Four Sisters, All Queens

by Jones, Sherry

  He wants her. Soon King Louis of France will send a marriage proposal, and her life in Provence will end—for now. When Papa dies (in many years, please God), she will become Countess of Provence, and she can move between her county and her kingdom, caring for one, enduring the other. Until then, France will seem a purgatory and her life a dreary waiting. Provence is the realm of all her happinesses.

  “Mama,” Sanchia says, “Margi is crying.”

  Mama stops bouncing the baby.

  “I love Provence,” Marguerite says.

  The countess sighs, and gives Marguerite what she and Eléonore call her Smile of Infinite Patience. “Of course you love Provence. We are the envy of the world. But your family needs you in France.”

  “Mama,” Marguerite says, “I have been thinking. In Paris, I would be far away. Couldn’t I help Provence more as its countess than as queen of another country?”

  Her maire’s laugh is mirthless, as if Marguerite were a jongleur who kept dropping the balls.

  “Do you think you could bring peace to Provence, and accomplish what your parents have not? Would you be like Cleopatra and charm the emperor into sending help? Perhaps he will invite you into his harem. Frederick loves pretty faces.” Marguerite’s cheeks burn.

  “Or maybe you could impress the pope with your pretty faith, and convince him to crush the heretic Raimond of Toulouse like an ant.” Having chastised her, Mama has stopped laughing. “Would you be willing to pay the price that Rome demands—fees; knights and foot-soldiers for the pope’s battles; the loss of our independence?”

  Eléonore’s cry pulls Marguerite’s attention to the sere fields outside. A peacock faces the carriage with its tail spread, looking as proud as if it had won it in a contest. Her hand closes around one of Elli’s pebbles; she hurls it at the bird.

  “You missed, as usual,” Eléonore says. “Don’t be shy: Throw harder. Like this.” She leans over her sister to take aim with the second stone—and sends the bird off, squawking, in a flurry of blue.

  THE PALACE STAFF greets them at the door, then resumes setting up tables and benches in the great hall and setting down tableclothes, knives, spoons, and goblets. Shouts rise to the ceiling, and laughter. The aroma of roasted meat rumbles Marguerite’s stomach. Papa accompanies his knights and their horses to the livery stables. Mama, in the nursery, oversees the unpacking of the girls’ bedding and clothes. While the nurse consoles the crying Beatrice (awakened from a too-short nap), and Sanchia holds onto Mama’s skirts, Marguerite and Eléonore slip into the great hall.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” Marguerite says. “Someone is sure to give us a bite of something.”

  “If not, we’ll steal it.” Eléonore’s voice trills low with the excitement of thievery.

  A man runs in, seeking Papa. The Count of Toulouse approaches with fifty men, on horses and in full armor. They have been spied in the forest, building a siege engine.

  “A siege now, when supplies are so short? We will starve,” Mama says. She sends Madeleine, with Marguerite’s sisters, to the tower. Marguerite remains, Mama’s shadow since her twelfth birthday, when she began preparing to rule Provence—and, these last months, France.

  “Fetch the count’s armor,” Mama orders Papa’s chamberlain. “Fetch the count,” she tells Romeo, before rushing off to the kitchen with Marguerite.

  “Our men will need nourishment to fight,” she says. She steps into the kitchen, claps her hands, cries, “Hurry! Hurry! Or we will be lost.” Marguerite stares at the mutton and trout, olives, cheese, lettuces, baby artichokes, warm breads, and—yes—raspberries. She swallows the water pooling in her mouth, dances one way, then the next to avoid being overrun by servants snatching up the dishes of meats, fish, fowl, and vegetables, baskets of fruit, and flagons of wine. Her mother’s voice blares like a trumpet over the cacophony of running feet, clattering dishes and silverware, knife blades scraping against whetstones. Mama thrusts a platter of roast mutton into Marguerite’s hands. She blinks: is she a servant?

  “Take it,” her mother says. Marguerite scurries out into the hall and places the platter before a group of knights who are already stuffing themselves, then hastens to join her paire at the head table. No sooner does she pick up a leg of guinea hen, though, than do trumpets announce the sighting of Toulouse and his army.

  Papa leaps up and, donning his helmet, races out the door, shouting, followed by shouting men. While the hall empties, Marguerite follows her mother up the winding stone stairs. In the dim tower Madeleine holds Beatrice on her lap and feeds her bits of bread and meat while Sanchia sits on a stool and whimpers, her food untouched.

  “You must eat,” Marguerite tells her. “What if the baby needs you? What if Mama does? How will you be useful if you have no strength?”

  Mama stands at the tower wall, peering through a notch. Marguerite, too, watches as Papa and his men thunder across the drawbridge and pour onto the field. Toulouse’s knights scatter, except for those pulling a trebuchet and others dragging a felled tree to use as a battering ram. All wear battle gear, some in mail and others in the new plate armor that the Count of Provence cannot afford.

  “Look at the puny size of Toulouse’s force,” Eléonore scoffs.

  “They did not expect to find us here,” Marguerite says. “They had thought to conquer an empty castle.”

  “Very astute, Margi,” Mama says.

  “Anyone could have guessed that,” Eléonore says.

  Up goes the red flag of Toulouse with its distinctive, twelve-pointed cross. Up goes the gold-and-red striped Provençal standard. As the horses make their initial charge, Marguerite grips the window ledge, bracing for the crash. Her father rides before his men, his lance lifted high. But the clash is not to come. Already Toulouse’s men are turning away, abandoning the trebuchet on its cart, dropping the battering ram.

  “Hit him, Papa! Knock him down!” Eléonore shouts. Marguerite holds her breath. Riding straight for the Count of Toulouse, their paire smacks his lance at his opponent’s chest—a solid blow, but Toulouse is ready. He deflects the blow with his shield and smashes his lance into Papa’s stomach, knocking him to the ground. Eléonore’s shriek echoes off the walls. Marguerite’s heart clatters, a stone in a rolling drum, as Papa staggers to his feet. Toulouse hurls himself down and a hand-to-hand fight begins, both men thrusting and slicing and clashing their heavy swords.

  Even a renowned swordsman such as Papa cannot defeat plate armor, which resists his every blow. After a time, his movements grow sluggish, his swordplay clumsy. His chest rises and falls, and he stumbles. Toulouse lifts his sword; her father’s cut follows a moment too late, and the blade falls across his shoulders, knocking him to the dust.

  “Papa!” Tears fill Marguerite’s eyes. Elli screams. Sanchia buries her face in Mama’s skirt. Mama’s pale lips move in silent prayer. Then comes God’s answer: a foot soldier rushes to Papa’s aid—but Toulouse strikes him down with a blow to the neck. Next comes Romeo on his horse, a red feather in his helmet and a lance under his arm—but Toulouse leaps onto a horse and rides away, followed by his knights. The battle is finished.

  Marguerite hurries downstairs with her mother and Eléonore, gripping her sister’s hand as if to hold herself upright. Papa may be dead. Please God, no. Her chest tightens, crimping her breath. His kind face, his laughter-crinkled eyes, the large nose she loved to tweak (making him sound like a honking goose as he talked), swim now before her tearing eyes. What did he say to her last night? You will always be a queen in my eyes, no matter what King Louis decides.

  How great is the space between one heartbeat and the next? For Marguerite, time stretches into infinity as she stands at the door with her Mama and Eléonore, waiting for Papa. Unwanted thoughts intrude. If Papa dies, what will happen to her? Would she yet go to France, or would she remain in Provence to take his place? As if anyone could take her Papa’s place.

  At last two men bear Papa through the château door, into the great hall, and up
the stairs to his chamber. Marguerite stretches her neck, looking for signs of life. His grunts of pain reassure her as she slips into his chambers where he lies on his bed, soaking his bedclothes in blood, his blanched face gaping and popeyed. His arm hangs next to his body like a door that has fallen off its hinge. Mama goes to his side.

  “I will be fine,” Papa rasps. His skin is as pale as a bleached skull, as if all his blood had drained through his wound. Mama grips his good hand as the healer eases his shoulder back into its socket.

  “This is why you must go to France,” Mama says to Marguerite. “These attacks against Provence must end.”

  Romeo strides in. What are the losses? Papa wants to know.

  Five men wounded, he says. One killed.

  “It could have been you!” Mama’s sob twists like a shriek in the wind. Marguerite turns away, unable to bear her mother’s tears.

  “I will not die at Toulouse’s hand. God loves me too much for that,” the count says.

  “God loves the heretic Toulouse more, it seems,” Mama says. “Perhaps our Lord does not realize that he is excommunicated. Or maybe he does not care.”

  “Hush! The priest might hear you.” Papa closes his eyes. “Father Austerc is on his way to administer the final unction.”

  “No! Papa!” Eléonore flings herself over him, protecting him from unction—or death. The count laughs, but Mama’s glare is a knife cutting short Marguerite’s giggles.

  “Ramon, these attacks must stop. If you are killed, we lose Provence. And Toulouse is draining our treasury with these constant battles. We have only a few days’ worth of food here. Our children are as thin as twigs, Elli has to wear Margi’s used clothing, and the servants are grumbling because they have not been paid.”

  “The knights complain, as well, but what are we to do? We cannot surrender Provence, so we must fight.”

  Mama lifts her eyebrows at Marguerite, as if she had just won a bet or a dinnertime debate. “Now do you see? Like it or not, you must go to Paris,” she says. “Until you take the crown from Blanche de Castille, Provence will remain in danger. Your family will be in danger. The White Queen waits like a hawk to swoop down and snatch us away. Only you can save us from her clutches.”

  Marguerite meets her maire’s gaze, but cannot hold it for long. The light of destiny being too bright for her to bear, she closes her eyes.

  “TEN THOUSAND MARKS!” The count slumps in his throne when the French emissaries have gone to bathe and prepare for the meal that Romeo has promised, somehow, to provide to them. “The White Queen cannot be serious.”

  “Of course she is serious,” Mama says. “She knows how much we have spent fighting her cousin Toulouse. The more she weakens Provence, the more easily France can swallow us up.”

  “It is no use.” Marguerite’s hopes soar: The white sands of Marseille, she thinks. The fragrance of rosemary. The summer sun. “We cannot afford this dowry.”

  “We must afford it,” Mama says.

  Papa rakes his fingers through his hair. He gives his eldest daughter a wan smile. “Margi, we should have sent you to Paris with Romeo. If King Louis had even one glimpse of you, he would be paying us for your hand. As it is, I do not see how . . . I am sorry, child. You will not be a queen, after all.”

  Marguerite, sitting on a divan by the window, rises to move to his side. She slides her arms around his neck, kisses his cheek. “I am not disappointed, Papa. Didn’t you know? I would rather remain here with you.”

  “And your father would rather keep you nearby.” Romeo struts in, tossing his curls. “But you must think of the future, my lord, not only for Margi’s sake. Make a queen of her, and I can make queens of them all.”

  “You, Romeo? Or my brother Guillaume?” Mama purses her lips, not liking to see her family’s contributions ignored.

  “Think of the glory that would follow, like ripples in a pond, to all your generations,” he says. “Your daughters and granddaughters, queens! Your grandsons, princes and kings! You must not let a temporary shortage of coins stand in your way.”

  “True, but—”

  “I knew you would agree!” He rubs his hands together. “I have just told the French that you agree to the dowry. They have already left for Paris.” The mystery of how to feed them thusly solved, he bows, his lips twitching in self-congratulation.

  “By God’s head, Romeo, you will ruin me.” Papa leaps up. “You have given Queen Blanche the perfect excuse to invade—to collect the debt we will not be able to pay.”

  “My lord, you are a noble warrior and a prince of poets, but you lack imagination in matters of money. You must leave the financing to me.”

  The marriage price came as no surprise to Romeo. He had expected it to be even higher. After taking Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine away from England, France has risen in wealth and power to become one of the greatest kingdoms in the world. When Queen Blanche named her terms, he never hesitated, but rode straight to Savoy to ask for money from Mama’s brothers Guillaume and Thomas. In exchange, he promised them bright futures in the French court. He also solicited two thousand marks from the archbishop of Aix. “He does not want to lose his independence any more than you want to lose yours.”

  “You are still a long way from ten thousand,” Marguerite points out.

  Romeo shrugs. “The count may lack cash, but he does have land. We need only to pledge it, and castles, for the dowry. Tarascon is desirable, being so recently fortified. Since Margi will inherit Provence, you lose nothing—but you gain the allegiance of France.”

  Mama rises and, her eyes soft with pride, enfolds Marguerite in her arms.

  “Queen of France,” she says. “My little girl.”

  She inhales Mama’s perfume and presses her face against her breast, hoping tears won’t stain her mother’s silk tunic.

  Marguerite

  Country Bumpkin

  Sens, 1234

  THE FANFARE OF trumpets startles her awake—that, and her carriage’s sudden stop. She lifts her head from Aimée’s lap. Outside the window: Uncle Guillaume’s thickly bearded face.

  “Are we in Sens?” Has she slept for so long?

  “Not yet. But your husband cannot wait for us to arrive, it seems.” He beams. “King Louis approaches, my dear.”

  Aimée snaps the curtain shut. Her fingers fly about her mistress’s head, tucking her loose hair into a crespine (for she is married now, already given by proxy to King Louis by Papa), tying a yellow barbette under her chin, topping her with a scalloped fillet. “You’ll not be caught by surprise as long as I serve you,” she says, dabbing red ochre onto Marguerite’s lips. From outside, fanfare. Marguerite lifts the curtain, sees Provençal horses bearing red-and-gold-striped banners and, in the distance, cathedral spires. Her time is nearly at hand. She takes a deep breath.

  Guillaume raps again. “Will you keep His Grace waiting?”

  “Go. Hurry!” Aimée pushes her out the door. “Go and charm your king, and save us all.”

  She takes her uncle’s proffered hand and steps down to the ground. “I don’t know who is more excited about this meeting, you or Aimée.”

  “I think the king outshines us both.”

  Marguerite sees him—and gasps.

  “I agree, ma chère, but of course you will not laugh,” Uncle Guillaume murmurs.

  She is permitted to smile, however, and she does so, as broadly as her mouth will stretch as she glances into his eyes and then away, not letting her gaze linger on his mail suit of dazzling, eye-popping gold.

  “My lord.” She curtseys deeply.

  “Please do not be intimidated. I have dressed to impress you, but I am only a humble man under this armor.”

  “A most dazzling man, my lord.” His eyes are a shade of blue she has not seen in eyes. They ask questions to which Marguerite has no answers. She has questions of her own, but now is not the time—not until she has won his affection.

  Light bounces off his suit and across her eyes. She averts her
gaze. He moves toward her.

  “You are far more beautiful than anyone has said.” He stands so close that Marguerite can feel the sun’s reflection off his suit. Her breath catches in her throat. “M. de Flagy did not describe you fully.”

  “‘Singing proves merely valueless/ If the song moves not from the heart,’” she sings softly.

  The king blinks in confusion. “Pardon?”

  “By Bernard de Ventadour, my lord.” He knits his brow. “Do not mind me. I have recently awakened from dreams peopled by troubadours, and filled with song.”

  “Troubadours?” His face smoothes out, relieved. “Ask Mama. She knows all about them.” Does the White Queen share Marguerite’s love for song, then? If so, befriending her may not be so difficult.

  A young man and a boy approach. As they bow, the king introduces them: his brothers—Robert, tall and broad-shouldered, the quintessential courtly knight except for his smirk; and Alphonse, small and dark-haired, blinking with purpose.