Four Sisters, All Queens (47 page)

“What took you so long?” he says. “I almost had to leave with another man.” He steps back to take in her Saracen trousers and turban, his eyes dancing.

“For you, there is no other man.”

“You, my love, have spoken the truth.” He lowers his head to kiss her, but his breath is so foul that she turns her head, making him laugh. “Thank God you have come to my rescue,” he murmurs. “Louis has gone mad, and so will the rest of us if we have to listen to him much longer.”

Beside them, Marguerite catches her breath. “Jean,” she says.

Sir Jean de Joinville, looking even worse than Charles, has stepped forward and manages a shaky bow. “My lady,” he says. “You are the vision I have been praying for.”

Marguerite has turned pale at the sight of him, so thin his filthy clothes droop from his shoulders, so emaciated that his face resembles a skull—but her gaze is a lover’s gaze. Worried lest Charles take note, Beatrice holds her breath and kisses her husband’s mouth.

“My sister has reached an agreement with the Egyptian queen,” she tells Charles. Perhaps he will be more kindly disposed toward Marguerite now, and not oppose her claiming Tarascon. “We return to Damietta today for your ransom money.”

“Make haste,” he murmurs. “I am surrounded by incompetence, and fear it may rub off on me.”

T
WO WEEKS LATER
, Beatrice and Marguerite board the galley that will carry them all to Palestine. An entire fleet waits to escort them, ships that Marguerite summoned from Acre among those blown off course last year. With them are Charles, Louis, and Alphonse, as well as Sir Joinville, Count Pierre of Brittany, and the remainder of the barons from the Mansoura prison. Louis, stricken again in his bowels, needs the help of two men to walk from the Egyptian galley to his own.

The mood on the ship is as solemn as if they were going to a funeral—not at all as celebratory as she and Charles feel to be rid of Egypt. He takes the baby into his arms and she waves her fists, “a fighter,” he says, grinning, “like her father.”

A melting feeling spreads through her as she watches them. Surely this is how love began between her and Papa. She has heard many times how he carried her everywhere, slung over one shoulder as if she were a sack of grain: into the great hall to hear petitions, up the stairs to his chambers for naps, on hunts—evoking exclamations from Madeleine, who was sure he would drop her, and giggles from his companions to see him carrying a baby.

“Does something amuse you?” Charles says.

“I was thinking that fortune has smiled on our girl, to have a papa so smitten with her.”

He looks at her with eyes made bluer by the love they hold, and with his free arm pulls her close for a kiss. Fortune has smiled on Mama, too, she thinks as he calls for the nurse, but she does not say it, for then his arms are free and her mouth is not, and she forgets everything else but Charles.

Later, as they lie in bed, legs wrapped around legs and arms slung across torsos, he tells her about their battles, about the errors that led to their defeat. “Louis heeded Robert’s advice on every occasion,” he says. “Robert was a brave warrior, and skilled with the sword. But mere courage does not a strategist make.”

“As Louis undoubtedly knows now.”

“Who knows what my brother knows? He does not speak about Robert except to praise him for his goodness—as if goodness were all one needed to prevail against the Turks. He moans constantly about how he has failed God, as if these crusades had anything to do with God.” Beatrice remembers Shajar al-Durr’s assessment:
because you want what we have.
“Of course, he is already planning his return.”

Beatrice laughs. “Louis cannot get enough of Outremer? It must be the water.”

“You laugh, but you do not know the half of it. He does not want to leave.”

“Now you are the mad one.”

“He says he would finish the task.”

“Taking Jerusalem? But the Turks will have it soon enough.” As soon as she has said it, she realizes that it is true. Shajar al-Durr’s days as sultaness of Egypt are numbered. Beatrice shudders, thinking of that beautiful long neck.

B
EATRICE’S VOICE
is a frog’s voice, all percussion and no melody, which is why others only rarely hear her sing. She sings today, though, as Amelie dresses her for the journey—including a stop at the island of Cyprus to collect her baby boy, whom she left one year ago vigorously suckling at a wet nurse’s breast.

They are going home, and just in time to avoid another scorching summer in this godforsaken place.
When spring’s grass perfume floateth by, then ’tis sweet song and birdlet’s cry/ Do make mine old joy come anew.
Why anyone would want to fight over this barren, dusty desert is beyond her. Jesus would have preferred Provence.

She kisses Blanche’s fat cheeks—the baby asleep with an innocence her namesake never possessed—and dances about the cool, mud-brick room with its high, narrow windows until Marguerite enters with a face like winter to dampen her spirits. Or to try.

“You sound happy,” her sister says, her arms folded as tightly as her expression. “Betrayal suits you well.”

Beatrice stops singing. “I am pleased to be going home,” she says, choosing her words as she goes. “I miss my baby boy.”

“I miss my babies, too.” Her face crumples for a moment, then hardens. “But I am not going home.”

“I wish you were.” She steps over to her sister’s side, touches her arm—and is rebuffed. “Marguerite, why don’t you come with us? Leave Louis to his delusions.”

“Delusions?”

“You know as well as I: Those men are gone. Louis will never get them back. He does not even know where they are.” Although the Egyptian queen released twelve thousand prisoners to them—many from previous campaigns—thousands more are missing still. Shajar al-Durr, whose ship led the grand flotilla, seemed surprised when Marguerite asked about them.
More prisoners?
she’d asked. Her son must have transferred them elsewhere because of crowding in Mansoura. She would find them, and order their release.

That was more than one month ago. Now the rest of the ransom has been paid, thanks to Marguerite’s harassing of the Knights Templar, the Order of Hospitallers, the pope of Rome, the Holy Roman Emperor, and the White Queen. In fact, so much money has poured in that they could remain here for years—a prospect the very thought of which makes Beatrice cringe. She has had her fill of chickpeas. The smell of cardamom, once a pleasant fragrance, nauseates her. The Saracen tongue, like music to her at first, now sounds guttural and cruel. She would like to stick a dagger into the next Turk who ogles her body as if she were a camel for sale. What was Louis thinking when he decided to bring Marguerite along? Hadn’t he consulted with his cousin Thibaut, or the Count Pierre of Brittany, both of whom fought here ten years ago?

“If I were to leave,” Marguerite says, “Louis would never return. He would die fighting for Jerusalem, even if he were the only knight on the field.” She glares at Beatrice. “Which he may well be after today.”

Guilt tries to settle on Beatrice’s shoulders but she shrugs it off. “What do you expect of us?” she snaps. “Would you have us remain here in a futile battle over foreign lands while revolt brews in Provence? Should we abandon our infant son in Cyprus for the sake of the king’s tormented soul?”

“You are leaving us to die!” Marguerite’s hands drop to her sides. “We are sisters. I thought that meant something to you.”

“It means more than you could imagine,” Beatrice says. “But it does not mean everything.”

“Charles is the reason.” Beatrice looks away. In fact, she would have remained here a little while in hopes of convincing her sister to depart with them, but Charles refused.

“Jerusalem is lost,” he said. “Now we must return home, or risk losing Provence, as well. And I will not lose Provence.”

“God damn his selfishness!” Beatrice flinches, surprised, at Marguerite’s sudden shout. “Charles cares about no one else, not about you, and certainly not about me. I feel sorry for you, being married to that monster.”

“How dare you speak of my husband in that way?” Beatrice turns on her. “The faults you find in Charles are the faults you possess in yourself.”

“Such as?” Having goaded her into a fight, Marguerite now becomes the calm one, the rational one. Beatrice wants to strike her.

“When have you ever thought of me?” Beatrice cries. “You and Eléonore—like two pearls in an oyster! You talk about family, then turn on me because Papa loved me the most.”

“He did not love you the most. You were his amusement after Eléonore and I left home.”

“That is not what he said.” Beatrice blinks back tears. “He told me many times that I was his favorite daughter. He said God had saved the best for last. That is why he left Provence to me.”

“He left Provence to you because he knew no man would want to marry you otherwise.”

“What do you mean?”

Marguerite shrugs. “God gave so much beauty to Sanchia that he had little remaining for you.”

“Oh, were you once prettier than I?” Beatrice laughs. “All those bitter years in the French court have certainly taken their toll.”

“You, on the other hand, know nothing of hardship, having been spoiled all your life.”

“Spoiled, me? Who is the most powerful queen in the world, throwing tantrums because she didn’t get all she wanted in her papa’s will?” Charles, she suddenly realizes, will never agree to give Tarascon to Marguerite. Oh, God, how could she have made such a pledge? “How spoiled are you, to demand Tarascon from me when Provence is all I have?”

Fear splashes like cold water on Marguerite’s face. Beatrice wants to laugh again. That will teach her to attack Beatrice of Provence.

“That has been resolved,” her sister says. “We do not need to discuss Tarascon further.”

“Resolved? Have you decided to let the matter drop?”

Marguerite stares at her. “Of course, now that you have awarded Tarascon to me.”

“What?” Beatrice affects a puzzled frown. “I am sorry. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“When you gave birth to Blanche, you said that I could have Tarascon.”

“Did I? I must have been delirious. Of course I cannot give Tarascon to you without consulting Charles.”

“You made a pledge!” Marguerite’s eyes are wild and tearful. “You cannot go back on your word!”

Beatrice shrugs. After all her sister has said to her today, she cares not a whit what she thinks of her. “You cannot expect me to honor promises made under duress.”

“You bitch!” Marguerite snatches up the nearest object—a miniature stone statue of the Virgin Mary—and hurls it at her. It hits the far wall and thuds to the floor. “I knew you would renege on your promise. Did I say that you would be unhappy
with Charles? I take back those words. You two are just alike, and perfect for each other. You’ll suffer in hell together, too.”

“Who is going to hell? You just threw the Virgin Mary against the wall.”

“And how I regret missing my mark.” Marguerite speaks in a menacing undertone. “But I wasn’t speaking of the afterlife. I mean to make you suffer in this one.”

“I would like to see you try.” Beatrice tries to keep her voice light.

“I will do more than try, sister. You will see. I haven’t lived with Blanche de Castille for all these years without learning a few things.”