Four Sisters, All Queens (15 page)

Uncle, awarded a seat at the king’s table for his help with Ponthieu, gestures toward the young man.

“See how skillfully Leicester comports himself?” he says to Eléonore. “Take note, as well, of your husband’s delighted response. Simon de Montfort is a shrewd and ambitious man. You should befriend him.”

She smiles broadly as Montfort offers her the basin. “To what do I owe the honor of being served by you today,
monsieur
? This has been the Earl of Norfolk’s task.”

His intimate gaze sends a ripple down Eléonore’s spine. “The English nobles do love money, my lady.”

She plunges her hands into the water, then dries them on the towel he provides. “You paid Norfolk? How much?”

“Not nearly enough for the privilege of serving the world’s most beautiful queen.”

She reaches into the pouch on her girdle and pulls out several coins. “Would this be adequate recompense?”

His gaze flickers over the silver. Ah! He, too, loves money. “Please take this,
monsieur,
as my gift.”

“Thank you, my lady, but I cannot—”

“Shh! Do not let the king hear you refuse his queen’s gift,
monsieur
. He has a terrible temper.”

He accepts the coins, kisses them, and tucks them into his pouch. “I will sew them into my chemise, to wear next to my heart.”

“If he does sew them in, they won’t remain there for long,” Uncle says when he is gone. “The Earl of Leicester is in dire need of an income.”

Simon, being a younger son of the Count of Montfort, seemed destined for the clergy, Uncle tells her. But he had other ambitions. He talked his eldest brother into signing over the rights to the
earldom of Leicester, then traveled to England and petitioned Ranulf, the Earl of Chester—Leicester’s custodian—to turn the title and lands over to him. Soon he had won Ranulf’s affection, and Leicester, too.

“Simon arrived at the court five years ago under Ranulf’s sponsorship, and has remained here ever since,” Uncle says. “He continually gains influence over the king and the court.”

“He must be glib-tongued, indeed,” Eléonore said.

“See how easily he extracted coins from you.”

Eléonore grins. “You advised me to befriend him, didn’t you?”

“And you used a most expedient method. Leicester’s castle was abandoned for many years, and is in ill repair. The earl needs an income—a substantial one—if he is going to rebuild it.”

“He needs to marry an heiress.”

“It is his only recourse. Unfortunately, heiresses are scarce these days. And Montfort has little to offer except good looks and a golden tongue.”

S
EATED BEFORE THE
scowling barons’ council, Henry gives Eléonore a look as if to say,
do you see what I must endure
?

He clears his throat, tries again. As ruler over Germany and Italy, the Holy Roman Emperor is a valuable friend to England, he says. The fifty or so barons, seated in the great hall before them, begin to mutter. Some fold their arms across their chests.

“The pope is more powerful, and he hates Frederick,” says the gray-bearded Earl of Kent. “Why not follow the example of the French king, and remain neutral in their dispute?” He shakes his shaggy head. “As your former guardian, Henry, I thought that I had taught you to choose more wisely.”

“You are not my guardian now, Sir Hubert, but my royal subject,” Henry snaps. “And you are to address me as such.”

He is losing his temper again. It is time for Eléonore to step in.

“The king has already pledged the dowry for his sister’s marriage to the emperor,” she says. “He did so in good faith, certain
that you would recognize the value of having Frederick for an ally. Was he wrong?”

“He was wrong to pledge a dowry that he could not pay,” the Earl of Kent grumbles.

“So you think the alliance is without value?” she asks.

He bunches up his face. “I did not say that, my lady.”

“How much is it worth, then? Five thousand silver marks?”

“Certainly—”

“Ten thousand? Twenty? Or perhaps we should ask how much we would spend to defend ourselves should the emperor attack? Because if we do not pay, he will attack.”

Gilbert Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, stands to speak. “Do not forget, Your Grace: Your authority depends on your barons’ submission. We are loath to submit to another increase in taxes. What happened to the portion you took from us so recently? Wasn’t that supposed to pay the empress’s dowry?”

“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.”