presently there came the rapid clatter, the sudden halting of hooves in the courtyard; one horse, but then Richard was quite likely to come unattended. The Lady Pila, unheeding, lolled on the settle, picking at the small sweetmeats, thinking of the meal; but the duchess and I, moved by the same impulse, were on our feet and as our eyes met I realised that for once we were entirely, and without reserve, in sympathy. We waited. In a moment or two a man was ushered in. He went on his knees to me and then, rising, stood bolt upright and gave his message in a flat, wooden recitative:
‘To the Queen Mother of England and the Princess of Navarre, greetings from His Majesty of England. He cannot wait upon you. A boat loaded with casks of beef capsized this morning in the harbour and we hope that with the turn of the tide this evening some may wash in.’ He hesitated, began to fumble, changed foot as it were. ‘Madam, the King said that the great ones about him scorned such little things and the lesser men did not understand that one day a cask of beef might make all the difference. And, madam, he gave me a word for your ear alone.’
The little duchess laid her claw on Pila’s shoulder and they went out together.
‘Madam, the King said you knew his wishes and bade you not trouble him again.’
I said, ‘Will you tell him that I know his wishes and that I will try not to trouble him again but that I find myself in a very difficult position? Very well. You may go.’
I pretended that the private message had consisted of apologies to Berengaria. She accepted them placidly, seeming quite unmoved. It was Joanna who cried from disappointment. I could have cried too. It all seemed such a pity. But at the same time I could visualise the moment when a cask of beef might make the difference between victory and defeat; a siege, a forced march; here you are, my lads, food for another day, we aren’t beaten yet; this is a cask that I dragged out of the turning tide and it will turn our tide! I could see romance in that; not the romance of candlelight in the wine, pretty faces, pleasant songs, but the stronger, tougher romance of complete devotion to one cause, of the negligible detail that changed the whole course of a campaign.
I tried to make Berengaria understand. I tried to make her see the drama of her situation: the hard, virile, preoccupied man who had taken a great cause so much to heart that in its service he could deny even his own inclinations; who would, when the right moment came, turn to her with the same singlemindedness.
‘And when you ride by his side in triumph into Jerusalem, you will forgive him,’ I said.
‘I forgive him now, if there is anything to forgive. But I do want to see him,’ she said.
From that moment the words “want to see him” or “like to see him” were continually on her lips, either in their artless simplicity or with reinforcements.
‘I don’t wish to disturb him or waste his time. I only want to see him.’
Once she added, ‘Not that he should see me,’ words which, coming from a woman so lovely, who must have been aware of her loveliness and its effect upon all who looked at her, were peculiarly disarming:
Then she said, ‘If I could just look down on him from the musicians’ gallery…’ And I said, ‘My dear, where Richard is there is no such thing. By all accounts he lives in a tent like a common archer.’
But she was never convinced. In other circumstances I might have been amused to see how a young woman of such natural dignity and impeccable manners could become so brash and outspoken under the prick of desire but, as it was, every reference to Richard made me feel uncomfortable and obscurely guilty.
There came an evening when Berengaria and Joanna were huddled together over the baldric, work upon which Berengaria, out of her affection, allowed Joanna to share; the little duchess was reading and I was stitching a tuck into the bodice of a gown. Barbara would have done it far more quickly and expertly, for I was unhandy with a needle, but Barbara and I had recently had an argument. She had said that despite all the food now at my command I was growing thinner and I contradicted her but it was true; I knew that every dress hung on me slackly, so I was taking in tucks unbeknown to my woman.
The girls murmured softly over their work; the log on the hearth crackled. Then suddenly through the quiet I heard Berengaria say, ‘I must see him. I can’t leave for Cyprus without seeing him. One of us might drown on the way and then I should never see him again. It’s not to be borne!’ There was a new wild note in her voice. I looked up and was astonished to see that tears were running down her cheeks. Not a muscle in her face moved, her eyes were not screwed up, her mouth was
not contorted. I had never seen a woman cry so beautifully. Joanna, of course, immediately began to cry, too, square-mouthed, shaky-chinned, snuffle-nosed. I sat for a moment thinking, What a weapon! To be able to cry without becoming repulsive, for most women take to tears as a final resort and thus defeat their own ends.
‘Anna,’ Berengaria said in that same wild voice, ‘you must think of something. Think of some way to let me see him before we go away again.’
Joanna said, ‘Mother can do it. Mother will devise a way.’
And suddenly it was as though a line had been drawn across the room with Berengaria and Joanna on one side and the duchess and I on the other. She looked up, put a finger in her book to mark the place and waited. I said:
‘Really, Berengaria, you make it very difficult for me. Richard is busy and it is his wish to defer the meeting until you are in Cyprus. We asked him to come here and he was prevented; if he had wanted—I mean if he had been free to come another day, he would have suggested it himself. Begin now, sweetheart, to be a good wife and make your husband’s wishes paramount. In a few weeks you will be married and see him every day.’
I was conscious of a failure in me. I should have moved towards her at that moment and taken her in my arms, administered little deft pattings of the shoulder and strokings of the hair. Meaningless gestures but time-honoured, soothing to the one in distress and giving the observer something to do other than stand and stare. But such actions do not come easily to me. Joanna, however, got up and put her arms about Berengaria and said, ‘There, there,’ and things of that kind, and tried to draw her back to the settle. Berengaria shrugged her off and took a step or two towards Anna.
‘Anna, you say something. Help me.’
The little duchess said coolly, ‘Madam of England has explained the situation, ’Garia, and really there seems nothing to do about it. Unless you emulate Esmeralda…’
Berengaria looked blank for a moment; the tears that were in her eyes spilled over but no more came. Then she smiled her sweet small smile. ‘Esmeralda… Of course. Oh, Anna, why didn’t we think of it before?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t advise it. It wouldn’t work in real life, you know.’
I had never heard of Esmeralda, so I had no idea what they were talking about, but something in the duchess’s voice was disturbing to me. It had a falseness; she was saying one thing and meaning another and usually her voice was very genuine. Now, though she said, ‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ she was really saying, ‘Go ahead and do it.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I asked quickly. ‘Who was Esmeralda, and what did she do?’
‘She was only in a song,’ Berengaria said.
‘Oh, I remember now,’ said Joanna, brightening and blowing her nose. ‘Oh, that would be very romantic. Just the sort of thing to appeal to Richard.’
‘It’d be madness,’ said the duchess. Deliberately, ostentatiously, she took her finger from the page and resumed reading. But the arrow was shot and the harm had been done.
There was at least one person in the room whom I could address with sharpness and authority. I did so.
‘Joanna! Will you please answer my question and tell me who Esmeralda was?’
‘Only a girl in a song, Mother. Don’t you remember? The one who took a lute—no, a harp, I think. It was a harp, wasn’t it, Berengaria?’
I snapped my finger impatiently and Joanna hurried on, ‘Took a harp and went to the place where Sargarossa was holding her husband prisoner and sang a song that sounded just like a song to everybody else but was so cunningly fashioned for his ear alone that he understood that Gilbert Falaise was coming to his rescue.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And you are lunatic enough to believe that if Berengaria went in for such mummery Richard would find it romantic! I always knew you were a fool, Joanna, but I should have thought that even a fool might have more sense at your age!’
I knew that I was making poor Joanna the scapegoat because I could upbraid her without actual breach of etiquette; and I thought even in my irritation that later on I could explain to her that everything I said to her I had actually meant for Berengaria and the duchess.
‘No wonder men despise women,’ I said, ‘and choose to keep them at a distance whenever serious business is afoot. Richard is so busy with things that are real and important that he has no time to call upon us and you think it would be romantic to go acting like somebody in a ballad. Wearing cap and bells, I suppose.’
Joanna’s chin began to shake again and her eyes filled with easy tears. The duchess closed her book with a little snap and said:
‘Madam, please remember that it was I, not the Queen of Sicily, who made the suggestion; she may not have understood that I made it in jest.’
‘One should be careful of the jests one makes in the presence of simpletons,’ I retorted.
Berengaria stood up again.
‘Joanna is not a simpleton and Anna is not jesting,’ she said. ‘I cannot go to Cyprus without seeing Richard. And since he cannot come to me, I must go to him. And I must go in such guise that I neither waste his time nor distract his attention. Anna had wit enough to see that and to devise a way.’
‘Unfortunately you haven’t Esmeralda’s gifts,’ said the duchess, repudiating the compliment. ‘You can’t sing, Berengaria.’
‘I can strum on a lute well enough; Blondel can do the singing,’ Berengaria said, quite unruffled. ‘And I can wear his better suit of clothes.’ She appeared to become aware of my consternation and turned to me, saying sweetly, ‘I am sorry, madam, to act against your wishes and without your approval but this is a matter of great concern to me and for once I must judge for myself.’ With that she moved to the door, opened it, looked out and said, ‘Find Blondel. Tell him I want him at once.’
I said, ‘Berengaria, if you do this thing you may regret it all your life. Something will happen. You will be discovered and Richard will be angry beyond words. In songs and such rubbishy tales disguises are always perfect—but, my dear girl, whoever heard of them in real life? Your breasts, your hips would betray you in a moment. You’d never reach Richard’s tent. The archers would take you for some camp follower up to a prank and God alone knows what might happen. Rape, probably. A camp is not a convocation of monks, you know.’
I thought to frighten her. I succeeded only in frightening Joanna, who gasped out:
‘Mother is right, Berengaria. Besides, what would you do with your hair?’
Berengaria lifted her hands and touched the long black plaits which lay over her shoulders, followed the curve of her bosom and ended well below her waist.
‘Cut it off,’ she said calmly. ‘It will grow again on the way to Cyprus.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t talk like an idiot,’ I burst out. ‘Before the boy comes and you make yourself a laughing-stock before him, Berengaria, listen to me. The whole idea is insane. You shan’t do it. I forbid it. Do you hear me? Until you are married you are in my safekeeping and I forbid you to say another word or make another move about this mad notion.’ I swung round to the little duchess. ‘You started this,’ I said hotly, ‘in jest! Now end it! Go on, use your famous wits and say something that will bring her to her senses.’
Before she had time to say anything there was a gentle tap at the door; it opened and there was the lute player. He was breathless and flushed, as though from haste, and his hair was all misted from damp so that it stood out, silver-gilt, like a halo.
‘Go away,’ I said, ‘we don’t want you after all.’
‘Come in, Blondel. And shut the door.’ That was the duchess’s voice, so low that it was almost gruff.
He included us both in a sweeping glance and then, still on the threshold, his hand still on the door, looked towards Berengaria.
‘Madam, you sent for me.’ The words rebuked me and the duchess.
‘Yes, I did, Blondel. I want you to fetch your lute and your better clothes—not for you to wear them, to lend them to me. I’ll explain everythin
g afterwards—as we go. Hurry now and bring me the clothes.’
I had always thought him an effeminate young man, a pretty boy. Generally he fitted in so well into our female company with his songs and his lute, his handiness with the tapestry wool, his knowledgeableness about women’s attire. But tonight, quite suddenly, as he stood looking not puzzled but cautious and entirely unhurried by the strange order, I became aware of the male quality in him. Masculine, reasonable… He might be my ally. Before I could speak to denounce the plan anew to one who might be in sympathy with me, the duchess spoke.
‘The princess has taken a fancy to emulate Esmeralda, Blondel. It is entirely my fault. I joked about it and said that was the only way of getting into the camp.’
‘The camp?’ he said.
I could see that there was no need for further explaining; he was familiar with the story of Esmeralda. I shot a venomous glance at the duchess and noticed that her eyes were bright with malice. Through some part of my mind which held aloof from the immediate problem there passed a strange thought: She has something up her sleeve! From the moment when she made that apparently idle suggestion she has been moving towards this moment! Now why? To what end?
I gathered myself together and spoke direct to the boy.
‘This may have started as a joke,’ I said, ‘but it has now gone too far. Princesses masquerading as goose girls or minstrels are all very well in stories and songs, but to think of it happening in real life is nothing short of madness. If you lift a finger, Blondel, to assist in this prank you will do your mistress a very ill service and—’
He broke in quite rudely: ‘That was in your mind, my lady?
‘It was and it is,’ said Berengaria. ‘Madam of England has voiced her objections and absolved herself of all responsibility. Any blame that comes of it I will take on myself. Now, Blondel, there is no time for further talk. Go fetch the things.’