Shouts, curses. The mainsail rips. Eléonore, peering out onto the deck, watches the sailors struggle to take it down while holding on to anything they can grab. Behind her, the cook pulls on a surcoat and steps past her, going to fight the storm. He speaks rapidly, gesturing toward the sky. Eléonore who speaks almost no English, recognizes one word: “God.” God has sent the storm, apparently, and the sailors are not the only ones who think so. Even Simon de Montfort mentioned an avertissement, a warning, as the clouds gathered like dark fists overhead.
Eléonore crosses herself. Might this storm indeed portend disaster? Conquering Poitou will be difficult, especially with only three hundred men. But what else are they to do? Poitou belongs by right to England, with Richard as its count. They cannot do nothing while Blanche gives it to her son. They must fight back, or the arrogant White Queen will take Gascony next. That must not happen. Indeed, Eléonore and Henry have agreed, it will not. Gascony belongs to Edward.
And yet—three hundred is a paltry force. Henry could not muster a greater army without levying another tax, which the barons refused to pay. England, they pointed out, has a standing truce with France—which the French king (or his queen mother, more likely) has broken. Still the magnates refused.
“How does England profit from these overseas ventures?” sneered the powerful Earl of Gloucester, who holds no lands across the channel and so has nothing there for which to fight. Until now, Eléonore agreed with him. But Blanche de Castille must be stopped. Not only has she humiliated Marguerite—that chienne!—but now she threatens Edward’s future, as well.
Henry has explained to the barons many times why England needs Poitou. The kingdom has already lost Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine—three territories on the French coast. Without Poitou and Gascony, where on the continent would England land its ships? Trade would become most difficult. England would be diminished.
But the barons’ council refused to pay a single mark. “Damned shortsighted,” Henry huffed later in his chambers, to Eléonore and Richard. “A pity that I must heed the edicts of fools.”
The French king has none of these concerns. Without the Magna Carta tying his hands, he governs his kingdom as he—and his mother—desire. As a result, France is expanding, swallowing everything around it to become the most powerful nation on the continent. “That position should be England’s, if not for my father’s weakness,” he says. Which weakness he is speaking of, he does not say: King John’s lust for the beautiful Isabella of Angoulême, which caused him to lose his lands to France, or his failure to take back those lands?
Some of the barons are calling this a woman’s battle. “They blame our mother,” Richard told Henry. The whole world knows, by now, how Queen Blanche snubbed Isabella during Alphonse’s feast. In outrage, Isabella rode to the château which Alphonse had provided for her and her husband, and set it on fire.
“They blame Queen Isabella? Instead of Blanche?” Eléonore said. Which of the barons would not avenge such an insult as Isabella bore? Which of them would not fight for his son’s honor, as she is doing?
“They say she seduced our father, she seduced the Count of La Marche, and now she seduces you, Henry.”
Henry reddened. “Charter or no charter, I don’t need the barons’ permission to travel over the sea and take what is mine.” He brandished his most recent letter from Hugh of Lusignan. The rebel forces have amassed, many thousands from Poitou, Gascony, Anjou, Aquitaine. Never mind the paucity of English warriors: Henry need only bring money. All are eager to serve you, now and after our victory, he wrote. We cannot lose.
Bring money. This request seems simple enough for a wealthy kingdom such as England. Then Richard calculates the costs: Ships. Crews. Horses. Men. Food. Weapons. Armor. Housing. Bribes. The sum is staggering—forty thousand pounds, two times the amount collected in the last English levy.
“Without the barons’ aid, how will we afford to go?” Eléonore asked. “Where will we find the funds?”
“I’ll take it from the Jews,” Henry said, giving her a surprised look. “Of course.”
After the storm has subsided, she lies in bed, one hand on her jumping womb—a boy in there, surely—and one hand gripping her mattress, as if the ship had not ceased its violent plummeting. Henry wants to take not only Poitou, but all the lands his father lost. To do so, he will need to usurp the French crown completely. Should he succeed, what would become of Marguerite? Would Henry protect her from the terrible, dank Gascon jails? She is one reason Eléonore has come, heavy with child and foreboding. Sanchia is the other.
Toulouse’s marriage is annulled, one of Pope Gregory’s final acts. Now the pope is dead, and Toulouse has sent for Sanchia. I can do nothing, Marguerite has written. She has no power to stop the marriage, especially with no pope to hear an appeal. Richard of Cornwall is their sister’s only hope.
Richard, however, has been away for two years. After rescuing the French army from prison in Outremer—while the French were taking over his castle—he took advantage of his new “hero” status to increase his stature in the world. Not only did he pay homage to Pope Gregory in Rome, but he also visited the Holy Roman Emperor in Sicily, where Saracen dancing girls entertained him for months. Sanchia’s beauty, once so entrancing, has faded from his memory—but that is going to change very soon.
The baby kicks again, harder this time, looking for a way out. As impatient as its mother. Eléonore smiles. Tarry a while longer, little one. You have a very important role in my scheme, but you must make your appearance at the crucial time.
IF GASCONY’S JAILS are notoriously grim, its people are even more so. Its lush landscape, mild climate, and meandering river ought to produce gentle, cheerful folk, as in Provence, but here no one smiles. Even the castle staff greets the royal party with downturned mouths and looks askance.
“They resent you,” Simon tells them. “The Gascons do not want to be ruled from across the sea. They want to shape their own destiny.” Coming from France as he does, Simon knows Gascony better than Henry, who has relied on seneschals to administer it for him.
“Silliness,” Henry snaps. “Destiny is God’s to determine.” And God has given Gascony to England, which intends to keep it. When Prince Edward comes of age, he will become its duke, and the duchy’s income will be his—enabling him to care for his wife and family until he becomes king.
Simon’s knowledge of the French is one reason Henry recruited him for this campaign. After fleeing England he lived in his family’s manor in Montfort-l’Amaury, near Paris, and became a companion to King Louis. To Henry’s irritation, he demures when asked for the French king’s secrets.
“Would he confide in me, your vassal?” Simon’s exaggerated shrug tells Eléonore the answer is “yes.”
After a few sunny days in Bordeaux, the Gascon capital, the storm and its omens have faded from memory. Henry and Richard wave jauntily as they depart for battle, as though on a pleasure excursion. They are confident of victory, and why not? Practically all of southern France waits at Taillebourg to fight with them. Eléonore and Eleanor Montfort wave good-bye while their toddling children play at their feet, bumping into their mothers’ shins and evading their nurses’ grasping hands. On his horse, Henry leads the procession in full regalia—tunic and fur-lined mantles of colorful silk, golden crown—and holds his sword high. Before him, heralds blow trumpets and pipes, and tap drums to announce his approach along streets that are virtually empty. Except for a few curious onlookers, the disgruntled citizens of Bordeaux have chosen to stay at home today, “extracting the sticks from their bottoms, one hopes,” Eleanor Montfort says. She glances at the Gascon servants nearby, but they pretend not to hear.
“These Gascons have no sense of humor,” she declares. “Of course, the truth is painful.”
In the pleasure of her sister-in-law’s company, Eléonore forgets, for a moment, her fears for Henry’s safety. Yet she cannot set aside her anxieties about Sanchia, whom Raimond of Toulouse has twice tr
ied to abduct.
Abhorring the marriage as much as her daughters, Mama delays. We do not wish to send her now, the Countess Beatrice has written. She has reached the age of womanhood, but Sanchia is still a child. Toulouse doesn’t care about her readiness for married life. He craves the prize of her exotic, golden-haired beauty, and of her presumably fertile womb.
When the warriors have disappeared into the trees and the notes of the trumpets have dwindled, Eléonore feels a touch on her shoulder.
“They have gone at last,” Uncle Peter says, rubbing his hands together. “I am off to Provence, my dear, to execute our plan. Trust me. I visited Sanchia only two months ago. She is more stunning than ever before. One glimpse of her, and Richard of Cornwall will beg for her hand.”
Sanchia
A Piece of Ripe Fruit
Aix-en-Provence, 1243
Fifteen years old
THE SKY’S BLUE is so deep, she wants to dive into it and swim around. How many months has it been since she was allowed to leave the château? Not that she minds being inside. She prefers her clean, safe home to dirt, thorns, and insects—and strange men lurking about the grounds, waiting to steal her away. Today, though, she must be out, for her kitten has escaped. Beatrice let her go, cook said. Now poor Poivre is lost and Beatrice won’t help find her.
“It was an accident,” her little sister said (with a wicked grin). “She followed me out the door, and I couldn’t catch her.” How she lies! Satan has wormed his way into Beatrice’s heart. Her sister has tormented the kitten since Sanchia got her, a gift from Papa “to console you in your confinement,” he said. She will ask the saints to erase Beatrice’s jealousy—after she rescues Poivre from the dangers of the wild.
“Poivre!” she cries, for, although she knows that kittens do not answer to their names, her cat is very intelligent. Poivre might come bounding up at the sound of Sanchia’s voice, for she knows it well, having been sung to, read to, and cooed over by her mistress every day for the last week. “Come to me, darling! Your mama is worrying about you.” Her kitten might be snatched away by a hawk (her eyes fill with tears at the thought), or eaten by a boar. The woods are full of danger, and not just for kittens.
A movement catches her eye, and a flash of white in the long grass at the edge of the willow grove. She runs, singing, her petit chou is safe, and as she nears the grove she sees her kitten in the grass, pouncing on crickets. Sanchia’s laugh is a sparkling brook, but Poivre, who hates the water, scampers into the woods.
She stops at the forest’s edge. Her paire warned her to stay near the château. Vicious creatures live in the woods, wolves and snakes and nasty, mean boars. “Come back, Poivre, or you will be eaten!” Her plea bounces from tree to tree but Poivre does not return.
A rattle of wheels turns her head—the carriage is almost upon her—Raimond of Toulouse leans out the window, his arms outstretched. “I have come for you at last, my lovely!” His wicked laughter chases her as she runs, not toward home as she knows she should go, but into the trees, where it is dark and he may lose her, where she may hide from his fat belly and wrinkled hands and eyes that stare through her clothes. Who cares about wild animals? She would rather be gored by a boar than snatched away by him.
And then tree trunks surround her, and leaves, and there is no direction but up. She turns around and around, dizzying herself. Every tree looks the same. Where is home? She grasps a limb and tries to climb, but her arms are weak and the bark scratches her soft hands.
“I have you now.” The count grabs her legs and yanks her down to the ground. Sanchia struggles in his arms, trying to scream but she doesn’t know how. A mewing sound is all she can make, like her kitten, as she twists under him. His hands move over, then under, her clothes, from one forbidden spot to another. His breath is hot on her neck, followed by his wet mouth. One of his hands clamps between her legs, pressing her into the ground but not far enough, unfortunately, to bury her. Forgive me, O Lord.
“What do you think, my wife? This is a romantic spot to consummate our marriage, no?” She cries out. He covers her mouth with one hand and begins pulling up her skirt, panting slowly, as if pacing himself in a long race. His fingers tickle like the feet of an insect. She kicks, smashing her heel against his shin. He yelps, then laughs. “At home,” he says, “I will tie you to the bed.”
Then he flies up and away, his mouth an O of astonishment; not flying, but lifted by Romeo, who holds a rapier to his throat, his nostrils flaring as though the scent of blood were already rising from the count’s body. His weight gone, she feels as light as a song, and then she is running without seeming to touch the ground, speeding toward home and her maire supervising the servants loading trunks, baskets, and beds onto a carriage.
“Mama,” she says between gulps of air, “the Count of Toulouse is here.”
“He is too late!” Mama sings. Her barbette and coif give her an impish look. “Climb in, darling. A much better husband awaits you in Bordeaux.”
“Mama, he tried to steal me again.”
Creases appear between her mother’s eyes. “Raimond of Toulouse is a toad, and not nearly as wealthy as the Earl of Cornwall. We must hurry! Your uncle Peter says the earl never tarries long in one place. Climb into the carriage, darling. Your clothes are packed. Madeleine will be out with Beatrice in a moment.”
“Romeo is bringing the count—”
“Let your papa deal with him.” The countess claps her hands. “Hurry! The sooner we leave, the better for you. We must take advantage of this time with no pope. Your papa can nullify the marriage contract Pope Gregory approved and sign a new one for you before a new pope is elected, without repercussions.” Her mother smiles at the horizon as if it held a beautiful rainbow. “Remember how the earl gazed upon you? As if you were a piece of ripe fruit, or a bag full of gold.”
Sanchia shivers, remembering his lips parted in astonishment, his constant exclamations over her beauty, his age-roughened hands in hers as they danced. But at least he handled her delicately. She shivers.
“Toulouse touched me, Mama. In bad places.” Sanchia begins to cry. “Do you think Jesus would still want me?”
The countess opens her arms, but her embrace is brief, almost furtive. “Poor thing, everyone wants you. Ah, no, here comes Romeo with Toulouse. Quiet, my bird, we do not want him to guess where we are going, lest he ride after us and ruin all. Madeleine! Madeleine—where is she? Oh, here. Hurry!”
Madeleine steps out onto the lawn with a steering hand on the crown of Beatrice’s sullen head. “Pardon, Madame, the little princess here put water on her hair and destroyed the curls I made. So it is not my fault that she resembles a drowned cat.”
“Beatrice, why?” their mother asks. “Don’t you want to look your best for the English king?”
“Curls are stupid,” Beatrice says.
A horse nickers. Just at the bottom of the hill, Romeo rides slowly toward them with Raimond of Toulouse walking beside, his bound wrists tied to the saddle. “Let us go. Now!” The countess takes Sanchia’s arm, as if she were unable to find the carriage without her mother’s help.
“Where are we going, Mama?”
“To see your sister Elli in Bordeaux, and her new baby girl.” From inside the carriage, Uncle Peter extends a hand to help Sanchia inside. He has such big teeth, and he shows them all the time, even today at dinner when he told Mama and Papa about a war between England and France.
“This could divide the family,” Mama said. “I cannot believe that Elli and Margi would allow it.”
The danger of that is past, Uncle Peter said. England was promised an easy victory, but France had already won the war before King Henry’s ships landed. When he and his troops arrived at the battlefield the French fighters were waiting. They almost captured King Henry, but the Earl Richard saved him. When Uncle Peter said this, Mama beamed with pride at Sanchia.
“Queen Blanche must be crowing like the cock she is,” Papa said.
“She pre
dicted that the English dogs would slink home with their tails between their legs,” Uncle Peter said. “And she was right.” Beatrice made a funny drawing, a dog with a drooping eye and a crown eating from a dish in the shape of France.
The carriage begins to move. Mama pushes her down, telling her to hide, that Raimond of Toulouse must not see her or he will try to follow them. She lays her head in Mama’s lap and thinks of the Earl Richard, the way his eyes followed her like, yes, a dog.
Only when the carriage is far from the château does Mama allow her to sit up. “If we are lucky, you will see the Earl of Cornwall again. Would it please you? It will surely please him. But we must hurry, or he will sail for home before we arrive.”
“I hope he has gone,” Sanchia says. “I don’t want to see him.”
“Nonsense! Of course you do. You don’t want to marry Raimond of Toulouse, do you? Of course not. Richard of Cornwall is your only hope, child. No need to look so frightened! You are more beautiful than ever before. The moment the Earl Richard glimpses you, he will fall to his knees and beg for your hand—and you will be free of Toulouse at last.”
Eléonore
Gascony Is Edward’s
Bordeaux, 1243
Twenty years old
SHE ARISES BEFORE the sun, before the cock’s first crow, before her handmaid has even dressed herself. She still hasn’t regained all her strength, but there is work to do and Henry is not going to do it, not in his state.
“Slowly, my lady,” tuts Margaret Biset, who knows nothing about moving slowly, even at her age. “You do not want to tempt the devil.” Six weeks have passed since her labor, six weeks since she nearly bled to death, yet her handmaid still coddles her. The wet nurse enters with the infant Margaret in her arms and Eléonore stops to cuddle her, dodging her tiny fists as she covers her girl’s sweet face with kisses.
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