The Sister Queens

by Sophie Perinot

  “How can it be in the interests of our family to allow Provence to come into the hands of a member of the French royal family? Especially one as ambitious as Charles? Safety for Provence, for my mother and Beatrice, through an alliance with France by all means, but the surrender of Provence? It has always been an imperial fiefdom. The Holy Roman Emperor may tolerate our family’s bonds with the Capets, but surely he will not like to see the French king’s brother seize possession of imperial lands.”

  I suppose it would anger my husband to hear me speak so, and anger Blanche of Castile even more. But the dragon has herself to blame for my divided loyalties. Her behavior over the years of my marriage, more than any other thing, has impressed upon me time and again that my interests and France’s are not the same. She has, more than any other person unrelated by blood, strengthened my sense of myself as a Provençal and a Savoyard first and foremost.

  “You misunderstand me,” my uncle replies. “There is no question of that. If we Savoyards are to give our imprimatur to this match, it will be on the condition that Provence remain an independent county. The county may pass to Beatrice’s heirs by Charles but never to Charles outright. And I will personally make certain that the emperor knows as much.”

  Beatrice’s heirs. My uncle could not be more clear. Not only is my promised dowry being set aside, but I will be expected not to contest my father’s will. How dare all my nearest relations treat my claims, my wishes, so cavalierly? I rise from my seat, pull myself up to my full height, and, giving my uncle what I very much hope is an imperious look worthy of Eleanor, say, “With all due respect, Your Grace and the archbishop of Canterbury are being played for fools.”

  “How so?” My uncle’s voice remains quiet and without anger. “If you fear His Majesty will not abide by an agreement of his own making, an agreement stating outright that Charles may not inherit, it is best you tell me now.”

  And like that, my momentary flare of anger at Philippe passes. He cannot understand the workings of the French court as I do, and he does not know my detestable brother-in-law Charles. “No. You will have no difficulty with Louis. Where he gives his word, he will follow it to the letter. But you do not take into account the groom himself. Charles is as unlike Louis as day is unlike night. He is pompous, rapaciously ambitious, and capable of disregarding everything, even the commands of his king, to pursue his own aggrandizement.” I stare at my uncle intently as if willing him to understand as I do that Charles will take Provence for himself whatever terms are negotiated.

  My uncle presses his palms together, almost as if he is praying, and rests the first fingers of his hands against his lips, contemplating. Then, letting his hands fall to his lap, he says, “If that be the case, it is better to have the count tied to the family than not.”

  I sink back into my seat, exhausted with the effort of trying to make Philippe see the situation with the same alarm that I do. “It will be like having a wild animal. We may keep him in our menagerie, but we will never tame him.”

  “I will expect you, Marguerite, to work with Beatrice; to school her, and keep her mindful of our interests. She in turn shall work on the Count d’Anjou.”

  FOR A DOZEN YEARS I have longed to see Aix again—to be welcomed into the embrace of its many towers, to find myself in the arms of my mother. This is not the homecoming I imagined. Charles has been strutting around like a peacock, styling himself as Count of Provence for days, though his wedding took place only moments ago. I can hardly look at my mother! She appears as smitten with Charles as my sister Beatrice is. Apparently both are so relieved that he is neither the Count of Toulouse nor the Prince of Aragon that they are blind to the size of his nose and his spoiled, demanding, bad temper. Well, I think with satisfaction, looking at the guards in the square struggling to push back an angry crowd of my countrymen, I am not alone in my distaste for Charles.

  “Smile,” my uncle Thomas instructs, putting one hand under my elbow and raising his other hand to acknowledge the crowd as if they were cheering rather than jeering. The Count of Flanders inspires respect. It is for this reason that he braved the January cold and traveled to Aix for Beatrice’s wedding. The Savoyards, united and glamorously attired, attempt to give the union of my sister and my brother-in-law gravitas and legitimacy—to prevent anyone from getting the notion that my sister was bundled up and handed over to the highest bidder.

  “By God’s blood!” he declares under his breath as we stop beside my horse. “You would think we were in Marseilles.”

  And I know what he means. Never in my father’s lifetime did any, save his subjects from that brazen port city, complain of his rule or protest his actions. Yet now as the bridal party rides in close formation and heavily guarded, from the cathedral to the castle for my sister’s nuptial celebrations, the crowd along our route jostles like a pack of vicious dogs. They do not like this match—not at all. I wonder if Beatrice, riding behind me, sees them and understands their mood? I suspect not. I suspect she has eyes only for Charles riding beside her in lavish silver and vermillion robes.

  The wedding banquet is sumptuous and, like the five hundred knights Charles brought to rescue and secure my sister, Louis is paying for it. Still, as the last of many courses is cleared, Charles leans in the direction of his mother and says, “This is nothing compared to what I might have had at Paris.”

  I see my husband’s jaw tighten, but he says nothing.

  “You have a fine county,” Blanche responds. “Pray be content.” The dragon is generally very indulgent of the last of her sons. But her look now is far from loving. No doubt she turns over in her mind the cost and effort required to bring him to this moment.

  “I do not see why I do not merit as fine a wedding as His Majesty had,” Charles continues, unchecked by his mother’s tone.

  “Because you are not a king.” The words are out before I can stop myself.

  Charles regards me across the stiffened form of his brother as if I were not a queen. “Well,” he drawls, “I am the son of a king as my brother was not.”

  I feel as if I have been slapped, but Charles pays no mind, turning to his stony-faced mother for support. “Is that not the case, madam? My grandfather reigned still when His Majesty was born and our father was yet a prince.”

  Blanche looks as if she would do murder. Charles leaves her in a most uncomfortable situation. She would never willingly take my part, but the Count d’Anjou insults her darling Louis. “Why not dance with your wife?” she says quietly.

  “Yes, I may as well make the most of these festivities, meager as they are.” Charles extends a hand to my sister Beatrice.

  She either has not heard the words exchanged or is not discomforted by them, for her cheeks show no stain of shame and her eyes only a bright delight at being the center of attention.

  I refrain from commenting upon Charles’s behavior for the rest of the evening, though on more than one occasion I must clench my teeth to do so. However, I cannot help casting frequent glances at my mother and uncle to see if they are as irritated as I am by the new count. When at last I can escape the great hall, it saddens me to be so eager to flee a room that was the scene of so many happier occasions in my childhood. As I am prepared for bed, I remind myself that if I cannot think better of my brother-in-law, I ought to at least reserve judgment of my sister. After all, Beatrice is young and doubtless as in love with the idea of being a bride as she imagines she is with Charles. I drift to sleep, promising to make a concerted show of kindness toward the new Countess of Provence.

  The next morning, setting aside our inequality of rank, I call on my sister. Charles is not a stickler for doctrinal niceties, so it is certain that he had Beatrice on her wedding night. Remembering my own first experience of the marriage bed, and in keeping with my vow of the night before, I wish to be a support to my sister.

  Arriving at the rooms of the Countess of Provence, I find her talking gaily, surrounded by her ladies. I am reminded again, and with force, that my si
ster is a stranger.

  “Your Majesty.” Beatrice dips a curtsy, and then her bright, hard blue eyes devour me, going over every item of my apparel from my golden pearl-studded crespine to the toes of my patterned silk slippers. “We are so behind the fashion here! Before Your Majesty’s arrival I did not know it, but now I can hardly wait to bring the fashions of Provence into line with those at the court of France. I see no reason we should be behind anyone.”

  Elisabeth, who accompanied me on my errand, shifts uncomfortably beside me, and I find myself unable to think of any fitting response. My silence has no effect on my sister.

  “My husband says that everything in our county must be as in France, and he has brought so many Frenchmen with him that we will soon be as French as you are at Paris.”

  “No one could be prouder of the Kingdom of France than I, but are there not many fine Provençal traditions and customs worth keeping?” I long to say more, to ask her what our mother would think to hear her speak so, dismissing as old-fashioned a court that has long set a standard for grace, hospitality, and artistic accomplishment. And at that very moment, before Beatrice can utter another inanity, Mother enters with Romeo de Villeneuve at her side. Her face is pinched and my father’s counselor… Can this be the same man who promised Louis Tarascon and set me on my way as a bride? I realize with a start that de Villeneuve must have been well into his prime a dozen years ago, though as a girl I would not have noticed. If he seems old now, it is only the natural order of things. I wonder for the first time if the years have left any unbecoming marks on me.

  “Marguerite.” Mother embraces me for a moment, then steps back and looks me pointedly in the eye. “Sieur de Villeneuve and I have been speaking with my new son.”

  I give a quick glance in Beatrice’s direction, but she is completely occupied displaying to her ladies a particularly fine piece of baudekyn silk she received as a wedding gift. “The Count d’Anjou is a very singular prince,” I say, nodding slightly.

  “With very singular ideas for how Provence is to be managed.”

  I feel my stomach sink. Why would no one listen to me at Cluny?

  A week later I have had the same thought recur to me so often that it begins to have the sound of a refrain from a familiar song as it rises to my mind unbidden. Not once, however, to my credit, have I allowed it to pass my lips. Pointing out my prediction that things would go badly will not lessen the pain that Charles is causing my family and my beloved homeland.

  “It seems in addition to his knights, the count brought an army of lawyers with him.”

  My mother and I are in my room—not the room I am lodging in presently, but my room, the room I occupied with Eleanor during the countless childhood hours we passed at Aix. I sit on the edge of the bed I once shared with Eleanor—Eleanor who does not yet know that Beatrice has married into the house of Capet—and watch my mother pace.

  My mother is sick of Charles already.

  “How can our manner of governing, which has been the model for our neighbors, suddenly be so totally deficient?” she exclaims. “Our trade and our revenues are the envy of many.”

  “Ah, Mother, but therein lies the problem. Charles will not be happy until he controls them.”

  “He will cause unrest among our lords, and then heaven help him.” The weak morning sun gives my mother a complexion of ashes as she stops in its rays.

  Or, heaven help the noblemen, I think.

  “And the insults!” Mother resumes her pacing. “Only last night at dinner he said such things to His Grace the archbishop of Arles.”

  “My husband’s brother has never been known for his charm. When he was a boy of seven, I watched him insult the King of Navarre as if he were that sovereign’s equal.”

  “He knows nothing of our ways and thinks nothing of them.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Under your father’s will, I have the use and possession of substantial properties in this county for the rest of my life. I will establish my own court at one of my castles and do whatever I can to preserve this county as your father left it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Marguerite,

  Never did I truly believe such a thing possible. Although our father expressed an intention of bequeathing the entirety of the County of Provence to Beatrice when his illness first fell upon him, I hoped that the approach of death would inspire more just action. I hoped in vain.

  In my more charitable moments I tell myself that, to his mind, swayed by his longstanding habit of favoring Beatrice and the fact that she alone among his daughters remains unmarried and unsettled, this decision seemed necessary. And in my less charitable moments, well, I do not trust myself to say what I think in my less charitable moments, though only you will read my words. They would not reflect well upon me.

  And the insult to you and me goes beyond being deprived of a rightful share of the county. Imagine pledging the same castles to more than one king. I am so furious that I half hope the Count of Toulouse arrives with his armies to claim Beatrice by force before the Holy Father can safeguard her. I know it is unchristian to wish our sister to pay for the sins of our father, but I simply cannot help myself. I urge you, my sister, in the strongest terms, to appeal our father’s testamentary bequests. We shall certainly do as much.

  Yours in shared grief,

  Eleanor

  ELEANOR

  FEBRUARY 1246

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  I am reeling.

  “How can this be?” Henry’s voice shakes with anger. “We have only just dispatched our letter protesting the terms of your father’s will to His Holiness, and Louis of France already has the Countess of Provence married off to his brother!”

  Henry waves the pages in his hand at me. His breath rises, ragged and visible in the cold air. We are having a bitter winter; even indoors one cannot keep warm a dozen feet beyond the fireside. There was ice on the water in my ewer this morning.

  I have seen Henry angry before, many times. I have even seen him angry with me. Yet the look on his flushed face unnerves me. “The French push their borders southward while I, like a man sleeping, continue to offer alms in honor of your dead father! I feel the very fool.” He pauses again to peer at me. His eyes are full of mistrust. “Madam, do you mean to tell me that you had no inkling? You who hear from the Queen of France so often?”

  “Henry! How can you think it?” The accusation that I glimpsed in his eyes now hangs in the air. My tears flow, but they are angry tears. We have been betrayed. I have been betrayed. By my family!

  “And the four thousand marks I lent to your mother, monies we could ill afford, what is to secure that loan when Charles d’Anjou has my five castles?”

  I have no answer. I am too angry to speak in any event. How could Marguerite and my mother! Did they actively plan this treacherous marriage or merely attend it? And my uncles! Besides word of my sister Beatrice’s hasty wedding, my husband’s agents brought rumors that Uncle Boniface attended meetings at which our rights—we his greatest patrons—were effectively destroyed. My Savoyard kin have thrown themselves onto the side of France and into disfavor with my kingly husband, disregarding everything I have done to forward them. Well, I cannot worry about them. I must act to save myself lest I be lumped with the rest of my family in Henry’s fury.

  As if reading my fears, Henry says, “When this weather breaks, madam, I suggest you take yourself to Windsor. I look at you and see a Savoyard.”

  A Savoyard—this term was never an insult before. My relationship to the house of Savoy was one of my great attractions when Henry sought to marry me. Since then he has benefited by my connections, most recently in a treaty with my uncle, the Count Amadeus of Savoy. And suddenly I am both inspired and enlightened.

  “Well then, see the Count of Savoy, your newest vassal,” I say. This must be the reason that Uncle Peter worked so furiously to secure that treaty—to give Henry something even as something, unbeknownst to us, was being taken away. I c
annot approve of such duplicity, but I can and do grudgingly admire it. “See our new castles in the Alps, with all their advantages.

  “If the Queen of France and her husband injure you, surely I am not guilty. I swear she is no sister of mine when she brings Your Majesty grief. I shall not send her another letter!”

  Henry knows what such a pledge means, for he has watched me write countless missives to my sister these ten years and teased me as I waited impatiently for Marguerite’s replies. He remains silent, but I see a softening in his eyes. As he looks at me, I feel certain that he sees the wife who loves him rather than a woman whose family has behaved so shockingly.

  I press my advantage. “I see that Your Majesty is determined to judge and condemn me by the sins of others. I will go then and tend to our sons. They may be young, but they are wise enough to recognize that I place them always before myself. It is unfortunate that their father does not accord me the same credit.” I rise from the fireside, letting the fur throw I had tucked over my lap fall to the ground. I have covered less than half the distance between my seat and the door when Henry steps in front of me.

  “Eleanor, my heart, I know you are loyal.” He reaches out a hand to me and, when I lay my own in his, pulls me into an embrace.

  CHAPTER 18

  Eleanor,

  What is this new sorrow heaped upon me? The sudden break in our correspondence was most unexpected, and I pray it will be of short duration. Believe me when I say that the loss of my dowry is as nothing compared to the loss of your goodwill. My fireside seems empty without your letters to bear me company of an evening.…