Four Sisters, All Queens (26 page)

“A girl!” A sweet ache spreads through her bones. She lifts her gaze to Gisele. “I want to see her.”

“I will go and fetch her now, my lady.”

“You are disappointed,” she says to Louis. A tear slips down his cheek. Marguerite squeezes his hand again, thinking to console him, but no words will come. A boy would have been Louis’s, but a girl is all hers. At last, someone for her to love in this friendless court.

A baby’s cry rings through the castle, the sweetest song ever to Marguerite’s ears. She feels a warm rush in her breasts and then sees, in Gisele’s arms, a perfect little babe with a head full of dark down. “Sweet darling,” she murmurs, drawing her baby close. The infant clutches at her mother’s breast with greedy hands and opens her mouth like a bird’s.

“My lady, we have a wet nurse for that,” Gisele says as Marguerite tries to latch the baby onto her nipple.

“Excellent! Have her come and show me how to do this.” Then, as her baby suckles, she gazes into her bright eyes, thanking God and the saints for her good fortune. Her love is a river of milk, rushing through her blood and into the body of this perfect little being. Even the brisk step of Blanche reentering the room cannot stop the flow.

“Your country bumpkin upbringing is showing again,” she drawls. “How crude, to bare your breast before God and all!”

“But see how beautiful she is, Queen Mother,” Marguerite says. Blanche’s appraising eye remains cold. Marguerite casts about for some way to appease her. The White Queen’s affection will be crucial to her daughter’s happiness.

“Babies all look like rats at this age,” Blanche sniffs. “And France still lacks an heir to the throne.”

“I see no resemblance to rats, but to me—for she has my dark hair, as you can see—and to you. See how blue her eyes are!”

“All babies are born with blue eyes.” Yet she moves a little closer to the bed. Marguerite slips her finger into her baby’s mouth to detach her from her nipple, then holds her out for the queen mother’s inspection.

“But hers are especially blue—the very shade of her
grand-mère
’s eyes. Would you like to see for yourself?” Blanche stiffens as if she might refuse, but how could she with her son looking on? Then, as she folds the baby into her arms, the child belches and spits a stream of watery white milk onto the queen mother’s gown.

Gisele gasps. “Let me get a towel for you, my lady. Oh, my, what a bad girl to spit up on your
grand-mère
!”

“Those are bad manners, indeed,” Blanche says. But she speaks in a cooing tone, and tickles her granddaughter under the chin. “We will have to teach you better, won’t we? Yes, we will! Yes, yes, yes, little—What have you named her?”

“We would have named a son Louis,” Louis says. “But a girl? We had not even thought of it.”

“I had,” Marguerite says. “Of course, the two of you would need to agree.”

“You’re not going to name her Eléonore, I hope.” Blanche’s lips twist as if the name made her mouth hurt. “Sister or not, she is the Queen of England—our enemy. They are preparing even now to invade our lands.”

“I desire not to honor England, but France,” Marguerite says. She takes her girl back into her arms, strokes her soft cheek with the back of her finger. “With your permission, Queen Mother, I would name her Blanche.”

M
ARGUERITE BLINKS HER
eyes, wondering if she has fallen asleep on the long ride to Saumur and now dreams of barons carrying mattresses and chairs from the castle and tossing them
like refuse into wagons outdoors. As her carriage draws closer, she begins to laugh. Not barons, but servants perform the task of clearing out the castle for Louis’s brother Alphonse. And yet—is this a dream? A man missing all his teeth wears a tunic of red silk embroidered with gold lions as he ties a rope across the bulging wagon’s cargo; a boy wearing a green-and-yellow-striped mantle lined with vair runs into and out of the stone château, dragging the valuable cape on the ground as he helps other exquisitely dressed servants load trunks, tapestries, carpets, clothing, candlesticks, plates, cups of gold and silver, jewels, and other items. These wagons, Louis says, leave today for the Earl Richard of Cornwall’s castle at Wallingford, in England. The items, including the clothing on the servants’ backs, belong to the earl—who, when he left for Outremer a month ago, counted the castle as his own, as well.

“He will be furious,” Louis says with a grin. “But by the time he returns, Alphonse will possess Poitou. Lord Cornwall cannot regain it without a battle, which he will never wage, not with his baby-soft hands.”

Such is the Earl of Cornwall’s reward for doing the Lord’s work in Outremer. Louis may be right. Richard would not go to war over Poitou, no matter how outraged he might feel. Henry and Eléonore, on the other hand, will be furious. They will certainly amass an army to retaliate. King John let the French take Normandy without so much as a whimper of protest; Henry, still ashamed of his father’s inaction, will certainly fight for Poitou, tiny and insignificant though it be.

Does Eléonore know what is happening today? Louis intends to knight his brother Alphonse and to name him as the new Count of Poitou. The celebratory feast will cost twice as much as hers and Louis’s wedding, for he and his mother intend to display France’s wealth and power to all the world.

The urge to write to her sister nags like an itch between Marguerite’s shoulder blades, insistent yet impossible to satisfy. If only she had someone in this court with whom to talk—someone who could advise her, whom she could trust with her confidences.
I beseech you, Virgin Mother, send me a friend.
She cannot even write to her mother for advice, for who would deliver her letter without reading it and reporting to Blanche? Turning to Eléonore is, of course, out of the question. But—no matter. Word of this transgression will reach Westminster soon enough. Marguerite hopes her sister will know that she had nothing to do with it.

Perhaps Blanche desires a war with England. She certainly has gone out of her way to insult King Henry’s mother. Isabella and her husband Hugh de Lusignan are Count and Countess of La Marche, an area encircled by Poitou. Whereas Henry, a king, was Isabella’s lord before, she now must pay homage to Alphonse, a mere count. “I am a former Queen of England,” she has been heard to say. “I bend my knee to no one.”

“That harlot? She has bent both knees for lesser men than my son,” Blanche says with a coarse laugh as they step into the castle. Marguerite wishes she would speak discreetly. Servants talk, and if Henry hears her insults against his mother, he will be even more inclined to attack. As Queen Consort of France, Marguerite does hold some power. She must use it to prevent a war, if she can.

Her first opportunity comes very soon. While she and Blanche sit in the baths, having the dust of their journey sponged from their bodies, Gisele enters with an announcement: Hugh and Isabella have arrived, and request an audience with the King and Queen of France.

Marguerite stands, splashing water onto the floor. “Sit down,” Blanche says. She waves her hand languidly. “Our journey has been long, while they live a short ride away from here. It will not harm them to wait until we have refreshed ourselves.”

Then, after their bath, Blanche yawns. She must have a nap. Go, Marguerite says, seeing her chance to avoid trouble. She will greet the count and countess herself. Blanche, however, commands her chamberlain to see them to their rooms—with a message that the queen will not receive them today. Marguerite wants to argue, but she cannot in the presence of servants.

“It is my place, as mother to the French king, to greet the
English king’s mother,” Blanche says. “I will receive her in my own time. But I feel a headache coming, and I need to lie down. The countess will have to wait until tomorrow for her audience with me.”

No, she will not, Marguerite decides.

“I hear that Queen Isabella is much agitated by your refusal to receive her,” her confessor, Guillaume de Saint-Pathus, says as he escorts her to the feasting tent. “She is known for her passionate temper, and may not be easily soothed.”

Marguerite intends to try. When she meets Queen Isabella today, she will apologize for the delay and invite her to her chambers after the day’s festivities. If, by doing so, she angers the White Queen, so be it. Queen Isabella must know that one of them, at least, respects her person and her position.

At the head table, Marguerite watches as the palace lawn fills with nobles and villeins come to honor the new count. Isabella is not among them. The great barons Humbert of Beaujeu, Enguerrand of Coucy, and Archibald of Bourbon enter with their wives, all bedecked in colorful silks, flanked by rows of knights, and accompanied by fanfare. Beside her, Louis wears a shimmering tunic in the blue he loves with gold fleur-de-lis, and mantles of purple and red, lined with mink—as well as an ugly cap of plain cotton.

“The cap is incongruous, don’t you think?” she says as he sits. “You are the king.” And she is the queen. Has Louis forgotten both their places?

“It pleases the Lord for us to humbly serve.” On his plate lies a single piece of coarse brown bread.

Asceticism seems out of place here. With the money spent on this feast, she and Louis could feed everyone in France for a year. Servants rush about with platters bearing the sweetest of fruits and the choicest of meats—including, at the head table, peacocks skinned and roasted, then re-dressed in their feathers of brilliant blue, their tails spread like beautiful fans behind them. The aromas of imported, costly spices—cinnamon and mace, galangal and
cardamom—swirl through the air. Musicians perform in clusters—inside the tent, which is so vast that the notes from one group fade before they can clash with others, and outside, where jongleurs and acrobats and dancers flip and twirl and spin in dizzying motion. Beyond them, on the green, knights practice for the afternoon jousting tournament. Like a stream reflecting the hues of spring, the guests flow past the table in their brilliant finery, come to pay homage to Alphonse. Most opulently dressed of all—even more so than Louis—is Thibaut, not only Count of Champagne but also, now, King of Navarre, glowing from head to toe in shades of purple—and pouting to find his beloved Blanche absent from the festivities.

“Never fear, cousin,” Louis says, scratching his chest, always itching from his goat’s-hair shirt. “You know Mama adores a fête. Nothing would keep her away today.”

Indeed. Before Thibaut turns away, the trumpets’ blare announces the entrance of the Queen of France—a tribute they have already paid to Marguerite. The gathering sinks to its knees as Blanche makes a truly royal entrance, rustling in silk and diamonds. Marguerite can only marvel at the quick recovery from her debilitating headache.

“My lady, I wrote many poems in your honor while I was in Palestine,” Thibaut gushes when Blanche stops for his kiss. At least he accomplished something in Outremer besides losing every battle, and most spectacularly: fifty-seven of his knights captured, many from France. He should be in Palestine now, working for their release, but he ran away, instead, leaving Richard of Cornwall to clean up after him. The earl arrived to find the expedition in ruins, a truce with the Saracen sultans begun but never finished, and the men of France and its surrounding counties locked away and in chains. In Thibaut’s absence, Richard negotiated a pact with the sultans and freed the French prisoners.
Be forewarned,
Eléonore wrote.
Richard will expect a reward from King Louis.

And how prettily Cornwall will be paid for his efforts! Marguerite has said nothing to Louis or Blanche about the debacle; as far as she
can tell, Thibaut hasn’t mentioned it, either. As a simpering minstrel sings the King of Navarre’s new song, Marguerite imagines the uproar to come. See how Thibaut struts, the valiant warrior! Meanwhile, the real hero can expect a slap in the face when he returns home.

A pair of dark eyes among Thibaut’s knights catches her gaze, and the face of a youth so familiar, she almost returns his smile. His look is so intent, he seems to read her thoughts. But—who is he? The answer whispers itself but she misses it amid the song of Thibaut’s yearning to hold his “Lady” in his arms.

When the last notes of the minstrel’s flute have faded, Thibaut bows to his Lady and then, with a flourish of his hand, to Marguerite. He has not forgotten her, “the fairest daisy of them all,” he says. He turns to the youth.

“May I introduce Sir Jean de Joinville,” Thibaut says, “my seneschal, as was his father, and a most talented wielder of sword and lance. He will compete in my lady’s honor today, as your champion.”