The Sister Queens

by Sophie Perinot

  “Lord Edward must have one cup every hour for the next three,” Willelma instructs the prince’s physician, though such instruction is entirely unnecessary for neither she nor I have any intention of leaving.

  After the penultimate dose, I doze off. Even the rough stone wall behind me is pillow enough in my present state. I awake with a start, feeling unpleasantly damp. Looking down on Edward in the candlelight, I quickly see that his hair is moist and his skin glistens. He is sweating—sweating profusely. The back of the fever is breaking.

  Willelma hands me the cup, and I administer the last dose carefully, concentrating on not spilling a drop with my shaking hands. My job accomplished, I begin to cry—to cry as I have not since I was a child, in huge gulping sobs.

  Henry shoos the physicians and attendants from the room, then returns to join me on the narrow bed, lying on his side and curling around me as I in turn curl around Edward. Gradually my sobs subside, and I drift to sleep, bathed in Edward’s sweat and pressed tight between my two great loves.

  CHAPTER 20

  Eleanor,

  …Soon I will leave for the Holy Land. The steps of my journey will take me to places that you know well. To Beaucaire to see our mother, to Avignon, to Marseilles. In all these places I will expect to see you. To catch your former self out of the corner of my eye. Before I reach Aigues-Mortes where my ship stands ready to bear me to unknown lands and perils, I ask two things of you. Forgive me for whatever acts, large or small, childish or womanly, you in your own judgment believe I have trespassed against you. And write to me, so that I may not leave these shores burdened by the silence you have maintained for so long.

  Your loving sister,

  Marguerite

  MARGUERITE

  JUNE 1248

  CORBEIL, FRANCE

  It has been a season of good-byes. My good and faithful friends Elisabeth and Yolande, whom I thought to take to the Holy Land with me, left me in quick succession. Elisabeth was carried away by plague, and Yolande in the bearing of a child, a child delivered so many years after her last that nothing good could reasonably be expected from his mother’s confinement. My grief over their deaths is profound.

  And always the loss of Eleanor is there, waiting like an unreliable tooth to pain me just when I have forgotten it. I had not seen my sister for years before she turned from me; yet she never felt absent from my life. She was with me daily, in a phrase spoken by others that reminded me of her, in a thought of my own that was undeniably shaped by our growing up together, in a place or a person seen through the filter of her imagined opinion. Now, after such a long silence on her part, I cannot bear these once reassuring reminders. I train myself not to think of her, not to mention her. I am as a cloistered nun where it comes to memories of Eleanor. Yet rather than bringing me pleasant calm, my self-denial leaves a bitter feeling, and I fear becoming as one of those whose withdrawal from the world has not left her graceful, but rather withered and rigid.

  I try to tell myself that time will bring me other friends and that by it all things are healed. I notice that a new Lady Coucy, Elisabeth’s replacement, is part of the party standing apart and a little to one side on this summer morning, more than three years after Louis and I took the cross, as the real leave-taking begins. I promise myself that I shall endeavor to be kind to her, but that will be difficult since her very existence reminds me that my darling friend is gone.

  “Say your prayers without fail,” Louis instructs our small brood with a serious face. My little Louis regards him with solemn attention. The prince is lean and a goodly size for four, but still not as tall as three-year-old Philippe. Philippe, who is constantly in motion, pays the king no mind. Instead, he drops to his knees to examine something in the dust that has caught his eye. Princess Isabelle makes an attempt to hoist him up but fails, and his nurse takes charge, swinging my second son to her hip with practiced ease.

  Blanche stands waiting to be given charge of my babies. Her face is expressionless as I kiss each on the cheek. Little Louis throws his arms about my neck, even though I did all I could last evening to prepare him for this moment. His nurse scuttles forward to remove him from me, but I hold up a hand. Louis is the golden prince I mistook his father for at first sight. He is a warm, open, little soul, and, unlike his father, his affection for me equals mine for him.

  I put my mouth to his ear and whisper, “Three months is not so long. Isabelle will help you count the days.”

  Then I hug him fiercely before passing him to the nurse. My husband seems vaguely embarrassed by my show of affection. But I do not care. This is the moment I have dreaded most since we took the cross. I know that Blanche understands the sudden emptiness I feel, even as she refuses to offer me a look of reassurance or commiseration. She will be parted from her sons today too.

  The children are whisked away. My eyes sting as I fight to keep from crying. Robert of Artois and Charles d’Anjou come forward in turn and take their leave of the dragon. Solemnly she offers them her blessing, but I notice that her left hand has seized a portion of her mantle, fingering it and twisting it in a most uncharacteristic manner.

  Then Louis steps forward. He embraces his mother, then says, “Madam, I leave all that is of importance in your hands, my children and my kingdom, knowing that you will manage things as you always have—to my good and my glory.”

  Blanche’s face collapses—an event without warning and without precedent. She looks old and frail. “I fear,” she begins, but her voice breaks, and in the silence that descends I sense weakness. She begins again. “I fear, Your Majesty, that we will not meet again in this life.” Then gathering herself together, she is issuing orders once again. “I admonish Your Majesty, as the woman who gave you life and loves you like no other, to behave always in a manner that safeguards your immortal soul. Seek God’s glory in the Holy Land rather than your own, that I may see you in heaven if never again in France.”

  Never again in France. The excitement this possibility kindles in me is indecent, and I know as much. It is impossible, much as I hate her, that I could pray for another Christian’s death. Imprudent too, for I leave my children in her care. Yet, as we ride off in the direction of Beaucaire, some part of me hopes that I will return from battle with the infidels to find that my chief battle at home has been won in my absence.

  AFTER BEAUCAIRE, I BEGIN TO look for the Sieur de Joinville. This might seem a foolish waste of time as knights by the hundreds join us from every direction, but I feel certain that when he reaches the royal party, Joinville will find a way to make himself known to me.

  We move slowly, as we must with so many men, but I am glad of it, for at every turn in the road I find the scenery of my childhood. The weather too, with a warmth that my husband’s northern kingdom is never able to match, puts me in high spirits. When Avignon comes into sight, I am struck by the thought that fourteen years ago I waited at its gate for the French to arrive. Today, at twenty-seven, I am the French.

  Beatrice rides beside me. I wonder if she remembers that long-ago day. I doubt so. The hours I have passed with my sister in the two years since her marriage have convinced me that her mind is occupied nearly entirely with herself. In this she is perfectly matched with her husband. Still, for the sake of the crowds, I treat Beatrice with marked cordiality these days. The public tableau of family must be preserved. I learned this at my mother’s knee, and the rule applies equally whether the family is Savoyard or Capetian. In truth, it is hard not to feel a little sorry for my sister, prideful though she is, because she is carrying her first child and is very ill. As if to punctuate my thought, she directs her horse to the roadside and, clutching the animal’s neck, leans over to vomit.

  “Do you need to rest?” I ask.

  Louis looks displeased. Unlike me, he finds our ever-slackening pace maddening.

  “Surely the countess will recover better in the city than by the side of the road.”

  The impatience in Louis’s voice needles me. I long to poi
nt out that we might have sailed already were it not for his insistence on stopping at every religious house along our route to solicit prayers and feed the inhabitants at royal expense. But I remain silent. My newfound empathy for Beatrice is not as strong as my desire to be on the best of terms with my husband during this trip. I give my sister an encouraging look as one of her ladies offers her a linen kerchief to wipe her mouth.

  “Your Majesty is perfectly correct. The count and I”—she appeals to Charles by glance—“anticipate the greatest pleasure in having Your Majesty and the queen as our guests. And I will rest best in my own castle.” Beatrice gives a little triumphant smile, and I am reminded that though this may have been the land of my childhood, it is now my sister’s and hers alone.

  Our arrivals at every city and village have been well attended, and Avignon is no exception. As we draw near, the road begins to be lined with people shoulder to shoulder and several bodies deep. But something feels different. Instead of jostling for position, the people are still, almost sullen. I notice few women and even fewer children, though in other cities youngsters littered our path with summer flowers.

  I glance at Louis, riding just in front of me between Robert and Charles. But he is either not aware of anything out of the ordinary or not concerned by it.

  My sister Beatrice too seems oblivious. “How do I look?” she asks Matilda who rides between us. “Can you tell I have been ill?”

  Matilda shakes her head.

  As I am about to dismiss my unease as silly, Matilda pulls her horse closer to mine and says in a low voice, “These are not, I think, the faces of subjects joyfully welcoming their sovereign lord and his lady home.”

  A sickening thud prevents me from replying. It takes a minute for me to realize what has happened. There is a second thud and Beatrice shrieks. A splatter of something dark red and thick stains the front of my sister’s surcote, as if her insides have come out. For a panicked moment I think she has been wounded, and then the smell reaches me. Dear God, someone in the crowd is pelting us with offal. The royal party draws together. All manner of waste showers upon us. I seem to have whatever was left of someone’s trencher scattered across my skirt. I twist this way and that, trying to see everything at once. The mob, for now it is clear that is what they are, presses in from both sides. Some of the men have staves; some are better armed. For the first time in my life I know what it is to be afraid for my safety at the hands of men. Then, as my throat tightens and my heart races, I hear a voice from the mob.

  “Go back to France,” somebody yells, “and take your brother with you.”

  “There he is,” another voice screams. “The Count of Provence took my land.”

  I feel a sudden all-consuming rage, a rage strong enough to overcome my fear and force it down. Charles! This is all because of Charles. Because of his greed and his disrespect for my father’s people and for our Provençal ways!

  Men have begun to fight where our party meets the one by the roadside. Some of Louis’s knights dismount, and at least one rides out into the crowd. I can see him striking blows with the butt of his sword. How long, I wonder, until he uses the blade? Giving my horse a vicious kick, I push my way to Louis, disregarding the startled face of Robert of Artois as I force his horse aside.

  “Call off your knights before someone is hurt,” I plead.

  Charles d’Anjou stares at me incredulously. “This rabble attacks us,” he says with a sneer. “A lesson must be taught.”

  “These men attack you,” I reply. “Perhaps you ought to ask yourself why.” I turn again to Louis. “Your Majesty, it is unseemly for knights well trained and well armed to turn blades meant for killing Saracens upon Christian tradesmen and farmers.”

  For a long, dreadful moment Louis looks out over the scene. I can hear blows from every direction, voices cry out in pain and anger, and somewhere a woman sobs. Then, to my great relief, he stands in his stirrups and calls to his constable, who is near at hand.

  “Bring the men to order! Make it clear to all that I will tolerate no violence against the crowd. We are not some collection of street urchins to be incited to riot by a few pieces of rotted fruit or a coarse word. Run them off by all means, but do not hurt them.”

  It takes time for the whirl of jumbled motion around us to slow. But at last, the mob begins to yield to the wall of my husband’s mounted men, scattering back toward the city. Some, injured, are carried or dragged by others. I feel something wet on my nose and raise my hand, wondering who can be throwing something at me now that the crowd is departing, only to realize that it is the first drop of a summer shower.

  A moment later I am drenched. The downpour speeds our attackers’ retreat. Shouts and curses fade, and then without warning a sharp cry rings out, a wail that rises and then settles into a steady keening. The little Countess of Saint-Pol, whom I never gave thought to other than as a pawn in my denouncement of Beatrice, is off her horse not twenty yards from where I sit. Off her horse and on her knees in the rain, pulling with small white hands at the sleeve of a figure on the ground. It is Hugh of Châtillon, her husband. The people of Provence have made her a widow for the second time in her short life.

  “Why?” Beatrice’s shaky voice startles me. I turn to her, dirty and sodden, and raise my open palms as if I too seek an answer. The fact that she asked the question is all the proof I need that she would not understand my answer, even if prudence did not dictate that I remain mute.

  CHAPTER 21

  LET THERE BE NO STRIFE, I PRAY THEE, BETWEEN ME AND THEE …FOR WE BE BRETHREN.

  GENESIS 13:8

  ELEANOR

  JULY 1248

  CLARENDON PALACE, ENGLAND

  Usually I enjoy my garden. But today, despite the gorgeous blooms of my roses and the fact that English sun shines as if it has forgotten that this is a country of rain and fog, I am not having a pleasant time as I sit on the stone bench and watch Henry pace in short steps before me.

  “Eleanor,” he says in exasperation, halting for a moment before me, “have you not taught me that family is everything?”

  My own words and deeds turn on me. Of course I have preached family to Henry these dozen years. But I meant our family. And my family. Not his half brothers. But I can hardly say that!

  “But they do not behave as family ought,” I reply, trying to distinguish the Lusignans, who have arrived on English shores like an invading horde, by their behavior from my own kin. “Rather than supporting your reign, they upset everything, riling the barons and spending your money like water.”

  Henry pouts. “I seem to remember expending considerable sums on your kin when they arrived. Did I not make your uncle Peter the Earl of Richmond as soon as his feet touched English soil?”

  There is no use reminding him that Peter himself saw the danger in that hasty gift and worked hard to quiet the angry murmuring that Henry’s impetuous generosity stirred. “Henry, you have been exceedingly gracious in your favors to my relations. But have they not in turn given you good service?”

  “Of course, Eleanor, and so shall my brothers.”

  “They are off to a bad beginning!” I try to keep sarcasm out of my voice because it is the quickest way to anger Henry, but I find it very difficult. Henry can be resolutely blind to the truth of a situation when he wants to be. “You know that your barons were not in the least pleased when you gave the Countess of Pembroke to William as a bride. They complained about such a plum title and such lands going to a foreigner—”

  “Just as they complained when we married Alice de Saluzzo to Edmund de Lacy,” Henry interrupts defiantly. “They are only greedy and want all the best heiresses for themselves and their sons.”

  Henry is right; the English complain about every “foreign” marriage. But, unlike my husband, I believe that the recent vituperative nature of such protests is very directly related to the appalling behaviors of his Poitevin kin, so I return to that subject. “We are agreed then that your barons objected. But, had Willia
m shown proper humility and behaved like a true servant to Your Majesty, they might quickly have forgotten. Instead, your half brother throws his weight and your name around everywhere.”

  Standing up, I stalk off to the nearest rosebush. I try to pick a pale yellow blossom for myself, but, though I bend and twist, the cane will not break. Instead, I succeed only in pricking myself until my fingers bleed.

  I round on Henry who has remained standing silently by the bench—perhaps hoping I am finished. “You know he is whoring about openly while Joan de Munchensy sits in misery at Hertford Castle, growing large with his child!”

  “Eleanor!” Henry’s face colors. I am not certain whether he is embarrassed by my language or angered by my accusation.

  “Yes, whoring!” I repeat, tossing my head. “And as if that were not enough, he behaves like a common criminal, breaking down locked doors and taking what belongs to others. The poor bishop of Ely was at his wits end when he wrote to Uncle Boniface. The doors to His Excellency’s cellars forced, his servants threatened, his best wines poured out to your half brother’s servants or left to run upon the ground. And what punishment have you meted out to the perpetrator? None. Instead, you secure nomination to the bishopric at Winchester for Aymer, a man equally debauched.”

  “They are my brothers, Eleanor.”

  “Half brothers, the sons of a man who betrayed you and opened you to mortification during our campaign in Poitou.” I have never forgiven the Count of La Marche for beginning the battle in Poitou prematurely, before English troops arrived, or for abandoning Henry and surrendering to the French precipitously after Taillebourg, even if my husband has.