The Sister Queens

by Sophie Perinot

  My uncle nods. “But as we have just discussed, minds and plans may change in an instant.” I begin to think he is pushing me to stay, despite his protestation that the decision is mine, and I am on the brink of saying as much when he continues. “This, however, may counsel as much in favor of going as resting in port. After all, no matter what the situation at this moment, it may change for the better, for the worse, and even back again in the more than a week it will take you to make landfall in Gascony.”

  “Well then, we will hope it changes for the better.” I crumple the letter once more, and this time I toss it onto the fire for good measure. It no longer has a hold on me. I love my husband, but he is not here, nor is his judgment always the most sound.

  Taking my eyes from the blazing ball of parchment, I tell Boniface, “I am not some mouse to be kept in my hole. I am regent of England, and I will not risk a peace we have nearly reached merely because Gascony is, at present, more dangerous to us than it was a week ago. After all, even if Alfonso of Castile waited on the shore with open arms to embrace us, the sea herself might swallow us up between here and the coast off Bordeaux. Life is a dangerous business.”

  WHEN WE DISEMBARK, THERE ARE none to meet us but my steward, Bezill, and some lesser noblemen. I can hardly fault Henry for this. After all, he doubtless assumed that I stayed on English soil as he requested. Still, I get a lump in my throat when nine-year-old Edmund tugs on my hand and asks, “Where is Father?”

  “What news?” I ask Bezill. “Have the King of Castile’s troops crossed into Gascony?”

  Bezill looks perplexed for a moment and then says, “Oh, that rumor! It proved groundless. The men His Majesty’s spies counted so carefully were meant for the Navarre and are there now, giving trouble to young Thibaut the Second.”

  Well, I think, at least Henry will not be vexed that I have disobeyed him when he sees me.

  Bezill turns aside for a moment to give some instructions for the loading of luggage. Then returning his attention to me, he says, “His Majesty and the Earl of Richmond are at La Réole.”

  “And John Mansel is still at the court of Castile?”

  “Yes, and Peter d’Aigueblanche with him. But have no fear, Your Majesty. Everything is ready, just as I wrote.”

  I try to smile gamely at my steward despite my disappointment. It seems I am the only one of any consequence in Bordeaux—at least of any consequence when it comes to matters of negotiating a peace and managing a marriage. A groom leads several horses forward and Bezill hands me up to mine. Riding through the streets of the city, where more attention is being paid to the ordinary business of the day than to our passing, I feel a sudden drop in spirits. Look up, I want to call at the people we go by. A queen is passing, a woman who ruled England toute seule for more than three-quarters of a year. Of course, I cannot do any such thing but must confine myself to willing them to notice me. No one heeds my silent plea, not then nor in the days that follow.

  As a result, even after I have been in Bordeaux for weeks my spirits have not improved. My house is quiet and comfortable, and I feel utterly deserted in it. I know this is not fair to the ladies, faithful souls, who made the voyage with me and who sit about me talking while I stare moodily out of an open window at the afternoon sky. Perhaps my feelings are particularly unfair to my dear Maude de Lacy, who left her snug home at Trim Castle in Ireland to travel with me despite being with child for the first time by the new husband I found her. Unfair also to my Beatrice, presently out in the garden gathering blossoms for me, and to Edmund who sits at my feet playing with a small cat that seems to wander about the place at will.

  Edward is not with me. He is housed elsewhere, in state, as a nobleman and future king. At fourteen he is accorded all the consequence and attention that I presently lack. And though I tell myself I am not jealous, I am not pleased either, particularly as he is surrounded by Lusignans. I have it on good authority that his uncle Geoffrey, whom Henry chose to bear royal greetings to his son and me when we arrived despite my known dislike for the man, is with him again today. Geoffrey seems to easily find the time to make the ride from La Réole. Henry, on the other hand, is too busy to make the journey. I have seen my husband but once since my arrival, and I do not expect to see him again for two more, long, boring days. And, as Geoffrey brought a handful of his Poitevin knights with him to call upon my eldest son, they are doubtless having a raucous time. Edward shows every sign of becoming as besotted with the Lusignans as his father. Apparently he forgets that only a few months ago I had to fight to keep some of his lands from being granted to that same Geoffrey who now dines at his table. Nor will Henry’s half brother let the land matter rest. He continues to badger the justiciar of Ireland about that grant. If Edward is not chary, he will have his half uncle for good company, but his half uncle will have a goodly slice of his appanage in return.

  Well, I think, idly tracing my fingertip along the windowsill, Edward does not ask my opinion. In fact, since we have been here, no one does. Henry was very glad to see me when at last he arrived here to greet me, and he was sorry I did not bring his new daughter to meet him, but that is how I am viewed here—merely as the mother of his children and the woman who hems his shirts! It is disgusting; I who raised thousands of pounds for his support and consulted with the first men of the kingdom in his absence am now firmly relegated to the role of bedmate and ornament of the court. I did not anticipate how much I would miss ruling. I hunger for the responsibilities that were mine as regent, even those that felt onerous when I was actually contending with them.

  “Lord Edmund, what do you do there?” Willelma’s voice startles me. Looking down, I can see that my son has been slowly and steadily pulling a thread from the hem of my gown until he has a goodly length with which to tease the cat. Under ordinary circumstances I would be angered by this, but I find myself extraordinarily disinclined to be vexed with my second son who looks up at me with a certain amount of anticipatory dread.

  “Never mind,” I say, taking the thread from him and breaking it off where it joins the fabric of my gown. “Here, have it.” I hand it back, and, confronted with the disbelief in Willelma’s face, I add, “The boy is only bored. The hem can be fixed.”

  Maude, sitting nearby with one hand on her swollen belly, laughs and says, “Your Majesty will, I presume, want a change of gowns before we sup.”

  “Whatever for?” This elicits raised eyebrows not only from Maude but from all my ladies. I am renowned for my attention to dress, and all my ladies seek my opinions on fashion. The idea that I should dine in a gown with a portion of its hem dragging must seem incredible to them.

  Doubtless I will go back to coveting a fine pair of slippers or a fur-trimmed surcote in the weeks to come, but right now these things seem trivial. I would gladly dispense even with the new ring Henry gave me on my arrival to be with the men, buried in the serious work of pacifying Gascony.

  CHAPTER 35

  Dear Eleanor,

  …How long this letter has become since I began it shortly after we left Acre in April. And how varied its content. Traveling, as it must, with me to more familiar shores before it can be set on its way to you, it has become a repository for my experiences of the voyage and my feelings upon it. Of late those feelings have taken a serious turn.

  Indeed, the closer we draw to France, the more I realize that some things that were in the Holy Land will never be so again. In general this is a very good thing. Never again will I be parted from my older children as I have been by this crusade, and never will the youngest of my brood be homeless again. Nor do I expect, please God, to wake to the sound of battle again in my lifetime. Nevertheless, there are things I gained by my journey that I would be loath to lose. I hope when we arrive in Paris, all that I did to preserve the king for France will not be forgotten, either by his subjects or by Louis himself. I wish to play a greater role in the destiny of our kingdom than I did before we left it if Louis will permit it. But who can say what Louis will permit?


  Presently His Majesty is lighter of heart than at any time since we came aboard. Perhaps it is the refreshing effects of an absence of bad weather, or perhaps the ghosts of those who died in Egypt have left him at last. Whatever the reason, when he is like this, I, and presumably all on board, find his company easier to bear. I wonder if others hesitate, as do I, to let down their guard entirely. I suspect so, for surely the king’s councilors at least know as well as I how quickly Louis’s mood and manner may alter. He is like the winds at sea, entirely undependable, one moment soft and warm, the next fierce and punishing. After twenty years of marriage, I will not put myself in a position to have my hopes and expectations shipwrecked once more.

  So, I will not let Louis control my future as I was wont to let him control things in my past. Instead, I have promised myself, dear Eleanor, to take a lesson from your stubborn tenacity. I will hold tight to my newfound confidence and independence. They are my recompense for six years in the desert. I earned them by tears, by courage, and by sweat. Nor shall I be afraid to be bold where boldness is required, for bold action these last years has brought me great gifts.

  Your devoted sister,

  Marguerite

  MARGUERITE

  EARLY SUMMER 1254

  IN SIGHT OF THE ISLAND OF PANTELLERIA

  “My lady wife, you are very pensive.” Louis’s words surprise me.

  “I was only wondering, Your Majesty, what island that is in the foredistance.”

  “What is that place?” Louis asks Brother Raymond.

  The seafaring Templar in charge of our ship tends to trail after the king in a manner much like a spaniel whenever His Majesty is on deck. But, as he is also as good-natured as a dog, his presence does not appear to annoy Louis.

  “Pantelleria, Your Majesty.”

  “And whose island is it?”

  “It is under Sicilian rule, I believe, Your Majesty, but it is full of Saracens who make imperfect subjects.”

  “There, madam, now you may unfurl your brow.” Louis gives me a weak smile.

  He has been attempting such little pleasantries this last week. I may imagine it, but it seems to me that the closer we draw to France, the more effort Louis makes.

  I hesitate for a moment and then decide there is no harm in asking. “As Your Majesty knows from his own table, our stores are much depleted since we stocked them at Cyprus. Tristan begins to suffer from little sores in his mouth. I wonder if some men might not be sent ashore to acquire fresh fruit for the children?”

  “Find the master of the boats,” Louis orders the Templar. “Tell him to send several with good rowers to Pantelleria for fruit.” Brother Raymond begins to stride off but is halted a few yards away by Louis’s voice. “Mind you tell them to be quick about their task. When my ship passes the island, we shall expect them to return to us.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” I curtsy very prettily despite the roll of the ship, for having been so many weeks at sea, I am entirely used to the nef’s motion.

  Jean, who was at the king’s elbow throughout our exchange, lingers behind when Louis moves off along the deck. “He is trying to win you.”

  “If it means fruit for the children, let him think he is succeeding,” I reply lightly.

  “He is succeeding.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but, stepping to the rail beside me, Jean cuts me off. “This is not a criticism—either of you or the king. It is merely an observation. His Majesty treats you better of late than at any time during my acquaintance with you. And you, with your better nature, cannot help but be warmed by his newfound amiableness, however late or little it be.”

  “You make me sound very easily won indeed.”

  “‘I withhold not my heart from any joy; for my heart rejoiced in all my labor.’ You have striven always to be a good wife and worthy queen against much unjust resistance. If you are appreciated at last, why should you not revel in it?”

  “By God’s coif, Jean, you sound as if you think I should favor Louis’s suit.”

  “I cannot lose you to Louis. You are his already—”

  “His?”

  “But”—Jean holds up a hand to stop me from rushing forward in my indignation—“you are also mine. As I love you, I would give much to see His Majesty treat you as you deserve.”

  When we are at last even with Pantelleria, there are no galleys. I can clearly see the island’s port from my window where I sit curled up with Eleanor’s letters—the few that reached me during my prolonged exile in the Holy Land, each of which I have read dozens of times. His Majesty will not be pleased, I think. And I wonder upon whom his displeasure will fall—on the sailors themselves or on me since I sent them forth. Perhaps our delay will not be long. I return my eyes back to my letters but am distracted by my perception that the ship is slowing. Laying aside the letters, I rise.

  “You are not going on deck again?” Marie is perplexed by the hours I pass at the great ship’s rail. She dislikes the wind, the spray, in truth every part of a sea voyage, which I in contrast find exhilarating.

  “You need not come with me. Stay here and enjoy your mending.”

  “I will,” Marie replies with a touch of challenge. “I do not wish to arrive in France as brown as a Genoese sailor.”

  I laugh. “We are all scarcely browner than we were in the desert.” It has been a very long time, I reflect, since any of us has looked French. We lived in Egypt and in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and we look like the natives of those places. Or at least those parts of us not covered by our garments do. Jean speculates on how exotic I might look if all my limbs were equally bronzed. For myself, I love the warm hue that Jean’s skin has acquired, and I find the sun has had a positive effect on Louis as well. Though at forty he is no longer a young man, thanks to the sun, his hair is as golden as it was on the day we met. And the color the sun imparts to his features is far healthier looking than the gray pallor of his face when he returned from captivity.

  Quite a gathering of men surrounds the king when I come out into the bright sunlight. “It is best we sail onward. Neither Tunis nor Sicily is a friend to Your Majesty,” one of the gentlemen is saying.

  “And the men I leave behind? What if they have been taken by Saracens?”

  “Regrettable. But better a few than all of our party,” says the constable.

  “We will give them an hour,” Louis says decisively, looking at the angle of the sun and the shadow of the mast on the deck.

  The sailors disperse to their various tasks. But the king stands unmoving, a grim stare focused on the distant island. I find myself transfixed by his face. It is so fierce. And, though his eyes never turn to me, I am driven back to my cabin by this fierceness. Once there, I am of no use to myself. It is with some relief, and after trying half a dozen entertainments, that I conclude the hour must surely have run.

  I return to deck to find Louis precisely where I left him. But, instead of staring fixedly ahead, he is watching one of the master mariners measure the angle of the sun with a brass astrolabe.

  “I make it more than an hour, Your Majesty. Shall we raise the anchor?”

  “Yes.”

  I can see both the mariner himself and Giles le Brun, who stands closer to the king, relax slightly.

  Until Louis adds, “And turn the sails.”

  “But Your Majesty—”

  “We will mount an attack if necessary before we leave those men behind.”

  My stomach sinks. All I wanted was some fresh food for my little ones. How could such an innocent request lead to battle?

  At that moment Louis spots me. “Lady wife, you should go to your cabin, or, better still, below to the children, for your own safety. There looks to be trouble.”

  And I know in an instant that Jean is right, even without the pointed look he casts me. Such a mark of caring! And from the same man who sent me on a trip through hostile lands simply to have me out of his sight not so many months ago.

  I am about to obey when
a sailor high in the riggings calls out. The boats have been sighted. The king, his men, and I all rush to the rail. Our three boats can clearly be seen now, making from the island in the direction of our ship.

  Even with strong rowers aboard, it takes considerable time for them to reach us. And every minute makes the king more impatient. Indeed, I cannot understand his mood. Surely the wait we are enduring is nothing compared to the time, and possibly lives, that might have been lost going on shore in pursuit of our men?

  By the time the ladder is lowered and the first of the sailors clambers aboard, Louis’s lips are compressed into a grim white line. I wonder that the head of the landing party does not notice, but he is busy passing aboard what they picked or purchased. Besides, he has not my familiarity with the nature of the king.

  “You,” the king barks at him, “why were you not true to your instructions and prompt in your return?”

  “Your Majesty,” the man stammers, “several among out party were so overcome by the sight of the lush gardens we found that they disappeared into them. I did not wish to leave them behind, and finding them took some time.”

  “And were they in some peril when you found them?”

  The man hesitates, clearly embarrassed. “No, Your Majesty, they had merely eaten their fill of fruit and fallen asleep among the trees.”

  “Line up your men.”

  The sailor gives a sharp whistle through his teeth, and those still on the galleys scramble on board and form a ragged line.

  “Let the men who were caught sleeping step forward.”

  Several men come forward at once, willing to own their deeds.

  “Are these the men?”

  “Not all, Your Majesty.” The sailor points to two more fellows who cast him black looks but then step out of line as well.