Four Sisters, All Queens (56 page)

(
You seduced my husband, you whore.
) No, she could never use such language, not even to the devil, not even to this woman who has placed Richard in peril. He seemed so loving toward Sanchia last night. She thought she had won his heart at last. Now Floria has ruined everything. But if she can make the Jewess go away, she might gain his love again, in time—and lead him back to the Lord.

She knocks. Floria’s eyes pop open when she sees Sanchia, as if she were a murderer or a ghost.

“My lady,” she says with a curtsey. “Forgive me for greeting you in my apron. You have surprised me.” She brushes back a curl, smudging flour on her cheek.

“Will you invite me in? I must talk with you privately.”

She steps aside, allowing Sanchia in. For a wealthy man, Abraham lives in quite a modest house, just one large room with a dirt floor. The silk coverlet on the bed in the far corner is the only sign of prosperity—and the copper pans hanging on hooks near the cook fire in the center of the room. Floria moves to the wooden table and lays a cloth over the loaves she has formed, then removes her apron and smoothes her hair. Although her face glistens with perspiration and her skin is ruddy with the heat of the cook fire, she is so lovely that Sanchia has to look away.

When she rejoins Sanchia, Floria stretches her mouth across her teeth as if doing so were painful. Would the countess enjoy a drink of wine or ale? Would she care to sit? Sanchia declines. She does not intend to remain here long.

“Richard and I depart for London today,” she says. “When we return, you will be gone from Berkhamsted.”

Is that worry in her eyes? Good. “But Berkhamsted is my home. I do not desire to leave it.”

“I am aware of your desires. And I could not be less concerned about them.” Thanks be to God for making her tall. She has always envied her petite sisters, but suddenly she understands the advantage of height. Surely she intimidates the Jewess, towering over her so.

But Floria does not appear intimidated. She looks Sanchia in the eyes, bold wanton that she is. “Because of last night? My lady, all is not as you think.”

“I know what I saw.” My God, is she going to deny it? “And I am determined not to see it again.”

“Then—forgive my saying so—you will need to blind yourself.”

“No, I need only to rid our household of you.”

“If you think that, my lady, then you are already blind.”

Her laugh is incredulous. “If only I were! Then I would not have had to watch you flaunting yourself like a Jezebel, tempting my husband into sin.”

“If not for me, the lord Richard would be free of sin? If you think so, then you are the only one at Berkhamsted. His appetites are widely known.”

“I caught you in bed together!” Sanchia shouts. “Where is your shame?” Her clenching fist closes around something; she looks down to see the chess piece still in her hand. She wants to hit Floria in the mouth with it, to stop her ugly words. She would bash it into her teeth, feel them crunch against the ivory, hear her beg for mercy. She opens her hand, lets the piece fall. “You are a married woman.”

“My husband is an old man, with no appetite.”

“And so he does not mind if you indulge yours? Or—does he know about you and my husband?” Perhaps Abraham is using his wife to ingratiate himself with Richard. That would make her a whore, indeed. “I wonder what he would say if I told him?”

Fear, at last, crosses Floria’s face. Sanchia wants to laugh. “The consequences would be dire.”

“I will gladly tell him if I see or hear of you in Berkhamsted—or anywhere in Cornwall—when Richard and I return.”

A tear glistens in the corner of her eye. “The blood will be on your hands, then.”

“Do you dare to threaten me?”

“Abraham becomes mad with rage if another man looks at me.”

“All the more reason for you to depart.” She turns to go, but Floria stops her with a hand on her arm. Sanchia jerks free from her touch.

“I cannot leave, my lady! My parents are dead. Please, I have nowhere to go. Especially in my condition.”

Sanchia gasps and turns, her mouth open, to stare at Floria. The Jewess’s face is slick with tears, just as she had imagined—but the satisfaction she had hoped for does not come.

“I am pregnant,” Floria says in a low voice. “With the lord Richard’s child.”

“My God!” Sanchia cries. “Pregnant?”

“Shhh! I beg you, lower your voice.”

“Why should I, when all the world will soon know?” Dear Lord, and with a Jew! The scandal will destroy him. “You must leave this place as soon as possible—and without a word to Richard, do you hear?”

“But how will I provide for the child, my lady? Surely you wouldn’t want to cause an innocent babe to suffer.”

“You should have thought of that before you seduced my husband.”

“No, my lady. It wasn’t like that. Richard takes what he wants, you know.” Floria clings to her arm as Sanchia starts for the door.

“Don’t touch me, you filth!” she cries, and flings the Jewess to the floor, where she belongs.

And then she runs. She runs as she has not done since her childhood, when she and Margi and Elli would race to the sea, her long legs carrying her past them, at last, the year she turned eight. Now those long legs take her out the door so fast she forgets the blond head as soon as she’s seen it, over the grasses and the flowering heath and into the chapel, where she falls on her knees before the Virgin Mother. Never has she felt so alone.
Please guide me, Dear Mother
. What is she going to do? How can she win Richard back without causing harm to the babe, which would be a greater sin than his?

And yet the Jewess cannot remain here. Richard is fair-haired and has blue eyes. Were the child to resemble him, not only Abraham but all of Cornwall would guess the truth. All of England would know—the whole world! He would never be able to bear the disgrace.

She must save him. But how?
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Please help me!
Floria’s child must not be seen. Her pregnant belly must not be seen—for who would believe that old Abraham is the father? Yet how can she send Floria away and be the cause of the child’s misery or death? Then blood would taint not only her hands, but also her soul. Her stomach twists and she moans, begging God to relieve her of this burden—for why should she bear it when she has done nothing wrong? Abraham
married Floria. He, not she, bears responsibility for the child—and for its mother. He, not Sanchia, should decide Floria’s fate.

Time is running out. Richard will return at any moment, ready to go. She runs up the stairs to the counting room, jumping in her skin, her teeth clacking together, but Abraham is not there. His chair is empty at the table stacked with coins. The door to the treasury, always locked, hangs open for anyone to loot. She touches his still-warm seat. Sweat breaks out on her brow. Foreboding fills her mouth with a metal taste.

She calls his name tentatively, half-expecting him to pop out from behind a door, or from inside the treasury, laughing at her stupidity. But he is gone, and strangely so, for any servant could walk in and take whatever he wanted. She steps into the treasury, her eyes roaming over the sacks of silver, years of riches gleaned from Richard’s tin mines, from his brother the king, from the taxes paid by his Jews. One of these sacks alone would take care of Floria’s needs for years.

The blood will be on your hands.
But Abraham need never know. Floria could disappear and her husband would not know where she had gone, or why. There would be no scandal. Sanchia would take the secret to her grave.

She picks up a sack of coins so heavy that she must hold it with both hands. To hide it, she tucks it under one arm, under her surcoat, and draws her mantle about her shoulders. Then she heads across the meadow again to present Floria with her gift. She imagines the shine of gratitude in her eyes.
Thank you, Mother Mary, for showing me the way.

She hears the groaning before she reaches the house. The sight of the open door brings her running—but she stops at the threshold. Within, Abraham kneels, weeping, on the floor beside Floria, in the very spot where Sanchia left her. “Wake up, darling,” he begs. “Come back to me, my love.” He gathers her head in his arms, pulls her to his chest for an embrace, but she does not move. Her head lolls. Her face is as pale as water. Her lips are faintly blue. A pool of blood spreads behind her head.

“Help,” Sanchia squeaks, but no one hears her except Abraham, who jerks his head around. His pupils are so large they engulf his eyes in blackness, making them look like fathomless holes, like sunken wells of hatred. Suddenly, she understands why Floria feared him. Poor Floria.

“You killed her,” she says, holding onto the doorjamb as her legs begin to shake.

He picks something up from the floor, then raises it for her to see: the frowning queen from the chess set that she had brought from Richard’s chambers, matted with blood and hair.

“No, Countess,” he says. “I didn’t kill her. You did.”

Eléonore

Family Comes First

Edinburgh, 1255

Thirty-two years old

T
HERE IS NO
carriage for Eléonore, not on this journey, only the fastest horses in the royal stable racing her and Henry with John Maunsell and one hundred fifty knights through the northern forests and across the blooming heath to Edinburgh, where their daughter Margaret may or may not be alive.

This ride requires all her skill, all her concentration. The terrain is unfamiliar and she has not ridden a galloping horse in many years, not since her days became too filled with children for the hunt. Unable to find a tutor to engage Margaret’s keen mind—
She is a girl, and does not need to know Latin,
her last teacher sniffed—Eléonore began teaching her children. Her efforts have borne rich fruit: Edward is a bold and daring knight—too bold, at times—with the confidence of a king. Beatrice is a formidable opponent in the art of debate who, like her mother, can ride and hunt as well as any man. Gentle Edmund is a philosopher, wise beyond his years, and a comfort to his mother. The baby Katharine, born deaf and mute and with a peculiar wizened appearance, is sweeter than any person on this Earth, bestowing kisses and sitting in laps with her arms around the necks of her nurses, her brothers
and sisters, her mother and father. Looking at books, however, is her chief joy.