Four Sisters, All Queens Page 9

  “Spent on the king’s wedding to a foreigner, and her coronation, no doubt,” Roger de Quincy, the Earl of Winchester, says. “Thirty thousand dishes served at the feast, I was told.”

  “That is a gross exaggeration!” Henry’s voice rises. “As for my queen being a ‘foreigner,’ I wonder which of you has only English blood in his veins.”

  “You ought to know, having bled us nearly to death to fund your follies,” Sir Hubert grumbles.

  Simon de Montfort leans against a far wall, insouciant and grinning. “Ideas become follies when the bill comes due,” he says. “This council supported an alliance with Frederick when the king proposed it.”

  “That was two years ago,” the Earl of Winchester says with a sniff. “And he may have discussed the marriage proposal with us, but he gave the Lady Isabella’s hand before we voted.”

  “Is it my fault that the emperor grew tired of waiting?” Henry says, looking to Montfort as though he, and not Henry, were king. “While the barons deliberated, he would have married someone else.”

  “A council this large cannot meet more often than it does. We have our own affairs to conduct,” says Simon. “Our king must sometimes make decisions in haste, without our approval. Had he a smaller group to advise him, however, this would not be the case.”

  Having given Henry an entrée to announce his Council of Twelve, Montfort retreats back into the shadows, forgotten by all except Eléonore. Her sister-in-law is right: he is an extraordinarily handsome man. Only his eyes disturb the perfection—not their shape or color so much as their expression. Something hard lurks within. Something cold.

  The council sits wordless as Henry announces the names of those he has selected to serve. The Earl of Winchester’s name is not on the list; neither is Gilbert Marshal’s, nor Hubert de Burgh’s. Henry has chosen men who fully support him—with Uncle Guillaume to lead them.

  As soon as he finishes his list, Roger de Quincy begins to shout. “The king’s insolence knows no bounds! First he forces upon us a foreign queen with no dowry and no lands, and now he elevates her foreign uncle above us.”

  “Sir Roger, we will send you to the jail if you insult our queen again,” Henry roars. “As for her uncle, Guillaume of Savoy has served us well.”

  “He has convinced you to violate your oath of marriage to Joan of Ponthieu, and damn the consequences,” the Earl of Kent says. “He has given to you, instead, the daughter of an impoverished foreigner with neither power nor influence to benefit England.”

  “And now we hear that you have put Richmond in his care,” the Earl of Winchester says. “Any one of us might have performed that service for you. But we are not exotic enough, being mere Englishmen.”

  Eléonore can restrain herself no longer. “Tell me, Sir Roger—have you been entertained in the emperor’s palace? How often do you dine with the pope? Can you walk into the French court unannounced and be granted an immediate audience before the king?”

  Roger clenches his jaw. “The kings of France have invaded our borders and robbed us of lands belonging to our fathers. I cannot imagine why I should wish to pay homage there.”

  “Your lack of imagination is why you need my uncle to guide you,” Eléonore says. “He has more expertise in world affairs—and more ideas for how to increase England’s influence—than all the men in this room combined.”

  “And his loyalty? Where does it lie? With England, or with Savoy?” This from the Earl of Pembroke.

  “Your sister is Queen of France,” Kent says. “To whom are you loyal, O queen?”

  Eléonore’s face grows hot. “My loyalty is, and ever will be, to my husband.”

  “Enough!” Henry cries. He leaps up from his throne, his hand on the hilt of his sword as if he might need to fight his way out of the room. His eyes look wild and desperate, like a trapped animal’s.

  Simon de Montfort steps forth again, into the thick of the fray. He bows to Henry and Eléonore and then to the nobles, whose agitation has all but drowned out the king’s shout.

  “My lords. My king and queen.” He kisses Eléonore’s ring, sending a shiver up her arm. “Not all are so fortunate to be born in England.” His voice rings out over the crowd, subduing it. “I hail from France, as you know. And yes, our queen and her uncle have come to us from afar. But I speak for us all, I believe, when I say that, when first we glimpsed England’s green pastures and rolling hills, our hearts became captive to this fair isle. We are as English as if we had been born here—indeed, more so, since we chose this as our home instead of having it chosen for us by the accident of our birth.”

  “He makes a good point,” Gilbert Marshal says.

  “The wedding and coronation ceremonies we have all enjoyed—yes, monsieurs, enjoyed greatly—were necessary to demonstrate England’s power. I assure you: France was watching. The White Queen observes all that we do. The moment she thinks we are weak, pom!” He smacks a fist into his hand. “She is like a serpent, lying in the grass at England’s feet, waiting to strike.”

  “The king has done well to demonstrate his wealth with these feasts,” he says. “The whole world is now in awe of England’s splendor—and the king’s own subjects, having been fêted and fed, will not soon forget his generosity. A united England is a strong England.”

  Eléonore sees her opening, and takes it. In like fashion, she says, “All will know if England fails to provide the dowry owed to the Holy Roman Emperor. We must give, gentlemen, in order to receive. If we want the honor and glory due the most powerful nation in the world—if we want to be that nation—we must pay the price. Can we afford it? Here is a better question to ponder: can we afford not to pay?”

  She was never as powerful a speaker as Margi, never as quick of mind or tongue. But today she has found her voice—and she sees, at last, the value of all those cursed lessons in rhetoric. The barons agree—by a narrow vote, yet they agree—to levy a tax on their tenants one more time, and no one mentions “foreigners” again at all.

  When Uncle enters the room, however, she takes note of the dark glances directed his way. The barons do not yet realize his value to them—to England. Living on an island, they forget that they are part of a larger world. They cannot see beyond their purses. England will never regain its former glory if such narrow minds prevail.

  She embraces her uncle, wishing she could protect him from sour remarks. “Do not listen to these men,” she murmurs. “They are like children, bickering over who is English, and who is not.”

  “Heed your own advice, my lady.” He chuckles. “Be of good cheer! Think of all that was accomplished today. I became head of the king’s council. And you discovered who among the barons is your friend, and who is not.”

  “Yes. All despise me except Simon de Montfort.”

  “And what a splendid champion for you! Your little gift to him has come back to you in full measure. But if you want to help your husband succeed, you will need more supporters in this court. What of that most wealthy and powerful of men, who never said a word today?” He nods toward Henry’s brother, fair-haired and broad-shouldered and splendidly dressed, as always, in a red surcoat and ermine mantle.

  “Richard of Cornwall has amassed more money and lands than almost any other man alive,” he says. “Many say that he, and not Henry, is best suited to rule England. From what I have heard, Richard agrees.”

  “That is treason! I would be more inclined to behead him than to befriend him.”

  “Your husband feels quite the opposite.” This is true, Eléonore knows. Arrogant and greedy though Richard may be, he is Henry’s only brother.

  “He could make life difficult for the king. And their relationship is far from perfect. They have quarreled bitterly in the past.”

  “Siblings fight.” Eléonore shrugs. “What can one do about that?”

  “You used to quarrel quite a bit with your sisters, as I recall. Especially Margi. You, of all people, ought to know how to smooth the ruffled feathers of rivalry.”


  Across the room, Richard has seen her looking at him. Holding his gaze with her own, she gestures for Margaret Biset, her handmaid, and gives her instructions. Then, with a lift of her skirts, she turns to leave the great hall.

  “Where are you going, child?”

  “To my chambers. I have summoned Richard of Cornwall, and now he must come to me. Such is the power of a queen.” She lowers her voice. “If he’s as confident as you say, then he’ll have many opinions regarding today’s meeting. And I shall listen to them all, with utter delight.”

  Marguerite

  A Woman’s Heart

  Pontoise, 1237

  Sixteen years old

  THEY MEET BEHIND hedges, in dark passageways, underground in the cellar where the royal wine is stored—but eyes—her eyes—are always there, watching. They ride into the woods but the groomsman comes along: The White Queen would have my head if anything happened to Your Majesties. They try the obvious meeting place—Marguerite’s chambers, or Louis’s—but Blanche appears within minutes, a veritable hound on her son’s trail. Louis has a visitor, or an urgent matter to address; or a meeting scheduled at this very moment—did he forget? Marguerite, never summoned, never acknowledged, might as well be invisible except for Blanche’s look of triumph as she pulls the blushing Louis from her arms.

  “Ruling a kingdom is a demanding task,” the queen mother says. “We have no time for frivolous pursuits.”

  “Why can’t you simply tell her ‘no’?” Marguerite pleads. At first, Louis asked for patience, offered promises. Now, in their second year of marriage, he clenches his jaw and reminds her that he is in charge of an entire kingdom. Who is in charge? she wants to ask.

  “Your son appeared to me in a dream,” she whispers to Louis one night, just before he drifts off to sleep. “He is waiting to come into the world.”

  This tale appeals to his sense of the mystical. He sits up in bed: “By God, he will not have to wait long.” He takes her into his arms and kisses her fervently—but, once again, cannot finish what he has begun—cannot, really, even begin. “The day’s events have used my strength,” he says.

  “Then we must meet during the day.”

  “My mother will never allow it. She says the day is for duty and the night, for pleasure.”

  “Producing heirs isn’t one of our duties?” Ah, she has him there.

  “But how? Servants and courtiers are everywhere. Someone would tell Mama.”

  “We need secret signs, you and I,” she sings. “Boldness fails, so let cunning try!”

  She hovers like the hawk, biding her time. A trouvére comes forth with a new song for the White Queen. Marguerite slips out of her throne, unnoticed by the enraptured Blanche. She hands a servant a note for Louis, then steps into the garden. When he appears, they slip behind a row of tall hedges. He draws her close—my beautiful wife—and kisses her as though his life depended on her breath. He tastes of strawberries, his favorite fruit. His hands move like slow riders over her body’s terrain. The two of them fall, sighing, into the fragrant grass, slide tunics up and leggings down. His skin smells of cinnamon and camphor; his hipbones make a hollow into which he pulls her, his breath panting and hot on her throat.

  “He stepped out here a few moments ago.” His mother’s voice quivers like a drawn blade, cutting between them.

  “I saw no one, my lady,” a man answers. “His Grace must have continued into the bathing rooms.”

  “I am not going to follow him in there, am I? Why don’t you go and see if the king is bathing? Report to me in my chambers if you do not find him, or send him to me if you do.”

  The voices fade. Marguerite lifts her tunic again. “Hurry.”

  But Louis cannot. “Merde. My mother—”

  She makes herself kiss him. “Don’t worry. We have all our lives to make an heir.”

  “We will not have to wait that long.” He pulls her close. His heart knocks against her chest. Soon they stand and dress, she adjusting his mantle, he tying her sleeves.

  “We will have many children, I promise,” he whispers. Something crunches under her foot. She has stepped into a bed of irises: the flower of France. She reaches down and tries to stand them up, but their stalks are broken, their petals crushed.

  AND THEN THEY are on the move again, headed for Pontoise, north of the city, favored by the Emperor Baldwin of Constantinople, for its baths on the shore of the river Oise. The emperor will arrive today with an urgent petition, but has kept its subject a secret. “Money, most likely. I doubt you’ll be needed,” Blanche says to Marguerite. “Why don’t you play with Isabelle today?”

  But Isabelle is not feeling well, so Marguerite sends her to bed and instead is directing the chamberlains and chambermaids preparing her rooms—hanging clothes, setting up her bed, arranging her favorite chair by a sunny window—when she hears a knocking. She turns and opens a door—and sees Louis, beckoning her into a stairwell.

  His kiss dizzies her; his arm around her waist steadies her. With his free hand he unlaces her tunic and slips his hands inside to caress her.

  “My room is directly above,” he whispers. “My queen, we have found our place.”

  Desire surges through her, pumping like blood—but a knock interrupts, from the door at the top of the stair. Louis’s chamberlain opens it: “The queen approaches,” he rasps. Louis runs up the steps. Tugging at her gown, she wonders: Who is Louis’s queen?

  She throws open the door to her chambers, stomps inside. She calls her ladies’ names—Gisele, Bernadette, Amelie—her voice ringing like a trumpet’s call. The women buzz around her, pulling off her tunic and hose, sliding her red gown over her head, clasping a mantle of vair about her throat, folding her hair into a crespine of gold, pinning on her crown. In the mirror, she sees a queen. Now it is time to behave like one. And then she is striding into the great hall, where a small, slight young man stretches open hands toward Louis and Blanche.

  “Without France’s help, cousin, these relics may be lost forever,” he says. His pointed little beard lends poignancy to his chin—indeed, gives him a chin at all. He reminds Marguerite of a rat. A royal rat, in purple and gold with a red mantle, and a crown whose excess of jewels nearly obscure the gold. The man stops speaking as she walks to the dais and sits on her throne, at Louis’s left-hand side—Blanche is on the right. A smiling Louis introduces her to Baldwin, the Emperor of Constantinople.

  “What a surprise to see you here, daughter,” Blanche says. Her voice sounds pinched, as if she were holding her nose. “Did you grow tired of playing with Isabelle?”

  “I have just returned from comforting the poor child. She has not seen her mother in several days, and is sick with longing. You will find her in her bed, crying for you.”

  All eyes turn to Blanche, whose blush bleeds from the edges of her white mask. As she must know, Isabelle has taken to her bed with stomach pains. Several days earlier the girl asked Blanche for alms to give to the poor, but Blanche did not respond. Now the girl refuses to eat until her mother sends money.

  “I shall go to her in time,” Blanche says.

  “She is quite ill. She says that only you can cure her,” Marguerite says.

  “Please, Mother, do not feel pressed to remain with us,” Louis says.

  “And insult our visitor?” She smiles at the emperor, who lowers his eyes like a bashful lover. “I want to hear his petition.”

  “Dear Mother, your devotion to our kingdom is impressive,” Louis says. “Yet you have taught us well. We can surely judge this matter.”

  “Yes, Mother, I am here to advise the king.” Marguerite reaches over to give Louis’s hand an affectionate squeeze.

  Overruled, Blanche stands. Her cold glance lifts the hair on Marguerite’s arms. The emperor bows as she steps off the platform with a swish of her skirt. He then turns to Louis.

  “If we lose these items to the Venetians, who knows what will happen to them? The merchants there think only of money, and would no doub
t sell them for the highest price—even if it came from a Jew.”

  Louis pales. “God forgive us if we allowed such a thing to come to pass. A Jew, acquire the holy relics of Christ! They who sent our Savior to his death? They would destroy them as evidence of their sin.”

  “Relics of Christ!” Marguerite catches her breath. “Which ones?”

  The emperor pauses, looks around as if fearing he might be overheard. “The Crown of Thorns.”

  Louis crosses himself.

  “But why would you sell such a priceless item?” Marguerite says.

  “The Roman Empire is in tatters. So many sieges and conquests. Constantinople is all that remains. My father lost much land.”

  In the fight to regain his territory, the emperor borrowed heavily from Venice. As security for the loan, he gave up the Crown of Thorns. “The doge of Venice will sell it if I don’t repay him soon. I am in agony over it. After many long nights of prayer, the Lord has sent me to offer it to you.”

  “Praise God for this opportunity! He has chosen to glorify France.” Louis’s eyes seem to glow. “We must not fail him.”

  “How much will it cost?” Marguerite says.

  “The Lord has willed it.” Louis frowns at her. “France is destined to own this relic.”

  “If that is so, then why pay for it? Won’t it come to us no matter what we do?”

  “We have decided!” He pounds his fist on the arm of his throne, glaring at her. “France will pay the price and rescue the crown.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” The emperor’s mouth twitches as he bows. “The Christian world is beholden to you.”

  When Baldwin has gone to his chambers, she turns to Louis. “Why didn’t you negotiate a price? Who knows how much the emperor has invested?”