Four Sisters, All Queens (44 page)

“The king who promised to pay us, and now is in the Saracen
jail, being tortured to death, or starved,” he says. “Forgive me, my lady, but we must eat.”

“We have food here,” she says. “From your ships.”

“Like you, my lady, we must pay for our meals. But the king has not paid us, and our purses are empty. So we must go.”

She casts about for a solution. “My purse is not empty. Perhaps I can pay you all now.”

He names a sum, and she gasps. “We have been here for nearly six months, my lady. With the sultan dead, King Louis expected immediate victory.”

Sweat breaks out on her brow. The silver at her behest could pay only a small portion of the debt to these men. Yet if they abandon Damietta, the city is lost—and she will never be able to ransom Louis, Joinville, and the rest. And with only a handful of knights left to protect them, how will the women, children, and clergymen here survive the Turkish raids?

“Give me a moment,
monsieur
.” She closes her eyes to think. It feels good to close her eyes. She has not slept enough; weariness weights her bones, slows her mind. Think. They want to be paid; she cannot pay them. She must save her silver to pay the Egyptian queen. The sultaness will certainly demand a high sum for the men’s release, in addition to Damietta—if Marguerite can even hold Damietta.

She opens her eyes. “I do not have enough to pay the salaries for you all.”

“Then we will say good-bye, and good luck.” He folds his arms. Her head begins to throb.

“If I paid those of you in this room, would that be enough?”

“We could not in good conscience accept such an offer. We have come on behalf of all our men, not just ourselves.”

“And so you will leave us to be slaughtered?” Her voice rises. “May God forgive you!”

He unfolds his arms, opening to her. “Look at me, my lady. I was once a rotund man. Now I am only bones covered with skin.
My stomach complains day and night. I have not had a meal in nearly a week. We are all in this same position.”

“You are hungry. Gisele! Gisele!” Her handmaid appears; the men eye her, their appetites sharpened for more than just food. “Tell the cooks we will be serving six more at dinner this afternoon.”

The spokesman clears his throat. “We could not accept. It would not be fair to the rest of our men. There are a hundred others as hungry as we.”

She is thinking aloud, grasping ideas from the air. “Why don’t you dine here, in the palace? All of you, at my expense. Every meal.” She runs a calculation in her head—one hundred men, and she has several hundred thousand livres still in her coffers.

The men look at one another. Two of them, including the spokesman, are smiling, but the third stands with folded arms. They murmur among themselves, and the spokesman turns to her. “This proposal is unexpected. We would like to discuss it with the others.”

Her heart sinks. Once the men have filled their bellies, they are much less likely to agree to her terms.

“I am in negotiation at this very moment with the Queen of Egypt for my husband’s release.” It may be a lie or, very soon, it might be true. “She expects an immediate response to her terms. I need your answer now.”

He bows. “Our men are waiting in the hall to learn the outcome of our talk. I shall return to you within the hour.”

As they file out, Marguerite gestures to Gisele. “Tell the cooks I want to dine now,” she murmurs. “Tell them not to come the usual way, through the back. Have them come around front and through the hall, with uncovered plates.” The sights and smells of the food may entice the mercenaries to remain here, where they have been promised food, instead of returning to their ships, where, without their pay, they may not be able to feed themselves.

Gisele runs out. Marguerite’s eyes close. She sees the blade of a knife; hears her baby screaming. She opens her eyes. The wet
nurse has brought Jean Tristan to amuse her with his red face and waving fists. She tucks him in the crook of her arm, against her bare skin. “Do not be so sad,” she murmurs. He looks up at her and stops crying. “There, there, no need to fret. Mama will take care of you.”

In a few moments, the Egyptian messenger arrives and, in perfect French, offers greetings from the sultaness Shajar al-Durr. She has sent her response to Marguerite’s missive, written in her own hand—in French.

Louis is safe, she has written, as are his brothers. They are being kept in comfort in the home of a prominent judge. She will release them for a ransom of five hundred thousand livres. Marguerite has one month in which to gather the money, during which time she must also return Damietta to the Egyptians. Meanwhile, the sultaness has commanded her general to halt the siege—for now.

Five hundred thousand livres is more than twice the amount Marguerite has on hand. She must convince the Egyptian queen to reduce the ransom—but how? Before she can begin to fashion a reply, the mercenaries’ spokesman returns, his gaze dropping lovingly on her plates of food: roasted lamb, rice with saffron, peas with cardamom, fish from the sea.

“My lady, the aromas of your meal have enticed us to accept your offer,” he says. “Unfortunately, we can only remain here for one more month, or miss our ships’ departures for home. We trust that we will be paid our wages at that time—in full.”

“Of course,” Marguerite says, smiling with relief while her mind works, calculating, adding, multiplying. Five hundred thousand livres. And then there is the food she has just purchased, and the mercenaries’ salaries to pay. Something must give way, and soon.

When the Genoese spokesman has gone, she calls for Gisele again.

“I need three galleys,” she says. “I need horses, and the clothing of a Saracen man. I need enough food and water for several days’ journey.”

“But where are you going, my lady? Surely you cannot travel—”

“Please summon Sir John, the physician, and the pope’s legate, as well.” She also needs a sorcerer, but she does not say it.

Gisele frowns at her. “But you cannot get on a boat, or ride a horse. You must heal.”

“There is no time for healing,” Marguerite says. She pulls herself slowly to standing, wincing at her body’s soreness. “We have only one month in which to achieve the impossible. Procure some man’s clothes for yourself, too, and for the Countess Beatrice.” It will do her sister good to leave her sickly baby for a few days.

“But where are we going, my lady?”

“Up the Nile to Mansoura. To meet the Egyptian queen.”

Sanchia

Bumps in the Night

Berkhamsted, 1250

Twenty-two years old

S
HE CANNOT HELP
comparing this journey to Berkhamsted Castle with her first, seven years ago, after her wedding. Richard rode with her in the carriage. His arm embraced her shoulders. His fingers touched her hair. His gaze never left her face for long. His smile crinkled his eyes, making him appear kind. He called her “my pet” and “pretty doll.” When they arrived, he laughed as she exclaimed over the grand château: “It is grand because you are here, my sweet.” And then he scooped her into his arms and carried her inside, all the way up the stairs to her gold-and-white chambers, like a fairyland, where he tenderly removed her clothes.

Today hers is a silent ride from Paris with Justine, who sleeps most of the way, and the wet nurse, Emma, who is always quiet, thanks be to God. Sanchia keeps her ever at hand and she cannot bear much chatter. Edmund is quiet, too, which used to worry her, for baby Richard was a subdued infant and he did not live for long. When he died, he took the sparkle from his father’s eyes. Sanchia does not like to ponder what Richard might lose if this son died, too.

The carriage stops. A manservant, not Richard, waits for her
with outstretched hand. She steps down and looks around for Richard. His horse stands riderless at the front of the procession and he is not among his knights. Ah, well. What did she expect? That he would carry her inside when he hardly speaks to her anymore?

She finds him in the great hall greeting the Jew Abraham, whose beard has turned a bit gray, and his wife Floria, who looks even prettier than before, more womanly in her face and figure. Richard thinks so, too, she can tell. Exclaiming over the baby, Floria reaches her arms out for him but Sanchia shrinks back.

“He’s very shy of strangers.”

Richard tells her in a sharp tone to stop worrying so much, that he has never seen a women so protective of a child, that she will smother him with love.

“Let Floria hold the child,” he says. “It will be good for him.”

She gives Edmund to the Jewess and watches her bounce him and kiss his nose, resisting the urge to snatch him back to herself. She hopes he does not catch any germs or illnesses. Abraham, she notices, has little interest in the child. His sharp bird’s eyes peer at Sanchia with that look which she had almost forgotten, as though she had sprouted an ear in the middle of her forehead.

“He resembles you, my lord,” Floria says to Richard, as indeed he does. He has the same long eyelashes, the flaxen hair, the same eyes with their mixture of colors, the same dimple in his chin. Richard steps around to the Jewess’s side and peers at the baby as though he has never seen him before. Floria sings a baby’s song, walking her fingers up Edmund’s belly to his chin and tickling him there, and he laughs for the very first time. Richard laughs, too, a sound Sanchia has not heard in months.

“Do not excite him overmuch,” she says, holding out her arms for the babe. “He will be awake all night.”

The baby begins to whimper and clutch at Sanchia’s breast. She tries bouncing him in her arms as Floria did, but it only makes him cry.

“The poor little thing wants his wet nurse,” Floria says. As if
she were an expert on babies, she who has no children after three years of marriage. She reaches out to Edmund again, but Sanchia pulls him close to her chest, saying it is his nap time, too, she must go and find Emma right away.

“Darling dear,” she says—Joan de Valletort’s endearment. Richard lifts his eyebrows. “Will you come with me? I have matters to discuss with you.”

“I will come to your chambers in a little while,” he says. “Abraham, I have good news. My brother Henry wants to borrow a huge sum for his adventures across the channel. If he does not repay me in time, he will give me the taxes from all the Jews in England. And I will need someone to collect that tax. It could be very lucrative for you.”