Four Sisters, All Queens

by Jones, Sherry

“You should not have interfered. This matter is greater than money.”

  “But how do you know the relic is authentic? Anyone could fashion such a crown and call it Christ’s.”

  “First you argue with me in the presence of the emperor, and now you question my judgment?” His raised voice draws the eyes of all in the room—the guards, the servants, those awaiting their turn to petition the king and queen. “You, a mere child from the country, with no knowledge or experience in these matters.”

  Heat floods her face. “I have questioned nothing except the claims of our petitioner, who rules an empire in dire need of funds. Were your mother here, she would have voiced the same concerns.”

  “You are not my mother.” His mouth trembles. “You are nothing like her.”

  “That is a pity, I suppose.” She stands and smoothes her skirt. “Otherwise, I might be carrying your child.” She steps down from the platform and leaves the great hall without even a glance back at him.

  THE CUP QUAKES in her hand. She longs to hurl it against the wall, if only for the clang it would make. Instead, she sits at her desk and scribbles a furious letter to Eléonore that she will not send. No one here would deliver it unread.

  I have never felt so alone.

  For three years she has lived in isolation. She has not a single friend in the court; all, including her ladies-in-waiting, report to Blanche.

  I have no one with whom to talk, no one with whom to laugh.

  If only the queen mother had not sent all her companions away at Fontainebleau. She longs for Aimée, for her uncles and her parents, for the debates at table that made up so much of her youth in Provence. No doubt she could learn more there than here, where Blanche shuns her from the daily discussions in her chambers and Louis chastises her for offering opinions.

  Louis is like a ghost, seeming not even to see me sometimes, and, when I complain, looking as if he wished he could not hear me.

  His mother’s contempt toward Marguerite is beginning to affect him. That was clear today. Only by bearing him a son will she gain his respect.

  I must make a friend in this court, not only for my sanity but also for my security—someone who can help me achieve the impossible task of giving my husband an heir.

  But—who? Who can absolve Louis of the shame his mother has inflicted? Who can give him permission to desire his wife?

  How is it that Louis “heals” others of their illnesses but cannot heal himself? Of course, only God can work such wonders. Perhaps I need a miracle.

  She puts down her quill and gazes out the window, over the broad river valley. The silvered skein of water, the velvet landscape, the slow birds tilting their wings like sails: Didn’t God create all of this? Didn’t he implant his son into the womb of a virgin? Giving Louis desire for her should be no great task. Perhaps she needs only to ask.

  A knock sounds at the inner door, so soft she almost doesn’t hear it. In the far corner, her ladies talk and embroider. She pulls the curtain around her bed as if planning a nap, hiding the door from their view, then pulls it open.

  Louis has folded his hands as if in prayer. “I should not have spoken to you so harshly.”

  “Make love to me now,” she murmurs, “and all will be forgiven.”

  She beckons him into her bed, then whispers that she will return in a moment.

  “I want soft music to lull me to sleep today,” she says to her ladies. Soon a lute player is plucking out a soft tune in their corner. She and Louis will not be heard. She slips into bed beside her husband.

  “My dear, sweet beloved,” he murmurs as they disrobe each other. “You are too good for me, Marguerite. Oh, so good.”

  “Shhh! Quiet—do you want to be discovered?”

  “I don’t care. Let them hear. Aren’t we husband and wife?”

  How readily God has answered her prayer. Indeed, she did not pray, but only thought of it. Now, lying under Louis, she thinks of giving thanks—but that thought is interrupted by a knock.

  “Your Grace!” The cry comes from within the staircase. “The queen mother approaches.”

  Louis curses, leaps from the bed, pulls up his hose, and disappears. Marguerite lies still and throbbing, her heart thumping with excitement. They came so close this time.

  “Where is she?” Blanche’s voice cuts through the folds of her curtain before her scorn-filled face appears at the foot of Marguerite’s bed.

  “Sleeping at this hour? Are you ill?”

  “No, only tired.” Of you.

  “And no wonder, you poor child!” Her smile twists. “Giving my son such intelligent advice must have required all your mental faculties.”

  Marguerite closes her eyes.

  “What could you have been thinking, you foolish girl? Allowing him to pledge to pay any price, no matter how high, for that relic?”

  “I am sure you know, Mother, that one does not ‘allow’ my husband to do anything. He has his own will.”

  “He would have listened to me. But I was not there—and why? Because you concocted a tale to be rid of me.”

  She sits up. “That is quite a costly gown to wear to bed,” Blanche says. “But, judging from today’s debacle, you have little sense of the value of money.”

  “Judging from your misplaced anger, you have little sense of your son.”

  “He is bewitched by you. You, who need only flutter your eyelashes to bring him running to your bed. Such pretty eyes you have! How unfortunate that nothing lies behind them except a need for attention.”

  “And you have a black hole where your heart should be.”

  “A weak woman’s heart has no place in the ruling of a kingdom.”

  “What would you know of a woman’s heart?” Marguerite leaps out of bed and stands to face her, eye-to-eye. “You have had no consideration for mine. You’ve sent away everyone I care about and denied me the love of my husband.”

  “What is the matter, dear? Has my son been neglecting you?” Malice glints her eyes. “Don’t worry. You’ll be reunited with your country bumpkin family very soon.”

  “Are we traveling to Provence?”

  “Not ‘we,’ my dear. I harbor no fondness for the smell of goats or the feel of dirt under my fingernails. You, however, seem destined to return to your precious Provence.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Haven’t you heard? Our subjects are beginning to talk. You have been married three years to the king, and still no heirs. If you don’t conceive a child soon, we’ll have to annul your marriage.

  “Why the tears, dear? This is nothing personal. If you cannot perform your duty to France, then someone else must. Johanna, Countess of Flanders, is seeking a husband, we hear. She will not tarry long—and we covet her wealthy county for our own.”

  Marguerite

  Endless Songs of Love

  Paris, 1237

  RICHART DE SEMILLI stands before her, singing his Par amors ferai chanson while Marguerite stifles a yawn. “That is enough,” she says. “You may go.”

  “You are as difficult to please as ever, I see.” Uncle Guillaume steps into her chambers as the unfortunate trouvère steps out. She exclaims with pleasure and leans into his silken embrace; he is so rich, he even smells of gold.

  “The French bore me with their endless songs of love, love, love,” she says. “I am sick of love.”

  “You would prefer Hue de la Ferté’s sirventois, I presume. Especially those he wrote against the White Queen.”

  “Ferté! How I mourned his death. I had hoped to bring him to Paris.” She laughs. “His songs would have sent Blanche far away.”

  “Has she been hard on you, my dear? You look as if you have not slept in weeks. And you have grown even thinner since I last saw you. Are you eating?”

  “Not as well as you,” she teases. Uncle Guillaume has gained so much favor with King Henry that he now holds the second-highest position in the English court. Being the king’s chief adviser has enriched him with land, titles, and dail
y meals at the royal table.

  “One cannot dine on English food for long without increasing the waistline.” Uncle Guillaume pats his stomach. “Meat and more meat, and all smothered in a greasy sauce.” He smacks his lips. “I have grown fond of greasy sauce.”

  He hands her a packet of letters from Eléonore, apologizing: They are quite old. He tarried long on his visit to Uncle Thomas in Savoy. “But I carry an interesting proposal to London. It may soften the English barons’ rancor toward me.”

  “I received a letter from Mama yesterday.” She breaks open the first seal. “She wrote of difficulties in London.”

  “King Henry’s love for me has caused your sister much misfortune. The barons whisper against Elli whenever he gives me a gift. Which is often.”

  “Have you considered declining his gifts?”

  “And insult my king?” He grins. “His Grace enjoys giving to me. His face lights up like a child’s at Christmas.” He settles himself on the divan while she reads.

  “I envy Elli,” she says as she reads. “Facing down disgruntled barons would be a trifling task compared to keeping one’s marriage from being annulled.”

  “Annulled? Louis is smitten with you.”

  “His mother is not.” She drops the letter to the table by her side. “She wields her power like a noose, strangling Louis’s appetite for me. If I don’t conceive a child soon, she says, she will send me to Provence and marry him to the countess Johanna.”

  “That cannot be.” William pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at his face. “This is disturbing news, Margi. Very upsetting. Provence needs you on the throne.”

  “I have done little for Provence, I’m afraid.”

  “You do not know that.” He tucks his handkerchief into his sleeve. “Without your influence, might Toulouse have taken your father’s castles? His attacks have not ceased, but they have subsided.”

  She hides her surprise. Has Toulouse run out of funds? Is he injured? Whatever the reason for his retreat, it has nothing to do with her.

  “Simon de Montfort aims to spoil the queen mother’s plans, at any rate,” she says. According to Eléonore, he has proposed to Johanna of Flanders who, enthralled, has agreed to marry him in the spring.

  The creases deepen in her uncle’s forehead. “Blanche must hear of this! The English king’s seneschal, the Count of Flanders? Normandy is on the border—too close for the White Queen’s comfort.” He brightens. “No need to worry, my dear. The White Queen will block that alliance.”

  “But Uncle, that is the very circumstance I dread. An unmarried Johanna of Flanders is as tempting to Blanche as mouse to a cat.”

  “Have you seen the countess? Quite plain. She resembles a mouse, in fact. Your husband would not choose her over you.”

  “Dear uncle, do you still not understand? Louis has no choice. Blanche chooses for him.”

  He waves his hand. “I can provide her with a different alternative. Fear not: when I leave the queen mother’s chambers today, Johanna of Flanders will pose a threat to you no more.”

  Eléonore

  The Taste of Treachery

  London, 1237

  Fourteen years old

  SIMON DE MONTFORT bursts into Eléonore’s chambers unannounced, causing her to prick her finger with her sewing needle and drop the peacock feathers she is affixing to a new hat.

  “Allow me,” he says, and drops to his knees, presses her finger to his lips, and kisses away the drop of blood. His eyes hold anger, and a glint of mockery. Red smears his upper lip.

  “Treachery cannot be tasted, after all,” he says. “If so, your blood would surely hold a bitter edge.”

  She tucks the lines into her memory: They are perfect for the song she is writing. But petulance, not poetry, is Simon’s reason for being here—indeed, his reason for being at all, she has learned. She pulls tight the cord of self-control, hiding her annoyance.

  She stands. “Apparently, I have offended you.”

  “You have injured me, and deprived my future,” he says. “I thought we were friends.”

  “So we are.”

  “Snatching away my bride-to-be and giving her to your uncle is hardly the act of a friend.”

  Eléonore gasps. “My uncle?” Guillaume, marry? Has he renounced his bishopric? “You must be mistaken.”

  “If only I were. But Johanna is quite clear.” He pulls a letter from the pouch on his belt. “Thomas of Savoy is nearer my age and experienced in government, and he has the approval of the French queen,” he reads. “We announced our betrothal yesterday, and will be married before Christmas.”

  Thomas. Of course. He and Johanna will make a perfect match. Both tall, fair-haired, and prone to bouts of laughter, they could almost be brother and sister. Both are noted diplomats, respected by barons, kings, and clergy. And Johanna, like Thomas, adores dogs, horses, and everything to do with the hunt.

  “You did this,” Simon says. He crushes the letter in his fist.

  “I had nothing to do with it. I am as surprised as you.”

  “No one but you knew of our plans.”

  “But why would I interfere?”

  “Yes, why? Out of jealousy, to think of me with another woman?”

  Eléonore forgets, for one moment, that she is queen; she drops her gaze like a shy girl. In fact, she dreaded his marriage to Johanna, not out of jealousy but because it would take him far away from the English court.

  “Or perhaps you think Thomas of Savoy would be more useful in your pursuit of Normandy,” he says. “Yet he is also uncle to the Queen of France, and would be as likely to help her as you.”

  Eléonore thinks of her letter to Marguerite, telling her of Simon and Johanna’s plan. She only wanted to reassure her sister—how cruel of the White Queen to taunt her with threats of an annulment!—but now she wonders: did Margi use the letter to advance her own interests?

  “In Flanders, I could have helped King Henry regain those lands, and their riches, taken so unfairly from England,” Simon says.

  “I know! I wanted that.”

  “But not enough to keep our secret.”

  “Simon, I only told my sister because—”

  “Aha! You admit it! You told the French queen of my plans.”

  “Yes!” Eléonore’s eyes fill with tears. “The queen mother threatened to annul my sister’s marriage, and to marry King Louis to Johanna. I was trying to console her.”

  “She used your news to prove her loyalty to France—and to betray you.”

  Dear sister, I cannot believe you would do such a thing. Please tell me it is not so!

  Eléonore remembers herself. “This is a family matter. I will not discuss it with you.”

  “I am not a member of your clan, so my welfare is not your concern?”

  “You know that is not true.” He turns to leave. “Simon, wait. Simon! I command you to come back this instant.”

  He whirls around and drops to his knees before her, his cap in his hand, his eyes downcast. “You summoned me, my lady?”

  “Cease this mockery,” she snaps. “Stand before me, Simon.”

  He obeys, but still will not meet her eyes. “I apologize for what has happened,” she says. “I betrayed you, although I did not mean to. Your friendship means everything to me.”

  Now he looks at her. “You might make amends.”

  “How? I will do anything in my power.”

  He shows his perfect teeth. “You can find another wife for me,” he says. “Someone as good as Johanna of Flanders, or better. Someone very rich.”

  Marguerite

  Immaculate Conception

  Flanders, 1237

  NO ONE IS happier than Marguerite at the wedding of her uncle Thomas to Johanna of Flanders—except, perhaps, Uncle Guillaume, who has at last gained the favor of the White Queen. Blanche seats him next to her during the banquet and flirts and laughs as though they are old friends, while he glows with anticipation over the lands and titles that will surely follow.
/>
  Marguerite smiles, as well, at the table with the new Count of Flanders and his wife. Gone is this threat to her marriage, at least. But today she has another reason to smile, as well: Mama has come, with Sanchia—tall for her age, extraordinarily pretty, and very shy—and they sit by Marguerite’s side.

  “Behold Thomas’s dazed expression,” Mama says, watching him dance with his bride. “If I did not know my brother better, I might think he were in love.”

  “Louis used to gaze at me like that,” Marguerite says.

  She has not seen Mama in three years. Did she expect sympathy? How forgetful of her. Mama looks pointedly at her flat belly.

  “Nothing is without its cost, Marguerite,” she says. “I have taught you this. If you want the love of a king, you must pay for it with heirs.”

  “I would gladly do so, Mother, if immaculate conception were available to all.”

  Mama raises her eyebrows. She peers over at Louis, who has gone to Blanche’s table and now leans toward her as if he were a plant and she were the sun.

  “I assumed that you had miscarried a child or two, since you married so young.”

  “His mother tells him that his desire for me is sinful. She has paid his confessor to do the same, I hear. And Louis is the most pious of men.”

  Blanche’s laughter rings across the courtyard. On either side of her, Uncle Guillaume and Louis grin and gaze at her as if they were competing suitors. Mama’s face flushes. Marguerite looks down at her lap, where she has clenched her hands so tightly that her wedding ring cuts into her fingers.

  “This will not do,” Mama says. “This will not do at all.”

  SOON UNCLE GUILLAUME has the promotion he has earned with his clever scheme to block Simon de Montfort from becoming the next Count of Flanders.

  “I am to become both prince and bishop of Liège,” he exults to Marguerite and her mother once they have all returned to Paris. “The queen—sorry, Margi, I mean the queen mother—has suggested my election and the Holy Roman Emperor has approved it. By God! I am a wealthy man.”