Four Sisters, All Queens (59 page)

It is better to be at Wallingford, far from the reminders, even if the servants here are slow to refill her goblet. Richard, who never drinks wine, frowns as she lifts her cup again. If he were nicer to her, she would not need help relaxing.

He has been tenser than ever of late. William of Holland, who recovered from his illness to become the German king, is dead. He fell through the ice on his horse, then dragged himself to shore only to be hacked to death by his enemies. Richard has asked Henry to
nominate him as the next German king. But the succession is not so simple. A growing number of men are claiming the throne—including Manfred Hohenstaufen, still ruling Sicily, and Alphonso, the King of Castille, who is also a Hohenstaufen and in favor with the new pope.

Only a few days ago, a council of German barons met to decide who would be the new king. Richard’s temper is worse than ever as he awaits the results of the vote.

“I’ve paid every elector on the council who would take my money,” he grumbles. He has paid the pope, as well, which is why he is a contender—his wealth, and the lack of opposition from King Louis of France. If he is crowned, England would claim both Sicily and Germany. King Louis might have fought for a Frenchman to take the German crown, but he didn’t. He likes King Henry is why, Marguerite says.

“Go easy on the wine,” Richard says to her. “I cannot afford a new tablecloth, and a new dress for you, every night.”

A servant enters with news. A delegation from Bohemia has arrived. Now Richard topples his glass as he stands to greet his guests. He straightens his clothing. Sanchia rushes over to help, smoothing his hair through which he rakes his hands so often now, as if he were always frustrated.

Three bearded men walk into the hall, their boots squeaking on the tile floor, their woolen layers steaming with snowmelt. Their steps thud in unison, like a hammer pounding nails in a coffin. Their smiles agitate her quelling heart.
Please, Lord, no.
But, yes: they have come to make her a queen.

“Our lord, Ottokar, Duke of Bohemia, has given his support to you as the new King of Germany,” says a man whose gray brows creep like caterpillars over his forehead. Sanchia drops her goblet, which clangs on the tile—and which is, fortunately, empty.

“My God, this is the best news I have ever heard,” Richard says, wringing the Bohemians’ hands. “I am filled with gratitude, not for my own sake but for the sake of Germany. My God!” (She wishes
he would not take the Lord’s name in vain!) “I hope to rule wisely and well, and to bring stability and prosperity to your troubled kingdom at last.”

And then he does what Sanchia longs to do: he bursts into tears.

S
HIVERING IN HER
too-thin gown, she stands near the fire and wishes for wine to warm her blood.

“Not all of us welcome the pope’s involvement,” the man says, or so she guesses, for his accent is as thick as his beard. “William of Holland discovered what may happen when a man tries to impose his will.”

“The pope imposes God’s will,” Sanchia says. The man yelps, having caught a popping ember in one hand, saving the gold leaves, saving the delicate pearls, saving the fabric of pale green silk swirling like water about Sanchia’s slippered feet.

“Of course it burns, but only a bit, not to worry,” he says, flicking the coal back into the fireplace. The flames’ reflection flickers in his eyes. “I only wish that I had not moved so quickly, or I might have had the pleasure of brushing it from your exquisite person.”

She lowers her gaze away from his florid face—she will not think of his fat hands touching her—and turns toward the white-clothed table glittering with candlelight and silver and strewn with flowers. Behind it, Richard waits for two German nobles to seat him. Although it is May, they wear woolen cloaks and tunics, clothing as heavy as their stern expressions. This is a cold kingdom indeed. Sanchia, who brought silks from England instead of wool, rubs her arms with her palms as she abandons the fire to join her husband, crowned today the King of Germany.

“Here is the real reason we supported your election,” one of the men says. His long teeth and furry face remind her of a wolf. “Germany will be the envy of the world, having the most beautiful of queens.”

“I thought it was
my
good looks that impressed you,” Richard says, but only Sanchia laughs. “Obviously, my debilitating sense
of humor isn’t why we are here,” he mutters as she takes her seat.

“I wonder if they ever laugh in Germany,” she says. “They look as if it pains them to smile.” The servant refilling her glass hears her, and pinches his lips together. She sips from her goblet. “When is the wine coming? This sour ale unsettles my stomach.”

Under the table, Richard’s fingers grip her knee. “Lower your voice, my love.” He sounds anything but loving. She is acutely aware of his hand on her leg. He has barely touched her since Floria died. She places her hand on his, and he pulls it away. One step at a time, she reminds herself. At least Richard has broken his silence toward her. Every day that he did not speak, Sanchia felt herself fade a bit more until she became nearly invisible. Until she felt as if she were the one who had died. But now he has turned to her again. Now he needs her.

Winning the crown is only the first step toward ruling Germany. Next, he has told her, they must win the hearts of the German people. “I have seen how you can shine, how your light can dazzle.” He said that to her the first time after the Christmas feast in Paris, where she surprised even herself with her brilliance. She would shine more brightly tonight if the Germans would give her some wine.

What they have given her instead is so foul that the Germans gulp it down, dreading its taste, no doubt. She follows the lead of those around her and pours it down her throat. At last, that sweet, familiar warmth spreads through her. Men and women enfolded in colorfully stitched garments sit around them, speaking in their harsh, guttural language, heedless of the fact that, although Richard speaks English and can understand them somewhat, Sanchia does not.

“Richard, what are they saying?” she whispers. “How can I shine for you when I cannot understand a word?”

“Smile, darling,” he says. “Try to look like you are enjoying yourself.”

She wants to kick him under the table for speaking to her as if she were a child. But he must be as tired as she. Their week began with a journey by sea to Holland, whence William of Holland’s
prothonotary, a man named Arnold, escorted them up the Rhine to Aachen. Sanchia found the town charming and quaint, its houses reminding her of gingerbread, and the Aachen Cathedral more beautiful than most churches in England—with its painted arches, and intricate stained-glass windows, and ceilings painted with majestic falcons and characters from scriptural tales in flowing robes. Perhaps the German people are not as crude and brutal as she has been told. “They break wind right there at the table,” the Countess of Brabant told her. “Their hair grows as wild as weeds, unchecked, all over their bodies—on the women, too.”

The servants set down heaping platters of food and refill their goblets, and soon everyone is pink-cheeked and smiling, including Sanchia, who devours the meats and boiled barley as though they were the delicate sauced partridges and sweet peaches of Provence. The flavors do blend well with the beer, which is tasting quite nice now.

The barons rise and begin giving speeches that, to Sanchia’s ear, sounds like throat clearing and gargling. Richard’s grin widens with each tribute. “The more money I spend here, the more they like me,” he murmurs.

And why shouldn’t they? she wants to say. Richard has spent thousands to improve castles and towns throughout his new kingdom. God knows it needs improving. Its choice of drink is not its only shortcoming. Germany is cold—not only its weather, but also its people. The wild, inscrutable landscape makes her shiver, as well. Could all the money in the world lend warmth to this awful place? It is a wonder that she, who craves the sun, should be sent ever more deeply into shadow and chill. What does the Lord mean by all these trials? What does He want her to learn?

Trumpets blast; the crowd rustles. The doors to the cathedral open. The herald announces Ottokar of Bohemia, who swoops like a falcon down the steps and through the hall, as tall as a tree in brown and green wool and an ermine-lined mantle the color of plum, his heavy beard blanketing his face in flaxen curls. People sway toward him as he passes. Here is the man so powerful that
his vote decided, at last, who would be King of Germany. Here is the man who caused the crown to be offered first to Alfonso of Castille, then rescinded, then placed on Richard’s head. An indecisive man, one might say, except that he carries about him the air of one who knows exactly what he wants. When he looks at Sanchia with those gray eyes, what he wants is very clear.

“May I have this dance?” he says.

As if on cue, the music begins. Sanchia takes a drink of her beer. Ottokar offers her his arm. She feels delicate beside him, he is so big and tall. He leads her into the circle of dancers. She follows, laughing, for she does not know the step and the music is fast. She twirls with him, faster and faster, growing dizzy, closing her eyes. She should have known German dancing would be bold and rough—and the music raucous, just like everything here, in her new kingdom. Slow down, she wants to say, but he would not hear her and besides, everyone is twirling and laughing and shouting and looking at her, happy to share their music and their life with her, their new queen.

Then Ottokar releases her to join the circle which is forming around them. She steps back as he does, looking left and right for outstretched hands, but whose hand should she take? Blushing, for they are all watching her now, waiting for her to join the dance, she lurches toward Ottokar whose palm touches her bosom, making her cry out in surprise and stumble backward. As she falls to the floor, the room whirls and people look down at her and she gasps, right into the scowling face of Richard, on whose head sits the crown of the kingdom and on whose arm hangs a young woman with rosy cheeks and laughing mouth and hair as pale as the cold German sun.

Eléonore