Four Sisters, All Queens

by Jones, Sherry

  “Your grand-maire arrives today, little one,” she says, laughing as the baby grabs hold of her nose. “All the way from Provence, just to see you.” Not precisely true, but no one—not even Margaret Biset—must know the real reason for the visit. If Eléonore’s plot is discovered, all will be lost. Sanchia will be lost.

  As her handmaid dresses her in a simple gown of pale linen—on this day, she wants only to fade beside Sanchia—she sends a servant to discern Richard’s whereabouts, then consults with the head cook about today’s feast. Disgusted by Henry’s tears, Richard had planned to sail for Cornwall today. Eléonore begged him to remain, offering trout stuffed with hazelnuts and his favorite German brandy at the feast—but he would promise nothing. She must find him lest he slip away.

  Her handmaid clucks her tongue when the cook has gone. “Supervising the kitchen staff is no job for a queen,” she mutters.

  Eléonore laughs. “What would you have me do? We’ve hardly any servants left.”

  “I only think the king—” Margaret presses her mouth shut. Eléonore can guess what she would say: that Henry ought to take care of these matters so his wife can fully recover. But Henry cannot think of anything or anyone now except his own humiliation. Her task would be easier had her cousin not fired so many of their servants. But neither could they stay. Even while Eléonore’s screams of labor rang through the castle, the Gascon servants barred the midwife from her chambers—hoping, no doubt, that she and the baby would die. Then Eléonore’s cousin Gaston de Béarn, a local viscount, arrived in time to save them both, pushing past his countrymen muttering “traitor” to usher the midwife into her room.

  “I abhor English rule as vehemently as any Gascon,” he said to her later, smoothing his green silk tunic, stroking his mustache. “But you and I are family. The same blood runs in our veins.” He then summoned the most renowned healer in Bordeaux for her, and found a wet nurse to suckle the baby. When he left, Eléonore promised never to forget what he had done.

  “I may remind you of that promise someday,” he said.

  Her crown in place, she visits Henry in his chambers. He slumps on his bed as if broken, wiping tears as Richard and Uncle Peter politely look away—and Simon paces the floor.

  “I might be in chains now, or even killed.” Henry’s monotone reminds Eleanor of a winter wind. “If not for you, brother.”

  “You have only yourself to blame,” Simon says. “If you had listened to me, we might have prevailed.”

  “With three hundred men? The French force numbered in the thousands,” Richard says.

  “But—didn’t the Count of La Marche bring more men?” Eléonore sits beside her husband on his bed.

  “His letter promised troops from Angoulême, Poitou, even Gascony.” Henry’s voice quavers like an old man’s. “Now he denies it. Says he never wrote a letter.”

  “I told you he was unreliable.” Simon stops his pacing to glare at Henry. “Hugh of Lusignan has rebelled against King Louis before, and failed spectacularly.”

  “As we have now done, as well.” The room falls silent as they ponder their loss. Henry fought with his barons, alienating them, and squeezed money from his Jews, depleting revenues he may need for some other cause. They sailed through terrifying storms. She nearly died giving birth in a hostile land. It was all, all for naught.

  “You should have listened to me, and brought more troops,” Simon says. “But you preferred the false promises of a deceptive woman.”

  “We don’t know—” Henry begins, but Simon cuts him off with a sardonic laugh.

  “You would know if you opened your eyes. Isabella of Angoulême wrote that letter, and signed her husband’s name to it. She is to blame for our failure, and her conniving, scheming—”

  “That is enough!” Henry’s roar has returned. “How dare you degrade my mother?”

  “How dare you degrade your kingdom? You should have listened to me. My father was a great warrior, while you—you’re just another battlefield bungler. Like Charles the Simple.”

  Henry stands, raises a fist. “I could have you imprisoned for that.”

  “For telling the truth? Forgive me, I had forgotten that you prefer lies.”

  “Get out of my sight.” Tears fill Henry’s eyes. “Get out, now! Or lose your tongue. Treason!” His shouts bring men running in, who escort the red-faced Simon from the room.

  “The Earl of Leicester has now accused me of weakness and simple-mindedness.” Henry’s voice breaks. “But he has never even met my mother. He doesn’t know her.”

  “She is cunning,” Richard says. “And she may have written the letters calling us here. We would not be the first men she has tricked. Such are the ways of women.” Eléonore holds her tongue, or she would leap to Queen Isabella’s defense. Who, man or woman, would not have done the same—or more—for a son? Without land, without money, a man is nothing.

  Why, she asks, did Hugh of Lusignan challenge the French without an ample force? “You wrote him, Henry, of your difficulties recruiting troops.”

  “He and Pierre of Brittany had amassed a large army,” Richard says. “But Brittany coveted the throne for himself. He didn’t know the King of England had been summoned. When he found out that we were coming, he withdrew—and took most of the troops with him.”

  “As we prayed for our lives at sea, Hugh and my mother were already pledging allegiance to King Louis,” Henry says. He slumps onto the bed again, covers his face with his hands. “When we reached Taillebourg, the French were waiting for us.”

  “How dreadful!” Eléonore takes his hand. He gives her a little squeeze, his eyes moist. “How did you get away?”

  “By the grace of God, and the talents of my brother.”

  “The men I rescued from prison in Outremer were the same men leading the French forces,” Richard says. “They allowed us to escape.”

  Henry withdraws his hand from Eléonore’s. “If not for Richard, you might be a widow.”

  Eléonore doubts this; surely the French king would have ransomed Henry rather than kill him. Yet there is no denying the importance of what Richard has done. “How can we repay you?” Eléonore asks, sure he will think of a way.

  Richard smiles. “My brother has already given me more than enough.”

  “Oh?” Eléonore smiles, too, knowing how easily Richard can coax gifts from Henry. “What did you give him, Henry? Not our first-born child, I hope?” She keeps her tone light.

  “Nothing that drastic,” Henry says. “A small gift, really, for such a great favor.”

  “Now you are being humble,” Richard says. “Gascony is hardly a ‘small gift.’”

  “I failed to regain Poitou for you. Gascony is just recompense.”

  “Gascony?” Eléonore’s pulse skips. “Edward’s Gascony?”

  Henry titters and pats her hand. “All of England will belong to Edward. Why does he need Gascony?”

  Eléonore can think of many answers to his question: Because the income will benefit him when his barons say “no” to his requests. Because once Gascony has passed out of their hands, they will not get it back. Because Edward will need an income while he waits to become king. Because the more lands and titles he owns, the better the marriage they can make for him. Because Richard is already wealthier than anyone else in England.

  But she says none of these things. Because Richard, at this moment, looks happier than Eléonore has seen him since before his wife died. Such is the power of money to soothe a man’s troubled soul—and just in time for Sanchia’s arrival.

  When Richard has gone, Henry crumples into Eléonore’s arms. “I have failed, my dear, and most spectacularly. Poitou is lost. How will I face my people now? How will I face my barons?”

  As Eléonore strokes his back and murmurs consolations, she gazes into a mirror on the opposite wall and thinks of Gascony. “You will face them with pride, after you have won the hearts of the Gascons. Our barons who own land in Gascony will be most grateful. Think of i
t, Henry! We will return to England in glory, reveling in our success.”

  “But Gascony is Richard’s. Not England’s.”

  “You must take it back from him.”

  “What? Impossible.”

  “Not impossible. You are the king. You can do what you desire.”

  “Eléonore. You do not know. We need Richard.”

  “And we shall have him. My mother and sisters arrive soon. When Richard beholds the legendary beauty Sanchia of Provence, he will give anything to marry her—including Gascony.”

  Sanchia

  Sister to the Queen

  London, 1243

  Fifteen years old

  HE IS NOT a handsome man. Nor is he a king. But he is the brother of a king, and his eyes watch Sanchia every moment. With him, she feels as if she were on a stage, putting on a dazzling show.

  On the steps of the Westminster Cathedral, her hand trembles as he slides the ring onto her finger. The aroma of frankincense fills her nose and mouth, gagging her. She is married now, like it or not. Forgive me, Jesus. But at least he is not Raimond of Toulouse.

  She glances shyly at him. He smiles. It is a nice smile, even if it does crinkle his eyes. He is quite old, nearly twenty years older than she, but she doesn’t mind. “Till death do us part,” she says. If he dies first, she can enter the convent.

  They finish their vows, then follow the archbishop into the cathedral. Richard tucks her hand into the crook of his arm. “You are beautiful,” he whispers as they walk. “Ravishing.”

  She does not even blush. All her life, people have praised her beauty. “Golden girl,” Mama used to call her. Sordel wrote songs for her. Whenever her tutor scolded her for neglecting her work, Madeleine would wipe Sanchia’s tears and say, “A beauty such as you will not need Latin to please her husband.”

  (Her father never praised her at all. “Everyone says Sanchia is prettier than me,” she overheard Beatrice tell him once. “What do you think, Papa?”

  “All my girls are beauties,” Papa said. “But—may I tell you a secret, little one? I have never cared for fair hair.”)

  The Earl of Cornwall’s compliments are different, though. He regards her breathlessly, as though she were a sculpture or painting from which he cannot tear his gaze, like the rose garden painted on the walls of Eléonore’s chambers in the Tower of London. Sanchia once spent an entire afternoon lost in those roses, imagining herself walking with Jesus in that garden, dreaming of the flowers’ fragrance.

  “He worships you,” Eléonore said this morning as the maids dressed Sanchia in her wedding gown—made by Eléonore’s tailor, of green silk with a blue velvet surcoat—the most beautiful garment she has ever worn. “I have never seen a man so smitten. Of course, Richard loves nothing more than women.”

  “Except for money,” Marguerite said drily. “But he was mad for his first wife, I hear. She was renowned as a great beauty.”

  “If he were not so rich, no woman would look at him,” Beatrice said. She sat at a dressing table trying on Eléonore’s jewels and crowns, imagining herself as a queen—in spite of Marguerite’s glances of irritation. “His eyes pop out like a toad’s.”

  “Was he kind to his wife?” Sanchia said. “He seems harsh at times. When he is annoyed, he grinds his teeth together, as though he might bite.”

  “At least he will not drool on you like Toulouse.” Beatrice drops a necklace on the dressing table, dislodging an emerald from its setting.

  Marguerite snatches up the necklace. “This is not a conversation for unmarried girls.”

  “She is eleven,” Sanchia said, seeing Beatrice’s pout. “Nearly marriageable.” But Marguerite sent her off to the nursery, “where there are toys more suitable for you to play with.” The look in Beatrice’s eyes said revenge. Sanchia must placate her later, or she will ruin this day.

  “I would prefer a gentle man,” Sanchia said to her sisters. “Someone younger would be nice, too.”

  “I felt the same way with Henry, at first,” Eléonore said. “But I came to love him. You might do the same. Richard can be charming.”

  “Not as charming as Jesus.”

  Marguerite bursts into laughter. “Yes, the Romans loved Jesus.”

  “Sister,” Eléonore says to her. “Be kind.”

  Heat spreads through Sanchia’s face. Sometimes she wonders if Margi even believes in God, the way she talks, the way she laughs at everything, even King Louis, whom everyone calls “the most pious king.” She defends the Cathars, too, even though they are going to hell.

  “Sanchia, you know that Margi and I were not allowed to choose our husbands, either,” Eléonore said. “We married not for ourselves, but for our parents, and our children. You will do the same. Family comes first, as Mama always says.”

  “I don’t mean to be selfish. The earl’s eyes are always upon me. It frightens me.”

  “Richard of Cornwall is a passionate man,” Eléonore said. “You are fortunate.”

  “Not as passionate as Jesus,” Marguerite said.

  THE EARL OF Cornwall holds Sanchia’s hand. His palm is as soft as if he had never used it. The skin on the back of his hand reminds her of parchment, pale and slightly rough, an old man’s hand. Her papa’s hand. The Earl Richard is not like her father, though, except that they are both old. Papa is not rich. The earl can afford to feed the entire city of London, it seems, at a feast that fills the Westminster Palace hall and spills onto the lawn. Each dish is delectable: snails in butter sauce on flaky pastry; spicy greens topped with smoked eel; a large pie out of which a dozen snow-white doves fly; pears floating in a saffron-cream sauce. Sanchia has never tasted such food, not even in Provence.

  Also, unlike the Count of Provence, the Earl Richard adores fair hair, as he demonstrates by stroking hers at the table, holding it up to the light and letting it shimmer through his fingers. “Liquid gold,” he murmurs. He lifts a spoonful of pear to her lips, cooing over the perfection of her mouth and tongue, “as pink as a kitten’s,” he says, saddening her for a moment, for she never found her kitten after that day in the woods.

  “The Gascons will adore you,” he says.

  Sanchia frowns. Are they going to Gascony?

  “Darling, we are going to rule Gascony. As soon as you convince your sister to give it back to me.”

  “Convince Elli—of anything?” She gives a little laugh. “I was never good at that.”

  “You will have to learn, then. If you want to be a duchess.”

  “But I don’t.” Richard’s eyes snap. “I don’t want to be a duchess. I just want to be a good wife, and serve God.”

  “I want to be the Duke of Gascony,” he says. His hand tightens around her arm. “And you are going to get the title for me.”

  “But I can’t! I—Elli doesn’t listen to me.”

  “You will have to make her listen. Talk to her tomorrow, before we leave for Cornwall.”

  “No, Richard. Please don’t make me! I—”

  “I thought you wanted to be a good wife.”

  “I do. I can do anything you’d like. Except for this.” Eléonore would laugh at her, or get angry. Sanchia couldn’t bear either, not from Elli, her protector. She has defended her against Marguerite’s tart remarks since they were girls. When their tutor struck her in the mouth for bungling her Latin, Eléonore punched him with her fist, bloodying his nose. Whenever Papa challenged Sanchia at table with a philosophy question, Eléonore defended her answers, no matter if she was wrong. Elli made Papa banish a troubadour from the court for writing a bawdy song about Sanchia. And now she has saved her from that awful Raimond of Toulouse. Eléonore is the last person Sanchia would offend.

  “But Sanchia, this is all I require of you, to influence your sister on my behalf. Now you say you will not help me. Have I married you, then, in vain?”

  “I—I thought you married me for my beauty.”

  Why is he staring at her? He looks as surprised as if she had sprouted a tail.

  �
��Darling,” he says, “the world teems with beautiful women. But only one has the love of my brother’s queen.”

  “You married me because of my sister?” He offers another spoonful of pear, but she averts her face.

  “Not for her, but for what she can give to you. To us both,” he says. She shakes her head, confused. He puts down the spoon.

  “What is the use of being brother to the king—or sister to the queen—if one cannot profit from the relation?” he says. “The more I know of my brother’s plans, the more we stand to gain. Queen Eléonore confides in you.” He grins, lifting his eyebrows. “And now you will confide in me.”

  Sanchia gasps. “You want me to spy on Elli? But she is my sister.” She grips the bench to stop herself from fleeing.

  “And I am your husband, whom you have pledged to obey. Now”—he lifts the spoon again—“open your pretty mouth. And try to look happy, my pet. All of England watches you today.”

  Beatrice

  A Pretty Alliance

  London, 1243

  Twelve years old

  SHE STABS HER pigeon with her knife, imagining that it is the pregnant belly of the high and mighty Queen Marguerite. “Mind your manners,” her mother hisses. “We are dining with the kings of France and England.”

  She stabs the bird again, so hard it flies off the platter and onto the floor. “You are a naughty child,” her mother says. “To the nursery you go.” She sends her off with a maid, who stops in the crowded hall to jest with a knight. Beatrice sees her opportunity, and takes it.

  She slides around the edge of the room, looking to see if Mama has noticed. But no, she’s laughing with the Earl of Cornwall, while Sanchia smiles and blinks as if she might cry. Married not even an hour, and already he has offended her. The earl is not a nice man, in spite of what everyone says, but no one has asked for her opinion. Papa would have listened to her, but he is in Provence, gathering his strength.