Four Sisters, All Queens (29 page)

A rattle of wheels turns her head—the carriage is almost upon her—Raimond of Toulouse leans out the window, his arms outstretched. “I have come for you at last, my lovely!” His wicked laughter chases her as she runs, not toward home as she knows she should go, but into the trees, where it is dark and he may lose her, where she may hide from his fat belly and wrinkled hands and eyes that stare through her clothes. Who cares about wild animals? She would rather be gored by a boar than snatched away by him.

And then tree trunks surround her, and leaves, and there is no direction but up. She turns around and around, dizzying herself. Every tree looks the same. Where is home? She grasps a limb and tries to climb, but her arms are weak and the bark scratches her soft hands.

“I have you now.” The count grabs her legs and yanks her down to the ground. Sanchia struggles in his arms, trying to scream but she doesn’t know how. A mewing sound is all she can make, like her kitten, as she twists under him. His hands move over, then under, her clothes, from one forbidden spot to another. His breath is hot on her neck, followed by his wet mouth. One of his hands clamps between her legs, pressing her into the ground but not far enough, unfortunately, to bury her.
Forgive me, O Lord.

“What do you think, my wife? This is a romantic spot to consummate our marriage, no?” She cries out. He covers her mouth with one hand and begins pulling up her skirt, panting slowly, as if pacing himself in a long race. His fingers tickle like the feet of an insect. She kicks, smashing her heel against his shin. He yelps, then laughs. “At home,” he says, “I will tie you to the bed.”

Then he flies up and away, his mouth an O of astonishment; not flying, but lifted by Romeo, who holds a rapier to his throat, his nostrils flaring as though the scent of blood were already rising from the count’s body. His weight gone, she feels as light as a song, and then she is running without seeming to touch the ground, speeding toward home and her
maire
supervising the servants loading trunks, baskets, and beds onto a carriage.

“Mama,” she says between gulps of air, “the Count of Toulouse is here.”

“He is too late!” Mama sings. Her barbette and coif give her an impish look. “Climb in, darling. A much better husband awaits you in Bordeaux.”

“Mama, he tried to steal me again.”

Creases appear between her mother’s eyes. “Raimond of Toulouse is a toad, and not nearly as wealthy as the Earl of Cornwall. We must hurry! Your uncle Peter says the earl never tarries long in one place. Climb into the carriage, darling. Your clothes are packed. Madeleine will be out with Beatrice in a moment.”

“Romeo is bringing the count—”

“Let your papa deal with him.” The countess claps her hands. “Hurry! The sooner we leave, the better for you. We must take advantage of this time with no pope. Your papa can nullify the marriage contract Pope Gregory approved and sign a new one for you before a new pope is elected, without repercussions.” Her mother smiles at the horizon as if it held a beautiful rainbow. “Remember how the earl gazed upon you? As if you were a piece of ripe fruit, or a bag full of gold.”

Sanchia shivers, remembering his lips parted in astonishment,
his constant exclamations over her beauty, his age-roughened hands in hers as they danced. But at least he handled her delicately. She shivers.

“Toulouse touched me, Mama. In bad places.” Sanchia begins to cry. “Do you think Jesus would still want me?”

The countess opens her arms, but her embrace is brief, almost furtive. “Poor thing, everyone wants you. Ah, no, here comes Romeo with Toulouse. Quiet, my bird, we do not want him to guess where we are going, lest he ride after us and ruin all. Madeleine! Madeleine—where is she? Oh, here. Hurry!”

Madeleine steps out onto the lawn with a steering hand on the crown of Beatrice’s sullen head. “Pardon, Madame, the little princess here put water on her hair and destroyed the curls I made. So it is not my fault that she resembles a drowned cat.”

“Beatrice, why?” their mother asks. “Don’t you want to look your best for the English king?”

“Curls are stupid,” Beatrice says.

A horse nickers. Just at the bottom of the hill, Romeo rides slowly toward them with Raimond of Toulouse walking beside, his bound wrists tied to the saddle. “Let us go. Now!” The countess takes Sanchia’s arm, as if she were unable to find the carriage without her mother’s help.

“Where are we going, Mama?”

“To see your sister Elli in Bordeaux, and her new baby girl.” From inside the carriage, Uncle Peter extends a hand to help Sanchia inside. He has such big teeth, and he shows them all the time, even today at dinner when he told Mama and Papa about a war between England and France.

“This could divide the family,” Mama said. “I cannot believe that Elli and Margi would allow it.”

The danger of that is past, Uncle Peter said. England was promised an easy victory, but France had already won the war before King Henry’s ships landed. When he and his troops arrived at the battlefield the French fighters were waiting. They almost
captured King Henry, but the Earl Richard saved him. When Uncle Peter said this, Mama beamed with pride at Sanchia.

“Queen Blanche must be crowing like the cock she is,” Papa said.

“She predicted that the English dogs would slink home with their tails between their legs,” Uncle Peter said. “And she was right.” Beatrice made a funny drawing, a dog with a drooping eye and a crown eating from a dish in the shape of France.

The carriage begins to move. Mama pushes her down, telling her to hide, that Raimond of Toulouse must not see her or he will try to follow them. She lays her head in Mama’s lap and thinks of the Earl Richard, the way his eyes followed her like, yes, a dog.

Only when the carriage is far from the château does Mama allow her to sit up. “If we are lucky, you will see the Earl of Cornwall again. Would it please you? It will surely please him. But we must hurry, or he will sail for home before we arrive.”

“I hope he has gone,” Sanchia says. “I don’t want to see him.”

“Nonsense! Of course you do. You don’t want to marry Raimond of Toulouse, do you? Of course not. Richard of Cornwall is your only hope, child. No need to look so frightened! You are more beautiful than ever before. The moment the Earl Richard glimpses you, he will fall to his knees and beg for your hand—and you will be free of Toulouse at last.”

Eléonore

Gascony Is Edward’s

Bordeaux, 1243

Twenty years old

S
HE ARISES BEFORE
the sun, before the cock’s first crow, before her handmaid has even dressed herself. She still hasn’t regained all her strength, but there is work to do and Henry is not going to do it, not in his state.

“Slowly, my lady,” tuts Margaret Biset, who knows nothing about moving slowly, even at her age. “You do not want to tempt the devil.” Six weeks have passed since her labor, six weeks since she nearly bled to death, yet her handmaid still coddles her. The wet nurse enters with the infant Margaret in her arms and Eléonore stops to cuddle her, dodging her tiny fists as she covers her girl’s sweet face with kisses.

“Your
grand-maire
arrives today, little one,” she says, laughing as the baby grabs hold of her nose. “All the way from Provence, just to see you.” Not precisely true, but no one—not even Margaret Biset—must know the real reason for the visit. If Eléonore’s plot is discovered, all will be lost. Sanchia will be lost.

As her handmaid dresses her in a simple gown of pale linen—on this day, she wants only to fade beside Sanchia—she sends a servant to discern Richard’s whereabouts, then consults with the
head cook about today’s feast. Disgusted by Henry’s tears, Richard had planned to sail for Cornwall today. Eléonore begged him to remain, offering trout stuffed with hazelnuts and his favorite German brandy at the feast—but he would promise nothing. She must find him lest he slip away.

Her handmaid clucks her tongue when the cook has gone. “Supervising the kitchen staff is no job for a queen,” she mutters.

Eléonore laughs. “What would you have me do? We’ve hardly any servants left.”

“I only think the king—” Margaret presses her mouth shut. Eléonore can guess what she would say: that Henry ought to take care of these matters so his wife can fully recover. But Henry cannot think of anything or anyone now except his own humiliation. Her task would be easier had her cousin not fired so many of their servants. But neither could they stay. Even while Eléonore’s screams of labor rang through the castle, the Gascon servants barred the midwife from her chambers—hoping, no doubt, that she and the baby would die. Then Eléonore’s cousin Gaston de Béarn, a local viscount, arrived in time to save them both, pushing past his countrymen muttering “traitor” to usher the midwife into her room.

“I abhor English rule as vehemently as any Gascon,” he said to her later, smoothing his green silk tunic, stroking his mustache. “But you and I are family. The same blood runs in our veins.” He then summoned the most renowned healer in Bordeaux for her, and found a wet nurse to suckle the baby. When he left, Eléonore promised never to forget what he had done.

“I may remind you of that promise someday,” he said.

Her crown in place, she visits Henry in his chambers. He slumps on his bed as if broken, wiping tears as Richard and Uncle Peter politely look away—and Simon paces the floor.

“I might be in chains now, or even killed.” Henry’s monotone reminds Eleanor of a winter wind. “If not for you, brother.”

“You have only yourself to blame,” Simon says. “If you had listened to me, we might have prevailed.”

“With three hundred men? The French force numbered in the thousands,” Richard says.

“But—didn’t the Count of La Marche bring more men?” Eléonore sits beside her husband on his bed.

“His letter promised troops from Angoulême, Poitou, even Gascony.” Henry’s voice quavers like an old man’s. “Now he denies it. Says he never wrote a letter.”

“I told you he was unreliable.” Simon stops his pacing to glare at Henry. “Hugh of Lusignan has rebelled against King Louis before, and failed spectacularly.”

“As we have now done, as well.” The room falls silent as they ponder their loss. Henry fought with his barons, alienating them, and squeezed money from his Jews, depleting revenues he may need for some other cause. They sailed through terrifying storms. She nearly died giving birth in a hostile land. It was all, all for naught.