Four Sisters, All Queens (30 page)

“You should have listened to me, and brought more troops,” Simon says. “But you preferred the false promises of a deceptive woman.”

“We don’t know—” Henry begins, but Simon cuts him off with a sardonic laugh.

“You would know if you opened your eyes. Isabella of Angoulême wrote that letter, and signed her husband’s name to it. She is to blame for our failure, and her conniving, scheming—”

“That is enough!” Henry’s roar has returned. “How dare you degrade my mother?”

“How dare you degrade your kingdom? You should have listened to me. My father was a great warrior, while you—you’re just another battlefield bungler. Like Charles the Simple.”

Henry stands, raises a fist. “I could have you imprisoned for that.”

“For telling the truth? Forgive me, I had forgotten that you prefer lies.”

“Get out of my sight.” Tears fill Henry’s eyes. “Get out, now! Or lose your tongue. Treason!” His shouts bring men running in, who escort the red-faced Simon from the room.

“The Earl of Leicester has now accused me of weakness and simple-mindedness.” Henry’s voice breaks. “But he has never even met my mother. He doesn’t know her.”

“She is cunning,” Richard says. “And she may have written the letters calling us here. We would not be the first men she has tricked. Such are the ways of women.” Eléonore holds her tongue, or she would leap to Queen Isabella’s defense. Who, man or woman, would not have done the same—or more—for a son? Without land, without money, a man is nothing.

Why, she asks, did Hugh of Lusignan challenge the French without an ample force? “You wrote him, Henry, of your difficulties recruiting troops.”

“He and Pierre of Brittany had amassed a large army,” Richard says. “But Brittany coveted the throne for himself. He didn’t know the King of England had been summoned. When he found out that we were coming, he withdrew—and took most of the troops with him.”

“As we prayed for our lives at sea, Hugh and my mother were already pledging allegiance to King Louis,” Henry says. He slumps onto the bed again, covers his face with his hands. “When we reached Taillebourg, the French were waiting for us.”

“How dreadful!” Eléonore takes his hand. He gives her a little squeeze, his eyes moist. “How did you get away?”

“By the grace of God, and the talents of my brother.”

“The men I rescued from prison in Outremer were the same men leading the French forces,” Richard says. “They allowed us to escape.”

Henry withdraws his hand from Eléonore’s. “If not for Richard, you might be a widow.”

Eléonore doubts this; surely the French king would have ransomed Henry rather than kill him. Yet there is no denying the importance of what Richard has done. “How can we repay you?” Eléonore asks, sure he will think of a way.

Richard smiles. “My brother has already given me more than enough.”

“Oh?” Eléonore smiles, too, knowing how easily Richard can coax gifts from Henry. “What did you give him, Henry? Not our first-born child, I hope?” She keeps her tone light.

“Nothing that drastic,” Henry says. “A small gift, really, for such a great favor.”

“Now you are being humble,” Richard says. “Gascony is hardly a ‘small gift.’”

“I failed to regain Poitou for you. Gascony is just recompense.”

“Gascony?” Eléonore’s pulse skips. “Edward’s Gascony?”

Henry titters and pats her hand. “All of England will belong to Edward. Why does he need Gascony?”

Eléonore can think of many answers to his question: Because the income will benefit him when his barons say “no” to his requests. Because once Gascony has passed out of their hands, they will not get it back. Because Edward will need an income while he waits to become king. Because the more lands and titles he owns, the better the marriage they can make for him. Because Richard is already wealthier than anyone else in England.

But she says none of these things. Because Richard, at this moment, looks happier than Eléonore has seen him since before his wife died. Such is the power of money to soothe a man’s troubled soul—and just in time for Sanchia’s arrival.

When Richard has gone, Henry crumples into Eléonore’s arms. “I have failed, my dear, and most spectacularly. Poitou is lost. How will I face my people now? How will I face my barons?”

As Eléonore strokes his back and murmurs consolations, she gazes into a mirror on the opposite wall and thinks of Gascony. “You will face them with pride, after you have won the hearts of the Gascons. Our barons who own land in Gascony will be most grateful. Think of it, Henry! We will return to England in glory, reveling in our success.”

“But Gascony is Richard’s. Not England’s.”

“You must take it back from him.”

“What? Impossible.”

“Not impossible. You are the king. You can do what you desire.”

“Eléonore. You do not know. We need Richard.”

“And we shall have him. My mother and sisters arrive soon. When Richard beholds the legendary beauty Sanchia of Provence, he will give anything to marry her—including Gascony.”

Sanchia

Sister to the Queen

London, 1243

Fifteen years old

H
E IS NOT
a handsome man. Nor is he a king. But he is the brother of a king, and his eyes watch Sanchia every moment. With him, she feels as if she were on a stage, putting on a dazzling show.

On the steps of the Westminster Cathedral, her hand trembles as he slides the ring onto her finger. The aroma of frankincense fills her nose and mouth, gagging her. She is married now, like it or not.
Forgive me, Jesus.
But at least he is not Raimond of Toulouse.

She glances shyly at him. He smiles. It is a nice smile, even if it does crinkle his eyes. He is quite old, nearly twenty years older than she, but she doesn’t mind. “Till death do us part,” she says. If he dies first, she can enter the convent.

They finish their vows, then follow the archbishop into the cathedral. Richard tucks her hand into the crook of his arm. “You are beautiful,” he whispers as they walk. “Ravishing.”

She does not even blush. All her life, people have praised her beauty. “Golden girl,” Mama used to call her. Sordel wrote songs for her. Whenever her tutor scolded her for neglecting her work, Madeleine would wipe Sanchia’s tears and say, “A beauty such as you will not need Latin to please her husband.”

(Her father never praised her at all. “Everyone says Sanchia is prettier than me,” she overheard Beatrice tell him once. “What do you think, Papa?”

“All my girls are beauties,” Papa said. “But—may I tell you a secret, little one? I have never cared for fair hair.”)

The Earl of Cornwall’s compliments are different, though. He regards her breathlessly, as though she were a sculpture or painting from which he cannot tear his gaze, like the rose garden painted on the walls of Eléonore’s chambers in the Tower of London. Sanchia once spent an entire afternoon lost in those roses, imagining herself walking with Jesus in that garden, dreaming of the flowers’ fragrance.

“He worships you,” Eléonore said this morning as the maids dressed Sanchia in her wedding gown—made by Eléonore’s tailor, of green silk with a blue velvet surcoat—the most beautiful garment she has ever worn. “I have never seen a man so smitten. Of course, Richard loves nothing more than women.”

“Except for money,” Marguerite said drily. “But he was mad for his first wife, I hear. She was renowned as a great beauty.”

“If he were not so rich, no woman would look at him,” Beatrice said. She sat at a dressing table trying on Eléonore’s jewels and crowns, imagining herself as a queen—in spite of Marguerite’s glances of irritation. “His eyes pop out like a toad’s.”

“Was he kind to his wife?” Sanchia said. “He seems harsh at times. When he is annoyed, he grinds his teeth together, as though he might bite.”

“At least he will not drool on you like Toulouse.” Beatrice drops a necklace on the dressing table, dislodging an emerald from its setting.

Marguerite snatches up the necklace. “This is not a conversation for unmarried girls.”

“She is eleven,” Sanchia said, seeing Beatrice’s pout. “Nearly marriageable.” But Marguerite sent her off to the nursery, “where there are toys more suitable for you to play with.” The look in Beatrice’s eyes said revenge. Sanchia must placate her later, or she will ruin this day.

“I would prefer a gentle man,” Sanchia said to her sisters. “Someone younger would be nice, too.”

“I felt the same way with Henry, at first,” Eléonore said. “But I came to love him. You might do the same. Richard can be charming.”

“Not as charming as Jesus.”

Marguerite bursts into laughter. “Yes, the Romans
loved
Jesus.”

“Sister,” Eléonore says to her. “Be kind.”

Heat spreads through Sanchia’s face. Sometimes she wonders if Margi even believes in God, the way she talks, the way she laughs at everything, even King Louis, whom everyone calls “the most pious king.” She defends the Cathars, too, even though they are going to hell.

“Sanchia, you know that Margi and I were not allowed to choose our husbands, either,” Eléonore said. “We married not for ourselves, but for our parents, and our children. You will do the same. Family comes first, as Mama always says.”

“I don’t mean to be selfish. The earl’s eyes are always upon me. It frightens me.”

“Richard of Cornwall is a passionate man,” Eléonore said. “You are fortunate.”

“Not as passionate as Jesus,” Marguerite said.