Four Sisters, All Queens (17 page)

“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?”

“You should not have interfered. This matter is greater than money.”

“But how do you know the relic is authentic? Anyone could fashion such a crown and call it Christ’s.”

“First you argue with me in the presence of the emperor, and now you question my judgment?” His raised voice draws the eyes of all in the room—the guards, the servants, those awaiting their turn to petition the king and queen. “You, a mere child from the country, with no knowledge or experience in these matters.”

Heat floods her face. “I have questioned nothing except the claims of our petitioner, who rules an empire in dire need of funds. Were your mother here, she would have voiced the same concerns.”

“You are not my mother.” His mouth trembles. “You are nothing like her.”

“That is a pity, I suppose.” She stands and smoothes her skirt. “Otherwise, I might be carrying your child.” She steps down from the platform and leaves the great hall without even a glance back at him.

T
HE CUP QUAKES
in her hand. She longs to hurl it against the wall, if only for the clang it would make. Instead, she sits at her desk and scribbles a furious letter to Eléonore that she will not send. No one here would deliver it unread.

I have never felt so alone.

For three years she has lived in isolation. She has not a single friend in the court; all, including her ladies-in-waiting, report to Blanche.

I have no one with whom to talk, no one with whom to laugh
.

If only the queen mother had not sent all her companions away
at Fontainebleau. She longs for Aimée, for her uncles and her parents, for the debates at table that made up so much of her youth in Provence. No doubt she could learn more there than here, where Blanche shuns her from the daily discussions in her chambers and Louis chastises her for offering opinions.

Louis is like a ghost, seeming not even to see me sometimes, and, when I complain, looking as if he wished he could not hear me
.

His mother’s contempt toward Marguerite is beginning to affect him. That was clear today. Only by bearing him a son will she gain his respect.

I must make a friend in this court, not only for my sanity but also for my security—someone who can help me achieve the impossible task of giving my husband an heir
.

But—who? Who can absolve Louis of the shame his mother has inflicted? Who can give him permission to desire his wife?

How is it that Louis “heals” others of their illnesses but cannot heal himself? Of course, only God can work such wonders. Perhaps I need a miracle
.

She puts down her quill and gazes out the window, over the broad river valley. The silvered skein of water, the velvet landscape, the slow birds tilting their wings like sails: Didn’t God create all of this? Didn’t he implant his son into the womb of a virgin? Giving Louis desire for her should be no great task. Perhaps she needs only to ask.

A knock sounds at the inner door, so soft she almost doesn’t hear it. In the far corner, her ladies talk and embroider. She pulls the curtain around her bed as if planning a nap, hiding the door from their view, then pulls it open.

Louis has folded his hands as if in prayer. “I should not have spoken to you so harshly.”

“Make love to me now,” she murmurs, “and all will be forgiven.”

She beckons him into her bed, then whispers that she will return in a moment.

“I want soft music to lull me to sleep today,” she says to her ladies. Soon a lute player is plucking out a soft tune in their corner.
She and Louis will not be heard. She slips into bed beside her husband.

“My dear, sweet beloved,” he murmurs as they disrobe each other. “You are too good for me, Marguerite. Oh, so good.”

“Shhh! Quiet—do you want to be discovered?”

“I don’t care. Let them hear. Aren’t we husband and wife?”

How readily God has answered her prayer. Indeed, she did not pray, but only thought of it. Now, lying under Louis, she thinks of giving thanks—but that thought is interrupted by a knock.

“Your Grace!” The cry comes from within the staircase. “The queen mother approaches.”

Louis curses, leaps from the bed, pulls up his hose, and disappears. Marguerite lies still and throbbing, her heart thumping with excitement. They came so close this time.

“Where is she?” Blanche’s voice cuts through the folds of her curtain before her scorn-filled face appears at the foot of Marguerite’s bed.

“Sleeping at this hour? Are you ill?”

“No, only tired.”
Of you
.

“And no wonder, you poor child!” Her smile twists. “Giving my son such intelligent advice must have required all your mental faculties.”

Marguerite closes her eyes.

“What could you have been thinking, you foolish girl? Allowing him to pledge to pay any price, no matter how high, for that relic?”

“I am sure you know, Mother, that one does not ‘allow’ my husband to do anything. He has his own will.”

“He would have listened to me. But I was not there—and why? Because you concocted a tale to be rid of me.”

She sits up. “That is quite a costly gown to wear to bed,” Blanche says. “But, judging from today’s debacle, you have little sense of the value of money.”

“Judging from your misplaced anger, you have little sense of your son.”

“He is bewitched by you. You, who need only flutter your
eyelashes to bring him running to your bed. Such pretty eyes you have! How unfortunate that nothing lies behind them except a need for attention.”

“And you have a black hole where your heart should be.”

“A weak woman’s heart has no place in the ruling of a kingdom.”

“What would you know of a woman’s heart?” Marguerite leaps out of bed and stands to face her, eye-to-eye. “You have had no consideration for mine. You’ve sent away everyone I care about and denied me the love of my husband.”

“What is the matter, dear? Has my son been neglecting you?” Malice glints her eyes. “Don’t worry. You’ll be reunited with your country bumpkin family very soon.”

“Are we traveling to Provence?”

“Not ‘we,’ my dear. I harbor no fondness for the smell of goats or the feel of dirt under my fingernails. You, however, seem destined to return to your precious Provence.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Haven’t you heard? Our subjects are beginning to talk. You have been married three years to the king, and still no heirs. If you don’t conceive a child soon, we’ll have to annul your marriage.

“Why the tears, dear? This is nothing personal. If you cannot perform your duty to France, then someone else must. Johanna, Countess of Flanders, is seeking a husband, we hear. She will not tarry long—and we covet her wealthy county for our own.”

Marguerite

Endless Songs of Love

Paris, 1237

R
ICHART DE
S
EMILLI
stands before her, singing his
Par amors ferai chanson
while Marguerite stifles a yawn. “That is enough,” she says. “You may go.”

“You are as difficult to please as ever, I see.” Uncle Guillaume steps into her chambers as the unfortunate trouvère steps out. She exclaims with pleasure and leans into his silken embrace; he is so rich, he even smells of gold.

“The French bore me with their endless songs of love, love, love,” she says. “I am sick of love.”

“You would prefer Hue de la Ferté’s
sirventois,
I presume. Especially those he wrote against the White Queen.”

“Ferté! How I mourned his death. I had hoped to bring him to Paris.” She laughs. “His songs would have sent Blanche far away.”

“Has she been hard on you, my dear? You look as if you have not slept in weeks. And you have grown even thinner since I last saw you. Are you eating?”

“Not as well as you,” she teases. Uncle Guillaume has gained so much favor with King Henry that he now holds the second-highest position in the English court. Being the king’s chief adviser has
enriched him with land, titles, and daily meals at the royal table.

“One cannot dine on English food for long without increasing the waistline.” Uncle Guillaume pats his stomach. “Meat and more meat, and all smothered in a greasy sauce.” He smacks his lips. “I have grown fond of greasy sauce.”

He hands her a packet of letters from Eléonore, apologizing: They are quite old. He tarried long on his visit to Uncle Thomas in Savoy. “But I carry an interesting proposal to London. It may soften the English barons’ rancor toward me.”