Four Sisters, All Queens (53 page)

“You don’t have to break your brother’s heart to hold on to Tarascon.” From her desk she pulled a parchment, newly folded, its wax sealed with her signet ring.

“I wrote this letter to Pope Innocent, supporting my sister’s appeal for Tarascon,” she said. “I have not sent it because I feared your reaction.”

“A wise choice.”

“As heir to Provence, I may instruct the pope to award Marguerite
her dowry. I testify that Papa made his bequest in the throes of death, when his thinking was unclear. He most likely intended to leave Tarascon to her, for he did honor his contracts, but in his confused state he forgot that he had promised it.”

“How inconvenient.” Charles snatched the letter and tossed it into the fire.

“I have a copy. Several copies. One of which is right here.” She tapped her forehead. “I can write another and another, as many as you can destroy.”

Charles glowered. She took a deep breath. She had anguished over Marguerite’s dowry since leaving her in Acre four years ago. The look of betrayal in her sister’s eyes haunts Beatrice still, and her parting words—
You are not one of us. And you never will be
. She spoke them in anger, but they convey a certain truth. It is as if her sisters spoke in a tongue all their own which she cannot comprehend: the language of love.
Family comes first
. To join her sisters, she must speak their language. Her letter would have been her first attempt.

But now she was undone. Unless she gained Tarascon for Marguerite, her yearnings for true sisterhood would never be fulfilled. Her sisters would ever stand against her, for they know, as does she, that Papa honored his pledges. Yet if she would silence Charles about Marguerite and her knight, she must offer him some reward. In order to save her sister’s honor—and protect her from imprisonment—she had to forswear Marguerite’s love.

“I will withhold my letter for as long as you remain silent about Joinville and my sister,” she said. “And you must command Barolomeu to hold still his ever-flapping tongue, as well. If I even hear rumors—”

“I can keep a secret well enough. Can you?”

“I would never spread tales about my sister.”

“And about your husband? I would not wish it to be known that my wife had coerced me to submit to her. If you swear never to tell a living soul—not even Marguerite—about our pact, then I will not reveal your sister’s infidelity.”

And so it is with dread that she approaches the royal palace in Paris for their first ever family Christmas celebration. She had hoped to give Marguerite a copy of her letter to the pope as a Christmas gift. How many times has she imagined the pleasure on her sister’s face, on the faces of all her sisters, as she revealed her love to them. Now they will never know. They will always think of her as spoiled, selfish Beatrice, the Cleopatra of Provence.

Family comes first.
Having lost her sisters, she must consider her children, instead. She must think of her baby Charles’s future, and help her husband Charles to build an empire for themselves and their future generations—starting with Sicily.

“That sickly little crouchback Edward would only squander the opportunity that Sicily offers,” Charles says. “Whereas we, my darling, will employ it as a gateway to the East.”

He wants Jersualem; he wants Constantinople; he wants an empire greater than the pope of Rome has even thought to fear. And he wants Beatrice by his side, he said, “fighting with me and ruling with me, the greatest empress in the world.” He need only speak these words for her to fling herself on top of him, arms and legs flailing, a swimmer on a cresting wave of passion. She does love a man of ambition.

Now, as they wheel up in their mud-splattered carriage—a fresh rain having drenched the roads—she sees from her window the ornate carriages of her sisters parked in the courtyard: the red carriage with the English flag, carved with white roses and gilded with gold, the interior covered in brilliant blue cloth; and Sanchia’s carriage, even more opulent, gold within and without, and studded with precious jewels. Her own little carriage, of gleaming wood in five different colors with ornate gold pieces and hinges, appears almost tawdry in comparison.
It is not a contest,
she can almost hear her mother saying. But what would Mama, who had only seven brothers, know of the rivalry between sisters—especially queens?

The competition is fiercer than anyone knows—anyone except Beatrice, and, of course, Charles, who grew up as she did in the shadow of a royal sibling. Marguerite fancies that she knows the
game, but she does not comprehend the rules. She should have sent an army to seize Provence before Papa’s blood had cooled. Of course, Marguerite was not the real Queen of France then. The woman she showed herself to be in Damietta makes Beatrice glad of that now. She will never forget Marguerite’s comportment during that terrifying time—indeed, her most fervent wish is to be like her, strong and wise and loyal to her family.

When last Beatrice saw her sister—only a few months ago, when the French ships landed at Marseille on their return from Outremer—the weather was pleasant but for the chill blowing off Marguerite’s every word. She warmed up well enough when she led Jean de Joinville out to walk the Mediterranean beaches, but at Beatrice’s curious look she shut fast like a bolted gate. Beatrice could almost hear the clang. Her letter to the pope would have opened that gate, would have won her sister’s love—but not now. Not ever.

“Hold your head high, my dear,” Charles murmurs as they step into the royal palace. “Remember whom we are, and whom we are destined to become.”

Louis and Marguerite await them on their thrones at the far end of the great hall. Off to one side, musicians play a pretty tune on lutes and pipes. Candles and lamps illuminate the room. Marguerite looks resplendent, softened by the blurred lines of age, her skin glowing, her eyes alight. Or maybe her proximity to Louis improves her. Even a dead man would seem vital next to his pale, stern self, clad like a pauper in dull rags, liver-colored circles giving his eyes a bleak, bleary look. Beatrice bends her knee to kiss his ring, forbidding herself to recoil from the touch of his hand with its long, scaly nails.

“Welcome, brother, sister,” the king says—his voice booms, surprisingly strong. “Merry Christmas.”

“My favorite time of the year,” Charles says.

“Really?” Louis brightens. “I did not know that about you, Charles.”

Beatrice grins. Charles detests everything to do with Christmas, but he knows his brother well. “Will there be a midnight mass?” he says. “How wonderful.”

Marguerite steps down from her throne to embrace her. “What need is there for formalities between sisters?” she says. Her voice is calm; her face, smooth and radiant. She has known love, Beatrice thinks.

Marguerite turns to Louis. “Charles, welcome. We shall see you at the feast this evening. Our cooks are preparing the roast duck you always enjoyed.”

Beatrice and Charles exchange glances. Where is Marguerite’s pinched tone, as if she were holding her nose? Where is her sour frown? She tucks Beatrice’s hand into the crook of her arm and leads her up the stairs, her head erect, her shoulders back. Regal.

In Marguerite’s bedchamber, Eléonore rises from her chair, laughing at Beatrice’s expression. “I am horribly fat,” she says. “Katharine was born more than a year ago, yet I still appear pregnant.”

“Losing baby fat becomes more difficult as one ages,” Marguerite says. “I am sure I will never see my waist again.”

Marguerite leads Beatrice to her bed, where Sanchia is lying down. “Sit up, dear. Don’t let a little headache spoil your enjoyment.”

“You don’t know,” Sanchia says. “Being married to Richard is making me ill.”

“Marriage is difficult,” Eléonore says.

“You don’t appear to be suffering.”

“Henry and I have had our trials.”

“He banished her from London last year,” Marguerite says.

“He said I was too domineering.” Eléonore grins. “Can you imagine that?”

“Richard has the opposite complaint,” Sanchia says. “He calls me a dormouse.”

“You’ve always been timid,” Beatrice says. “Didn’t he know it when he married you?”

“Mama kept him from noticing,” Eléonore says. “While his eyes were on Sanchia—constantly, as I recall—Mama amused him with her wit.”

“Later, he thought I had said all those clever things,” Sanchia
says. “He keeps asking where that other Sanchia has gone, the one with the quick tongue.”

“I wonder at the whereabouts of the man I married, as well.” Marguerite grimaces. “Louis has gone from majesty to martyr. He spends all his time devising tortures for blasphemers and heretics—as if eternal hell weren’t punishment enough—and punishing himself for failing in Outremer.”

“That sounds like a merry time,” Beatrice says. “Do you ever regret saving his life?”

“You saved the king’s life?” Sanchia says to Marguerite.

“She saved Damietta from collapse even while giving birth,” Beatrice says. “Two days later, she sailed up the Nile and negotiated Louis’s release with the Egyptian queen. You should have seen her!” She smiles at Marguerite. “Louis must have been impressed. You rule by his side now, don’t you?”

“Louis is too absorbed in himself to notice my achievements. He has never said a word of thanks or praise to me. I rule in spite of him, not because of him.”

“Eléonore is now a powerful queen, also,” Sanchia says. “She ruled England while King Henry was in Gascony.”

“Was that before or after he banished you, Elli?” Beatrice says.

“He ended my banishment after one month.” Eléonore gives a little smile. “He needed me.”

“You should have refused,” Beatrice says. “That might have taught him a lesson.”

“Holding on to Gascony was more important than teaching Henry lessons. Besides, he learned well enough when he went and left me the keys to the treasury.”

“England’s finances were never so well managed as when Eléonore was in charge,” Sanchia says. “Richard told me so.”

“What of you, Beatrice?” Marguerite says. “Is Charles letting you have a say in Provence?”

“We’re like two pearls in the same oyster. We rub against each other at times, but it polishes us.”

“Truly?” Marguerite frowns. “So you agreed with his decision to burn those poor Cathars?”

“The pope of Rome commanded it.” Beatrice feels her blood rise. “As you well know.”

“It was good for them to burn at the stake before they could gain any more converts,” Sanchia says. “Think of all the souls you saved.”

“‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’” Marguerite says. “Or do the Lord’s words not apply to Cathars?”

“We came to celebrate the birth of Christ, remember?” Eléonore says. “And to unite our husbands. If we fight amongst ourselves, they may follow our example—and our plans will be ruined.”

Sanchia nods. Marguerite smiles and takes Eléonore’s hand. Beatrice looks at the three of them—Eléonore embracing Sanchia, Marguerite holding Eléonore’s hand—and wonders, what plans?

“I seem to have missed something,” she says.

“Things seem to be going well so far,” Marguerite says. “Louis adores King Henry.”

“And Henry has the highest admiration for King Louis. He thinks he ought to be made a saint.”

Marguerite snorts. “Please tell him not to mention it to Louis! He is zealous enough without that sort of encouragement.”

“But wouldn’t Henry’s praise make him more amenable?” Sanchia says.

“Amenable to what?” Beatrice says.

“Peace between England and France,” Marguerite says. “We have been writing a treaty with Eléonore’s man John Maunsell.”

Beatrice snorts.

“Why do you laugh?” Sanchia says. “Don’t you think peace is possible?”

“Possible, but not likely. Men live to conquer and kill.”

“We are bankrupting our treasuries with these endless wars,” Eléonore says. “Nothing will remain for our children, at this rate.”

“Do you think your funds are better spent on Sicily?” She snorts again.

“For Edmund? I do,” Eléonore says. “But the barons refuse to fund a campaign there. Their shortsightedness is appalling.” This will be good news for Charles.

“Will you lose Sicily, then?” Beatrice asks.

“Come, sister, you know me better.” Eléonore laughs. “The greater the obstacles, the harder I fight, especially for my children’s sake.” She lifts her chin as proudly as if she had already won. “I expect to see Edmund crowned Holy Roman Emperor someday.” Beatrice wants to laugh, too: The sickly little Edmund, taking the Stupor Mundi’s throne? He might hold it for an hour—if the fickle pope doesn’t turn against him as Pope Gregory did to Frederick.

A bell rings: the feast is about to begin. Marguerite escorts Beatrice to her chambers to freshen up. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you,” she says. “I have a soft spot in my heart for the Cathars.”

“As do I. You could not be our Papa’s child without sympathy for them.”

“Some of the troubadours in Papa’s court were Cathars, and as god-fearing as you or I. Their beliefs are not very different from ours. Almost the same, really.”

“Their beliefs
weren’t
very different, you mean to say. Charles has wiped Catharism off the face of the earth, or so he tells the pope. But I doubt that the Church cared about their beliefs overly much. Pope Innocent wanted their wealth, and their lands, to fund his campaigns in Sicily and Germany.”