Four Sisters, All Queens

by Jones, Sherry

  But this is not the day for a mere knight to brag that he held Beatrice of Provence in his arms, for here comes Charles galloping up on his horse, splashing past them all. He slides into the water and swoops her up, making her laugh.

  “What took you so long?” she teases. “I nearly had to go with another man.”

  “For you, there is no other man.”

  They ride across the sand, over the bridge spanning the broad, lazy Nile, past the high walls of Damietta, into a pastel world of stopped time and discarded dreams. Clothing and other objects litter the broad, stone-paved street—a dropped sandal, a yellow silk scarf, a candlestick, a scrap of white cotton collecting dust as it tumbles, leaf-like, in the skittering breeze. Candy-colored houses stare with empty eyes, their heavy doors agape. A wagon missing a wheel lies crookedly where it fell, its load blackened from a fire set, no doubt, to prevent the French from taking its contents. Atop the pile, a rooster flaps and crows in confusion. The market, too, has been set afire, its tables and shelters and clothing and food now so many piles of ash, making a charred hole in the elegant city like a gleaming smile with a rotted front tooth. Sooty remnants of books, fabrics, rugs, meat, and vegetables dissipate in the hot breeze, sending up puffs of ash.

  “They thought to deprive us of sustenance. They might have spared themselves the effort,” Charles says. Louis has arranged for merchants from Genoa and Pisa to provide food to the women while the men are at battle.

  She takes his arm and steps with him into the sultan’s palace, a grand, elegant building of white with minarets, arched doorways, and many windows. Louis, Robert, and the legate recline on red rugs and blue cushions on a floor tiled in yellow, blue, and white. Rich tapestries of blue and gold hang on the walls. This is the only residence that was not stripped bare, perhaps because the sultan is in Grand Cairo, Charles says. Or perhaps the palace guards kept looters at bay before finally fleeing.

  “How considerate of the Saracens to evacuate this city and leave it for us,” Robert says. “We must have presented a frightening spectacle indeed for the fearsome Turks to turn tail and run.”

  “And with only one quarter of our army,” Louis says. “Praise be to God for increasing our numbers in their eyes.”

  Beatrice offers her hand to Robert in greeting. He brushes the air over it with a kiss, but Louis presses his mouth to her skin and then, as he smiles up at her, gives her hand a squeeze.

  “Welcome, little sister,” he says. “We are pleased to see that you have arrived in safety.”

  “Thanks to the Lord and to the saints,” she says with a deep curtsey. “I only hope I can be of use to you here. As you know, I helped my father govern Provence for many years, during which we were constantly under attack.”

  “She is a brilliant strategist,” Charles says as they take seats across from the king.

  “Our strategy is simple: terrorize and conquer,” Robert says.

  “Yes, imagine the terror we will inspire when the rest of our ships return. One thousand of them! And do not forget Alphonse’s army.” Louis rubs his hands together. “We shall move across this land like a swarm of locusts, all the way to the Promised Land.”

  “Surely you don’t intend to wait for reinforcements, when the men we have here are eager to fight,” Charles says.

  “The men who fought you on the beach are on their way to Grand Cairo now. Why not chase them down and kill them? That would strike fear into the sultan’s heart,” Beatrice adds.

  Louis’s smile is indulgent. “We appreciate your insights, but we would like to hear from our man Joinville. Didn’t he escort you and your sister to shore?”

  “I am here, Your Grace.” Joinville enters with Marguerite on his arm. “I bring your incomparable Queen.” He gestures to Marguerite, who blushes for reasons that Beatrice can guess.

  “Come and give us your advice.” Louis sits on his cushion again. Marguerite steps around to take her seat beside him. Joinville, following behind, slips a cushion beneath her, as skillful and attentive as a servant.

  “What is your opinion, Joinville?” Louis says. “Robert suggests we wait for the rest of our army to join us before we proceed to Grand Cairo. Charles recommends we attack now.”

  “Cairo? I thought we came to take Jerusalem,” Marguerite interjects.

  Louis furrows his brow. “Military strategy can be difficult for a woman to grasp.”

  “Didn’t the Egyptian sultan offer in the last campaign to surrender Jerusalem in exchange for Damietta?” she says.

  “My predecessor Pelagius refused, then lost them both,” the pope’s man says.

  “Then Damietta must be very important to the Egyptians—crucial, I would imagine, as a port of trade with the Italians. Perhaps we might strike a similar bargain now.”

  “The queen’s idea is excellent.” Joinville’s dark eyes watch her with a bright intensity.

  Robert’s laugh sounds like a bark. “Yes, but unfortunately she is a step behind.”

  “The sultan has already made such an offer,” Louis says. “We received the message this very day, while Joinville retrieved you from the ship.”

  “Praise God, then,” Marguerite murmurs.

  Joinville smiles. “That is good news, especially in light of our losses. With so few men in our camp, we would be hard-pressed to defeat the Turkish army in Cairo.”

  “You have provided me with my answer.” Louis crosses his arms and sits back in satisfaction. “We shall remain here until our ships rejoin us, or until my brother arrives with our second army. Then we shall consider which city to conquer next, and how.”

  “But—is the sultan allowing us to remain here?” Marguerite asks.

  “He has no choice,” Robert says. “We own Damietta.”

  She frowns at Louis. “Didn’t you say you had traded for Jerusalem?”

  “The sultan offered. The king said ‘no.’” Charles’s tone drips with disgust.

  Beatrice gasps. “Deliberately?” She stares at Louis, unable to believe he would be so stupid.

  “Of course we said ‘no,’” Robert says. “Why would we give up Damietta? We’ll keep it, and take Jerusalem, too.”

  “That might be possible if we set sail up the Nile today,” Charles says. “We might reach the holy city before the sultan’s troops can get there from Alexandria.”

  Robert folds his arms over his chest.

  “We shall wait,” Louis says. “Alphonse will be here soon. And our lost ships are bound to return to us. Then we will conquer Jerusalem for the Church—not just for today, but for all time.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” Beatrice says. “In the last campaign, the army became trapped here for six months. The Nile floods every year, I hear, and it’s impossible to cross.”

  “Excuse me, Your Grace, but do women now rule in France?” Robert says. He turns to her. “We men came to conquer the holy land for our lord Jesus Christ. We brought you women along to cheer for us—and to keep us out of temptation.” He grins. “My wife had best hurry before a Saracen beauty seduces me.”

  “Moving slowly has been the fatal error in all the campaigns of the past,” Beatrice says. She leans forward to place a hand on Louis’s. “Charles is suggesting a new way. Why not try it?”

  “Yes, you must remember the mistakes of the past, so that you don’t repeat them,” Marguerite says.

  Louis’s expression sours. “Why does a king bring his queen on a mission such as this? For support, and not to be argued with.”

  “I am not arguing,” Marguerite says. “Merely advising.”

  “If a woman’s advice had been my desire, I would have brought my mother along,” Louis says, turning away from her. “She, at least, knows a thing or two about waging war.”

  Marguerite’s gaze drops; her face reddens. Beatrice can well imagine the scathing retorts pressing against her teeth, but she says nothing—and neither, now, does Beatrice. Robert of Artois has always been a fool and the worst kind, Charles says, who regards hims
elf as a genius. Louis is a bigger fool for heeding his advice—and for disregarding Marguerite, who is always the smartest person in any room.

  Her gaze lifts, then, to meet Beatrice’s. Instead of the humiliation she expects, however, Beatrice sees disdain in her sister’s eyes. Louis’s disrespect is nothing new, it seems. No wonder she so desperately wants Tarascon! Without her husband’s support, she lives precariously, never sure of her fate. Having a castle of her own in Provence would give her a measure of security, at least.

  But no. She has asked Charles too many times, causing him to snarl at her. Marguerite wants all of Provence, he said. Giving Tarascon to her would be like inviting a wolf into the poultry house. “She would devour us,” he said.

  Looking at her sister now, Beatrice is not so certain. Couldn’t Marguerite contest Papa’s entire will, if she so desired? The Church supports the firstborn’s right to inheritance. All she has ever asked for, however, is her dowry. “Otherwise, I bring nothing to my marriage,” she says. “It’s a matter of respect.”

  Respect. Beatrice suddenly understands why the Queen of mighty France would care about a castle in little Provence. Gaining Tarascon would enhance her status in her subjects’ eyes. No longer would she be seen as the landless daughter of a poor count, but as the heiress to a portion of her father’s domain. Tarascon is a fortress that would protect her sister in more ways than one.

  For the first time, as she looks into her sister’s eyes, Beatrice feels what Marguerite feels. And, for the first time, she feels something else: the desire to help her sister. Family comes first. Tomorrow, before the men leave for Cairo, she will speak with Charles again. This time, she’ll make him listen—and gain the love of her sister, at last.

  Eléonore

  Liars and Traitors

  London, 1250

  Twenty-seven years old

  IF SHE WERE dreaming, this would be a nightmare. But alas, the trial is no dream from which she will awaken with a laugh of relief. Simon de Montfort, Henry’s man in Gascony these past three years, stands before the barons’ council with a sneer and boasts of the cruelties he has inflicted against the people there. And yet, it is not he on trial today, but her cousin Gaston—who saved her life while she gave birth in Bordeaux—charged with opposing Simon and, by extension, the English crown.

  Gaston, it must be said, is no innocent. His lust for power—and his unscrupulous pursuit of it—shows in his cocksure swagger, his haughty tone. Although he is here as Simon’s prisoner, he never hangs his head. Instead, he winks at her—winks! At her stern expression, he arranges his mouth in a peculiar shape suggesting that it has been somewhere not quite clean but highly enjoyable. His dark mustache only heightens the impression. With no beard on his chin, it resembles a smear of dirt that Eléonore itches to scrub away.

  “He is a traitor to England,” Simon says. “His attacks on your castles have cost an enormous sum in repairs and fortifications.”

  “Gaston de Béarn, where does your loyalty lie?” Henry asks. “With England, or with Castille or Navarre, whose kings conspire to take Gascony from us?”

  “I am loyal to Gascony.”

  Eléonore smiles. With this clever response, he has managed to answer Henry’s question without answering it. His evasiveness will allow her to help him out of this predicament. I will not forget, she promised him after little Beatrice was safely born, after he saved both their lives in Bordeaux. She owes him a great debt, one which she will now repay, with hopes of gaining his allegiance for England. As Viscount of Béarn and the patron of the Church’s popular Order of Faith and Peace, he wields much influence in Gascony.

  “Why do you resist English rule?” she asks. “Would you rather be beholden to the White Queen, harsh as she is, than to Henry and me, who have granted you so much freedom?”

  “Freedom exists in the minds of men, and in their hearts,” he says. “It can neither be given nor taken away.”

  “Then why fight against us?”

  “My lady—my dear cousin—surely you know the answer. The people of Gascony are not unlike the inhabitants of your own home, Provence. See how the Provençales have fought the impositions of the Frenchman Charles of Anjou? We Gascons do not want a foreigner ruling our land, either. Nor do we care for the administrators you send—incompetent men, and corrupt ones, who extort coins from our barons to increase their own purses.”

  “Simon de Montfort is impeccably honest,” she says.

  “He may be honest, my lady. But he is also cruel.”

  She shakes her head. She can believe certain things of Simon—that he is ambitious, that he is persistent, that he has a temper as volatile as Henry’s, that he stands with one foot in England and the other in France, where he is reported to love King Louis as a brother. But—cruel? Surely Eleanor would have mentioned it last night, as she and Eléonore supped in her chambers and talked like sisters into the morning.

  “We have heard these accusations before,” Henry says. “Tell us more.”

  Now the salacious smirk of Gaston de Béarn is gone. The cocksure swagger in his voice becomes a sorrowful quaver. Eléonore wants to cover her ears. Simon, he says, tied candles to men’s hands so that the fingers might be burned along with the tallow. He injected vinegar into their bodies, then watched as they screamed and writhed. He tied their hands behind their backs and attached heavy bars of iron to their feet, then hanged them from the rafters, pulling their limbs loose from their bodies.

  “If these tales are true, then why have you escaped unharmed?” she blurts, interrupting his litany. “You are, after all, a leader in the Gascon rebellion.”

  He bows his head to her. “I do not know, but I can surmise.”

  She turns again to Simon. His eyes glint, as cold as flint. “I spared him my torments out of respect for you, my lady.”

  So he admits the tortures. Eléonore falls back against her throne. What has happened to Simon? Once a noble man and a faithful friend, he has betrayed them both with these terrible—forbidden—punishments. Yet he expects them to hang her cousin for treason. Is this a test? If so, Simon is the one who is failing. And yet—she must keep his friendship. She needs him on her side more now than ever.

  “You wanted information,” Simon says. “You wanted order. You wanted your taxes collected. Now you have all three, plus the rebel leader in your custody.”

  “How can we retain him after hearing these tales against you?” Henry cries. “Don’t you see? By dealing so harshly with Gascony’s most respected men, you have stirred anger against us as never before. As for the taxes you collected, the sum does not begin to compensate for all you have so fruitlessly expended. You have wasted our time, our money, and our good relations with the Gascons.”

  “The Gascons are liars and traitors.” Simon’s gaze careens about the room. His eyes, wildly blue like the sky behind a storm cloud, catch Eléonore’s for a fleeting moment before he turns to Gaston.

  “I gave ample warning. They knew what they stood to lose if they continued to rob, rape, and burn the houses of England’s supporters. And I did nothing without the assent of Parliament.” He produces a document, signed by the leaders of the barons’ council.

  Relief floods her: Simon was authorized. The court will have to acquit him.

  “See here!” With a laugh of triumph, he waves another parchment before Henry’s nose—the agreement he signed appointing Simon to Gascony for seven years and promising to reimburse him for the costs of fortifying the duchy’s castles.

  “I have been there fewer than three years, yet already I am in arrears over these repairs.” He pauses and then, in a high, commanding voice he adds, “I demand that you repay all the money I have spent in your service.”

  Henry’s face turns red, then purple. His eyes bulge. His lips press together so hard they turn white. Eléonore holds her breath. She, Henry, and their chancellor Sir John Maunsell spent many hours crafting this agreement; later, she spent hours more convincing Simon to accept it. “
Henry will never pay,” he said to Eléonore then.

  If only he would lower his eyes. A show of humility might gain him what he desires. Instead, though, the headstrong Simon glares at the king as though they were equals, or worse, as though he were the stern father and Henry a petulant child.

  Henry sees the look. His gaze tightens.

  “No,” he says, “I will not keep these promises.” A gasp sucks through the room. “I never gave permission for cruelty to the people of Gascony—people who serve me, who rely on me, their duke, for justice, not coercion and torture. You have betrayed me, and so now I will betray you. You will get no money from me.”

  Simon steps forward, pushing aside the king’s guards who try to keep him at a distance. “Betray! That word is a lie,” he cries. “Were you not my sovereign, this would be an ill hour for you.”

  Eléonore grasps the arms of her throne, feeling as if she might fall out of it. Henry, too, sits in stunned silence. Mistaking their astonishment for weakness, Simon steps forward again and points a finger at Henry. “With lies such as these, who could believe you to be a Christian?”

  Eléonore sits up in her seat. He has gone too far. “That is enough, Sir Simon!”

  “Do you ever go to confession?” he says to Henry.

  “Don’t answer him,” Eléonore says. Having laid many a verbal trap, she knows Simon’s game. As strained as her marriage has been of late, she does not desire to see Henry played for a fool.

  “I do, indeed, go to confession,” Henry says, pride tingeing his voice.

  “Tell me, O king: What is the purpose of confession”—Simon turns to face the crowd—“without repentance?” He folds his arms, pleased with himself in spite of all he has just lost: his friendship with Eléonore; his favor with the king; his chance to succeed in Gascony.

  Henry leaps to his feet. “I have indeed repented!” he cries. “I am sorry that I ever allowed you to enter England, to marry my sister, and to take over lands and honors here. And, by God, I am sorry I ever sent you to Gascony.