Four Sisters, All Queens

by Jones, Sherry

  “I had,” Marguerite says. “Of course, the two of you would need to agree.”

  “You’re not going to name her Eléonore, I hope.” Blanche’s lips twist as if the name made her mouth hurt. “Sister or not, she is the Queen of England—our enemy. They are preparing even now to invade our lands.”

  “I desire not to honor England, but France,” Marguerite says. She takes her girl back into her arms, strokes her soft cheek with the back of her finger. “With your permission, Queen Mother, I would name her Blanche.”

  MARGUERITE BLINKS HER eyes, wondering if she has fallen asleep on the long ride to Saumur and now dreams of barons carrying mattresses and chairs from the castle and tossing them like refuse into wagons outdoors. As her carriage draws closer, she begins to laugh. Not barons, but servants perform the task of clearing out the castle for Louis’s brother Alphonse. And yet—is this a dream? A man missing all his teeth wears a tunic of red silk embroidered with gold lions as he ties a rope across the bulging wagon’s cargo; a boy wearing a green-and-yellow-striped mantle lined with vair runs into and out of the stone château, dragging the valuable cape on the ground as he helps other exquisitely dressed servants load trunks, tapestries, carpets, clothing, candlesticks, plates, cups of gold and silver, jewels, and other items. These wagons, Louis says, leave today for the Earl Richard of Cornwall’s castle at Wallingford, in England. The items, including the clothing on the servants’ backs, belong to the earl—who, when he left for Outremer a month ago, counted the castle as his own, as well.

  “He will be furious,” Louis says with a grin. “But by the time he returns, Alphonse will possess Poitou. Lord Cornwall cannot regain it without a battle, which he will never wage, not with his baby-soft hands.”

  Such is the Earl of Cornwall’s reward for doing the Lord’s work in Outremer. Louis may be right. Richard would not go to war over Poitou, no matter how outraged he might feel. Henry and Eléonore, on the other hand, will be furious. They will certainly amass an army to retaliate. King John let the French take Normandy without so much as a whimper of protest; Henry, still ashamed of his father’s inaction, will certainly fight for Poitou, tiny and insignificant though it be.

  Does Eléonore know what is happening today? Louis intends to knight his brother Alphonse and to name him as the new Count of Poitou. The celebratory feast will cost twice as much as hers and Louis’s wedding, for he and his mother intend to display France’s wealth and power to all the world.

  The urge to write to her sister nags like an itch between Marguerite’s shoulder blades, insistent yet impossible to satisfy. If only she had someone in this court with whom to talk—someone who could advise her, whom she could trust with her confidences. I beseech you, Virgin Mother, send me a friend. She cannot even write to her mother for advice, for who would deliver her letter without reading it and reporting to Blanche? Turning to Eléonore is, of course, out of the question. But—no matter. Word of this transgression will reach Westminster soon enough. Marguerite hopes her sister will know that she had nothing to do with it.

  Perhaps Blanche desires a war with England. She certainly has gone out of her way to insult King Henry’s mother. Isabella and her husband Hugh de Lusignan are Count and Countess of La Marche, an area encircled by Poitou. Whereas Henry, a king, was Isabella’s lord before, she now must pay homage to Alphonse, a mere count. “I am a former Queen of England,” she has been heard to say. “I bend my knee to no one.”

  “That harlot? She has bent both knees for lesser men than my son,” Blanche says with a coarse laugh as they step into the castle. Marguerite wishes she would speak discreetly. Servants talk, and if Henry hears her insults against his mother, he will be even more inclined to attack. As Queen Consort of France, Marguerite does hold some power. She must use it to prevent a war, if she can.

  Her first opportunity comes very soon. While she and Blanche sit in the baths, having the dust of their journey sponged from their bodies, Gisele enters with an announcement: Hugh and Isabella have arrived, and request an audience with the King and Queen of France.

  Marguerite stands, splashing water onto the floor. “Sit down,” Blanche says. She waves her hand languidly. “Our journey has been long, while they live a short ride away from here. It will not harm them to wait until we have refreshed ourselves.”

  Then, after their bath, Blanche yawns. She must have a nap. Go, Marguerite says, seeing her chance to avoid trouble. She will greet the count and countess herself. Blanche, however, commands her chamberlain to see them to their rooms—with a message that the queen will not receive them today. Marguerite wants to argue, but she cannot in the presence of servants.

  “It is my place, as mother to the French king, to greet the English king’s mother,” Blanche says. “I will receive her in my own time. But I feel a headache coming, and I need to lie down. The countess will have to wait until tomorrow for her audience with me.”

  No, she will not, Marguerite decides.

  “I hear that Queen Isabella is much agitated by your refusal to receive her,” her confessor, Guillaume de Saint-Pathus, says as he escorts her to the feasting tent. “She is known for her passionate temper, and may not be easily soothed.”

  Marguerite intends to try. When she meets Queen Isabella today, she will apologize for the delay and invite her to her chambers after the day’s festivities. If, by doing so, she angers the White Queen, so be it. Queen Isabella must know that one of them, at least, respects her person and her position.

  At the head table, Marguerite watches as the palace lawn fills with nobles and villeins come to honor the new count. Isabella is not among them. The great barons Humbert of Beaujeu, Enguerrand of Coucy, and Archibald of Bourbon enter with their wives, all bedecked in colorful silks, flanked by rows of knights, and accompanied by fanfare. Beside her, Louis wears a shimmering tunic in the blue he loves with gold fleur-de-lis, and mantles of purple and red, lined with mink—as well as an ugly cap of plain cotton.

  “The cap is incongruous, don’t you think?” she says as he sits. “You are the king.” And she is the queen. Has Louis forgotten both their places?

  “It pleases the Lord for us to humbly serve.” On his plate lies a single piece of coarse brown bread.

  Asceticism seems out of place here. With the money spent on this feast, she and Louis could feed everyone in France for a year. Servants rush about with platters bearing the sweetest of fruits and the choicest of meats—including, at the head table, peacocks skinned and roasted, then re-dressed in their feathers of brilliant blue, their tails spread like beautiful fans behind them. The aromas of imported, costly spices—cinnamon and mace, galangal and cardamom—swirl through the air. Musicians perform in clusters—inside the tent, which is so vast that the notes from one group fade before they can clash with others, and outside, where jongleurs and acrobats and dancers flip and twirl and spin in dizzying motion. Beyond them, on the green, knights practice for the afternoon jousting tournament. Like a stream reflecting the hues of spring, the guests flow past the table in their brilliant finery, come to pay homage to Alphonse. Most opulently dressed of all—even more so than Louis—is Thibaut, not only Count of Champagne but also, now, King of Navarre, glowing from head to toe in shades of purple—and pouting to find his beloved Blanche absent from the festivities.

  “Never fear, cousin,” Louis says, scratching his chest, always itching from his goat’s-hair shirt. “You know Mama adores a fête. Nothing would keep her away today.”

  Indeed. Before Thibaut turns away, the trumpets’ blare announces the entrance of the Queen of France—a tribute they have already paid to Marguerite. The gathering sinks to its knees as Blanche makes a truly royal entrance, rustling in silk and diamonds. Marguerite can only marvel at the quick recovery from her debilitating headache.

  “My lady, I wrote many poems in your honor while I was in Palestine,” Thibaut gushes when Blanche stops for his kiss. At least he accomplished something in Outremer besides losing every battle, and most
spectacularly: fifty-seven of his knights captured, many from France. He should be in Palestine now, working for their release, but he ran away, instead, leaving Richard of Cornwall to clean up after him. The earl arrived to find the expedition in ruins, a truce with the Saracen sultans begun but never finished, and the men of France and its surrounding counties locked away and in chains. In Thibaut’s absence, Richard negotiated a pact with the sultans and freed the French prisoners. Be forewarned, Eléonore wrote. Richard will expect a reward from King Louis.

  And how prettily Cornwall will be paid for his efforts! Marguerite has said nothing to Louis or Blanche about the debacle; as far as she can tell, Thibaut hasn’t mentioned it, either. As a simpering minstrel sings the King of Navarre’s new song, Marguerite imagines the uproar to come. See how Thibaut struts, the valiant warrior! Meanwhile, the real hero can expect a slap in the face when he returns home.

  A pair of dark eyes among Thibaut’s knights catches her gaze, and the face of a youth so familiar, she almost returns his smile. His look is so intent, he seems to read her thoughts. But—who is he? The answer whispers itself but she misses it amid the song of Thibaut’s yearning to hold his “Lady” in his arms.

  When the last notes of the minstrel’s flute have faded, Thibaut bows to his Lady and then, with a flourish of his hand, to Marguerite. He has not forgotten her, “the fairest daisy of them all,” he says. He turns to the youth.

  “May I introduce Sir Jean de Joinville,” Thibaut says, “my seneschal, as was his father, and a most talented wielder of sword and lance. He will compete in my lady’s honor today, as your champion.”

  “And please accept my offer to serve you at table,” the young man says. “Your every wish would be my desire.”

  He kneels before her and kisses her ring, and she remembers: this is the boy who, in the Sens cathedral, shared her amusement over the so-called Crown of Thorns and the hysteria it inspired. He is a boy no more, but a tall and confident young man with soft brown hair and eyes the color of honey. Heat falls over her like a shower of sparks as he climbs to the royal table to pour water into her cup.

  “Pouring water seems a tedious task for an accomplished knight,” she says.

  “The King of Navarre exaggerates my martial prowess. I have never competed in the joust before today.”

  “Some champion you will prove to be, then.”

  “I hear that you prefer poetry to tournaments, anyway.”

  She looks at him askance. “You are not going to warble now about your love for some unattainable ‘Lady,’ I hope.”

  “Au contraire. I have instead fashioned a response to the King of Navarre’s verse. For your ears only.”

  He leans in close, ostensibly to pour wine into her water, and murmurs:

  Sir, you have done well

  To gaze on your beloved;

  Your fat and puffy belly

  Would prevent you reaching her.

  Her delight peals like a bell through the tent, attracting startled glances, for who has heard her laugh since she arrived in Paris? For this alone the young knight deserves a token: her favorite necklace, a shell cross on a silver chain, will be his reward. Wanting to escape the curious glances of the gossiping court, she hurries up the stairs to her chambers to retrieve the gift—but is stopped by murmurs from inside a darkened room.

  “Please, darling, once more before I die. I risked my life in Palestine; doesn’t that demonstrate my worthiness to you?”

  “You left our knights for an Englishman to rescue. That demonstrates nothing but ineptitude. And do not call me ‘darling.’” It is Blanche’s voice. Marguerite holds her breath.

  “What more must I do to prove my love? My poems in your honor are sung throughout the land. I even killed for your sake.”

  “Hush! Thibaut, I told you never to speak of that again.”

  “What, do you fear we will be heard? The entire hall feasts on stuffed peacock, while I wish only to feast on your charms.”

  “Stop! Thibaut, unhand me at once.”

  “I beg you to cease this terrible abuse. Why did you mislead me so, even beguiling me to kill your husband, if you never wanted my love?”

  “Be quiet, you simpleton! Do you want to hang?”

  “You wanted to rule France, and you have done it thanks to me. And how have you repaid me? With utter coldness. But oh, my love! It only makes me desire you more.”

  “I have had enough.”

  “But where are you going, my darling?”

  “To rejoin the feast before you send us both to the gallows.”

  Marguerite flees back to the great hall so lightly her feet barely touch the floor, loath to be discovered spying on their tête-à-tête. She barely tastes the food placed before her, grits her teeth against the chatter and the clank of dishes and cups and the constant whine of the music all drowning out the remembered voices of Blanche and Thibaut and her own thoughts swirling and spinning like leaves in a storm.

  The rumors about Blanche are true. She deflected them so cleverly all those years ago with her dramatic appearance before the barons’ council, when she yanked off her tunic and stood practically naked to prove that she was not pregnant. In their astonishment, they forgot that she was also accused of conspiring to kill her husband. In the midst of the king’s siege of the rebellious city of Avignon, Thibaut departed with his knights and foot soldiers, saying they had served their obligatory forty days. King Louis VIII died two months later, supposedly of dysentery—but some speculated that Thibaut had poisoned his wine before he left for home.

  Her new knowledge presses like a too-tight cap against her temples, making her head throb. She should do something, tell someone—but whom? Louis would never accept her word over his mother’s. Who else would believe her? She wishes, again, for a friend. Blanche’s ferocious power has the entire court frightened into submission. Were she to tell what she knows, she would be branded a liar and booted out of France, with Blanche delivering the first kick.

  And yet—this secret may benefit her someday. When she has had a son and annulling her marriage is no longer a threat, she may exchange this bit of knowledge for something from Blanche. Something big. The shiver that runs through her feels as pleasurable as a lover’s hands.

  And then her attention is required. Sir Hugh, the Count of Lusignan, has approached the table with his hat in his hand, here to pledge his loyalty to Alphonse—alone. “Where is your wife?” Blanche demands.

  “Queen Isabella will not attend the ceremonies until my lady has received her.”

  “Ridiculous. We are here to establish our son Alphonse as lord of Poitou. When you have both pledged yourself to him, then we may welcome you.”

  “Isabella is a queen,” Hugh says.

  “A former queen.”

  “As are you, yet you bend your knee to no man.”

  “Save our holy father and his blessed son.”

  “So you understand Queen Isabella’s position, non? Surely you do not expect her to kneel before your son.”

  “Indeed I do. We are in France, not England, and I am queen here.”

  Former queen, Marguerite wants to say. “Sir Hugh, please tell the Queen Mother Isabella that Marguerite, the Queen of France, will receive her tomorrow,” she says. “She may come to my chambers in the morning, after matins.”

  Blanche’s back stiffens. Louis frowns and scratches his stomach. Hugh de Lusignan takes a step away.

  “Excuse me, Sir Hugh. I think you are forgetting something.” Louis scratches his neck. Has he acquired fleas?

  The Count of Lusignan turns slowly back around, then kneels before Alphonse and, in a near whisper, pledges to serve him. Blanche’s glare tells Marguerite that she has erred, and grievously so. It is all she can do not to laugh out loud.

  Jean de Joinville sidles over with her finger bowl. “Well done, my lady,” he says in a low voice as she washes. “You have reminded us all who is the true Queen of France.”

  “If only the king would kee
p the fact in mind.”

  “A king has many facts to remember. Perhaps he only needs reminding from time to time.”

  On his other side, Louis asks for the washing bowl. “Sir Jean, do you always smile?” This from a man who has forgotten, lately, how to do so.

  “Your Grace, I have no reason to frown. But the Queen Marguerite has increased my joy by consenting to let me serve as her champion. Have you ever seen a more beautiful queen? And her intelligence is beyond compare.” His eyes caress her as though they were lovers, causing her to blush.

  “I hear that you are a student of theology and philosophy,” Louis says without looking at Marguerite. “Why don’t you come to court in Paris and join my discussions? We host the brightest scholars from the university. You may remain for as long as you wish.”

  Marguerite looks only at her food. Jean de Joinville, in Paris! The Virgin has answered her prayer. As he and Louis plan his visit, she eats greedily, tearing her bird apart with her teeth, suddenly ravenous with hunger.

  Eléonore

  The Storm and Its Omens

  Bordeaux, 1242

  Nineteen years old

  THE WIND SHRIEKS in their ears, pummels their sails, battles the King of England’s ships in an unfair attack, for there is no fighting the wind with saber or lance. The ship heaves and bucks as if they sailed in the belly of a retching sea monster. Henry cannot even get out of bed. His servants run to the rail, royal vomit sloshing in their clay vessels. Everyone is sick: Richard of Cornwall; the fearsome Roger, Baron of Mortimer; Uncle Peter; Simon de Montfort, restored to Henry’s favor for aiding Richard in Outremer. These are the mighty warriors who would overthrow the King of France, brought to their knees before they even reach the shore.

  Not so Eléonore. Perhaps her oversized belly prevents her from seasickness—but then, what of the Earl of Gloucester, whose girth is greater? His agonized groans compete with the storm’s howl. Perhaps the child she carries calms her. In her berth, she cradles her womb and sings a lullabye. Lullay lullow, lullay lully…