Four Sisters, All Queens (19 page)

Marguerite smiles, as well, at the table with the new Count of Flanders and his wife. Gone is this threat to her marriage, at least. But today she has another reason to smile, as well: Mama has come, with Sanchia—tall for her age, extraordinarily pretty, and very shy—and they sit by Marguerite’s side.

“Behold Thomas’s dazed expression,” Mama says, watching him dance with his bride. “If I did not know my brother better, I might think he were in love.”

“Louis used to gaze at me like that,” Marguerite says.

She has not seen Mama in three years. Did she expect sympathy? How forgetful of her. Mama looks pointedly at her flat belly.

“Nothing is without its cost, Marguerite,” she says. “I have
taught you this. If you want the love of a king, you must pay for it with heirs.”

“I would gladly do so, Mother, if immaculate conception were available to all.”

Mama raises her eyebrows. She peers over at Louis, who has gone to Blanche’s table and now leans toward her as if he were a plant and she were the sun.

“I assumed that you had miscarried a child or two, since you married so young.”

“His mother tells him that his desire for me is sinful. She has paid his confessor to do the same, I hear. And Louis is the most pious of men.”

Blanche’s laughter rings across the courtyard. On either side of her, Uncle Guillaume and Louis grin and gaze at her as if they were competing suitors. Mama’s face flushes. Marguerite looks down at her lap, where she has clenched her hands so tightly that her wedding ring cuts into her fingers.

“This will not do,” Mama says. “This will not do at all.”

S
OON
U
NCLE
G
UILLAUME
has the promotion he has earned with his clever scheme to block Simon de Montfort from becoming the next Count of Flanders.

“I am to become both prince and bishop of Liège,” he exults to Marguerite and her mother once they have all returned to Paris. “The queen—sorry, Margi, I mean the queen mother—has suggested my election and the Holy Roman Emperor has approved it. By God! I am a wealthy man.”

Eléonore will be jealous. Not only has Uncle thwarted England’s hopes for an advantage on the Norman border, he has now become a member of the French court.
You should see our uncle strut about like a proud cock,
Marguerite writes to her. And she cannot resist adding,
yet, even in his excitement, he is grateful to me for this new honor.

It is a pitiful lie. Yet how can she tell the truth to Eléonore, of
all people? While Marguerite fights to sit on her throne, her sister freely awards English lands, titles, and prosperous marriages to their relatives. Uncles Peter and Boniface returned home from King Henry’s court laden with gold and promises—Richmond for Uncle Peter, the archbishopric of Canterbury for Uncle Boniface. Meanwhile Marguerite has not even a handmaid in whom she can trust. Why did she confide her troubles to her sister? She cringes to think how superior Eléonore must feel—until she reminds herself: Provence will someday be hers.

Eléonore, of course, has her own struggles. Like Marguerite, she has not yet borne a child. And her life in England is far from ideal.
The English barons talk against me, calling me a ‘foreigner’ and our father a ‘minor count,’ but I do not care,
she has written.
With Henry’s blessing I shall surround myself with family who will buffer me from my enemies like the walls of a fortified castle.

Marguerite wishes she enjoyed such protection. Should Blanche talk Louis into annulling their marriage, who would advocate for her? Not even Uncle Guillaume would be able to help, in spite of his new title. Mama, on the other hand, is here now—and determined to do what she can for Marguerite.

On her last evening in Paris, Mama meets with the White Queen in her chambers. She returns to Marguerite wearing a gold necklace—Blanche’s gift—and eyes as hard as flint.

“Blanche de Castille wants you out,” she announces, as if imparting new information.

Marguerite sighs. “She has disliked me since our first meeting. If I knew why, I would try to change her opinion.”

“You would need to lose all your teeth and hair, grow enormously fat, and become as dull-witted as that poor girl Isabelle for her opinion of you to improve. Blanche does not dislike you; she fears you.”

“Fears me?” Marguerite laughs. “The little country bumpkin with dirt under her nails and not a lick of sense?”

“If you fit that description, you might be pregnant now.” When Blanche sent M. de Flagy to their castle in Aix, he sought—and
found—in her the qualities that Blanche and Louis wanted. Her “pretty face” brightened Louis’s spirit, but her “prettier faith” delighted the White Queen.

“She relied on your piety to bend you to her will,” Mama says. “But she did not envision your beauty. And she did not anticipate your intelligence.”

Blanche sought a wife for Louis to keep him out of mischief and to bear him sons. She never intended to compete for admirers; nor did she plan to share her power as queen.

Mama glances over at the ladies-in-waiting, who sit in their corner, feigning oblivion. “I need fresh air,” she says. “Let’s go to the gardens for a mother-daughter stroll.”

The ladies lay down their needlework and stand, ready to join them, but Mama waves them aside. “You may remain here. Your queen has all the service she needs from her doting mother.”

“But we must accompany her at all times,” Gisele says. “The White Queen has commanded it.”

Mama gives her the warmest of smiles. “Don’t you think our Laughing Knight will adore this one?” she says to Marguerite. “And Pierre of Aix for you, and Hugh of Tarascon for you,” she says to the others. A retinue of knights from Provence will soon arrive to escort Mama home tomorrow—and they will attend a feast in the countess’s honor tonight.

“The men of Provence are not only the most handsome men in the world, they are also the most exhilarating dancers you can imagine,” the countess tells the maids.

Excited chatter fills the room. Marguerite forgotten for the moment, Mama tucks her hand under her daughter’s arm and walks her into the gardens. There, with her head close to Marguerite’s, she tells her how to win Louis’s body at last—by starting with his soul.

Eléonore

Scandal and Mutiny

London, 1238

Fifteen years old

E
LÉONORE YEARNS TO
be there. She is not invited, however. Worse: she has been told to stay away.

“Already the barons point the finger at you for every unpopular decision that I make,” Henry said. “We can’t have them blaming you for this marriage, as well.”

They might easily do so. Eleanor Marshal is, after all, her dearest friend, and Simon de Montfort is, famously, the queen’s champion. (“Her Lancelot,” some call him, winking sly.) Today, while she paces in the great hall, fingering her rosary beads and praying, the two are exchanging their vows in secret before the Westminster chaplain. Henry, who will place the bride’s hands into the groom’s, is the only witness—or so they hope. Richard of Cornwall, having learned of the wedding, races toward London even now.
Slow his journey, O Lord.
Should God refuse her request, she must make sure that he does not reach the chapel until after the ceremony is complete. Her friendship with Simon, her only ally at court, depends on this marriage.

“My lady.” The young knight bows tremulously, as though afraid she might strike him. She is not the one he fears, however.
Richard has arrived, and waits impatiently for permission to enter the castle. Delay him, Eléonore tells the skittish youth, for as long as possible.

But Richard will not be kept waiting, not today. In the next moment he storms into the great hall, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Breathe
. She greets him with a kiss which he does not return.

“Where are they?” he growls.

“Who?” she asks.

He narrows his eyes at her. His jaw tics. “In Henry’s chapel,” he guesses. One look at her face and he laughs without mirth, then starts toward the stairs.

“Dear brother, no man may enter the palace bearing weapons, as you know,” she says. “I must ask you to leave yours with our guards.”

He grimaces, but he removes the scabbard and sword from his belt, hands them to the young knight, then refastens the belt around his waist. She would block his way as he marches toward the stairs, but he dances around her to charge up the steps.

“Where are you going?” she cries, but he runs toward the chapel where, at this moment, the nuptial couple stands amid the gorgeous wall hangings of embroidered green and blue and the saints’ relics and speak their breathless promises to love, honor, and obey. Simon cradles Eleanor’s hands in his, as if they were a cherished gift. She gazes into his eyes with utter, breathless love. By the time they kneel before the chaplain for the celebration of mass, emotion has overcome Henry; tears drip from his chin as he bows his head and sends fervent prayers to Mary, the Mother of God, for the couple’s happiness. And then Richard, followed by Eléonore, bursts into the room.

“In God’s name, am I too late?” he cries.

“You are not too late, Sir Richard, to offer your good wishes to your sister and to me.” Simon beams as though the Earl of Cornwall had stopped in to celebrate.

“By God, I would not believe this folly had I not seen it myself.”
Richard glares at Henry. Dust covers his tunic and riding boots and reddens his eyes, lending him a grim, wild look. “Did you not send me home just hours ago? Even as you kissed me farewell, you harbored this secret in your heart. God! How I wish you were not my king, for I would cut out your deceitful tongue.”