What I planned to do was to leave England in the hands of Longchamp and Hugh Puiset and go to Navarre. There was bound to be delay on the Continent. Both Philip Augustus and Richard had many preparations to make. I must catch up with them somewhere and insist on the marriage. The difficult part would be to see that it was consummated.
I must lose no time in bringing this about.
I left England, taking the Princess Alais with me. I was going to return her to France. We had no further use for her. She was very sad and, I believe, genuinely mourned Henry. He had been, I am sure, very different with her than with me. I supposed she was never provocative. It would have been, “Yes, my lord. No, my lord” all the way. I was a little sorry for her, although her meekness irritated me. Moreover I guessed there would be trouble over her, for Philip Augustus would not want her to be returned to him unmarried. He appeared to be insisting that Richard marry her. He would consider, of course, that whatever Richard’s inclinations—and his must be the same—marriage was outside that. It was the duty of a king to marry and produce children. That need not interfere with his mode of life.
I crossed the Channel in February. It was not a pleasant experience. But when was it ever? I had known it worse in the summer than it was that February. We went to Rouen, where I decided Alais should stay until we knew what to do with her. She was in the kind of captivity which I had endured for so long. I often thought: The tables are turned now, Henry. And I wondered if he could know what was happening now.
I left Rouen and made my way south to Navarre. There I was greeted warmly, for they knew the purpose of my visit, and naturally a little country like Navarre would be delighted for its daughter to marry the King of England.
Berengaria was presented to me. She was not very young. Her father had resisted offers for her hand because when Richard had visited his Court he had hinted that he might marry her, and Sancho had lived in hopes since then; now that it seemed those hopes were about to be fulfilled, he was overjoyed.
I told him that my son had begged me to come and bring Berengaria to him. This was not exactly true, but I could hardly mention his reluctance. Sancho believed me, though he must have wondered why nothing had been done about the matter before.
It was pleasant to be in Navarre. It was not so very far from Aquitaine, and Sancho’s Court was similar to those I had known in my youth. There were the troubadours and the songs that I loved so well. Berengaria played and sang. She was a pleasant creature, but her beauty was not of that wild, tempestuous kind which might have been able to divert Richard from his tendencies. She was simply a charming, fresh-faced girl, and although she was still young enough to bear children, it seemed to me imperative that she and Richard set about the task without delay.
Sancho the Wise was Berengaria’s father, and Sancho the Strong her brother. The minstrels sang of them and of the Princess who was going to marry a great King.
It was all very pleasant and very reminiscent. It was as though the years slipped away as I sat and listened.
Berengaria remembered every detail of her first meeting with Richard.
“I thought he was the most handsome man in the world,” she told me.
“I think he still is,” I replied.
She wanted to talk about him all the time. I told her of his prowess with the sword and how people were already talking of him as the great hero of battle. He was wise too. I told her the story of Benedict of York and of William Marshal who had killed his horse from under him and yet at their next meeting Richard had given him an important post in his realm.
“And he is going now in the name of God to fight the Saracen and restore Jerusalem to Christianity.”
She clasped her hands, smiling ecstatically.
I murmured a little prayer that all would be well for her.
She told me that she had never since seen anyone like him and that she had loved him from the first moment she met him.
“There is no one like him,” I said emotionally.
“You love him, too,” she answered.
“I have loved him more than I ever loved anyone else,” I said truthfully.
“When he was here and I was only a child, he rode for me in the tournament. He wore my glove in his helmet ... as knights wear something belonging to the lady they love to show they are riding for her.”
“So he loved you then.”
“Is it not wonderful that our love has lasted all these years?”
Poor child, I feared she was going to be sadly disillusioned.
She told me of her fears that he would marry the Princess Alais.
“He swore he never would,” I told her.
“Poor Alais. I feel sorry for her.”
“You should not. She did what she wanted. She took the lover of her choice. She did not think of shame ... then. It is only now when he is gone and she is left to bear the result of that affair, that she doubtless repents her folly.”
“Yes. And I am happy, for all my dreams are coming true.”
“Very soon you will be Richard’s bride. Much as I like your father’s Court, I do not wish to tarry here. I know Richard is going to Sicily. My daughter Joanna is Queen of Sicily and she will welcome us. She is, alas, a widow now, and I do not know what plans she will make. But Richard will be there and so shall we. The wedding will take place at once and you, my dear Berengaria, will be Queen of England.”
“It is good of you to come so far for me.”
“At my age, you mean? I have traveled much in my life and, although I now look for comfort, travel troubles me less than it would most folk. Now, my child, as I said, I wish to leave very soon. You must be ready.”
“I am ready when you wish to go, my lady.”
She would be a delightful, docile daughter-in-law. I hoped Richard was not going to disappoint her too much.
Time was all-important. Richard was to spend the winter of 1190–91 in Sicily with the King of France, so I could not go to him with Berengaria while he was officially affianced to Alais. I had no doubt that Philip Augustus was making himself quite unpleasant on that account.
I decided we would wait in Italy for the appropriate moment. Richard could be informed of where we were and send for us when it would be in order for us all to meet.
By this time winter was coming on, but I dare not delay. If I missed the army in Sicily, I should have to travel all the way to the Holy Land, which could mean hardship. I was quite prepared to do it if necessary, for I must get Richard married. I could not rest until there was a child on the way.
It was an arduous journey but I was determined. For me it was full of memories, for had I not come this way all those years ago? Memories came flooding back; and what was most vivid was that day when I had learned of Raymond’s death. Then I thought I had touched the very depth of misery. But one recovers. Grief fades and life offers other joys to console one.
Berengaria was a pleasant companion—so fresh and innocent, a quality which I found most endearing. All the time I was hoping she would not suffer too much when the realities of life were forced upon her.
My relief was great when at last we reached Naples. The ships which were to take us to Sicily could be seen in the harbor. But there was disquieting news. Trouble had broken out in Sicily and we were to await Richard’s instructions before we set sail.
Chafing against the loss of time as I was, I found this hard to endure. I was even more disturbed when news of the state of affairs in Sicily filtered through.
I was so looking forward to seeing my daughter Joanna, whom I had not seen since she had been not quite eleven years old; she would be twenty-four now. I had wanted to be with her when her little son, Bohemond, had died; poor child, he had scarcely lived, and heirs were so important to kings and queens. Joanna had written to me; she had been heartbroken. And now her husband King William was dead and Tancred, the illegitimate son of William’s brother Roger, had taken the throne.