“But you will return, and you will cease these cruel measures, and you will keep the peace without a penny from me. And if I hear any more slanders from you, I will hang you from the London Bridge and dangle you there until my duchy is at peace.”
AND THEN HER dear friend Eleanor Montfort is gone. Simon, in custody in the Tower, managed somehow to send his wife away as if she were in danger of imprisonment, too. Eléonore wonders if she will ever see her friend again. Henry’s quick temper will soon subside, but Simon is a nurser of grudges. He may keep Eleanor from them, out of spite.
She paces the floor outside the chancellory, where Henry meets with John Maunsell and her uncle Peter to decide Simon’s fate. After the council’s verdict in his favor, clearing him of wrongdoing, he tried to resign from his post—but Henry would not allow it. “You cannot extricate yourself from the seven years you promised simply by insulting me,” he said.
In the candlelit hall Eléonore walks and worries. What are they doing behind that door? How will Simon fare without her influence on their talks? How will Henry fare without Simon’s goodwill? He and the French king have become friends, Marguerite says. Simon trots behind Louis as if he were a puppy and Louis’s pockets were filled with treats. Indeed, he had planned to join King Louis’s crusade before Eléonore, hearing of his intentions, convinced Henry to send him to Gascony, instead.
She can do nothing for him now. She is excluded from the meeting, shut out because of her friendship with Simon. Henry blames her for the Gascony appointment, although, were the truth to be told, Simon’s decision to take the cross with France unnerved him, too. Simon knows Henry’s secrets. Might danger’s sharp edge cut loose his tongue, causing him to spill those secrets before the French king?
In the chancellory, Henry’s voice rises, then falls. Eléonore presses her ear to the door again.
“My lady.” She jumps, startled, and turns to see Henry’s Lusignan half-brother, William de Valence, twitching his lips at her.
“Sir William!” She hates her nervous laughter, the titter of a child caught in some naughty act. “What are you doing here?”
He puts on that infuriating false smile that he reserves, she knows, especially for her. “I am summoned to a meeting.”
She does not even try to hide her dismay. Looking pleased with himself, he sweeps past her and into the chancellory. “Lower your voices, if you would keep your words private,” she hears him say. “I caught someone listening outside the door.”
With a flaming face she runs up the stairs and into her chambers. Fortune, her hawk, turns its head to peer at her through its cage, hanging from a hook on the bedpost. She falls into a chair and stares into the fire, watches its capricious shadow dance on the walls. William de Valence’s participation does not bode well for Simon. The men have hated each other since William married Joan de Munchensi, the heiress to Pembroke. William seized Pembroke Castle for his own, although William Marshal had given it to Eleanor Montfort before he died. The men have been fighting over it ever since, disrupting meetings of the barons’ council with their shouting and name-calling. And William’s complaints have harmed the friendship Simon and Henry once enjoyed. Simon’s “Charles the Simple” insult, for instance, made nearly a decade ago, might be forgotten if William de Valence did not so often repeat it.
A rift with Simon might bring trouble. Eléonore has warned Henry of this many times—but he doesn’t listen to her as he once did. He listens to William now, who speaks against her, coveting for his own family every title, every grant of lands, every marriage that Henry has arranged for Eléonore’s relatives. Thanks be to God that Uncle Peter has summoned to England three hundred Savoyard cousins, nieces, and nephews. Eléonore will arrange advantageous matches for them all, and they will support her when she needs them.
William’s aim is clear: to antagonize Henry toward her and her relations. Henry, so hungry for family, makes the task easy for him. That business involving Uncle Boniface at St. Bartholomew, for instance. Eléonore’s cousin Philip witnessed the whole ugly incident and told them what happened, but Henry’s mind was already set. He exclaimed in his usual red-faced way, pacing the room, hands flying about. An embarrassment, he said. After all he has done to help her family. If only he had listened to William and appointed their brother Aymer as archbishop of Canterbury. (Aymer, who cannot even read!) But he did Eléonore’s bidding, instead. As if she were a hen pecking at him, directing him.
Eléonore sat on his bed with her hands in her ermine muff, clasping them against the cold and reminding herself to remain calm.
“Archbishop of Canterbury is an important post,” she said. “I hardly think Aymer would have qualified.”
“At least he would not go around murdering monks!” Henry cried.
“Nor would Uncle Boniface.”
“Your uncle nearly killed the subprior at St. Bartholomew.”
“That report is exaggerated.”
“He threw him to the floor!”
“After the subprior attacked him with his cane. The subprior is an old man. He probably fell.”
“Your uncle drew his sword, Eléonore. The monks had to restrain him, or he would have run the poor man through.”
Eléonore harrumphed. “My sweet uncle would not harm a fly. Having a volatile temper does not always translate into violence—as you know.”
“William says—”
“Why should I care what William says?” Eléonore snapped, forgetting to remain calm. “Why do you care? Why you listen to that braggart is beyond my comprehension.”
“He is my brother,” Henry said. For the first time, his face closed against her like an iron gate. Eléonore knew then that the rules had changed for her and Henry.
If she had not fought Richard’s appointment to the Gascony post, perhaps Henry would not have distanced himself from her. Given his reverence for the very idea of family, it must seem heretical, in a way, for her to speak against a brother. For her to oppose two brothers would be akin to blasphemy.
Eléonore understands this: she too reveres family. “God first, family second, country third.” These were Mama’s last words before sending her off to England. Yet Mama knows that loyalty need not be blind. The more clearly one sees, the more skillfully one may fight.
Eléonore sees Henry quite clearly. She sees Simon, too. She sees how much alike they are, yet how different—like steel and flint, harmless apart but producing sparks when rubbed together. Each is as stubborn as the other, each as temperamental, each as ambitious. She had thought it might do them both good to gain distance from each other. She had thought to save Simon by sending him across the channel. Most of all, she had thought to keep Gascony out of Richard of Cornwall’s grasping hands.
She should have suggested Richard for the Gascony post. He might have negotiated peace with the rebels, and at a much lower price than Simon’s endless wars have cost. Sending him far away might have helped Sanchia, too.
Her sister’s letters have become increasingly disturbing. He goes very hard against me since our baby died. Although she soon had another son, Richard had lost too many, it seemed, to develop affection for another child. He ignores our little Edmund, which breaks my heart, for he is a precious child, although brutally conceived.
“Brutally conceived.” Should Eléonore be alarmed, or amused? The caw of a crow can make the timid Sanchia tremble. Why, though, did she turn as pale as a corpse when Eléonore refused her request to give Gascony back to Richard? Eléonore’s “no” made Sanchia recoil as if it were a punch from Richard’s fist.
But Richard is not a fighter. He is a negotiator, the best in England. He is a lover, too, as Joan de Valletort made clear last year. Her appearance at Sanchia’s feast with Richard’s illegitimate son sent scandalized ripples through the hall—which she appeared to relish. Apparently, she intended to ensure that Richard would not forget who bore his first son. Richard, it seemed, had forgotten nothing: the moment the baroness walked into the room, he snapp
ed to attention like a dog on point.
Sanchia could not compete. Golden hair and full lips do not compensate for a lack of sophistication, not with a man like Richard. Mama knew this, which is why she sparkled at Sanchia’s wedding feast as though she were the bride. Dazzled by Sanchia’s beauty and bedazzled by Mama’s wit, Richard failed to notice his new wife’s blush and stammer, her twisting of the tablecloth in her lap, her uncertain laughter at the banter she did not quite understand. Had he known, he would certainly have found another to marry, for a loving and pious heart means little to a man who has no heart at all.
Richard married Sanchia not for her heart, but for her influence on the queens of England and France—so he says. Their mother tells another tale, how he visited their château on his way to Outremer and was smitten by Sanchia’s perfection. She has the same effect on every man, even Henry—although why should she think “even Henry,” as though he were incapable of desiring other women?
Voices rise from the hall. Eléonore springs from her chair and sweeps down the stairs to hear the verdict. John Maunsell bows, hiding his expression. William taps a rolled-up parchment against his thigh, his lips pursed in their usual pucker of condescension. But it is Henry’s face she seeks, that long, beloved face with its drooping eyelid that seems, tonight, to sag a bit more than usual. He is tired. Exhaustion dulls his eye when he returns her gaze.
“How have you fared?” she says to Henry, reaching for his hand.
“You mean to ask how Simon has fared,” Henry says. “We have drawn up . . . terms.”
“Terms?”
“Rules, my lady,” William interjects.
“Guidance for his conduct upon his return to Gascony. How we wish for him to deal with the people,” Maunsell adds.
“What rules?” she asks. Like Henry, Simon does not prefer the “guidance” of others. “May I see them?” She reaches out but William yanks the parchment away.
“They are reasonable,” Henry says. “Given the circumstances.” He averts his gaze from her incredulous stare.
“That must be why you are so eager to let me see them.”
“My lady, let me say this, if I may: Simon de Montfort will be very surprised at what our Charles the Simple has devised,” William says. His laugh—a dry cackle—tells Eléonore everything she needs to know.
Marguerite
The Time of Sorrow
Egypt, 1250
Twenty-nine years old
THE SILENCE STRETCHES and groans like a man on the rack. Marguerite paces the balcony of the sultan’s palace, holding her belly with both hands, the child she carries as heavy as her foreboding. If only the interminable winds would cease—or bring her some news.
The men departed six months ago, horses high-stepping and spirited, off to Grand Cairo once they heard that the sultan Ayyub had died—but not before a lively discussion over which city to conquer next. The barons argued with one another and with Louis, in whom they were already losing confidence. His later decisions had proved as disastrous as his early ones. Camping outside the city walls to guard Damietta had resulted in many deaths, for the Saracens attacked them while they slept. Later, Louis sent home some of their best warriors for succumbing to the Saracen prostitutes who came to their camp. Then they became stranded for months when—quelle surprise!—the Nile flooded the land, making a lake too deep to ford. As the waters subsided, Alphonse finally arrived—bringing, in addition to troops, Robert of Artois’s plump wife Matilda of Brabant, who jumped into her husband’s arms—allowing the party to proceed. But—to where?
Alexandria, Charles urged. Not only is the city near Jerusalem, but the merchant ships at its busy port could keep the army well supplied. The barons agreed, but Robert argued: Grand Cairo must be their target. Conquering Egypt’s capital would weaken the sultan’s hold on Jerusalem, making it possible to take the holy city.
“If you wish to kill a snake, you must cut off its head,” he said.
Louis slapped his brother on the back. “Praise to God, we are of like minds,” he said. “Let us take Cairo, then, and claim not only the Holy Land but all of Egypt for our Lord.”
The decision was not well received. Everyone grumbled: the barons occupying the Damietta homes, running short of money for food; the foot soldiers camped on the beach, who had eaten most of their provisions, and especially Beatrice and Charles, who never let the presence of either Marguerite or Matilda inhibit them from declaring Louis and Robert to be incompetent fools.
“They would hurl us along the same path to destruction that the King of Navarre’s campaign followed,” Charles said, pacing in the chambers where Beatrice and Marguerite lay side by side, hands on each other’s swollen bellies. “It is as though my brother had no knowledge of the past.”
More likely, Louis wants to demonstrate his favor with God by succeeding where Thibaut failed. Marguerite said this to Jean, who agreed with her—smiling, for he loves Louis, and grins over his antics as a parent might indulge a child. Marguerite, meanwhile, wished her husband might camp forever outside Damietta, leaving Jean to guard the palace and keep her company. Every night, after finishing his duties in the camp, Jean would visit her chambers and sit, propped by cushions, on her bed (there being no chairs or sofas in this world) to talk by candlelight. Their discussion ranged freely. Poetry, philosophy, politics, and art. Champagne, Provence, and the Roman de la Rose. The papal feud with the Emperor Frederick. The White Queen’s love affairs—Marguerite has told him all she knows, of course. The rebellions in Gascony. His children, and her children (but never his wife). Dominicans versus Franciscans. The harmonies of Pérotin, astronomy, the flavor of cardamom. They talked—sharing knowledge, trading witticisms, opening their hearts, feeding Marguerite’s long-hungering mind with the sweet fruits of friendship until, depleted of words, they would at last fall asleep with only their hands touching. Mornings she would awaken and trace her fingertips in the indentation left by his head on her pillow, and recall every word, every gesture. Afternoons she would nap in order to remain awake with him that night, for the conversation that she wished never had to end.
Now the absence of his voice is more oppressive than the wind’s hum, which amplifies the silence but deafens her, at least, to Matilda’s chatter. Robert’s wife talks only about her hunger and her babies left at home, and her husband who is, according to her, the most wonderful man on Earth. “He is called ‘Robert the Good,’ do you know?” she says at least once every day. Marguerite did not know, but she does now.
She had thought Beatrice might keep her company. But pregnancy was hard on her sister, pulling her down to sleep so frequently that Marguerite wondered if she had caught a sickness from the swarming flies. Whenever they talked, the question between them, lurking in the shadow of every uttered phrase, would invariably rise and ask itself, and Marguerite would lift her eyebrows, waiting, until Beatrice would snort with irritation and stomp off to her chambers.
The feud ended when Beatrice had her baby. Marguerite remained by her side through the long, difficult birth, holding her hand, mopping her brow, encouraging her sister to be brave, cheering when the infant at last came forth. Afterward, Beatrice’s eyes filled with tears as she and Marguerite cooed over the babe, a beautiful child who looks nothing like Charles.
“I did not think you cared for me,” she told Marguerite.
“Ridiculous,” Marguerite said. “We are sisters.”
“I have never felt like one of you.”
“Seeing your courage today, I can tell you that you are definitely one of us.”
“You strengthened me.” She began to cry. “I wanted to give up. If not for you, my baby might have died. How can I ever repay you?”
Marguerite looked away.
“I must be delirious. Of course I know what you want most in all the world. And, of course, I will give it to you.”
Marguerite took a breath, willed her excited pulse to slow down. Her sister may, indeed, be delirious. “But you cannot afford to
part with ten thousand marks. You said so yesterday.”
“I said that we need every penny to defend our castles. But we do not need all our castles. We do not need Tarascon.”
“I do need it, more than you can know. But, no—you cannot give it to me.”
“I can. It is mine, isn’t it?”
“You said Charles would not allow it.”
“He said you have never given him anything but an upset stomach.” She grins. “He’ll change his mind when he hears how you cared for me today.”
Now Marguerite was the one with the eyes full of tears. Tarascon will be hers. At last, she will have her dowry. She will have, at last, something to call her own. Should Louis die before her, she will not be bereft. She will not be forced to enter a convent, the usual recourse for widowed queens whose husbands have failed to provide for them. Louis bequeathed her nothing.
It’s only fair a man should find/ His peace with what he’s sought so long. Guillem de Peiteus’s words ring true: Having finally gained Tarascon, Marguerite feels peace settling, timid and trembling as a rabbit, into her breastbone.
The wind ceases, proving that miracles never do. From within, she hears Beatrice pleading with her infant. “Cry, darling! It may improve your spirits.” Fevers and strange rashes have begun to attack the babe after only a few days of life, leaving her too ill even to whimper.
Now, though, Marguerite does hear a cry, and the shouting of the knights of Burgundy and the foot soldiers of Genoa and Pisa outside the city walls. She gazes across the rocky beach to see the Oriflamme flicking like a tail in the wind followed by Louis’s knights on horseback and his foot soldiers running, holding up their shields and waving their lances. She lets out a cry. Their approach can mean only one thing: victory for France.
“Vive la France!” she shouts, and the entire somnolent city rings with life. The barons’ wives pour forth from their dwellings, bare-armed in the sultry April heat, rushing like a snow-fed stream toward the gate. Matilda, on the balcony with Marguerite, cries, “Praise the Lord!” and throws her arms around Marguerite, who throws her arms around Beatrice, whose baby in her arms begins, at long last, to cry.
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