The Sister Queens

by Sophie Perinot

I awake early the next morning, full of excitement and anticipation. My ears are alert to every sound, from the birds conversing riotously outside my window to Marie’s soft steps beyond my chamber door as she consciously tries not to wake me while beginning the business of her day. As I stretch and roll to my back, the touch of the coverings on the flesh of my limbs sends shivers through me. I wonder whether I will see the Seneschal of Champagne today and if so, how soon? There are so many people gathered at court. Three thousand knights have come for Alphonse’s investiture. But at the moment only one of them has the power to intrigue and divert me.

  I close my eyes, trying to picture Jean de Joinville, and I am startled when his image comes to me naked. Perhaps I should not be. I may have lain with my husband last evening, but I am far from satisfied. In the last year, our “dear” mother Blanche moved from the Palais du Roi to her own residence on the right bank of the Seine. I was sure, with the dragon gone, I would have more success persuading Louis to pay me his marriage debt. I was eager to have him between my thighs again, not only so that I might have a son, but because my body harkened back to the early days of our marriage when it received pleasure from my husband. But I have been bitterly disappointed. Now there is none. No hands run eagerly over my body as he penetrates me. No lips suck teasingly at my pert nipples causing me to gasp with gratification. I am not certain that Louis even sees me as he satisfies his needs. His needs alone are considered.

  I examine my imagined Joinville closely, running my mind’s eye down his chest to the nest of dark hair above his member, hair as curly and irresistible as that on his handsome head. Almost unconsciously the fingers of my left hand rise to my nipple and begin to rub and pinch it in turn. My right hand finds its way between my legs. I am shocked to discover how sensitive I am to my own touch, and how my pulse quickens as I stroke myself. Imagining that the hands upon me are Joinville’s, I give a little moan and another; then, fearing I will be heard, I put my left fist up to my mouth and bite upon my curled first finger. Strangely, even this brings pleasure. I hesitate for only a moment and then plunge the first two fingers of my hand inside myself. My hips writhe beneath the covers as I give myself all the pleasure that heedless Louis denies me. Lying back, satisfied at last, I feel a certain smugness. I have paid myself my own marriage debt, and whatever sin there may be in that, I cannot repent of it.

  ALL AFTERNOON I WATCH FOR Joinville but do not see him. Sitting beside Louis, I receive dozens upon dozens of people. Blanche is with us in the hall, but she is indisposed and cannot sit for long periods. When she rises from her seat at Louis’s other side and descends from the dais to walk about the crowded room, Louis twines his fingers in mine. The unexpected gesture of familiarity draws my full attention to my husband. Louis is enjoying all the pomp and ceremony of this gathering of nobles and knights, in spite of himself.

  “Those who pay homage to us are the finest men in Europe,” he says when we are momentarily at liberty. “Look at them.” Then he sighs wistfully. “How much better it would be to see them in the field.”

  I draw my eyes away from the throngs of brightly dressed dukes, counts, seneschals, and bishops where I have been searching for Fat Thibaut in hopes that Jean de Joinville will be at his side. “In the field, Your Majesty?”

  Louis’s eyes burn with more heat than blue seems capable of emitting as he answers, “In the Holy Land, doing God’s work.”

  Of course, crusade. Louis thinks about crusading a great deal as of late. He, I, and indeed all of Christendom know that Richard of Cornwall, brother of the English king and a powerful nobleman in his own right, is presently on crusade. His absence accounts for the timing of Alphonse’s investiture. According to Eleanor’s husband, the territory of Poitou is English, and King Henry has conferred it on the Earl Richard. My husband insists that the same lands belong to France because his father overran them shortly before his death, but Louis has only played the role of lord over them from a distance. Now he brings his brother here to sit above all the other noblemen in the region and receive their homage. It is a bold move—a gamble by my husband and the dragon to secure his power over this western territory and to open the possibility of converting it, at some later date, into a royal domain rather than a county held by a vassal. It would be bold almost to the point of recklessness were Richard of Cornwall within striking distance, able to defend his interests. Yet even as he moves to benefit from Richard’s absence, Louis envies Richard and is jealous of his crusade. Every song, every story celebrating the Englishman’s triumphs excites and chafes Louis.

  “Your Majesty does God’s work here in France. The city of Paris is ringed with religious houses that you have raised to Our Lord’s glory and your own.”

  “For my own glory I care not a whit.”

  I am not fooled. Louis may be a very pious man, but man he is. He longs for military glory, for the prestige of being victorious on the field of battle. He longs to hear his exploits sung. And though I like crusade poetry very much myself, I would rather hear songs of love at present. A movement to my right distracts me from my reply. Blanche has returned, and Alphonse and Jeanne are with her.

  “Your Majesty, I have just received word that Isabella of Angoulême, Countess of La Marche, has arrived.” Blanche speaks very softly, stepping in close before Louis. Jeanne and Alphonse draw in as well. We form a tight circle, as if we are plotters within our own court.

  “She is very clever,” Alphonse hisses. “If you receive her before I am invested, she can avoid kneeling to me.”

  “She is not clever enough,” replies Blanche with a derisive snort. “We and not she control the time and manner of her reception.”

  “Make her wait?” Louis sounds slightly dubious, and I am nearly aghast. Isabella of Angoulême is not only Countess of La Marche; she is also Dowager Queen of England, mother-in-law to my sister, a woman equal in rank to the dragon.

  “Why not?” asks Blanche. “We have not come this far to have our work undone by a woman who steals her own daughter’s husband. Any public insolence toward Your Majesty or the Count of Poitiers, any disturbance caused by the countess, could give others in your brother’s territory courage to defy him. You know that Hugh of La Marche is popular among his peers, and so is his wife.”

  We are, it seems, plotters in our own court.

  “Your Majesty,” I venture, surprised at my own courage, not so much in having an opinion as in speaking it, “if she is so, might you not incite the Count of La Marche by treating his lady with discourtesy? Might not the countess urge her husband to be less compliant where you would have him more?”

  Jeanne nods her head timidly in agreement, and I give her a grateful look.

  “Ridiculous,” scoffs the dragon. “Why would any man listen to his wife on such matters? Hugh of La Marche will no more listen to Isabella than His Majesty will listen to you.” Blanche’s last phrase is accompanied by a cruel smile. She turns to Louis expectantly.

  “We shall do as you say, madam. Let the countess be kept waiting.” Louis does not look at me as he speaks. Blanche, however, gives me a very meaningful glance before ascending the dais to take her seat at Louis’s left. While Louis is turned toward her, I rise and flee.

  My eyes brim with tears, so I keep them on the floor as I move toward the nearest door, eager to escape the lively room and its chattering inhabitants. As I reach the door, my steps quicken. Passing through it without looking, I run against someone.

  “Your Majesty, my apologies.”

  It is Jean de Joinville. I recognize his voice even before I glance up into his mortified face.

  “Sieur, the fault is mine. I found the great hall too close for my comfort and, in my hurry to get some air, did not look where I was going.”

  “It is warm,” Joinville says solemnly, “much warmer than the weather I am accustomed to in Champagne this time of year.”

  He studiously ignores the implausibility of my statement—he knows I am from the south where it is as warm as
it is beautiful—and I feel a rush of gratitude for the gesture. The seneschal’s eyes have a remarkable depth when they are serious. Fearful of falling into them, I lower my own eyes again.

  “Perhaps in the gardens you will find relief?” he continues. “With a breeze and a little shade. Would you like me to come with you?”

  The last question is spoken so low and with such intensity that I cannot help but raise my face again. His arm is already extended, and his expression exhibits all the gravitas due me as his queen. But, do I fool myself, or do I see more than a desire to be useful in his eyes and in the way his nostrils seem to tense and relax with every breath as he waits for my answer?

  “Yes,” I reply, setting my hand lightly on his forearm. The sleeve fits very closely here, and despite its presence, I quiver like a vielle string at first contact.

  We make our way outside. “Let us take the way along the parapet wall,” I suggest. “The air will be fresh there and the views unmatched.”

  “As Your Majesty wishes.”

  Once at the wall, I release Joinville’s arm and gaze down at the convergence of the Loire and Thouet rivers. The sky is blue and sown with white clouds. Our height above the town of Saumur is dizzying, and the greens of the flat valley beyond the city walls stretch to the horizon. I was not lying when I said the views are spectacular, but they are not my views. After seven years of marriage, my eyes still search for the rock-ribbed mountains and red earth of Provence. After a few moments in silence, de Joinville turns his back to the parapet.

  “What a graceful château. It is hard to believe that the English built it.”

  Surprised by his comment, I laugh out loud. Then, recollecting that my sister is on an English throne, I cover my mouth.

  Joinville appears to have the same realization, for he looks suddenly sheepish. “Pardon my impudence, Your Majesty. I forgot your relationship to the English queen.”

  “Yes,” I reply, seating myself on a nearby bench and affecting great seriousness, “we ought to show more respect for the King of England’s grandfather—particularly as my husband’s grandfather took this lovely château from him. We can afford to be gracious to those we vanquish.”

  Now it is Joinville’s turn to laugh. He has a beautiful laugh. Warm and melodious, it shakes his frame. “Then, His Majesty the Most Christian King of France has every reason to be affable.” Joinville’s eyes examine me where I sit. Giving an exaggerated bow he continues. “Our sovereign bests Henry of England at every turn, beginning with his choice of bride.”

  “Sieur de Joinville! It is very lucky for you that my sister Eleanor is not here,” I reply in mock horror. “She would upbraid you roundly and with reason. I, however, know how to accept a compliment. You are in no danger from me. I merely protest that the Queen of England is exceedingly fair, clever, and charming, and were you to meet her, your opinion of my merits might alter.”

  “Impossible.” The tone is still light, but the eyes are all conviction.

  While it is perfectly chivalrous and appropriate for me to play at love as the ladies in song and story do, I know I am in danger here lest the game go too far. My morning thoughts of Joinville tell me as much. I must parry those serious eyes. “It is a great shame that this château will belong to my brother Charles when he is of age as he is the Count d’Anjou.” I am surprised by my own candor the moment the words are spoken. It seems that, though I change the subject, I have a need to speak truth to the Sieur de Joinville.

  “You do not like the count.” It is a statement, not a question; yet I reply willingly enough.

  “No one much likes him. He is a prating, pompous fourteen-year-old. I could, perhaps, forgive him that. But he is ambitious beyond his years. I do not trust him.”

  “But you trust me.” One dark curl has fallen down over his right eye. It dangles, just grazing his eyebrow, which is raised slightly, awaiting my reply.

  “So it seems, for I give you the power to do me harm. If you repeat what I have said, the Dowager Queen will make much of it, to my detriment.”

  “I would never lift voice or hand to injure Your Majesty.” Joinville pushes the obstinate curl back as he speaks. “I take your unguarded words as a pledge of friendship and return one of my own. Before coming to court, I heard that His Majesty cleaved too closely to his mother. These last days I have seen it to be true. The Dowager Queen treats the king as a boy, and thus unmans him. It is unseemly, and so is the way that she treats Your Majesty.”

  The seneschal could not have chosen more apt words if he wished to ingratiate himself with me. Yet I sense no fawning in him. His voice has a steadiness and certitude about it more generally associated with age than with a youth first arrived at court. I gesture for him to take a seat beside me, and he does readily. “They say you are penning the story of the Count of Champagne’s crusade. What was it like in the Holy Land?”

  “I have no idea,” Joinville replies frankly. “I did not travel with the count. I must write based on his report.”

  “You do not sound satisfied.”

  “Well, people often misremember things to their own advantage.”

  “You mean the count paints too flattering a picture of his deeds?”

  “No.” Joinville laughs again, lightly. “He expects me to paint the flattering picture. But, yes, he exaggerates. He is a good writer himself, and I wish he would tell this tale and spare my reputation. Perhaps he correctly judges that few men can tell their own story without being called braggart.”

  “Sieur, I do believe you worry over nothing. Surely it is not what you write but how you write it that will determine your reputation? All those who read your account will know that Thibaut’s wishes directed your pen.”

  “The best writings, like the best men, tell the truth. I would make a name for myself as a man who can be relied upon.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Marguerite,

  …For shame! Are these the manners our mother taught you? To keep my husband’s mother, a queen herself, waiting for more than a day! Is it any wonder then that her husband and her kin are risen in anger to defend her honor? I must conclude that your association with the French king is to blame, for is he not the same gentleman, and I use that term advisedly, who thought to pilfer another preudomme’s lands while that knight was abroad carrying the banner of our faith?…

  Eleanor

  MARGUERITE

  JULY 1242

  THE FRENCH ROYAL CAMP OUTSIDE OF SAINTES, POITOU

  And all this because we snubbed the Countess of La Marche. I wonder if the dragon thinks of that—of how certain she was that Isabella of Angoulême had neither the power nor the influence to start a rebellion. Doubtless she does. She has feared conspiracies against her beloved Louis for as long as I have known her, and in the end she created one involving both the English king and the emperor through miscalculation. How fortunate for my husband then that our kingdom is rich and his knights were ready. And now Louis has raised the oriflamme and achieved a victory in battle. Perhaps soon we can go home.

  The tent is hot. And while I find it oppressively so, the baby slumbering against my chest appears to find it soothing.

  “Shall I take her to her nurse?” Marie asks.

  I am torn. The Princess Isabella, now four months old, calms me. But she also makes me warmer, so I nod and hand her to Marie grudgingly. Watching Marie disappear, I wonder again why it was so much easier for me to accept a second daughter than it was a first. Perhaps because there have been other causes for distress.

  When I became Queen of France and Eleanor Queen of En-gland, I never imagined our countries at war. Foolish of me, I suppose. I knew that Louis and Henry of England were rivals and disagreed over the ownership of certain territories, but I was used to the Savoyard way of thinking that families are best served by uniting. “When the members of a family fight among themselves, they are all the losers.” This philosophy shared by my mother’s brothers has allowed them each to grow rich and powerful without dividin
g the dominions of the House of Savoy, without ever giving my uncle the Count Amadeus a single sleepless night. But Louis and Henry are not brothers, though their wives are sisters. So I sit near the southern border of Poitou, bearing my husband company as he seeks to rout the English and their Gascon allies and subdue the rebellious Poitevin nobles.

  Marie returns. She bustles about my tent with an amazing energy, apparently oblivious to the heat. Jeanne stares at her wanly from the couch where she reclines. She has been ill. At first it was hoped that she was with child. She and Alphonse have been married nearly five years and she has yet to breed. But it turned out she only suffered from that sickness of the bowels and belly so common in an armed camp. The illness is past, but Jeanne is still greatly weakened.

  “Will Your Majesty take some refreshment?” Marie inquires.

  “No. We dine shortly with the king. I will change now.”

  Jeanne makes an effort to rise and assist me, but I wave her back to her place.

  “I wonder that you bother,” she remarks listlessly. “You know that Louis will make no effort at finery.”

  “Indeed. But I will feel cooler in fresh clothing,” I say. I am dissembling. Despite my estrangement from Eleanor, this war has had one positive effect. It has made Louis feel like a warrior. He may still dress like a monk sworn to poverty, but he has a warrior’s appetites. He eats better than I have seen him do in years. He waters his wine less; using the heat and the exertion of battle as his excuse when Blanche turns an accusing eye in his direction. And he is back in my bed far sooner than I could ever have imagined. He will notice what I wear tonight, make no mistake.

  The ground we tread on the way to the king’s tent is dry and dusty. Men and animals have denuded the once lush patch where we camp. Jeanne trails slightly behind me. I can see the Charente River glimmering between the tents. The sun is in its descent, and perhaps within a few hours we will have some relief from the heat. The standards of Louis’s knights banneret hang limp. There is no breeze to carry them aloft.