However, I must leave them. But for the urgent need to get Richard married I should not be here now. I was deeply worried about John and the incompetence of Longchamp; and in such a mood I set out on the long journey back.
When I arrived in Rome, I was received by Pope Celestine III, who was gracious and helpful over the See of York. He agreed with me that, as it had been the wish of the late King that his son Geoffrey should have it, illegitimate though he was, this should be done. I did explain that Geoffrey had always been treated as a member of the family and brought up in the royal nursery; he had been a good and faithful son and was with his father at his death.
“Then he is your Archbishop of York,” said the Pope.
I was very tired and feeling my age. But I had achieved a great deal. I had taken Berengaria to Richard and he had given his word that he would marry her. I did not believe he would break that word; and I had settled this matter of the See of York.
Now I must rest awhile in Rouen, where I could be watchful of what was happening in Normandy and across the Channel.
It was a good task done, but my work was by no means completed.
It soon emerged that there could be plenty to disturb me.
John, of course, was bent on worming his way into power. He was spreading rumors that Richard had no intention of returning from the Holy Land and would doubtless become King of Jerusalem.
He was quarreling with Longchamp.
Geoffrey, who had been in Normandy, attempted to return to England to take up his new post and was arrested on Longchamp’s orders and put into prison in Dover.
John, who looked upon Longchamp as his enemy, seized the opportunity this offered; he had the bishops and barons on his side and they, with the justiciars, summoned Longchamp to appear before them and defend his conduct. Longchamp made use of the time-honored excuse of illness and did not appear. He was forthwith excommunicated by the bishops. Meanwhile Longchamp tried to ingratiate himself with John and agreed to stand trial, but when he realized that his enemies were determined to be rid of him, he decided it would be wise to leave the country.
His escape turned out to be quite a comic interlude. Fearing that he might be prevented from leaving the country, he disguised himself as a woman. He wore a rather showy gown and was mistaken for a harlot. One of the sailors made advances to him; there was a scuffle, and during it the sailor became aware of his sex. He shouted to his companions that this was no woman but a man. They gathered around, pulling at his clothes and taking off his wig.
He was held a prisoner until he gave up the keys of the Tower and Windsor which he held as Chancellor; and then he was allowed to depart.
In France Longchamp made his way to Paris, where he sought out a cardinal friend, explained his plight and begged the cardinal to help him to an audience with me so that he could tell me of the troubles which were being stirred up by my son John.
As I was well aware of the troubles John was stirring up, I saw a good way of ridding the country of the arrogant and incompetent Chancellor, and I turned a deaf ear to his pleading.
What I needed more than anything was to hear that Richard was married. News was so difficult to come by. But at last messengers arrived and then I felt more contented than I had for a long time. Richard and Berengaria had been married in Limassol, on the island of Cyprus. We were over the first hurdle; now I wanted to hear more than ever that a son had been born to them.
I was horrified when I heard of their adventures. None knew better than I the dangers they would be facing. But at least I was comforted by the knowledge that they were safe so far. I thanked God that my practical, indomitable Joanna was there to look after Berengaria.
They had sailed from Sicily in their fleet of ships—Richard taking up the rear, a huge lantern at the poop of his favorite vessel, the Trenc-the-Mere, in which he was traveling. Berengaria was not in his ship as he had said that they were not yet married and it would be improper for her to be with him. She was traveling with Joanna.
Good Friday dawned. The wind had risen and was blowing angry clouds across the sky and Richard, speaking through the large trumpet he kept for the purpose, warned his fleet to be prepared for storms. When they came, it was difficult for the ships to keep together; the sails were useless, and Richard’s voice was lost in the roar of the wind. The storm continued for some hours and when it was over Richard decided that they must call in at Crete to assess the damage to some of his ships. Then to his horror he noticed that some ships were missing, among them his treasure ship and the one in which Joanna and Berengaria were sailing.
I suffered with them when I heard how they had thought their last moment had come. Richard should have had them in his ship. Who cared for propriety at such times? But perhaps it was not propriety in Richard’s case. I could well imagine he wanted a little respite from the adoring Berengaria.
However, when the storm abated, the ship in which Joanna and Berengaria were sailing was still afloat and before them was the island of Cyprus. While they lay at anchor, they were made aware of the precariousness of their position, for a party of English sailors rowed out to them with a story which set them tingling with alarm. They had been in one of the other ships which the storm had cast up on this coast. The Cypriots had helped them salvage what they could from the vessel, but when the goods were safely ashore, the islanders had taken possession of them and put the sailors into prison. When they heard that an English ship was lying off the coast, they had escaped from their prison, found a boat and rowed out to warn their compatriots what would happen to them if they came ashore.
Berengaria and Joanna were frightened. Here they were, off the coast of Cyprus and no sign of Richard. While they were wondering what would happen to them, they saw a small boat rowing out toward the ship. In it was a very splendidly attired naval man, who told them that the Emperor Isaac Comnenus knew who they were and would like to offer them hospitality. Would they therefore allow him to take them ashore?
I was glad that Joanna was there. Having heard the tale the English sailors had to tell, she was wary. She knew that, if she and Berengaria were captive in the hands of Isaac Comnenus, a big ransom could be demanded for them. The last thing Richard would want to do was spend money on them!
She said: “Please bring the Emperor to us.”
“He is so eager to honor you,” she was told, “that he wants to entertain you in his palace.”
Joanna said that they needed time to consider the invitation. They needed time to recover from their ordeal at sea.
“The Emperor will have luxurious apartments prepared for you,” they were told.
Joanna was adamant. They needed time to make ready. They knew that the Emperor would understand, and they thanked him most warmly for his consideration.
Clever Joanna! I tremble to think what would have happened had Berengaria been alone. I was sure she would have trusted the wily Emperor.
The captain of the vessel was greatly relieved that the ladies had avoided accepting the invitation. Later that day some of the shipwrecked sailors who had been imprisoned were fighting their way to the shore; several of them escaped and came out in little boats. They all had the same story to telclass="underline" they had salvaged the goods on their ships and these had been seized and they themselves taken away to prison and left to starve. They had been desperate and when they heard that an English ship was close by, they had broken free and made their way to it.
The weather did not improve. Each day they looked eagerly for Richard; each day they wondered how long they would be allowed to remain in peace. Fortunately the bad weather was a help to them. The Emperor was hurt that his invitation had not been accepted, said more messengers; they hinted that continued rejection might anger him.