“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.

I thanked God that Richard was on the spot. He would surely rescue his sister from the dire plight in which she clearly found herself.

I continued to be worried about the passing of time. I must get Richard married. He knew I was determined to and he knew I was right; but at the same time he wanted to avoid it; and moreover there was his friendship with Philip Augustus. I had no idea what the relationship between them was now and whether they continued to be lovers; but Philip Augustus, from what I could gather, was a king who regarded his personal life as being quite apart from his kingship.

So there I was in Naples, each day hoping for news, wondering what was happening between Richard and Philip Augustus and how they were spending the time. Richard had already distinguished himself. There was no doubt about that. People spoke of him with awe, the great Coeur de Lion—the Lionheart. I heard the very sight of him inspired people and his bravery was a byword.

All the same, there were rumors. One which distressed me particularly was that he had gone to the door of a church wearing nothing but his breeches and there he publicly confessed to his homosexuality.

“How could you, Richard?” I said aloud. “Why proclaim it? What if Berengaria hears of this ... or worse still, Sancho of Navarre? What do you think they would do? Berengaria would perhaps be ignorant of what it meant but there would surely be those to enlighten her.”

And here was I, at my age, bearing all the stresses of travel, giving up my comforts in my determination to get him married!

There had long been rumors of his way of life. They had started when he and Philip Augustus had so blatantly shown their affection for each other.

Richard had been chosen to lead the crusade; his military reputation made it clear that he was just the man; but there were some who did not approve of the choice.

The preacher Fulke of Neuilly, while exhorting men to join the crusade, expressed a doubt that Richard was the man to lead it. Fulke stressed the fact that this was a holy war and, great soldier that Richard was, his private life was not such as to make him fit to lead an expedition in the name of Christianity.

“Thou hast three dangerous daughters,” thundered Fulke, when he was preaching and Richard was in the congregation, “and they are leading you to disaster.”

Richard stood up and said: “I have no daughters.”

“But you have,” countered Fulke. “They are Pride, Avarice and Lechery.”

Richard knew how to deal with such a man and I was proud of him when I heard what happened next.

He cried out so that all could hear. “So ... this men tells me I have three daughters. I will be generous and give my daughters away. I will give Pride to the Templars and Hospitallers, Avarice to the Cistercian monks, and my Lechery to the prelates of the Church.”

There was a murmur of approval throughout the assembly, for all knew of the pride of the Templars, the Cistercians had a reputation for greed, and there was immorality in plenty among the clergy.

I wondered how Fulke felt. Perhaps he would learn in future that it was better not to do battle with Richard either with the sword or with words.

But I was uneasy because Richard’s leanings were becoming so well known.

It was March before I had a message that I should prepare to sail for Sicily.

What joy it was to be united with two of my children: my beloved Richard and Joanna.

There was much to tell. Joanna embraced me with fervor. I had always had a rapport with my children—apart from John, who did not seem like one of mine somehow—and although there were long periods when we did not see each other, the affection was there, instantaneous when we met, and it was as though we had never been parted.

Poor girl, Joanna had gone through a terrible ordeal. She told me how Tancred had seized power and imprisoned her in the palace where, when her husband was alive, she had lived in regal splendor. Joanna was the one of my daughters who was most like me. Matilda and Eleanor were of milder dispositions; Joanna was one who would fight for her rights, and for that reason Tancred had seen fit to shut her away.

I, who had been a prisoner myself, could well sympathize with her, and I listened with great tenderness to the talk of her sufferings.

“Always,” she said, “I thought of getting a message to Richard. I used to tell myself that had my father been alive he would have come to my rescue but I need not fear for I had a brother who was now King and who would do the same. It was wonderful when he arrived with his fleet. There were the English ships lying off the coast—a hundred galleys and fourteen large ships carrying arms and provisions. It was a marvelous sight. I knew my deliverance was at hand. The people rushed to the shore to greet them. The galleys rode in, all the banners and pennons floating on top of the spears. The fronts of the ships were painted with the knights’ devices.

“And there was Richard. Oh, my lady Mother, he is so magnificent. More like a god than a man. He is so much taller than the others; he stands well above them. The trumpets rang out. Do you know what the people said of him? ‘Such a one is worthy to rule an empire. He is rightly made King over people and kingdoms. He is greater even than we have heard of him.’ How different it was when the French fleet came in.” She laughed. “They had suffered storms and stress, and the French King was very ill. I believe he is losing his enthusiasm for the crusade.”

She went on to tell me what a difference Richard’s arrival had made. He had immediately demanded that Tancred free his sister, and so afraid was Tancred that he arranged for her to join her brother, and all that he had stolen from her was restored.

“I was taken to the hospital of St. John’s which Tancred had arranged should be made ready, so that I might reside there in comfort. Richard came to me there. What a wonderful reunion! And with him, my lady, was the King of France. He was most gracious and complimentary to me. People were saying that he would want to marry me, but I do not think that was so.”

She was very friendly with Berengaria. Indeed, it would have been difficult to be anything else, for the girl was so eager to please. Richard had received her with a cool courtesy which sent flickers of alarm through me.

I heard, too, what had happened to him.

When he had crossed to Calais at the beginning of the journey, he met Philip Augustus at Gu St.-Rmi. They had been together awhile, then they parted to meet again at Dreux. They were in complete amity—lovers, I presumed. However, they swore to defend each other’s kingdom as they would their own. Richard’s great desire was not only to win back Jerusalem in the name of Christendom but to make the way there safe for pilgrims.

In Gascony he was seeking Walter de Chisi who had been robbing pilgrims on their way to Compostela, and when he found him he threw him into prison and confiscated his wealth.

Richard was certainly eager to fill his treasury. He knew that crusades were often more costly than had first been realized, and he wanted to make sure that he was not impeded by lack of money. Whenever he saw a chance of adding to his resources, he took it with both hands; and when he came to Sicily and found his sister in distress, he felt that it was his duty not only to rescue her but to fill his coffers at the same time. Such a purpose was worth a little delay, a little divergence from the main project.

He knew that for years King William had been collecting money because he himself planned to go on a crusade. Where was that money? It was said that, when he knew he was dying, William had left the money to his father-in-law, Henry of England, for Henry at that time had vowed to go on a crusade. Richard now claimed the money. It had been saved for a crusade. He was the leader of this one, and the money was rightly his, as he was his father’s heir.

Finally something was settled with Tancred about the money, and Richard promised that Tancred’s daughter should marry Arthur of Brittany, the posthumous son of his brother Geoffrey, whom he had named as his heir in the event of his having no children of his own. So there was no fighting between Richard and Tancred. Tancred was too wise to enter into that kind of conflict with the mighty Richard; and in any case Richard had what he wanted without it.

Tancred, a mischievous man, had done his best to drive a wedge between the French and English Kings. He had tried to get Philip Augustus to side with him against Richard. Philip Augustus, however, declined to betray his friend.