Four Sisters, All Queens

by Jones, Sherry

  Eléonore will be jealous. Not only has Uncle thwarted England’s hopes for an advantage on the Norman border, he has now become a member of the French court. You should see our uncle strut about like a proud cock, Marguerite writes to her. And she cannot resist adding, yet, even in his excitement, he is grateful to me for this new honor.

  It is a pitiful lie. Yet how can she tell the truth to Eléonore, of all people? While Marguerite fights to sit on her throne, her sister freely awards English lands, titles, and prosperous marriages to their relatives. Uncles Peter and Boniface returned home from King Henry’s court laden with gold and promises—Richmond for Uncle Peter, the archbishopric of Canterbury for Uncle Boniface. Meanwhile Marguerite has not even a handmaid in whom she can trust. Why did she confide her troubles to her sister? She cringes to think how superior Eléonore must feel—until she reminds herself: Provence will someday be hers.

  Eléonore, of course, has her own struggles. Like Marguerite, she has not yet borne a child. And her life in England is far from ideal. The English barons talk against me, calling me a ‘foreigner’ and our father a ‘minor count,’ but I do not care, she has written. With Henry’s blessing I shall surround myself with family who will buffer me from my enemies like the walls of a fortified castle.

  Marguerite wishes she enjoyed such protection. Should Blanche talk Louis into annulling their marriage, who would advocate for her? Not even Uncle Guillaume would be able to help, in spite of his new title. Mama, on the other hand, is here now—and determined to do what she can for Marguerite.

  On her last evening in Paris, Mama meets with the White Queen in her chambers. She returns to Marguerite wearing a gold necklace—Blanche’s gift—and eyes as hard as flint.

  “Blanche de Castille wants you out,” she announces, as if imparting new information.

  Marguerite sighs. “She has disliked me since our first meeting. If I knew why, I would try to change her opinion.”

  “You would need to lose all your teeth and hair, grow enormously fat, and become as dull-witted as that poor girl Isabelle for her opinion of you to improve. Blanche does not dislike you; she fears you.”

  “Fears me?” Marguerite laughs. “The little country bumpkin with dirt under her nails and not a lick of sense?”

  “If you fit that description, you might be pregnant now.” When Blanche sent M. de Flagy to their castle in Aix, he sought—and found—in her the qualities that Blanche and Louis wanted. Her “pretty face” brightened Louis’s spirit, but her “prettier faith” delighted the White Queen.

  “She relied on your piety to bend you to her will,” Mama says. “But she did not envision your beauty. And she did not anticipate your intelligence.”

  Blanche sought a wife for Louis to keep him out of mischief and to bear him sons. She never intended to compete for admirers; nor did she plan to share her power as queen.

  Mama glances over at the ladies-in-waiting, who sit in their corner, feigning oblivion. “I need fresh air,” she says. “Let’s go to the gardens for a mother-daughter stroll.”

  The ladies lay down their needlework and stand, ready to join them, but Mama waves them aside. “You may remain here. Your queen has all the service she needs from her doting mother.”

  “But we must accompany her at all times,” Gisele says. “The White Queen has commanded it.”

  Mama gives her the warmest of smiles. “Don’t you think our Laughing Knight will adore this one?” she says to Marguerite. “And Pierre of Aix for you, and Hugh of Tarascon for you,” she says to the others. A retinue of knights from Provence will soon arrive to escort Mama home tomorrow—and they will attend a feast in the countess’s honor tonight.

  “The men of Provence are not only the most handsome men in the world, they are also the most exhilarating dancers you can imagine,” the countess tells the maids.

  Excited chatter fills the room. Marguerite forgotten for the moment, Mama tucks her hand under her daughter’s arm and walks her into the gardens. There, with her head close to Marguerite’s, she tells her how to win Louis’s body at last—by starting with his soul.

  Eléonore

  Scandal and Mutiny

  London, 1238

  Fifteen years old

  ELÉONORE YEARNS TO be there. She is not invited, however. Worse: she has been told to stay away.

  “Already the barons point the finger at you for every unpopular decision that I make,” Henry said. “We can’t have them blaming you for this marriage, as well.”

  They might easily do so. Eleanor Marshal is, after all, her dearest friend, and Simon de Montfort is, famously, the queen’s champion. (“Her Lancelot,” some call him, winking sly.) Today, while she paces in the great hall, fingering her rosary beads and praying, the two are exchanging their vows in secret before the Westminster chaplain. Henry, who will place the bride’s hands into the groom’s, is the only witness—or so they hope. Richard of Cornwall, having learned of the wedding, races toward London even now. Slow his journey, O Lord. Should God refuse her request, she must make sure that he does not reach the chapel until after the ceremony is complete. Her friendship with Simon, her only ally at court, depends on this marriage.

  “My lady.” The young knight bows tremulously, as though afraid she might strike him. She is not the one he fears, however. Richard has arrived, and waits impatiently for permission to enter the castle. Delay him, Eléonore tells the skittish youth, for as long as possible.

  But Richard will not be kept waiting, not today. In the next moment he storms into the great hall, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Breathe. She greets him with a kiss which he does not return.

  “Where are they?” he growls.

  “Who?” she asks.

  He narrows his eyes at her. His jaw tics. “In Henry’s chapel,” he guesses. One look at her face and he laughs without mirth, then starts toward the stairs.

  “Dear brother, no man may enter the palace bearing weapons, as you know,” she says. “I must ask you to leave yours with our guards.”

  He grimaces, but he removes the scabbard and sword from his belt, hands them to the young knight, then refastens the belt around his waist. She would block his way as he marches toward the stairs, but he dances around her to charge up the steps.

  “Where are you going?” she cries, but he runs toward the chapel where, at this moment, the nuptial couple stands amid the gorgeous wall hangings of embroidered green and blue and the saints’ relics and speak their breathless promises to love, honor, and obey. Simon cradles Eleanor’s hands in his, as if they were a cherished gift. She gazes into his eyes with utter, breathless love. By the time they kneel before the chaplain for the celebration of mass, emotion has overcome Henry; tears drip from his chin as he bows his head and sends fervent prayers to Mary, the Mother of God, for the couple’s happiness. And then Richard, followed by Eléonore, bursts into the room.

  “In God’s name, am I too late?” he cries.

  “You are not too late, Sir Richard, to offer your good wishes to your sister and to me.” Simon beams as though the Earl of Cornwall had stopped in to celebrate.

  “By God, I would not believe this folly had I not seen it myself.” Richard glares at Henry. Dust covers his tunic and riding boots and reddens his eyes, lending him a grim, wild look. “Did you not send me home just hours ago? Even as you kissed me farewell, you harbored this secret in your heart. God! How I wish you were not my king, for I would cut out your deceitful tongue.”

  Two of Henry’s guards step forward with their blades drawn, but the king waves them back. “Our sister wished for a private wedding,” he says, averting his gaze.

  “Why would she wish for that?”

  “We knew you would object,” Eleanor says.

  “To such a fine match?” Richard’s laugh cracks. “The king’s sister and a French dandy with only a crumbling manor to his name? I cannot imagine why anyone would protest.”

  “Now, see here, Sir Richard—” Simon begins.

 
“I see much, Sir Simon. I see that you have insinuated yourself into my sister’s heart for your own gain.” He glances at the chaplain and presses his mouth shut. Clerics love to spread tales.

  “Richard! Your quarrel is with me, not with my husband,” Eleanor de Montfort says. “I chose Simon of my own volition.”

  “That is not a choice for you to make. Your duty is to enhance our kingdom, not to satisfy your own desires.” He glares at Henry. “I should have been consulted about this marriage. But it is not too late. What has been done, can be undone.”

  He turns to leave, but Eléonore stops him. “Stay, Richard, and celebrate with us. Simon and your sister love each other. Doesn’t Eleanor deserve some happiness in life?”

  “She married our Lord Jesus Christ seven years ago. She deserves the nunnery,” he says. “Her seducer, Simon de Montfort, deserves to burn in hell—and he will, if I have to spend every coin in my treasury to make it so.”

  NO MUSIC PLEASES the ear so well as the clink of silver. It is a tune that Richard of Cornwall plays very well, having so much of it in his purse. His song enchants the archbishop of Westminster into declaring the marriage invalid. It marches the people of London to the palace, where they shout out of tune, demanding the heads of those associated with the scandal. It stirs the indignation of the barons, who send their most pugnacious member—and, heretofore, an admirer of Simon’s—to protest the match.

  Roger de Quincy, the Earl of Winchester, rides into London in typically dramatic fashion, galloping through the streets as though racing to a fire, kicking up clouds of dust, and shouting for all to clear the way or be trampled under his horse’s hooves. He marches into the palace in his battle armor, including a silly peacock plume atop his helmet, and sings Richard’s song of discord.

  “The barons of England are outraged over the travesty that occurred, with the king’s blessing, on the sixth of January,” he says. “We demand that the marriage of the lady Eleanor Marshal, Countess of Pembroke, to Simon de Montfort, a Frenchman”—his lips curl—“be nullified at once. Else, we must insist that the king abdicate the throne.”

  Henry’s face reddens. “On what grounds?”

  “Henry is God’s chosen monarch,” Eléonore says. Breathe. “Our Lord placed him on the throne, and only our Lord can displace him.”

  “Well may he do so. The clergy stand with us on this matter. I have brought a petition to that effect, signed by England’s most prestigious barons and our exalted bishops.”

  “What arrogance!” Henry leaps to his feet. “I would like to see you try to remove me.”

  De Quincy’s jaw tics. “By conducting this marriage in secret, you have broken your pledge to consult the barons’ privy council. This is a grave offense.”

  “The people of London would not support mutiny against their king,” Eléonore says. “They love Henry.” And yet she needs Simon and Eleanor’s love in this conniving court. She peers within for a solution, sees its rippling image, amorphous and shifting, as on a dark pool.

  “Without the support of your barons, you cannot rule,” the earl says. “And we will not support this union of our English princess with French nobility. Think of it, Your Grace! Should you perish, Simon de Montfort might claim the throne. And if he sired a son? England would be lost forever.”

  “And the sun might fail to rise tomorrow and the world would perish,” Eléonore snaps. “You forget the king’s brother. Richard of Cornwall holds a stronger claim to the throne than do the Montforts.”

  “I have forgotten nothing, my lady. But the complexities of this situation are too great for a foreigner to grasp. And I did not ride all this way to discuss the succession to the throne.”

  “What have you come to discuss?” Henry asks.

  “The marriage of the Countess of Pembroke to the Earl of Leicester cannot stand. The barons of England have not given their permission for it, and will not do so.”

  “Permission?” Henry barrels toward the little man, who stands his ground—for a moment.

  With the tip of his long index finger, Henry prods the earl’s collarbone. “Pray tell me, Winchester, under whose authority do you hold your lands and titles? Mine, that is whose.” The baron steps backward, but Henry advances.

  “Under whose authority do I hold the kingdom? As the queen has already pointed out, none other than God has given it to me.” He punches his own chest. “As God’s anointed king, I will arrange any marriage that pleases me, your permission be damned.”

  His red face, his wild eyes, the veins bulging in his neck and on his forehead: Henry reminds Eléonore of a snarling beast. She would shrink back in fear if she didn’t know the gentleness beneath that fury. Might he someday unleash it against her? But—no. Henry would not.

  The Earl of Winchester, too, seems surprised by the king’s attack. He dances backward before tripping and nearly falling to the floor.

  “That will teach you to harass your king,” Henry says. Winchester looks as though he’d like to stab him in the back.

  “You seem to forget, my lord, how you depend on your barons’ support,” he says. “I pray that you will come to your senses soon. For, by refusing to accede to our demands, you have placed your throne, and your person, at great risk. Were I you, I would gird myself for war.”

  “RUBBISH,” ELÉONORE SAYS when Roger de Quincy has gone. Surely he exaggerates the barons’ wrath. After all, Eleanor Montfort is the youngest of Henry’s siblings, and a woman; her offspring would lay no claim to the English throne. They must placate the barons, she tells Henry, and protect Simon.

  “You need only apologize, and the matter will resolve itself,” she says.

  Henry thrusts out his lower lip, reminding Eléonore of her sister Beatrice, who crashes around breaking things when she doesn’t get what she wants. “Apologize to that sniveler Winchester, with his peacock’s feather? He should be grateful that we didn’t throw him into the Tower.”

  Who is the peacock? Eléonore wants to say. Who is the sniveler? “I agree, he is tedious,” she says. “Perhaps we should inform him of your sister’s condition.”

  “Risk my sister’s honor? You surprise me, Eléonore.”

  She raises her brows. Cannot the Earl of Winchester count to nine? When the child is born, the entire kingdom will know the truth. “An apology seems our only recourse, then. A few words on your part, a minor puffing of the earl’s chest. A small price to pay for your sister’s happiness.” And for Simon de Montfort’s friendship, she might add. Considering the barons’ grumbling against “aliens” and “foreigners,” Eléonore may need Simon’s support in the future.

  Henry looks at her as if she had spoken in a strange tongue. “A king does not apologize to his vassals. We must convey strength, Eléonore, never weakness. Disaster would ensue, otherwise. Usurpers always await, coveting our thrones.”

  If her years in Provence taught her anything, it is this: Real strength lies not in denying one’s deficiencies, but in admitting them. For once, though, she keeps an opinion to herself.

  THE CROWD HAS grown larger every day. Now, little more than a week after the Montforts’ wedding, thousands press against the castle gates, waving torches, hurling rocks, brandishing fists. “Send the foreigners home!” they cry, forgetting that their great-grandparents came from Normandy, or Germany, or Wales. The Earl of Winchester, whose ancestors were Scottish, has smashed all his casks of French wine, declaring that only “fine British ales” will be served at his table. Immediately the guest list for his feast celebrating St. David of Scotland shrank to only a few friends.

  “Damned be Simon de Montfort,” Henry rages to Eléonore in her chambers as her tailors fit her for a new Parisian gown. “Damn him and his ambition! Always grasping for what is above him. I would have given him anything except my sister, for the love of God.”

  “But you did give him your sister.” Eléonore turns, her arms spread. “Not for the love of God, but for the love of your sister.”

  “Yes, bu
t what about the love of Henry? Simon’s ambition knows no bounds. Next he might try to take the throne.”

  “Nonsense.” She turns again. “Not only is Simon your brother-in-law, but he is also French. And, as we can hear so clearly at this moment, the French are unpopular in England.”

  “I wish they would stop that noise.” Henry stomps over to a window and slams the shutters shut. “Shouting for Simon’s head, and on what grounds? He has done nothing without my consent.”

  “Be grateful that they are not demanding your head, then.”

  Uncle Guillaume enters, newly arrived from Uncle Thomas’s wedding, ready to embrace Eléonore but for the pins at her waist and sides. Henry kisses him as if he were a long-lost brother, so pleased to see his friend that he doesn’t notice his somber expression.

  “No one is calling for your head today, Your Grace, but they may be soon,” Uncle says. “Your brother wields much influence in England.”

  “His purse wields much influence, you mean,” Eléonore says.

  “Do you think that Richard is behind this?” Henry gestures toward the window. “And over such a trifling matter?”

  Uncle folds his arms over his chest. “Some say the Earl of Cornwall fancies himself the next king.”

  “He has always thought himself more capable of ruling,” Henry says. “He has told me so many times.”

  Her pins removed, Eléonore steps down from the stool. “Money matters to Richard, not power. He already has the wealth of a king, without the hardships.”

  “As king, he would lose that wealth,” Henry says. “Gascony alone would suck it like marrow from his bones.”

  “He claims to have lost much of his fortune already.” Uncle moves to a window to look down upon the jeering crowd. “All the barons have suffered since the pope’s legate arrived, demanding coins for the next campaign in Outremer.”

  “I would not listen to those mutterers.” Henry steps before him to shutter that window, as well. “Ottobuono is a good man.”