Four Sisters, All Queens (27 page)

“And please accept my offer to serve you at table,” the young man says. “Your every wish would be my desire.”

He kneels before her and kisses her ring, and she remembers: this is the boy who, in the Sens cathedral, shared her amusement over the so-called Crown of Thorns and the hysteria it inspired. He is a boy no more, but a tall and confident young man with soft brown hair and eyes the color of honey. Heat falls over her like a shower of sparks as he climbs to the royal table to pour water into her cup.

“Pouring water seems a tedious task for an accomplished knight,” she says.

“The King of Navarre exaggerates my martial prowess. I have never competed in the joust before today.”

“Some champion you will prove to be, then.”

“I hear that you prefer poetry to tournaments, anyway.”

She looks at him askance. “
You
are not going to warble now about your love for some unattainable ‘Lady,’ I hope.”

“
Au contraire
. I have instead fashioned a response to the King of Navarre’s verse. For your ears only.”

He leans in close, ostensibly to pour wine into her water, and murmurs:

Sir, you have done well

To gaze on your beloved;

Your fat and puffy belly

Would prevent you reaching her.

Her delight peals like a bell through the tent, attracting startled glances, for who has heard her laugh since she arrived in Paris? For this alone the young knight deserves a token: her favorite necklace, a shell cross on a silver chain, will be his reward. Wanting to escape the curious glances of the gossiping court, she hurries up the stairs to her chambers to retrieve the gift—but is stopped by murmurs from inside a darkened room.

“Please, darling, once more before I die. I risked my life in Palestine; doesn’t that demonstrate my worthiness to you?”

“You left our knights for an Englishman to rescue. That demonstrates nothing but ineptitude. And do not call me ‘darling.’” It is Blanche’s voice. Marguerite holds her breath.

“What more must I do to prove my love? My poems in your honor are sung throughout the land. I even killed for your sake.”

“Hush! Thibaut, I told you never to speak of that again.”

“What, do you fear we will be heard? The entire hall feasts on stuffed peacock, while I wish only to feast on your charms.”

“Stop! Thibaut, unhand me at once.”

“I beg you to cease this terrible abuse. Why did you mislead me so, even beguiling me to kill your husband, if you never wanted my love?”

“Be quiet, you simpleton! Do you want to hang?”

“You wanted to rule France, and you have done it thanks to me. And how have you repaid me? With utter coldness. But oh, my love! It only makes me desire you more.”

“I have had enough.”

“But where are you going, my darling?”

“To rejoin the feast before you send us both to the gallows.”

Marguerite flees back to the great hall so lightly her feet barely touch the floor, loath to be discovered spying on their tête-à-tête. She barely tastes the food placed before her, grits her teeth against the chatter and the clank of dishes and cups and the constant whine of the music all drowning out the remembered voices of Blanche and Thibaut and her own thoughts swirling and spinning like leaves in a storm.

The rumors about Blanche are true. She deflected them so cleverly all those years ago with her dramatic appearance before the barons’ council, when she yanked off her tunic and stood practically naked to prove that she was not pregnant. In their astonishment, they forgot that she was also accused of conspiring to kill her husband. In the midst of the king’s siege of the rebellious city of Avignon, Thibaut departed with his knights and foot soldiers, saying they had served their obligatory forty days. King Louis VIII died two months later, supposedly of dysentery—but some speculated that Thibaut had poisoned his wine before he left for home.

Her new knowledge presses like a too-tight cap against her temples, making her head throb. She should do something, tell someone—but whom? Louis would never accept her word over his mother’s. Who else would believe her? She wishes, again, for a friend. Blanche’s ferocious power has the entire court frightened into submission. Were she to tell what she knows, she would be branded a liar and booted out of France, with Blanche delivering the first kick.

And yet—this secret may benefit her someday. When she has had a son and annulling her marriage is no longer a threat, she may exchange this bit of knowledge for something from Blanche. Something big. The shiver that runs through her feels as pleasurable as a lover’s hands.

And then her attention is required. Sir Hugh, the Count of
Lusignan, has approached the table with his hat in his hand, here to pledge his loyalty to Alphonse—alone. “Where is your wife?” Blanche demands.

“Queen Isabella will not attend the ceremonies until my lady has received her.”

“Ridiculous. We are here to establish our son Alphonse as lord of Poitou. When you have both pledged yourself to him, then we may welcome you.”

“Isabella is a queen,” Hugh says.

“A former queen.”

“As are you, yet you bend your knee to no man.”

“Save our holy father and his blessed son.”

“So you understand Queen Isabella’s position,
non
? Surely you do not expect her to kneel before your son.”

“Indeed I do. We are in France, not England, and I am queen here.”

Former queen,
Marguerite wants to say. “Sir Hugh, please tell the Queen Mother Isabella that Marguerite, the Queen of France, will receive her tomorrow,” she says. “She may come to my chambers in the morning, after matins.”

Blanche’s back stiffens. Louis frowns and scratches his stomach. Hugh de Lusignan takes a step away.

“Excuse me, Sir Hugh. I think you are forgetting something.” Louis scratches his neck. Has he acquired fleas?

The Count of Lusignan turns slowly back around, then kneels before Alphonse and, in a near whisper, pledges to serve him. Blanche’s glare tells Marguerite that she has erred, and grievously so. It is all she can do not to laugh out loud.

Jean de Joinville sidles over with her finger bowl. “Well done, my lady,” he says in a low voice as she washes. “You have reminded us all who is the true Queen of France.”

“If only the king would keep the fact in mind.”

“A king has many facts to remember. Perhaps he only needs reminding from time to time.”

On his other side, Louis asks for the washing bowl. “Sir Jean, do you always smile?” This from a man who has forgotten, lately, how to do so.

“Your Grace, I have no reason to frown. But the Queen Marguerite has increased my joy by consenting to let me serve as her champion. Have you ever seen a more beautiful queen? And her intelligence is beyond compare.” His eyes caress her as though they were lovers, causing her to blush.

“I hear that you are a student of theology and philosophy,” Louis says without looking at Marguerite. “Why don’t you come to court in Paris and join my discussions? We host the brightest scholars from the university. You may remain for as long as you wish.”

Marguerite looks only at her food. Jean de Joinville, in Paris! The Virgin has answered her prayer. As he and Louis plan his visit, she eats greedily, tearing her bird apart with her teeth, suddenly ravenous with hunger.

Eléonore

The Storm and Its Omens

Bordeaux, 1242

Nineteen years old

T
HE WIND SHRIEKS
in their ears, pummels their sails, battles the King of England’s ships in an unfair attack, for there is no fighting the wind with saber or lance. The ship heaves and bucks as if they sailed in the belly of a retching sea monster. Henry cannot even get out of bed. His servants run to the rail, royal vomit sloshing in their clay vessels. Everyone is sick: Richard of Cornwall; the fearsome Roger, Baron of Mortimer; Uncle Peter; Simon de Montfort, restored to Henry’s favor for aiding Richard in Outremer. These are the mighty warriors who would overthrow the King of France, brought to their knees before they even reach the shore.

Not so Eléonore. Perhaps her oversized belly prevents her from seasickness—but then, what of the Earl of Gloucester, whose girth is greater? His agonized groans compete with the storm’s howl. Perhaps the child she carries calms her. In her berth, she cradles her womb and sings a lullabye.
Lullay lullow, lullay lully…

Shouts, curses. The mainsail rips. Eléonore, peering out onto the deck, watches the sailors struggle to take it down while holding on to anything they can grab. Behind her, the cook pulls on
a surcoat and steps past her, going to fight the storm. He speaks rapidly, gesturing toward the sky. Eléonore who speaks almost no English, recognizes one word: “God.” God has sent the storm, apparently, and the sailors are not the only ones who think so. Even Simon de Montfort mentioned an
avertissement,
a warning, as the clouds gathered like dark fists overhead.

Eléonore crosses herself. Might this storm indeed portend disaster? Conquering Poitou will be difficult, especially with only three hundred men. But what else are they to do? Poitou belongs by right to England, with Richard as its count. They cannot do nothing while Blanche gives it to her son. They must fight back, or the arrogant White Queen will take Gascony next. That must not happen. Indeed, Eléonore and Henry have agreed, it will not. Gascony belongs to Edward.

And yet—three hundred is a paltry force. Henry could not muster a greater army without levying another tax, which the barons refused to pay. England, they pointed out, has a standing truce with France—which the French king (or his queen mother, more likely) has broken. Still the magnates refused.

“How does England profit from these overseas ventures?” sneered the powerful Earl of Gloucester, who holds no lands across the channel and so has nothing there for which to fight. Until now, Eléonore agreed with him. But Blanche de Castille must be stopped. Not only has she humiliated Marguerite—that
chienne!
—but now she threatens Edward’s future, as well.