Four Sisters, All Queens Page 7

  Her stomach flutters, causing her to pick at her meal although she has not eaten all day. Coming from a home where food was scarce, she is accustomed to hunger. Louis, too, eats little, and grins much. When the musicians begin to play, he leans toward her. He is tired, he says, of music and crowds. Would she welcome a tour of the château and grounds? The gardens are most impressive.

  They step into the courtyard and it is as he said: cherry trees blossom wantonly, filling the air with fragrance, and lilies bloom around a burbling fountain.

  “This fountain seemed much larger when I was small,” Louis says. “I remember hiding behind it. Now I see why I was so easily found.”

  “From whom would little Prince Louis have hidden?”

  He grimaces. “My tutor. I had neglected my studies. His beatings were quite severe.”

  “What a pity!” She reaches up to stroke his cheek. “A good teacher would have inspired you instead of beating you.”

  “Oh, but I was a very sinful child. I was much more interested in chasing frogs and torturing beetles than reading my psalter.” He sighs. “Think of my poor mother, trying to bring up an unruly boy while ruling a kingdom of malcontents. I caused her much woe—until my fourteenth birthday. On that day Mama appointed M. de Flagy to me, a true gift from God. His daily whippings helped me to mend my ways.”

  Marguerite gasps. “Daily whippings! You poor boy.”

  “It is not so serious as that.” He plucks a blossom and tucks it into her crespine. “But I did not bring you into these beautiful gardens to discuss my tutors. I had hoped for a kiss under these trees from my lovely wife.”

  He brushes her cheek with his lips. His breath is hot on her face. His heart thumps against her chest.

  “You are lovely.” He kisses her on the mouth, gently at first, as if he can feel her pulse, too, racing in her breast. At last, when she winds her arms around his neck, delighting in the taste and feel of him, his kiss deepens.

  “I cannot wait to join our bodies,” he murmurs. “I pray that the priests will bless our marriage bed soon.”

  “Soon enough, my son.” Blanche’s voice is a lance piercing their privacy—or their illusion of it. “First, however, we must discuss affairs of the kingdom.”

  Louis stiffens. His hands fall from Marguerite’s body. Blanche’s face holds disgust, as though she had found them naked and fornicating on the lawn.

  “Your presence is required in my chambers, Louis. If you are not too busy.”

  What “affairs of the kingdom” cannot wait until tomorrow? This is the life of a queen, Marguerite supposes: no time to call one’s own, ever subservient to the people’s needs. She had thought that, as queen, she would have control over her life as well as the lives of others. Now, after three days of fulfilling others’ desires while putting off her own, she thinks the opposite may be true.

  Inside the great hall the music continues, but the diners, weary after days of travel and revelry, are dispersing. Marguerite nods to her uncles, across the room, talking together and glancing at her. Blanche speaks to Louis but Marguerite cannot hear her over the din. They pass through the great hall and up the stairs to the queen’s chambers, where Raimond of Toulouse awaits outside the door, flanked by palace guards.

  The White Queen greets her cousin with a kiss. “Your presence is not needed here,” she says to Marguerite. “I will have one of the guards show you to your chambers. I know how you love your sleep.”

  “But . . . I am the queen, ma mère. I would like to participate.” She hopes the quavering in her voice is not detectable. Blanche arches her brows at Louis: Do you see what I mean about her? He averts his gaze from Marguerite, refusing to meet her eyes.

  “These are delicate negotiations,” he says.

  “And I am your queen. I want to be included.”

  An uncomfortable silence follows.

  “Perhaps you can be of use to us,” Blanche says at last. “My cousin Toulouse says that your father has taken a number of French knights as hostages. He demands an exorbitant ransom for their release. How much influence can you wield with him?”

  “If Raimond of Toulouse will agree to stop attacking our castles, I think my father would reduce the ransom,” she says.

  “Our castles? Is your allegiance yet with Provence, then?” The White Queen turns to Louis. “Do you agree with me now?” His gaze droops. “Louis, I will see you inside. Marguerite, enjoy your rest.”

  When she has gone, Marguerite knits her brows. “Am I Queen of France, or is she?”

  “It is . . . complicated. You would do well, I think, to avoid this meeting. Toulouse is temperamental and vindictive. One errant word from you might worsen matters—for all.”

  “But didn’t you marry me for my ties to Provence? Doesn’t your mother want an alliance with my father?”

  “That will come in time,” Louis said. “You must be patient. For now, it is best that you keep yourself apart from the situation. Mama and I must consider Toulouse’s proposal carefully and do what is best for France.”

  “What is he proposing? Some bold new plan for ruining my family, no doubt.”

  “I cannot discuss it with you now.” He holds both her hands. “Please, darling, wait for me in your chambers. The priests are blessing the nuptial bed even now, and I will join you soon.” He pecks her on the forehead with lips like a smooth stone, then steps into his mother’s chambers. Marguerite wants to follow, but a guard blocks her way. She heads into the great hall, where her uncles wait for the bed-blessing ceremony with several men: Odo, the abbot of St. Denis; the red-faced Count Enguerrand of Coucy, the noble she saw blowing his nose in the tablecloth during the wedding feast; Louis’s uncle Philip Hurepel, who once fought Blanche for the kingdom and lost; Thibaut of Champagne; and still others. Her uncles pull her aside.

  “Why aren’t you in the meeting with Toulouse?” Uncle Guillaume demands. “We hear he is plotting to invade Provence yet again, and with a greater force than before.”

  “Blanche barred me. She said my connections to Provence would upset the ‘delicate’ discussions.”

  “I knew it!” Thomas says. “Blanche will not give up her power so easily.”

  “You must be stronger, Margi,” Uncle Guillaume says. “Otherwise, we have married you to France in vain.”

  “I welcome your advice, Uncle. Or perhaps you would care to provide an example, and force your way into the meeting? It is taking place in the queen mother’s chambers.”

  Thomas grins. “Margi, you remind me more of your mother with each passing day.”

  “You have our sister’s wit,” Guillaume says, “but are you as discerning as she? How will Louis and Blanche respond to Toulouse’s request? How should they respond?”

  She ponders for a moment. “I think,” she says, hesitating, “that the White Queen will say no. Toulouse has her affection, but she will not help him. For one thing, the pope of Rome is indebted to my father for supporting him during the Albigensian raids. France does not want to fight the Church.”

  It was the one policy of her father’s with which she disagreed. How could he allow the Church to attack his people? Why would he aid the pope of Rome by granting his troops safe passage to Languedoc? “We know the Cathars,” she argued, “and they are not heretics.”

  “We know nothing,” her father had responded, “except that the pope is winning his war against the Holy Roman Emperor. His power grows daily. If we refuse him now, he may refuse us someday when we need his help.” Now, however, when they do need his help, Papa will not request it. Favors from the Church, he fears, might come at too high a price.

  “Also,” she tells her uncles, “the Holy Roman Emperor now supports Toulouse. Blanche would not want to join that alliance.” In the bitter fight between the pope and the emperor, France has managed to remain neutral.

  “Well spoken, Margi,” Uncle Thomas says. “Do you see, brother? We will leave France in very good hands.”

  “But you’ve only just arr
ived,” she says with a little laugh. “You’re to become advisers to the crown, remember?”

  “Your mother-in-law is not interested in our advice,” Thomas says. “She is sending us home.”

  “Home! But that is impossible. There must be a mistake.” Her head begins to ache.

  “There is no mistake.” Uncle Guillaume places his hands on her shoulders. “All who accompanied you from Provence must return in the morning. Blanche commanded it today.”

  “All?” Marguerite’s voice falters. “Even Aimée?”

  “Blanche has appointed new ladies-in-waiting for you, probably daughters of the barons who are friendly to her,” Thomas says. “They will certainly spy for her.”

  “Try not to cry, my dear.” Guillaume kisses her tears. “It is most unqueenly, and your subjects are watching.”

  “I do not care,” she says as she dries her eyes. “I can’t lose you. Uncles! You, at least, must stay with me. My parents would want it.”

  “There is nothing we can do,” Thomas says. “The White Queen has spoken, and the king has concurred. None of us, not even Guillaume or I, will be allowed to enter Paris with you. It is why we stopped in Fontainebleau for the night. We leave for Provence tomorrow.”

  Eléonore

  A Fickle King

  Canterbury, 1236

  Thirteen years old

  BY GOD’S HEAD, he is an old man.

  His eyes crinkle as he smiles at her—not just crinkles but lines, deeply etched, eroded by time. Old. If his face were a rock, she could use those lines for climbing, and those in his forehead, too, to boost herself to the top of his head. Up and over his crown, holding onto the emeralds and rubies. He extends a hand to help her from the carriage. Russet hair curls along the backs of his fingers. Old. A shudder runs through her.

  “You are shivering.” He removes his outer mantle, green velvet lined with fur, and places it on her shoulders. “January is our most inclement month. And February.”

  “It is never this cold in Provence,” she says as he fastens the clasp at her throat. “Not in Aix, or Marseille.” The skin around his left eye slumps like marzipan left in the sun to melt. He appears sad. She wishes she hadn’t shuddered.

  “You’ll think the climate here atrocious,” he says. “Complaining about the weather is a favorite English pastime, and with good reason. There.” He smoothes the fur, crushing her new gown, a gift from Margi. “Is that better? Good. Welcome to England.”

  She remembers her uncle’s instructions, and drops into a bow. “I am delighted, Your Grace,” she says. “I have looked forward to this day all my life.”

  Uncle Guillaume’s advice prods her. Do not appear too eager, lest he lose interest in you. King Henry is notoriously fickle.

  “I mean—I have long wanted to visit your kingdom.”

  Canterbury, he says, is one of England’s most popular destinations. His voice sounds slightly gruff, an old man’s voice. “You are aware of the pilgrims who journey here year-round?” Knights serving King Henry’s grandfather, Henry II, assassinated the saint Thomas à Becket in this very chapel, he says as they walk toward the magnificent cathedral. A line of barons, ladies, priests, monks, merchants and peasants, bearing candlesticks, jewels, goblets, robes, and other precious gifts as well as donkeys, horses, several goats, chickens, and a gaggle of honking, screeching children snakes its way across the plaza and through the chapel doors. “A mere visit to his shrine, it is said, will cure any illness.”

  Eléonore wonders why the king has never sought a cure there for his drooping eye. And does he always talk so much? Perhaps he is nervous, too. She smiles, reminding herself of her goal—capturing the king’s fancy and holding it until she is queen—and changes the subject to one that she knows they both enjoy.

  “Have you been to Glastonbury, my lord?”

  His smile broadens. “King Arthur is a hero of mine. Even if he is only a myth.”

  “A myth? My lord, no! He was as real as you or I.” Her eyes shine with the fires of Camelot. “Monmouth’s History is a bit fanciful, I admit.”

  “And what of Lancelot? Is he Chrétien de Troyes’s invention, or did Monmouth omit him from his account?”

  “I have not read it, my lord, but have heard parts of it recited in my father’s court.” Toulouse’s attacks have increased, not diminished, since Marguerite’s wedding to King Louis. The count can barely afford to feed his court, let alone buy books.

  “We have Chrétien’s book at Westminster. Fully illuminated. It shall be my wedding gift to you.”

  “My lord!” She wants to squeal and jump about, but he is twenty-eight, a grown man. You must act his age, not your own. “But—I have nothing for you.”

  “Heirs to the throne will be gift enough.” She stiffens. “Forgive me for frightening you. I forget the difference in our ages.” His eye seems to droop more than ever now that his smile has gone. “I can imagine how I must appear to you.”

  Eléonore stops and lays her palm against his cheek, touching the place where it sags. She searches for some kind thing to say that would bring his smile back.

  “A youth of such unparalleled courage and generosity, joined with that sweetness of temper and innate goodness, as granted him universal love.”

  “That is from Monmouth, isn’t it?” He scowls. “Are we back to Arthur now?”

  “No, my lord, I am answering your question. That is how you appear to me. As generous and courageous as King Arthur.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  The corners of his mouth twitch.

  “And as sweet-tempered,” she adds.

  “Sweet-tempered! My dear, you must tell my sister,” he says, then throws back his head and lets out a mighty roar—of laughter.

  In the next moment they are stepping into the cathedral. The making of heirs is forgotten amid the fanfare of trumpets, the servants bowing—to her!—the appraising stares of some nobles, the shouts and cheers from others, the lofty choir with its series of pointed arches ascending like stairs to heaven, and the glimmer of a starry sky’s worth of candles flickering on the walls and on every surface. The cathedral shimmers as if bathed in fairy dust.

  Uncle approaches and Eléonore introduces him. “A most illustrious house, Savoy,” King Henry says.

  “More so than ever, now that our Eléonore joins her sister in marrying a powerful king,” Uncle says. “My sincere compliments, Your Grace. I attended King Louis IX’s wedding to our Margi, and it was a lackluster affair compared to this.” He makes a sweeping gesture. “Canterbury Cathedral is transformed!”

  Pleasure writes itself on the king’s face. “Could I have arrayed the very stars throughout the chapel, they would pale against the beauty of my bride-to-be.” His eyes caress her face. Eléonore leans toward him, her heart unfurling like a slowly blooming rose.

  “You will find our Elli to be a woman of stout heart, loyal and bold, an excellent companion,” Uncle says. “And she can ride, shoot, and spar as well as any man.”

  “Do you enjoy the hunt, then?” King Henry looks as though he has shucked an oyster and found a pearl.

  “I enjoy winning,” she says, grinning at him.

  “A brilliant match,” the king says to Uncle. “Delightful.”

  “Yes, truly, Your Grace. And, as you may know, it was I who arranged this marriage. If you will grant me an audience for even a short while, I can provide many more ideas for increasing England’s stature.”

  “Henry, what are you doing?” A tall woman with hair the color of russet, like the king’s, rushes over and takes Eléonore’s hands into her own. “Your bride has traveled across the sea and, today, all the way from Dover. My dear, you look tired.”

  Eléonore yawns. “A drink of water would put me in the right.”

  “Nonsense!” The woman places an arm around her shoulders. “Oblivious as usual, Henry. Are you going to give your young bride some nourishment, or let her faint away here on the floor?” />
  Uncle’s petition forgotten, the king and his sister Eleanor Marshal lead the party into the monastery, where a great banquet awaits. Servants bring washing cloths and bowls of water, gourds of Henry’s favorite wine from the Loire Valley, bread, and dishes of meat, fish, and cheese.

  “Ours must seem a bland diet compared to the fare in Provence,” Eleanor Marshal says. She eyes Eléonore’s gown. “Our fashions pale in comparison, as well, it appears.”

  Marguerite had this gown made for her, a confection of purple silk with silver lace, on Eléonore’s stop in Paris. You cannot greet the King of England in your clothes from Provence. They will think you a simple country bumpkin. Judging from the out-of-date gowns she is seeing here—trailing tippets! wimples!—Eléonore thinks her sister need not have gone to the expense.

  “I can make anything you own into something equally beautiful,” she offers, eyeing her sister-in-law’s austere gray tunic and surcoat. “After wearing my sister’s castoffs all my life, I became a proficient seamstress.”

  Eleanor Marshal shakes her head. “I took a vow of chastity when my husband died. Dressing to allure would gain me nothing.”

  “A vow of chastity? Why? You could marry any man you choose.”

  “A woman, choose? Things must be different in Provence.” Her laugh is wry. “I was given in marriage to an old man. For the sake of the kingdom, they said. May the Lord spare me from that fate a second time.”

  A striking man with wavy, jet-black hair and blue eyes refills the king’s water pitcher. Eléonore catches her breath at his smile.

  “Simon de Montfort, from France,” Eleanor Marshal whispers. “Have you ever seen a more handsome fellow? And he speaks so eloquently. Henry adores him.”

  A shout rings out, and the clatter of horses’ hooves. “More visitors?” Henry says. “My God. Interrupting our meal.”

  A servant appears. “The Count of Ponthieu, Your Grace, with his daughter, Joan.” Murmurs fill the hall.