Four Sisters, All Queens (33 page)

Beatrice

A Woman May Rule

Aix-en-Provence, 1245

Fourteen years old

I
T IS A
splendid sepulcher, beautifully wrought, of rose-colored marble engraved with the dragons Papa loved and a planh by Sordel, with a window for letting in the sun he craved and a bench on which Beatrice shivers and prays for deliverance. Marguerite commissioned this tomb and paid for it, her gift in honor of their father, but surely he cannot rest in it while she conspires with her sisters against Beatrice and threatens war against Provence.

We want only what is rightfully ours,
her sister wrote in a letter Mama read aloud in a voice like a hammer, each word striking Beatrice in the heart.
Provence owes ten thousand marks to France or the castle and lands at Tarascon, promised as dowry upon our marriage to the king. We demand full payment or we will take your county by force.

Eléonore, too, has protested that Papa owes money to England, and Sanchia is making claims, as well. But—why? What is ten thousand marks to the rich and powerful France? Or four thousand to England? And all the money in Provence’s treasury would be as an anthill next to Richard of Cornwall’s mountain of gold. “Why, Papa?” she cries aloud, here in his tomb, where she can
succumb to her grief away from the stern watch of her
maire,
who has not shed a single tear since her father died, and away from the always smiling Romeo, who hovers at her elbow in fear, it seems, that she might have a thought of her own.

Papa could not have known that her sisters would respond with violence. “All my daughters, except you alone, are exalted by marriage in a high degree,” he said as he lay dying one month ago. (Has so little time passed since he left her world?)

Romeo smiled even then, she recalls, like a dog with its teeth bared, always smiling, proud of himself, as usual, for arranging her sisters’ marriages. “With such a bequest, I should have no difficulty finding a king for her,” he told her father. Beatrice’s tears flowed in earnest then, for it was her Papa she wanted, the only man she could ever love.

He loved her, too, more than anyone. “My dearest Bibi, more beloved by me than all your sisters,” he said that day.

“They’re jealous,” she says aloud now, and her tears dry up—just in time for her
maire
to find her sitting in perfect composure, a small smile on her face as she contemplates her first official act as Countess of Provence, which will be to write an indignant letter to Blanche de Castille protesting Marguerite’s threat. Everyone knows that Blanche is the real Queen of France—and that she has the power to subdue Marguerite.

“Here again, Beatrice?” Mama has never called her “Bibi,” even though she still says “Margi” instead of Marguerite and “Elli” instead of Eléonore. Her mother peruses her with folded arms, disapproving, as always, of the time she spends at her father’s side.

“You must let your father go. He would want you to do so.” Beatrice wonders: what would Mama, who immersed herself in the affairs of France and England, know of Papa’s desires? “You must come with me now, at any rate. The Prince of Aragon has arrived, and demands to see you at once.”

An hour later, wearing a mourning gown of white, she sits on the dais in her father’s chair, Mama beside her, while Prince Alfonso bows low before her to kiss her ring. A ripple courses up
her arm as she imagines smashing her hand upward into his nose. Something about the way he bends so far toward the floor—the son of James the Conqueror, kneeling to her!—or the softness of his hands, or the timidity in his eyes, makes her yearn to do so.

“My father has expanded his domain many times during his rule,” the prince says, his perfect smile reminding her of Romeo’s. “Aragon is now a mighty force, destined to become one of the world’s great powers. If God wills, I will become its king someday.”

Beatrice rolls her eyes. “Spare me the history lesson and tell me why you’ve come.”

“I- I—Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to offend you.”

“I am not offended. Merely overcome by boredom.” She yawns for effect.

He stands in silent contemplation of his feet. His eyes, when he looks up at her again, hold a plea. “I have come to request your hand in marriage. You and I share the same great-grandfather, who ruled both Provence and Aragon—as I am sure you know,” he adds hastily.

“Marriage?” His blush causes her to laugh a bit more loudly. “Why would I want to marry, and give up my power to you?”

She watches him struggle with his confusion. “Forgive me,
señorita
. I do not understand.”

“In Provence, a woman may rule. My grandmother Garsende—your great-aunt—ruled Provence for seven years after my grandfather died. Why shouldn’t I do the same?”

“But you are only a child!” He frowns, and for a moment she thinks he will stomp his foot.

“Old enough to marry, but not to rule? Now I wonder,
monsieur,
what role you would assign to me as your countess. Certainly not a role worthy of my capabilities.”

Alfonso’s face darkens. His eyes narrow. “If you think you will be able to rule this county alone, then you are mistaken,” he says. “The emperor himself is sending ships to fetch you for his son.”

“The son of an excommunicate—God save us from that fate!” Mama’s voice cracks.

“The situation is worse than you imagined.” Alfonso slaps the gloves he holds in one hand against his other palm. “My father aims to reunite Provence with Aragon. If the Lady Beatrice refuses my proposal, he will send an army in my place. And who knows how many others will vie for the cherished prize? Your beautiful daughter and the riches of Provence make an irresistible combination.”

He leaves the hall, his armored knights flanking him, Beatrice’s eyes hurling imaginary arrows into his back. Her father dead, her sisters opposing her, Marguerite threatening war—and now this? Is the whole world against her? But she is strong. If they think to wear down her resolve, they are mistaken. She will rule Provence.

“Romeo!” Mama cries. “Where is Romeo?”

Her fingers clamp around Beatrice’s arm as if she’s afraid she might lose her. “What nonsense were you uttering?” she says in a hiss as they climb the winding staircase to her mother’s chambers. “Not marry? Who placed that thought into your foolish head?”

“Papa.” Hadn’t he taught her everything about Provence? Hadn’t he said to her many times, “You could administer this county by yourself”?

“He meant for you to marry, and to marry well. Why do you think he left Provence to you, instead of to Margi?
She
was his favorite.”

Beatrice bites her lip. Papa did dote on his precious Marguerite, so intelligent and refined, so nimble of tongue.
God has blessed me with four lovely daughters, two of them like me.
But she and Marguerite are not so much alike. She would not have contested Papa’s will, even had he bequeathed nothing to her.

Romeo joins them—smiling. “Did you truly rebuke the Prince of Aragon, my lady? I thought you wanted to be a queen.”

“Alfonso will never be more than a count,” Beatrice snaps. The pope anulled his parents’ marriage ten years ago, and King James’s new wife has borne him two sons. Romeo knows this. Why must he goad her with talk of queenship?

“Beatrice intends to rule Provence on her own, with no husband,” Mama says.

“Indeed?” Romeo arches an eyebrow.

“I want no man acting as lord over me,” she says. “Especially a simpering fool such as Alfonso.” Who paid Romeo handsomely for his audience with her today, no doubt.

“Count Ramon always admired your independent spirit,” he says. His lips and chin, stretched taut by his smile, shine as though smeared with butter.

“And so we may thank the count for the troubles coming our way,” Mama says. She tells him of the Aragonian army, poised to attack, and the imperial ships crossing the Mediterranean Sea—and his smile disappears. Beatrice marvels at the transformation: from cunning hyena to worried old man.

“This is grave news,” he says. “Frederick would drain our county’s wealth and conscript our men for his never-ending war with the pope.”

“Perhaps the pope would help us,” Beatrice says.

“The pope exacts an even higher price for his aid, my lady,” Romeo says. “He would take fees and taxes for the Church, men for his wars against Frederick, and more men for his campaigns in Outremer.”

“We must stop the emperor’s ships,” Mama says. “If he lands in Marseille, we are lost.”

“Romeo can find a way,” Beatrice says. Now she is the one with the smiling face. “You have friends in Marseille, don’t you, Romeo?” A self-governing city, Marseille owes no fealty to Provence—thanks to Romeo, who convinced Papa to allow this freedom. Its people are too independent, and would never support him even if he managed to subdue them, he said.
Befriending them would be more beneficial to you than fighting them.
And more lucrative to Romeo, whom the merchants surely pay for his favors.

“Frederick is powerful, but I do wield some influence at the Marseille ports. I might be able to convince them to block his ships.” His smile returns. “The more silver I carry with me, of course, the greater my influence will be.”

Marguerite