Four Sisters, All Queens

by Jones, Sherry

  “He reminds me of a serpent,” Eléonore says. “His eyes look sly, and he is always darting out his tongue.”

  “Like a serpent, he has a poisonous bite.” Uncle reaches out a hand as if to push the shutter open again, but thinks better of it. “Let anyone refuse to pay, and he is soon hit with an interdict. Pope Gregory excommunicated Roger de Quincy, I hear.”

  “A penalty well deserved, no doubt,” Henry says with a snort.

  “Try telling that to his villeins. With the churches closed, who will bury their dead? Who will conduct their weddings? Who will baptize their infants, or perform their last rites? Lords have been murdered over less.”

  “Eleanor’s wedding to Simon is only an excuse for rebellion,” Eléonore says.

  “The barons want Otto sent back to Rome, but Henry has refused. Perhaps they think Richard would comply.”

  “Richard would not do this to me.” Henry opens the shutters again, looks out at his shouting subjects. “He can be arrogant, even avaricious, but we are brothers.”

  “But—haven’t you heard?” Uncle stares at him. “No, I suppose not. If not for my knights, I would not have penetrated this crowd. I cannot imagine that messengers are getting through.” His furrowed brow portends bad news. Eléonore clutches Henry’s arm, bracing him—and herself.

  “I landed at the Cinque Ports yesterday,” he says. “The Earl Richard of Cornwall was there, hiring mercenaries.”

  Henry’s jaw drops. “For what purpose?”

  “To attack you, my lord. They say that Sir Richard intends to seize the crown.”

  “Impossible!” Henry looks as if he might be sick. “Not Richard. My God. Mutiny? And then what—imprison me in the Tower? Have me hanged? All because I didn’t ask his permission before giving our sister’s hand?” He looks as if he had wandered off the road spinning fancies and now surveyed a strange and bleak horizon. “If only he knew the truth. But then he might attack Simon, instead.”

  “He doesn’t want to attack anyone,” Eléonore says. “Richard isn’t a warrior, remember?” Henry has told her the stories: How, as a youth, Richard shied from fencing lessons. He avoids tournaments, even as a spectator: The sight of blood sickens him. He is known not as a fighter but as a negotiator, preferring talk to battle.

  “And yet he killed one of his servants a few years ago,” Henry says. “Caught him in his treasury, stuffing a sack with coins. Ran him through with his sword. Richard loves money more than he loves his soul.”

  “Then we know what we must do.”

  “I do not want to fight against him, and I will not imprison him,” Henry says. “Our kinship means something to me, at least.”

  “We don’t need to fight Richard if he can be bought,” Eléonore says. “We need only discover his price—and then, no matter how much it hurts, we must pay it.”

  Marguerite

  A New Jerusalem

  Sens, 1239

  Eighteen years old

  HEAVY WITH COINS and hope, Marguerite’s purse thumps against her thigh as she walks. Sunlight streams through the high windows, illuminating the long aisle of the Notre Dame Cathedral. At the end waits Father Geoffrey of Beaulieu, his round face pink and sweating, his hand moist as he kisses Marguerite’s ring.

  “The king speaks of you with the utmost love,” she says, even as she wonders which of her secrets Louis has confided in the private recesses of the confessional. “If you love King Louis, too, then you must help him.”

  The Father smiles, but his gaze seems out of focus, as though a competing voice clamored for his attention. She opens her purse and pours silver into his hands. “I’d like to make an offering to my name-saint, Marguerite.” The patron saint of pregnancy. “Will you help me, Father?”

  The clouds clear from his eyes. He looks at the coins, licks his lips. “You say the king is having difficulties? He has not spoken of it. Come, my lady. Sit in my inner sanctum and tell me how I can help.”

  What she asks for, sipping fine Languedoc wine with the Father amid red-curtained walls hung with gilded crosses, is not much. A few words. A nudging of Louis in her direction. A reminder that God has blessed their marriage and their marriage bed, and that the union of husband and wife carries no sin.

  “He desires only to please our Lord.” And his mother. She puts down her wine, its taste grown suddenly bitter.

  Father Geoffrey lifts his nose. His nostrils flare. Sniffing for scandal, perhaps. Marguerite slides more coins across the table. He lowers his nose.

  “Nothing pleases God more than heirs to his anointed king.” He scoops the money off the table and into the pouch at his waist. “I will remind His Grace of this fact tonight, after prayers.”

  As she is bidding farewell, a young man in cleric’s robes bursts through the door. “Père! Père! A most wonderful thing!” He stops at the sight of his queen and, blushing, drops to one knee. Her ladies-in-waiting are searching for her, he says.

  “They are preparing for the journey even now,” he says as he stands. His face gleams pinkly, as if he had been running. “The king has given orders to depart as soon as possible. May we go, Father?”

  Marguerite arranges her face, hiding her surprise. “I have spent much more time here than I intended,” she says. “Forgive me, Father. I must hasten away.”

  “But—to where, my lady? Where are you and King Louis taking us?” the priest says. Noting her blank stare, he turns to his clerk, who is hopping from foot to foot.

  “To Villeneuve-l’Archevêque, Father,” the youth squeals. “The Emperor of Constantinople awaits us there—with the Holy Crown of Thorns!”

  A MOUSE SQUEAKS, and then is silent—awed, perhaps, by the golden box on the table. Standing under the high arches in the chapel where she and Louis married, Marguerite can hardly breathe. It is the same with everyone; no one makes a sound—not Louis nor his mother, not the grinning Robert, Alphonse, nor the little tyrant Charles, who hides behind his mother’s skirt and sticks out his tongue at Marguerite; not Isabelle, whose protruding eyes glow like a bride’s; not Thibaut, the Count of Champagne, standing scandalously close to his beloved Blanche who, for once, allows him to touch her sleeve; not the Count of Brittany, nor Hugh of Lusignan or the hundreds of nobility, clergy, monks, and nuns gathered here; not the archbishop of Sens, who prolongs the excitement with his long contemplation of the box, his hands folded before him. Why does he tarry? Marguerite longs to lunge forward and lift the lid. Will angels sing? Will the chapel fill with light? Will she be transformed at the sight of the Holy Crown of Thorns?

  The archbishop chants the liturgy. He waves incense, as if the relics were not already blessed enough. The cathedral bells ring. He places his hands on the lid, then pauses, checking the seals to make sure they are intact. He, for one, revels in the drama. Marguerite grits her teeth and prays for patience. The Crown will appear in God’s time. Will it be stained with Christ’s blood? She imagines his anguish as the sharp thorns pierced his scalp, sending blood in rivulets down his face like the tears streaming down her cheeks now. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. She will faint if he delays any longer. And then, as if he had heard her thoughts, the archbishop lifts the lid, oh, so slowly, revealing the box’s contents. Marguerite’s hands fly to her throat.

  What Crown? What thorns? All she sees are a few straggly rushes, arranged in a circle on a velvet cloth. Has her eyesight left her? She looks at the others around the table, who blink and squint and frown. Thibaut shakes his head as if to clear the clouds from his vision. A laugh forms inside Marguerite’s mouth. Louis will be livid. For this forgery, France paid thirteeen thousand pieces of gold.

  Beside her, a cry. The queen mother, as pale as a corpse, slumps toward the floor. While Robert and Alphonse revive her, Marguerite sends a look of sympathy to Louis—who leans over the weeds with his hands clasped and his face toward the heavens, as enraptured as if Jesus were descending through the ceiling.

  “I see him!” he gasps. “On the Cr
oss, sighing and bleeding, dying for my sins. My Lord! Oh, my poor, suffering Christ.”

  Blanche, too, begins to moan and sway in the arms of her sons, her face wet with tears. “I see him, too!” she sobs. “He walks among us.” She grabs Charles and pulls him to her breast, clutching his hair. “Don’t look, darling! The wounds in his hands are bleeding, his head bleeds, his holy blood is everywhere. Mother Mary! Pray for us sinners.” Around her, others weep and exclaim, crying Jesus’s name and praising God, until the chapel fills with shouts, sobs, and moans of rapture.

  Marguerite rocks in silent mirth, struggling to hold in her laughter. Is she the only one here who sees? The thing is a mockery. The emperor Baldwin has made a fool of France in order to replenish his empty coffers. Surely the archbishop must realize—but, no, he continues to chant his Latin liturgy and wave his scepter, his eyes closed.

  Louis strips off his mantles; Robert follows. And then, as if they had planned it, they remove their shoes, their hose, their tunics and belts and rings, and fall to their knees wearing nothing but undertunics—Robert’s of fine bleached linen and Louis’s of goats’ hair. Around the collar, Louis’s skin puffs and oozes, scabrous and swollen, irritated by the hair; as he lifts his hands to the heavens, he reveals long, gashlike streaks of red on his forearms. Marguerite looks away, wishing she could disappear, while the others stare at the naked, suffering body of her husband who has, once again, put himself in the place of the Lord.

  The crowd murmurs in surprise as the brothers stand. A few fall to their knees in awe: exactly the sort of encouragement Louis does not need. Beside him, Robert resembles a plucked chicken, bony legs and feet protruding from his undertunic. His face, too, glistens with pious tears, as if he had not last week dumped garbage from a high window onto the departing Count of Champagne’s head, then filled the Fontainebleau castle with squeals of laughter. Thibaut, meanwhile, clutches the White Queen’s arm as though afraid she—or he—might fall through the floor.

  Extending the dubious box before him, Louis steps down from the high altar, his expression as tragic as if the Lord’s pierced and flagellated body lay within. Robert walks with him toward the cathedral door, his gaze shifting from the trembling gold box to the ecstatic crowd pushing against the royal guards with arms outstretched, striving to touch the relic. The queen mother, flanked by Alphonse and the florid Thibaut, shoves her way in front of Marguerite, leaving her at the rear of the procession with the elderly Queen Isambour.

  “Imagine how our poor Lord must feel,” Isambour says, noticing her flush. “He died on the cross, but the glory goes to Blanche.”

  What can Marguerite do but walk with her head high, like the queen she is? She turns from side to side, looking from one face to another, but all eyes stare at the box, the barefoot king, the hysterical Blanche. Almost all eyes.

  There: A youth meets her gaze. He is younger than she, not quite a man, and richly attired in blue and gold, the colors of Champagne. His eyes dance. He knows. Marguerite has to glance away or else burst into laughter.

  Outside, hysteria. Townspeople in linen and fine scarlet cloth; prostitutes in their yellow hoods; mothers with their children; beggars in rags—all jostle for a glimpse of the so-called crown, trampling, in their frenzy, those unlucky enough to fall. The guards swat grasping hands away from the royal family, but an old man crawls, unnoticed, to Louis’s feet and clutches one of his ankles.

  A knight presses the tip of his sword against the poor man’s hand, pricking the thin skin—but in the next moment, Louis hands the box to Robert and snatches the weapon away. The old man cowers, arms crossed over his head. Louis tosses the sword to the ground and kneels beside him.

  “What do you need, friend?”

  “I am ill, my lord. I suffer with every breath. Please help me.”

  Louis lays his hands on the man’s head. Marguerite turns away, resisting the urge to flee this blasphemy. Instead, she steps into the royal carriage to wait for her husband, away from the nonsense a tangle of dusty weeds has inspired. Yet—how Louis shines. Marguerite hasn’t seen so much life in his sleep-starved eyes since their wedding day. Soon, with Father’s Geoffrey’s encouragement, he may regain his vitality in other ways, too. Marguerite smooths her skirt, reddens her lips, and waits.

  When the carriage door opens, Blanche folds herself into the seat. “Louis and Robert will carry the Crown to Paris—on foot,” she says, smiling as proudly as if the idea were hers, which it probably was.

  “They are walking? That will take more than a week.” What fools the French are, as gullible as children! Marguerite might laugh except for her mother-in-law’s cold stare and the realization that she must wait even longer to conceive her child.

  “I don’t expect to see them for two weeks. Their feet are quite tender.”

  “They will walk barefoot?”

  “What are a few blisters compared to the pain our Lord endured on the road to Calvary?” Blanche’s eyes fill with tears. “Jesus was whipped, mocked, and pushed to the ground, all while carrying his cross on his back, all while the Crown of Thorns cut into his scalp.”

  Marguerite looks out the window, sees Louis and Robert making their halting way down the rocky road, Louis’s face alight with rapture, Robert’s smile a grimace.

  “The very Crown of Thorns that Louis holds in his hands today,” Blanche presses.

  Marguerite can hold her tongue no longer. “The crown in Louis’s hands would not dent an unbaked loaf of bread, let alone draw a man’s blood.”

  Blanche gasps. “Do you doubt the word of God?”

  “I doubt the word of Baldwin. Haven’t you wondered, Queen Mother? About the thorns? Our crown has none. Where are they?”

  “The thorns were removed before the crown came to France,” she says. “For safekeeping. They touched the blood of Christ, and must not float about unprotected.”

  “What did France purchase, then, with her silver?”

  “Prestige, you silly girl. Glory. The honor of possessing the most important of our Lord’s relics.” Her tone softens. “Soon we will own a piece of the True Cross, as well. The Emperor agreed today to sell his fragment to France.”

  Marguerite knows better than to roll her eyes. Antagonizing Blanche will only cause her to tarry. “I’m sure we will be leaving soon, Queen Mother,” she says. “Mustn’t you hasten to your carriage?”

  “I will ride with you,” Blanche says. “We have matters to discuss.”

  “I didn’t think you were interested in anything I have to say, my dear mother-in-law.” Marguerite summons her sweetest tone.

  “I thought we might discuss your childlessness, and France’s need for an heir.”

  Marguerite fumbles behind her back for the door latch. Perhaps she will walk with Louis. She would rather trek barefoot to Paris than listen to Blanche’s harangues. Alas, the carriage begins to move.

  Blanche removes her crown and places it on the seat between them. As she speaks, she traces its points with the tips of her fingers.

  “You are eighteen years of age, married five years. And still not a single pregnancy.”

  Marguerite looks out the window. How she longs to hurl herself out onto the road.

  “Barrenness is a woman’s worst fate. I do pity you.” Blanche sighs. “But it must be the Lord’s will. You are not as pious as M. de Flagy said. Not a good match for my Louis, I fear.”

  Marguerite’s face grows hot. The countryside moves past at an excruciatingly slow rate. Shouting, sobbing, praying people line the road, but their noise is not, unfortunately, loud enough to drown her mother-in-law’s words.

  “No response from the Queen of Riposte?” Blanche smirks. “I know this must be difficult for you—but do try to consider France’s interests above your own. For the sake of our country, you must admit defeat. I sent a letter to the pope this morning, asking him to annul your marriage.”

  AS BLANCHE PREDICTED, Louis and Robert arrive in Paris exactly two weeks after beginning their long
walk, their clothes stinking, their legs covered in filth. Robert’s undertunic sags about his knees, his body having grown even thinner; Marguerite can see the shape of his skull in his sunken face. Louis’s feet are cracked and swollen, yet he steps as jauntily as if he had danced on a cloud all the way home. His eyes seem to crackle with an internal fire. “Darling,” he says when she greets him in the great hall. He holds out his arms to her but his eyes wander, seeking Blanche.

  He smells, inexplicably, of cabbage. She deftly avoids his embrace by clasping his hands and leading him up the stairs and onto the balcony, where a ceremony is planned. Marguerite wears a saffron tunic and no jewelry except her crown, striking a balance between queenly elegance and the simplicity the occasion demands. Their audience swarms over the plaza, all the way to the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris, where workers building the western towers shoo the revelers from the scaffolding. Those near the palace cry out, their faces radiant and eager. Louis kisses Marguerite, evincing cheers, then lifts the box for all to see. His odor forgotten, Marguerite dimples at the warmth in his eyes. This is not the Louis she left behind in Sens. She turns to his confessor, standing just below; Father Geoffrey winks at her.

  And then, when it seems the shouts cannot increase, Blanche steps onto the balcony in an undyed tunic and white wimple, her face clean of makeup. Marguerite cannot help staring: Blanche is quite old—her white paste does hide wrinkles—but still lovely. No wonder she was once renowned for her beauty. And yet she is still the same White Queen. The crowd roars; she flings out her arms to embrace her sons, pulling them to the fore—and shunting Marguerite aside.

  “As mother to your most pious king, I can well imagine the Virgin Mary’s sorrow as her son Jesus suffered on the cross,” Blanche cries. “The Holy Crown of Thorns reminds us of her pain as well as his, endured for our sins.” Marguerite presses her lips together, or else her jaw would drop. In comparing herself to the Holy Mother, Blanche has sunk to new depths. She looks down at her yellow gown, so ostentatious next to the queen mother’s attire that it might as well be made of pure gold.