“Is God awake at this ungodly hour?” she wonders as her handmaid combs her hair.
“I don’t know, my lady, but the French certainly are.” Outside, the chapel bells ring. A moment later, Uncle Guillaume is at the door, eyes puffy. It is time, he says, for prayer.
“At this hour, one wonders what there is to say to God,” he grumbles.
“Who ever did penance employ before he sinned?” Marguerite sings. Fully awake now, she feels filled-with-air light, as if she might float like a bubble to the ceiling.
“Your King Louis, that is who,” Uncle Thomas says as he joins them for the walk across the dew-damp grass. “Our friend Bertran d’Alamanon must have seen into the future when he wrote those lines.”
“Or he knew the king’s mother,” Marguerite says.
“Perhaps. But Blanche was not always such a model of piety,” Guillaume says.
How the rumors flew after Louis’s father died! The most popular—and tenacious—tale involved Blanche and the handsome papal legate, and an illegitimate pregnancy. Blanche finally stilled the wagging tongues by stripping off her clothes before the barons’ council to show her flat stomach.
“No one would start such a rumor today,” Thomas says. “Blanche de Castille has transformed herself into a veritable Virgin Mother.” By donning the mantle of a stern prioress, she avoided both scandal and marriage—and saved the throne for herself. Prising it away from her will be Marguerite’s task.
The chapel is surprisingly full when they enter, of bleary-eyed barons and their rumpled wives, servants asleep on their feet, prelates fairly bouncing with zeal for God and their king—and, standing in the front, her husband and mother-in-law to be. Louis gives her a shy smile while his mother presses her lips together, disapproving of her late entrance. Marguerite smiles in reply, still thinking of Blanche in her underwear before the barons’ council. Who else on earth would dare? Tomorrow, Marguerite will arrive on time.
After the service, she at last introduces the uncles to Blanche, who bats her lashes as though she had not recently snubbed them. “I did not see either of you at our festivities last night,” she simpers. “But you must have been resting after your long journey. A dance today? But of course, monsieurs. I have had so many requests already, but I will certainly fit you in. You men of Savoy are renowned for grace and charm.”
“Blanche is beautiful, but brittle about the edges,” Thomas remarks later, as he and Guillaume lounge in their apartment. “One can see why she never remarried.”
“Do not underestimate the White Queen, my brother: She has never lacked suitors. She simply loves power too much to share it with a husband. Or with her son, I hear.”
Aimée, styling Marguerite’s hair for the wedding, works silently so that they can listen.
“Let us hope that she can relinquish her power when the time comes,” Thomas says.
“She will have no choice. Margi’s coronation is tomorrow. The entire kingdom will know our niece as the new queen.”
“And if she does not? Will Margi be able to stop Toulouse? Ramon’s health cannot withstand these attacks for much longer. Our sister says he collapsed on the journey home after signing the verba de praesenti for Margi’s marriage.”
Marguerite gasps. “Papa! Is it serious?”
“According to your mother, no. She blames fatigue, and your father’s sorrow over losing you to France. But as you know, his heart’s beat has become uncertain and erratic of late. He will not withstand many more weeks of battle. You must stanch the flow of French livres into Toulouse’s coffers, my dear.”
“Stopping Toulouse will be my first priority.” Along with producing heirs: a queen consort’s primary role is that of mother, not ruler, her mama has taught. “But I would appreciate any help you might provide.”
“Perhaps your handsome uncle Guillaume will revive his once-formidable seduction skills in order to win her favor.”
Guillaume laughs. “Charming the ladies is your specialty, Thomas, not mine.”
“I saw how the king looks at you, lady,” Aimée murmurs to Marguerite. “You will soon win his heart and then he will listen only to you, no matter what his mother desires.”
That time cannot come soon enough. After this morning’s prayer service she spied Toulouse lurking about the cathedral door—waiting for Blanche, no doubt. What did they discuss last night? Did he request more money, or troops, or weapons with which to attack Provence? When she is queen, will he dare to approach her for help? Let him try! She’ll send him home with a drooping scabbard and an empty purse.
Aimée laces up the gown that Blanche has sent—lovelier, indeed, than the one she has brought from home—a confection of saffron silk with a cream surcoat embroidered in gold thread, and a green-and-gold mantle trimmed with ermine. Over her dark hair, worn loose for the ceremony, she lays a fine net woven with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Before her uncles, she turns slowly around. “Trop belle!” they exclaim from their cushioned chairs, over their brandies. “Madame, nous sommes enchantés.”
Is she going to faint? She takes long, deep breaths, calming herself as she walks arm in arm with the uncles, across the lawn and through the gathered crowd of nobles. “What an elegant young lady the countryside has produced!” she hears someone murmur. “She looks as lovely as her namesake, the daisy.”
“Lift your head,” Uncle Guillaume urges. “Walk like a queen.”
Her step falters nonetheless as she forces herself to meet the curious stares, noting the nobles’ shimmering silks and swirling taffetas, their glittering jewelry—and their narrowed, scrutinizing eyes.
“See how happy she is to marry our king.”
“Who wouldn’t smile to trade Provence for Paris?”
True to the queen mother’s word, the women wear ghostly white faces and rouged lips under cleanly plucked, prominent foreheads. How rustic she must appear with her golden complexion, inherited from her Aragonian father, and her simple necklace of pearls. She turned away the queen mother’s man today with his pot of pale paste and his curved blade. And yet: La reine belle jeune, they call her, the beautiful young queen.
Queen Blanche, standing near the gate where the ceremony will begin, watches her approach with glinting eyes. Marguerite kneels before her to kiss her ring. “Mama,” she murmurs, but the word weights her tongue like a stone.
“I hope you will consider me a daughter from this day forward, and your humble servant,” she says. Blanche’s stern gaze softens—until the murmurs begin again.
“How gracious! The ‘daughter’ outshines the ‘mother’ in disposition as well as beauty.”
“Blanche was never so sweet, not even as a child, I’ll wager.”
“Was the White Queen ever a child?”
The queen mother’s hand stiffens. She withdraws it from Marguerite’s grasp.
But King Louis takes both her hands in his own as he kisses her. In his many, colorful robes, he reminds Marguerite of a peacock in full display. Today, though, he wears no gold except his crown and his fair hair curling softly about his chin.
“I hope the festivities did not keep you awake,” he says.
“No, my lord, I slept deeply.”
He grimaces. “I, too, wished to retire early, but my barons insisted that I rejoin them in the merrymaking.”
“I saw you dancing with the queen mother.”
“Thanks be to God for sending her out with me. It was Mama who prised me from the nobles’ grip. Otherwise, they might have danced me through today’s morning prayers.”
The archbishop emerges, clad in cloth as fine as the king’s and of the richest red, his chubby face shining under his broad-brimmed cap, his hands cradling an open book. He bows to them, then begins the ceremony atop the cathedral steps: the confirmation that they are both of age and not too closely related; and that they and their parents consent to the marriage. The wedding vows. The incensing and blessing of the bridal ring. Louis’s voice coarsens as he slips the ring over each of h
er fingers—“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost”—before landing on the fourth. The archbishop intones a prayer, then leads them into the cathedral. She walks without feeling the ground, as if her feet were too light to touch the earth, catching her breath at the grandeur of God’s house: the high, narrow arches overhead, the statues of saints lining the walls, the light flooding the altar from the high windows, the splendid rose-shaped window over the entry whose stained glass sends colors floating down like petals.
Once everyone has wedged into the cathedral and quieted at last, the archbishop celebrates the mass, offering communion to the wedding couple, lighting candles, and saying prayers.
“Wife, be good to your husband,” he says. “Submit to him in all things, for that is the will of God.” What of submission to one’s mother-in-law? Is that God’s will, as well?
The archbishop kisses Louis on the mouth: the kiss of peace. Louis gives it, in turn, to Marguerite. His lips feel strange, but not unpleasant. When it ends, she wants another, as if his kisses were sweets; she imagines sliding her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. But of course she does not. Now is not the time for more kissing, but it will come soon enough.
The archbishop pronounces them husband and wife. Louis grasps her hand, his expression eager, and the room fills with shouts and cheers—but before they step down from the altar, the queen mother steps forward and whispers to the archbishop. He nods and lifts his hands, silencing the crowd.
“I had almost forgotten an important addition to this ceremony,” he says. The White Queen beams at Louis as if she has just given him a golden horse to match his shiny mail suit. “For a perfect and holy union, the Church exhorts the newly wedded couple to delay the consummation.”
Exclamations and chatter arise, prompting the archbishop to call for silence. Then he turns to Louis and Marguerite.
“Cleanse your souls with prayer for three nights before uniting your bodies,” he says. “When you join together in holy matrimony, you also join with God. Your purified state may please our Lord, the better for you to produce an heir to the throne.”
Louis’s expression darkens—but then the queen mother cries out, “Praise be to the Lord,” and soon everyone is praising God, and Louis’s frown turns, again, to a shy grin. Marguerite’s smile feels like a fragile ribbon that has been pasted to her face. After all the blessings, anointings, and prayers, aren’t she and the king pure enough? How much sin can one soul hold? How much scrubbing does it need to be considered clean?
“Vive le roi!” the crowd cries. “Vive la reine!” Louis bows to her, and she to him, and he squeezes her hands affectionately, the way he did last night as they danced. They turn to face their cheering, adoring audience.
“Vive la reine!” Marguerite’s heart seems to leap about. She came to win the love of her husband and his mother, but behold the people—her people—embracing her so ardently. Perhaps she will enjoy being Queen of France, after all.
Marguerite
The Weight of Rule
Sens, 1234
AFTER THE DAY’S excitement, she feels content to rest on her knees in the chapel, by her husband’s side, and thank the Lord for his blessings. Then the archbishop gives his instructions: They are to begin with the Pater Noster, followed by the Ave Maria. Next come the Credo and the seven Penitential Psalms, then silent prayer and contemplation. The cycle begins anew every hour.
“And are we to sleep between the Pater Noster and the Ave Maria, or during the silent prayer?” she asks.
The archbishop regards her for a long moment—unused to questions from women, apparently, since he doesn’t answer hers. “Isn’t that what you wished, Your Grace?” he says to Louis. “A ritual of prayer to last until the morning?”
“Do not fret, my bride.” Louis’s voice sounds far away, as if he had already crossed into the shadowy world of credos and penances. “The Lord will sustain us through the night.”
Marguerite closes her eyes, imagines a bed, imagines herself lying down in it, sinking in softness, burrowing in quilts. Today she became the bride of the King of France. She had a royal wedding and a magnificent feast with course upon course heralded by trumpets: a pie from which songbirds flew; a gold-beaked swan roasted and refitted in its feathered coat; a pudding of cherries sprinkled with rose petals, and an endless stream of sycophants filling her time with gratuities and expecting inanities in return. Afterward, minstrels and jongleurs performed under the arbor. And, through it all, the appraising eye of Blanche, whose frown deepened with every compliment paid to Marguerite. When troubadours from her father’s court performed a sequence of songs in her honor, Blanche’s face turned bright red under her white makeup.
“The White Queen covets all the praise in her court,” Uncle Guillaume said. “Have you noted the paucity of women? She employs only a few female servants, and all are either old or plain.”
Thomas laughed. “I do not envy Margi.”
At this moment, she does not envy herself. If the queen mother resents compliments given on her wedding day, how will she react when Marguerite dons the crown of France? All of France will honor her then. Without adequate sleep, how will she forbear her mother-in-law’s acerbic comments, her droll sarcasms? How will she make a good impression, and gain her respect? Yet she must do as Louis wishes. He is her husband, after all—and he is the king.
Yet not even the king can stop her thoughts from roaming as she prays.
Was that a smirk on Blanche’s mouth today when her young son Charles snatched a piece of meat from Marguerite’s fingers? And then the little beast stuck out his tongue and declared that she was too petite to be a queen. “You look like my sister’s queen-doll, only not as pretty,” he said for all to hear. Blanche never uttered a word of reprimand, but hid a smile behind her hand.
Marguerite would have used her hand for a different purpose—but instead she ignored him. Reacting would only increase his enjoyment, as she knows from experience with Beatrice. Of course, no child of the Count and Countess of Provence, even one as spoiled as Beatrice, would behave so rudely.
The manners are despicable here. During silent contemplation, she composes a letter to Eléonore. I saw a nobleman blow his nose in the tablecloth. I heard the queen mother’s ladies-in-waiting tell bawdy jokes about my husband and the washerwoman. Their own king! Even the troubadours lack refinement. While ours in Provence sing the chansons de gestes of knights and chivalric deeds, these poets fawn over the queen mother—while she dimples like a girl and pretends to blush.
A slow ache spreads through her knees, then a tingling, then numbness. Her head slumps forward; she jerks awake and resumes her prayers. Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum. Blanche indulged the impudent Charles, yet snapped irritably at the nine-year-old Isabelle. “I am going to marry Jesus,” the child said to Marguerite, her face as earnest as a martyr’s.
“The nunneries are filled with wives for our savior,” Blanche said. “You are my only daughter, and you will marry to benefit France.”
Isabelle’s smile held the secret of a child determined to have her way. “I have heard that you love the poets,” she said to Marguerite. “Do you know this song? ‘Amongst others I feign the status quo, while the day seems tedium congealed.’”
Quoting Arnaut! Were Isabelle older, this alone would bind them in friendship. And yet—who else in this court would suffice? For all the love poured upon her during her wedding ceremony, the nobles’ wives held themselves aloof during the feast. Is it because she hails from the south—a country bumpkin—or because she is going to be queen? Perhaps, after all these years of Blanche’s rule, the French are unaccustomed to friendly queens.
Without Aimée, she would be bereft. Her handmaid is her only tie, now, to Provence. Memories rise: The music her family made together. Marguerite playing the vielle. Her father striking his dulcimer. Eléonore on drums. Mama’s riddles at table, the slant of her eyes as she offered clues, her mysterious smile
as Marguerite and Eléonore shouted their answers while Sanchia cringed in the corner, afraid she would be called upon—and then, more often than not, solved the riddle. And the hunts, grand affairs with thirty or forty men and women and nearly as many dogs. The fragrance of lavender wafting up from the trampling hooves; the apricots, peaches, cherries and tangerines dangling ripe from the trees; the jump and wriggle and strain of the dogs at their leashes. And always Eléonore’s shout as she raced ahead with her bow, eager to be the one to fell the deer. The troubadours and trobairitz, new ones arriving at court every day, it seemed, bringing new songs.
I see scarlet, green, blue, white, yellow
Garden, close, hill, valley and field,
And songs of birds echo and ring
In sweet accord, at evening and dawn.
She can hear their song, the song of Provence. The harp and vielle rise up in accompaniment, and the voices of Papa and Mama singing along while she and Elli link arms to dance, spinning faster and faster until, exhausted, they fall to the floor, laughing, dizzy with music and happiness…
Marguerite. Marguerite!
She opens her eyes. Louis’s frowning face hovers above. “Are the prayers finished?”
“You fell asleep.” He averts his gaze, as though embarrassed to look at her. “You must confess this sin tomorrow.”
“I was afraid that might happen.” She gives a little laugh. “Forgive me.” She shakes her head, but the music that lulled her to sleep continues to play.
“It is not my forgiveness that you must seek, but that of our Lord.”
Is sleeping now a sin, also? “I will. But for tonight, I must go to bed. My journey from Provence was very long.” Louis’s mouth droops. “Yet—I do not want to disappoint you.”
Four Sisters, All Queens Page 5
