“He would do anything your daughter asks. For that reason, we have kept them apart. Scotland will never submit to English rule.”
Henry blinks, clearly not remembering his “demand” from the boy-king, made at the wedding. It was not, after all, his idea. The barons of the Scottish Marches urged it upon him, wishing to expand their domain.
A guard leads Eléonore up the narrow, winding steps to the castle’s tower. Margaret, still in bed, is pinching her cheeks to color them as her maids brush her long, tangled hair. Seeing her, Eléonore feels as if a hand were squeezing her heart. Her beautiful daughter looks like a skeleton, her cheeks sunken, the contours under her eyes darkened, her arms like twigs. Eléonore cries out. Margaret drops her mirror, and then they are embracing, the girl as light as a bird, as if her bones were hollow. Eléonore holds her carefully, afraid she will break, but Margaret crushes her mother to her.
“Take me with you,” she whispers. “Don’t leave me here to die.”
“Command your ladies to leave us,” Eléonore murmurs. Margaret stares in wonder, as if she has never considered doing so. When she announces in a quavering voice that she wishes to be alone with her mother, none of them moves. They stand in place, giving each other confused looks. Clearly, they have been instructed to spy.
Eléonore stands and points to the door. “Refusing to obey your queen’s command amounts to treason.”
When they have gone, Eléonore sits on the bed and enfolds Margaret in her arms again. “Mama,” she says, and begins to cry. “I knew you would come.”
THE LORD ROGER de Clifford is shouting, his fur hat fallen off (a good thing, Eléonore thinks, for in it he resembles a mole), his lips glistening with spittle, his face predictably red. Shouting has become de rigueur in the barons’ council of late. Even Simon de Montfort has taken to it, not red-faced but with eyes that shine and look outward through the walls, as though he surveyed a far horizon.
“I see blood—England’s lifeblood, draining away,” he shouts. “Gascony. Poitou. And now, Sicily. Why should we pay one hundred thousand pounds for the pope’s war against Manfred of Hohenstaufen? If the queen’s uncles want a Savoyard on the throne in the Regno, let them pay the price. We cannot give any more! These foreign ventures are sucking us dry.”
Eléonore rolls her eyes, but the barons are enrapt. The young Earl of Gloucester leers at her. “Sucked dry, yes,” he says into the Earl of Chester’s ear, but she can hear him. “By foreigners.” He lifts his face to join in the shouting. “Sucked dry by foreigners!”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she mutters, and walks over to Henry, to whom Richard is saying, “Surely you do not expect me to lend you the money, after you have robbed me of the taxes of eighteen wealthy Jews.”
“They were accused of heinous crimes. Crucifying that poor child! And they refused to be tried in a Christian court,” Henry says.
“And now they are dead, and their property is yours.”
“But I released the others at your request. Including your personal Jew.”
“I am not going to lend you money for Sicily. I have already contributed one thousand pounds to ransom Thomas of Savoy.” Uncle Thomas’s rule being unpopular with his subjects in Turin, they have imprisoned him and now demand an exorbitant ransom.
“My uncle will repay you,” Eléonore says. Thomas promised to pay the pope’s new fee—with a new pope come new demands—for an attack on Frederick II’s son Manfred, who has crowned himself King of Sicily. “Until we pay the pope, we cannot claim the throne for Edmund.”
“If I were going to conquer Sicily, I would take it for myself,” Richard says.
“Are you interested in being King of Sicily now?” Eléonore asks. “After you refused it before?”
“My lady.” Her niece, Agnes de Saluzzo, curtseys before her. Sanchia has awakened at last, she says. Eléonore sweeps out the door, her ladies behind, lifting her skirts.
In her chambers, Sanchia lies on the bed and stares dully with eyes swollen from last night’s tears.
“I did not kill her.”
“I know, dear.” She sits on the bed and holds her sister’s trembling hand.
“You must believe me.”
“Of course I do.”
“Richard doesn’t.”
“Richard believes whatever is expedient.”
“He convinced Henry to free that murderer Abraham, and now he’ll bring him to Berkhamsted to live with us again.” She grips Eléonore’s hand. “Abraham will kill me next.”
“Sweet Sanchia! Why would anyone want to kill you?”
“He killed her to save his honor. He’ll kill me to keep it quiet.”
When did her sister develop such a vivid imagination? When they were girls, Eléonore and Marguerite were the ones who wrote songs and sang them, pretending to be troubadours, or invented tales about Lancelot and King Arthur and acted the parts, while Sanchia sat in the corner and drew pictures, content in her own, presumably dull, world.
“Abraham’s confession is more sordid than anything you might reveal.” According to the document, penned by Richard, he smothered his wife to death for cleaning a Madonna and Child painting he had hung over the toilet in an act of desecration.
“Richard doesn’t know that I saw him fornicating with Floria,” she says. She grips Eléonore’s hand. “He hates scandal! He would want me dead, too. Like his last wife.”
“Isabel Marshal? She died in childbirth.”
“After confronting Richard’s mistress. Joan de Valletort doesn’t let anyone stand in her way.”
Eléonore musters her patience. “No one is going to die. If your Jew killed his wife, it was in a fit of passion.”
“If he killed her? You don’t believe me, either.”
Eléonore stands. “What I cannot believe is the way you are talking. I find it quite alarming. You must gather yourself and cease these wild accusations. Otherwise, you are going to find yourself subject to an exorcism ritual, or worse.” In Paris, a scholar has proposed boring holes in the skulls of madmen to allow the release of evil spirits.
“Why are you being unkind?” Sanchia begins to cry again.
Eléonore bites back her own complaints: To hold Sicily for Edmund—to pay the pope—Eléonore and Henry must ask Marguerite and Louis for a loan. The barons will not relent, not as long as Simon leads them. Simon has begun brandishing a “Charter of Liberties,” an outrageous set of restraints on hers and Henry’s ability to rule, drawn up by men who care only about their own wealth. She and Henry will refuse to sign it, of course, despite Simon’s menacing talk of “consequences.” And then there is her sorrow, limning her every thought with darkness, over her daughter Katharine’s illness. First the poor child was born without hearing, and now she has gone blind. Sanchia’s bit of messiness seems inconsequential, especially since Richard has already cleaned it up for her.
“I have much to do,” Eléonore says. “I don’t have time to dry your tears.”
“We’re sisters. We’re supposed to help each other.”
“By God, Sanchia! When will you grow up?” Her sister’s face contorts as if slapped. “We are capable women. We are supposed to help ourselves. And now, you must help yourself out of bed and into a gown for Edmund’s coronation.”
The pope’s legate will arrive within the hour. She hurries out of the chamber and down the stairs, through the great hall where servants are setting up tables, into the kitchen to inspect the dishes being prepared for the feast: roast guinea hen, venison with wine sauce, trout from the pond, spring greens and asparagus from the gardens, boiled potatoes tossed in butter, apple tarts and lemon cake. Back in the hall, a servant carries vases filled with daisies to set on the tables but she intervenes. She wants roses, no matter if her white roses aren’t blooming. Edmund prefers red, anyway. Everything must be perfect today.
She finds Henry in his chambers, already dressed in his white-and-gold robes, standing before the mirror as his chamberlain, William de St. Ermai
n, fastens his crown to his head.
“My hair is turning gray, Eléonore,” he says with a rueful grin. “You will soon be married to an old man.”
“An experienced man.” She steps up to give him a kiss. “And more handsome than ever. The silver in your hair goes wonderfully with the gold in your crown.”
“I’m afraid Simon is having the same thoughts about the silver in his hair.”
“Let him think whatever he likes.”
He sighs and slips his arms around her waist. His drooping eyelid twitches. “He certainly seems intent on creating difficulties for us. His outrage over Sicily is quite surprising.”
“It’s only an excuse to stir up the nobles. Simon wants company in his misery. When they see Rostand place the royal ring on Edmund’s finger today, their hearts will change.” She and Henry have spared no expense for the occasion.
“John Maunsell and I have made an addition to the ceremony.” His smile crinkles his eyes. “Wait until you see. Only a heart made of stone could be unmoved.”
Edmund’s nurse brings him to the hall, his hair still damp from its washing, his eyes large, his expression solemn even as they kiss his cheeks and call him their Little King.
“I became King of England when I was nine,” Henry tells him as they walk to the cathedral, each of them holding one of his hands. “Only one year younger than you.”
“Did you command sweets for all the children in the land, and many special holidays when there would be no schooling?” Edmund grins. “That is what I will do in Sicily.”
“Your subjects, particularly the young ones, will adore you for it,” Eléonore says.
“Unfortunately, you cannot rule until you come of age,” Henry says. “Until you become a man, I will be in charge of Sicily.”
“And then I can do anything I want!”
“If only that were true. You will find, Little King, that your barons are eager to direct you. You will have to listen to them, and you will sometimes have to do their bidding even when you do not want to.”
He frowns. “What is the point of being a king, then?”
Henry and Eléonore laugh. “That is a good question,” Eléonore says. “Your father has been asking it a lot lately.”
At the door of the cathedral, they wait to make their grand entrance, Edward’s damp hand in her cool one. When the trumpets sound, the three of them begin the long walk through the crowd, their attendants behind them. The barons have all come—and there is Eleanor Montfort. Eléonore’s pulse leaps, but she cannot capture her sister-in-law’s gaze. Gloucester, on the other hand, watches her with an appreciative eye. She must speak with him later: his support for the Sicilian campaign will be crucial to its success. She nods to her uncles Peter, Philip, and Boniface, their faces heavy with their brother’s absence. Boniface heard the news of Uncle Thomas’s capture shortly before leading a mass, and wept so profusely that one of his bishops had to finish the ceremony. Weeks later, he still looks as if his world had come to an end.
The pope’s legate stands before the altar, his ringed fingers clasped in front of his chest, his weathered face wearing the expression of a kindly grandfather rather than the right arm of power who has come to collect his employer’s fee. He smiles at Edmund, who steps forward with bowed head to accept the blessing. The Latin liturgy, the waving of the incense, the monks’ haunting song, her boy’s sweet face uplifted for his anointment oil: Eléonore feels as if her heart might burst. She looks at Henry; his eyes, like hers, are moist.
After the prayers have ended and the pope’s large ring has been slipped onto Edmund’s small finger, Henry steps forward and kneels before the altar. He removes his crown and bends his head. His shoulders shake as he weeps. The crowd murmurs.
“Dear Lord, we thank you for these blessings,” he says. “We thank you for the opportunity to battle evil in this world—including Manfred of Hohenstaufen, who has defied your Church.
“I vow, O Lord, before all these witnesses: We will defeat Manfred. We will send a mighty army to crush him! For we know that you depend on your faithful servants to accomplish your work on this Earth. Soften our hearts, I pray, so that we may come to the task as guilelessly as the child you have chosen to rule, our own Edmund, who loves you as no other.”
When he stands again and faces the room, the choir begins to chant anew. His face wet, he offers his arm to Eléonore. Together they walk behind the boy-king of Sicily, who cups the fingers of his right hand to keep the ring from falling off, back through the crowd and toward the cathedral doors. The Earl of Gloucester nods to her. Sanchia’s face shines. Doubt softens Simon de Montfort’s scowl. Her uncles whisper to one another, their expressions bright. How can the barons refuse the pope’s fee now?
“A stroke of brilliance,” the legate murmurs from behind them. “A miracle.” Eléonore hopes he is right. Today, Edmund is a king without a kingdom. For Sicily to become truly his, a miracle is what they will need.
Sanchia
The Cold German Sun
Aachen, Germany, 1257
Twenty-nine years old
SANCHIA SNIFFS THE air. “Do you smell smoke?” At the opposite end of the long table, Richard gestures toward the crackling and popping fire without lifting his eyes. She looks down; an ember has landed in her lap and is burning a hole in her new gown. She leaps up, exclaiming, brushing the fire from her skirt, knocking over her goblet of wine.
“Oh! How clumsy.” She laughs as servants rush forward to clean the mess she has made. Richard takes a bite from the joint on his plate. She could have burned up, and he would not have noticed. She lifts her goblet. “More wine, please,” she says, looking around. One good thing about Abraham: he keeps her goblet filled. But they are at Wallingford, and Abraham is nowhere near. Thank goodness.
They have spent only a little time at Berkhamsted since Floria’s death, one miserable month, in fact, in which Richard’s indifference toward her soured into sullenness. Abraham’s fawning presence only made things worse: He followed Richard everywhere, adding fuel to the fireplace, tucking pillows behind their backs, serving their meals, filling their goblets, reminding Sanchia of her terrible guilt—and reminding Richard, no doubt, of the woman he loved. He hovered until Sanchia thought she would scream, haunted as she is already by Floria’s ghost, for she is too mortified even to tell the priest what happened that day.
Only Abraham knows. He must have heard their quarrel, or else how could he have killed his wife before Sanchia returned to the house? She will never forget the sight of the poor dead woman flopped over his arm like a cloth doll, her mouth open with unasked questions, her blood on the floor the same color as Sanchia’s blood. She should never have called her filth. Staring at her body, Sanchia knew she had told the truth: Richard had coerced her to share his bed. Poor Floria, a Jew, yes, but not filth, a woman like Sanchia, with as little heed paid to her desires.
Her killer shadowed Sanchia relentlessly, mocking her with his eyes as his lips called her “my lady.” Even after Abraham accused her of Floria’s murder, Richard allowed him to serve them, a worse haunting than if she dreamt of Floria three times every night.
“Why don’t you send him away?” she said one day. “Then we can have some time alone.”
“Time alone? For what?”
She placed her hand on his arm; he jerked it out of her reach. “I could comfort you.”
“Can you go back and undo her murder?” he says. “Can you remove the blemish it has placed on my name? Because of you, I may never become King of Germany, or any other land.” She did not respond, for how many times must she plead her innocence?
It is better to be at Wallingford, far from the reminders, even if the servants here are slow to refill her goblet. Richard, who never drinks wine, frowns as she lifts her cup again. If he were nicer to her, she would not need help relaxing.
He has been tenser than ever of late. William of Holland, who recovered from his illness to become the German king, is dead. He fell thro
ugh the ice on his horse, then dragged himself to shore only to be hacked to death by his enemies. Richard has asked Henry to nominate him as the next German king. But the succession is not so simple. A growing number of men are claiming the throne—including Manfred Hohenstaufen, still ruling Sicily, and Alphonso, the King of Castille, who is also a Hohenstaufen and in favor with the new pope.
Only a few days ago, a council of German barons met to decide who would be the new king. Richard’s temper is worse than ever as he awaits the results of the vote.
“I’ve paid every elector on the council who would take my money,” he grumbles. He has paid the pope, as well, which is why he is a contender—his wealth, and the lack of opposition from King Louis of France. If he is crowned, England would claim both Sicily and Germany. King Louis might have fought for a Frenchman to take the German crown, but he didn’t. He likes King Henry is why, Marguerite says.
“Go easy on the wine,” Richard says to her. “I cannot afford a new tablecloth, and a new dress for you, every night.”
A servant enters with news. A delegation from Bohemia has arrived. Now Richard topples his glass as he stands to greet his guests. He straightens his clothing. Sanchia rushes over to help, smoothing his hair through which he rakes his hands so often now, as if he were always frustrated.
Three bearded men walk into the hall, their boots squeaking on the tile floor, their woolen layers steaming with snowmelt. Their steps thud in unison, like a hammer pounding nails in a coffin. Their smiles agitate her quelling heart. Please, Lord, no. But, yes: they have come to make her a queen.
“Our lord, Ottokar, Duke of Bohemia, has given his support to you as the new King of Germany,” says a man whose gray brows creep like caterpillars over his forehead. Sanchia drops her goblet, which clangs on the tile—and which is, fortunately, empty.
“My God, this is the best news I have ever heard,” Richard says, wringing the Bohemians’ hands. “I am filled with gratitude, not for my own sake but for the sake of Germany. My God!” (She wishes he would not take the Lord’s name in vain!) “I hope to rule wisely and well, and to bring stability and prosperity to your troubled kingdom at last.”
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