Four Sisters, All Queens (11 page)

At ceremony’s end, the barons remove the heavy crowns from hers and Louis’s heads and the archbishop replaces them with smaller ones. She stands, and the entire room seems to shift as the
people sink to their knees and bow their heads to her. Tears track the pale landscape of her face but Marguerite no longer cares. These are her people.
Dear God, help me to rule wisely.
She thinks of the Queen of Sheba, craving wisdom, seeking it like light.

Beside her, Louis raises his scepter.
“Vive la reine!”
he calls.

“Vive la reine!”
The crowd chants in unison, rising to its feet. All the nobles—her uncles, Raimond of Toulouse, the Count of Champagne, Louis’s brothers, and hundreds more—all have bowed to her except two: Isambour of Denmark, Philip Augustus’s first queen, pinching her wrinkled mouth into a dour smile; and, beside her, Blanche, who watches the ceremony with dull eyes, but does not bend her knee. No matter. Her mother-in-law might not bow to her—yet—but she must defer. Marguerite is now the Queen of France.

The ceremony ended, the barons shepherd the crowd outdoors for the royal almsgiving. Blanche approaches. Louis hastens down the choir steps to her, leaving Marguerite to trail after him. His mother kisses him on the mouth more fervently than his wife has been able to do—and then graces Marguerite with a limp handshake.

“I see that you have adopted the French fashion,” she says.

“The makeup feels strange, but the gown is glorious,” she says. “Do you approve, Queen Mother?”

Blanche sweeps her appraising glance from Marguerite’s crown to her shoes, and back again. Her eyes glint like glass, though her smile is broad. “The saying is true, apparently,” she says. “One cannot fashion a silk purse from a sow’s ear. You will always be a country girl to me.”

Heat floods Marguerite’s face, but the White Queen cannot tell. Or so she hopes. “And to me, you will always be the dowager queen,” she says. “Although your rule is ending, I hope that Louis and I will be able to rely on your advice.”

The White Queen’s gaze pierces, ruthless. “Do not fret, child. I don’t plan to leave you, or the throne.”

“Will a single chair accommodate us both, then?” Marguerite forces a laugh.

“Didn’t Louis tell you? He has had a new throne fashioned for you. The three of us shall sit together. And”—she flashes a triumphant smile—“he vowed to regard my counsel above all others’.”

She sends Louis a querulous look. “Is this so, my lord?”

“Today the Lord has blessed our kingdom with two queens,” he says. “One to enrich our heart with affection and heirs”—he squeezes her hand—“and one”—he takes his mother’s hand, as well—“to conduct our business with wisdom and experience.”

The blast of trumpets interrupts their talk. Excitement leaps from Louis’s face like light from a flame. “And now, my new queen, comes the best part of our work,” he says as he leads Marguerite outdoors.

On the lawn, it seems as if they have stepped into another world—out of the light and into shadow. Peasants crowd the square, their tunics theadbare, their feet unshod, their hands outstretched. Again she feels thankful for the mask upon her face, the feel of the thick paste reminding her to hold her expression still against the smells of rotting teeth and unwashed bodies. She wills herself not to shrink back from the grasping hands that might tear her dress or snatch her golden crown away. Yet when she presses a silver coin into an old man’s palm, his shout of thanks makes her smile and reach for another coin. Louis, too, smiles as he distributes coins that, in his world, are spent as carelessly as stones tossed into a stream.

Two men push through the crowd, bearing a woman on a stretcher. She lies gasping and pale. Bulges as large as hen’s eggs protrude from her neck. Lord Peter, the Count of Brittany, draws his sword as if to fend off her sickness, but Louis calms him with a touch of his hand. He steps over to the poor woman. “My wife has scrofula, Your Grace,” one of the stretcher-bearers says. “I beg you to heal her.”

“Not I, but the Lord.” Louis gestures to the archbishop, who squeezes through the roiling crowds, grasping his prayer book. Louis places his hands on the afflicted woman’s neck. She closes her eyes, sighing, while the archbishop intones a Latin prayer.
“You are healed,” Louis says, and gives the husband two pieces of silver.

Marguerite stares at the scene, dumbstruck. The King of France’s piety is widely known, but—this? “Praise the Lord!” Blanche cries. Marguerite’s muscles tense; she wants to run—but she turns away from the weeping family, from their ecstatic kisses and shouts, and walks, moving slowly against the crush, handing coins along the way. Aimée follows: is she unwell? A headache, she claims, and heads for the palace to rest before the feast, and to ponder the vaunted pride of the man she has married.

“I
S THE WOMAN
truly healed?” she asks Louis later, sitting with him at a banquet table under the trees. “Have you driven away her sickness with your hands?”

He looks at her in surprise. “Not I, but the Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Does Jesus Christ work miracles through your hands, then? Has he given you special healing powers?”

“Your question disturbs me,” he says with a frown. “Does that diseased peasant, cursed with the lowest birth, have more faith than her exalted queen?” Marguerite’s face burns as if warmed by the very fires of hell.

On her right, the elderly Isambour of Denmark gives an ungraceful snort. “If our king is such a worker of miracles, why doesn’t he raise his mother from the dead?”

Marguerite bursts into laughter, then looks around to see who might have heard. Fortunately, Louis is occupied with his sister Isabelle, while the rest of the diners watch and laugh as a minstrel plays the recorder and breaks wind in rhythmic accompaniment.

Encouraged by Marguerite’s reaction, Isambour winks. “Perhaps Louis’s mind is a bit muddled on the day after his wedding. Did you keep him awake too long last night?”

“Not I, my lady. Louis spent the night in prayer.”

She snorts again. “Whose idea was that? Blanche’s, I bet.”

“The archbishop suggested it. At the wedding?”

She nods. “That would have occurred during my nap. Celebrations of the mass always put me to sleep. But that delay-the-consummation folly most certainly originated with Blanche.”

She prods Marguerite with a long fingernail. “Be on your watch where that woman is concerned. She has enjoyed the comforts of Louis the Son ever since Louis the Father died. Ten years! And I doubt that she will give him up.”

“She invited me to call her ‘Mama.’”

“Have you ever seen a lion smile? It is not a smile at all, but a baring of teeth before the final pounce.”

A song springs to Marguerite’s lips.

“Waters that slide calmly by

Drown more than those that roar and sigh.

They deceive who seem so fair,

Oh, be wary of the debonair.”

“I know well the songs of Ventadorn,” Isambour says, nodding. “Hugues de Saint Circq used to sing them for me when he came to our court. He was a lovely man, handsome if you like little dark Italians, which I do. My husband treated me cruelly, but he at least sent the trouvères to amuse me.”

Marguerite knows her story well, how King Philip petitioned for an annulment the day after he married Isambour. Rumors abound: He could not perform the consummation act; her brother, the King of Denmark, broke his promise to renounce his claims to the throne of England; he discovered a penis under Isambour’s clothes. Whatever the reason, when the pope refused to annul, Philip locked Isambour away.

“Like a caged bird,” she says, “singing was all I had.”

“Music is the language of angels, they say.”

“A love for music will avail you little in King Louis’s court, unless you sing the psalms. When his mother dies, I wager, he’ll
prohibit all entertainment except those gloomy monks’ chants. Blanche might have done so herself, if not for the trouvères’ flattery.”

A growl startles them both. They turn to see Louis, slumped in his seat, snoring as if there were a contest for it in the tournament. A smile twitches his lips.

“Of whom does he dream?” Queen Isambour said. “His bride or his mother?”

“Neither, is my guess. After a night on his knees in the chapel, I think he dreams of his bed.”

“Do not be so certain. Blanche has a strong hold on her eldest son. I do not envy any woman Louis would marry, for his mother will not easily let him go.” She prods Marguerite’s arm with her fingernail again. “Pray to your name-saint that you will produce an heir soon. The White Queen won’t relinquish her son—or her power, which she loves more—until that day.”

Trumpets sound, startling Louis awake. At the tables next to theirs, servants lift the covers from platters of food and twenty peasants fall upon the roast meats, bread, and fruit that Louis has provided for them.

“Pearls before swine,” Isambour says with a sniff. “A complete waste of France’s money. Do you know how much beggars earn in a day?”

“They seem to have very little,” Marguerite says.

“That’s because they squander it on wine and gamble the rest away.” She squints at Blanche, who is making her way toward them, having spent the last hour conferring with the Count of Toulouse. “Is that the White Bitch now? Suddenly, I feel in need of a nap.”

A manservant helps her to untangle herself from the bench. Marguerite kisses her ring. “Remember what I said, dear. Have a son and your troubles will be over.”

As soon as she is gone, Blanche slips into her empty seat. “How awful for you to be seated beside that feeble-brained crone for so long,” she says to Marguerite. “Isambour talks more quickly than
her mind can think. And yet you are still awake! I thought she might put you to sleep, especially after your long night of prayer.”

“If only I could boast of that feat.” Marguerite giggles. “I was so tired from my travels and the long day that I fell asleep on the chapel floor last night.”

“And you find that amusing? I had been told that you were a pious girl.” She sinks her teeth into a chicken leg and tears the meat away.

“
Sans doute,
I would have preferred to pray all night with Louis.” Marguerite lifts the tablecloth to wipe her lips. “But, as Ventadorn wrote,
‘I’ has no power over ‘I’
.”

“Yes, and did he not also write,
‘A fool fears not till he is in distress?’
Our Lord’s displeasure is no occasion for laughter.” She arises and, with a final, cold glance at Marguerite, bends to greet her newly wakened son with a kiss and the soft, delighted voice of a mother cooing to her infant.

A
FTER TWO MORE
days of revelry and two more nights of prayer—dread, not of God’s wrath but of white-faced queens, keeps her from falling asleep on the chapel floor again—she slumbers in spite of the jostle and shift of her carriage, sinking into the fur-covered cushions, pressing her cheek against Aimée’s lap as though they were the swaying arms of a nurse rocking her to oblivion.

Not long after she awakens, the carriage halts outside a large, plain château. “Fontainebleau,” Uncle Guillaume announces as he escorts her forth. “The White Queen prefers to rest here tonight.”