Four Sisters, All Queens (54 page)

“And Charles was eager to help him.”

“They could have saved themselves by renouncing their religion. Why wouldn’t they, if their beliefs were similar? And their zeal to gain converts only threatened the Church’s income more. Stubbornness and stupidity killed the Cathars, not Charles.”

They are standing outside the chamber doors. Marguerite tilts her head and studies Beatrice. “Is there nothing that you would die for, then? No belief you cherish so strongly that you would give your life protecting it?”

Beatrice’s mind roams over the featureless terrain of her passions, thinks of her children, her mother, her God. “Nothing and
no one is worth dying for,” she says. Then she remembers, and laughs. “Of course—Charles!”

A light in Marguerite’s eyes flickers off, then on again. “Your precious Charles. I should have known, watching him grow up, how suited the two of you would be for each other. You were much alike as children.”

“We do have much in common.”

“Such as ambition.”

“We hope to accomplish great things.”

“So do we all. But your sisters keep the family’s interests foremost in our hearts. Can you say the same?”

How she would love to boast about all she has done for the family. But she cannot say a word, or Charles would destroy Marguerite. So she focuses instead on the request that she must make.

“Charles and I do care about family, in spite of what you might think. Take the matter of Sicily, for instance.”

“Sicily?” Margaret looks at her askance. “What of Sicily?”

“The pope offered it to Charles when Frederick died.”

“Louis forbade him to accept. It was offered to Richard, too, and he also refused. The pope’s price is too high, as Eléonore and Henry are now discovering.”

“Yes. But Charles wanted Sicily. He thought he should have been consulted. He was very upset over losing it.”

“I can imagine.” Marguerite’s smile is thin.

“When King Henry and Eléonore pursued it for Edmund, though, he turned his eye elsewhere.”

“He turned his temper on the people of Marseille. The Sicilians are fortunate to have escaped that fate.”

“He quashed a rebellion, which our mother incited. The Marseille rebels tried to assassinate him.”

“They hate the French, and with good reason,” Marguerite says. “Poised as we are now to swallow them up along with Provence.”

“Peace has returned to Provence. And the pope of Rome has approached Charles again.”

“Out of thanks for his Cathar-roasting fête? I hope the prize is worth all that innocent blood.”

“He has offered Sicily.”

Marguerite sneers. “And of course you will accept. Even knowing that it has been given to your nephew.”

“We are discussing it.”

“Agonizing, I’m sure.”

“Do not patronize me.” Beatrice’s hiss echoes through the room. “We do not want to harm Eléonore or Edmund. But you heard her today: Taking Sicily will be impossible without money and troops. The English barons will commit neither. They will lose Sicily, and who better to step in than Charles and me? At least it will remain in the family.”

“Your sudden concern for family is touching. What do you desire from me?”

“We need France’s support.”

“We have neither money nor knights for you. Our escapades over the sea all but drained the treasury.”

“Your money would be helpful, but it’s not what we need. We want yours and Louis’s endorsement. We would raise the funds ourselves.”

“By squeezing the people of Provence? They will love you more than ever for it.”

“And by soliciting the aid of our neighbors. With France’s endorsement, Toulouse might contribute, and Normandy, and Castille.”

“Sicily is a quagmire. Why would Louis and I involve ourselves?” She turns to leave, but Beatrice clutches her arm.

“Please, sister! We’re not asking for your involvement. We only need a letter supporting Charles as Sicily’s king. It would mean so much. It would mean everything.”

In the long pause that ensues, Beatrice studies the emotions passing like clouds across her sister’s face—but she cannot read them. How little they know of each other, even after two years in captivity together.

“I might help you,” she says at last. “If you would do something for me.”

“I would do anything, Marguerite. Not only to gain your help, but simply because we are sisters.” She cannot help the smile on her face. She tries to chase it away, but it persists. Sicily will be theirs!

“Give me Tarascon.”

And then she feels like a butterfly whose wings have just been pinned to a board. “You know I cannot,” she says.

“Mama has signed all her claims over to you. I received a letter from the archbishop. He says she was paid a sum. Where is mine?”

“Papa willed Tarascon to me, Margi. He did not want Provence divided.”

“He promised it to me, or ten thousand marks. Where is my sum?”

“You know the revenues of Provence. You know we do not have it.”

“But you do have Tarascon.”

Beatrice sighs. How different this conversation would be if not for Marguerite’s indiscretion. Marguerite might be laughing with her now, happy to know that Tarascon is hers, rather than scowling.

“Tarascon is not mine to give, Margi. It belongs to Charles now.”

“Papa would not have wanted Charles to have it. He aimed to keep Provence out of the hands of the French.”

“Perhaps that is why he did not will it to you!” Beatrice clenches her hands. “You seem to forget that
you
are the French.”

“You are not going to help me.”

“Tarascon is a great fortress. With rebellions always brewing against us, we may need it.”

Marguerite’s eyes harden as if she had turned to stone. “Then I will not help you. Ever. With anything.”

“Don’t say that, Margi! We are sisters—”

“You are not my sister.”

“I am.” She crosses her arms over her chest, holding her heart in one piece. “You cannot take away what we have. What we are.”

“We shall see about that,” Marguerite says, and walks away.

T
HE AROMA OF
spiced duck fills the hall. Charles feigns indifference—no doubt, the kitchen, too, has declined since his mother’s death—but the flaring of his nostrils gives him away. Beatrice cannot imagine eating; her stomach feels full of the tears she refuses to cry.

The hall is bedecked with the green of the season: holly dripping with red berries, and mistletoe with its white ones; evergreen branches wafting the fragrance of pine. Her sisters sit on a high dais in the front of the room. Marguerite is in the center, with Louis. Eléonore is on her right, with King Henry. Richard sits beside Henry and, beside him, their mother, her once-luxuriant chestnut hair gone gray, her skin puckering around her mouth like a piece of wet leather. Once a renowned beauty, she reminds Beatrice now of a flower on the verge of dropping its petals. She ascends the platform and wraps her arms around Mama’s neck. Her fragrances, lilac and dust, the scents of old age, make Beatrice pang.

Where, she asks, is Sanchia? “Lying down,” Mama says. “The poor dear has a headache.” She pats Beatrice’s arm; the skin on her hand seems thin and brittle, like dried leaves. “She is still as delicate as ever. And your sister Margi is as stubborn as ever.”

Beatrice glances at Marguerite, who glares at her. The seats at this table are all filled, she notes. “Do not blame Margi too much,” Mama says. “Her life has not been easy compared with yours.”

Charles, who has stepped over to speak with his brother, comes frowning to her side. “Apparently, we have been assigned to a lesser table.”

“There must be a mistake,” Beatrice says. “My mother and sisters are here.”

“Lower your voice, my dear,” Charles says. “Do not give the
chienne
the satisfaction of your anger.”

Beatrice sees triumph in Marguerite’s eyes. She jerks her arm away from Charles’s guiding touch and turns to confront her sister.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demands, not caring who hears, hoping the entire world will take note of Marguerite’s pettiness. “I thought we were to dine together, all four of us and Mama.”

“Eléonore and I are queens,” Marguerite says. “It would not be appropriate for you to sit on our level.”

“Mama is not a queen.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right. Would you have me move her to a lower table, then?” Marguerite’s lips curl in the tight smile of minor victories. Charles steps over to take Beatrice’s arm.

“Behold, my brother Alphonse and his pretty wife are at our table, and all the major counts,” Charles says as he leads her away. “In any other circumstance, we would feel honored to be seated with them.”

“This is an insult, and you know it,” Beatrice fumes. “Marguerite has humiliated me before all the barons of France.”

“Have patience, my love,” he murmurs as she takes her seat. “You are made of better cloth than she.”

“She will not help us gain Sicily, Charles,” Beatrice says. “Not unless we give her Tarascon.”

“We do not need her help, or Louis’s, either,” Charles says. “We are unstoppable, Beatrice! Do not doubt it. Someday, I will make you an empress. You will be a greater queen than any of your sisters—greater than any woman in the world.”

Sanchia