Four Sisters, All Queens (69 page)

“Sir Thomas is no longer a monk, but an esteemed philosopher,” Louis grumps. “He may eat what he wishes, yet he chooses to observe the monk’s diet. I dare say you would not utter these statements were he at table today. You border on blasphemy.”

“Questioning philosophers is blasphemy? Uncle Boniface, what is your opinion?”

Uncle Boniface, who has also added weight—to the detriment of his former good looks—shrugs and places a morsel of songbird in his mouth.

“I am certain Sir Thomas is glad to be absent from this meal,” Eléonore says, “for my sister’s arguments have always sharpened with her hunger, and grown more refined with satiety. He might find himself at a loss.”

“He would, no doubt,” Joinville says, smiling at Margi.

“Especially against a woman,” Margi says. “Thinking the female inferior to the male, as he does.”

But who cares, really, about the hypocrisies of the Church? Eléonore looks down at the little skinned delicate birds lying on the trencher, and sees their broken necks and glazed eyes—the eyes of her husband and son lying on the battlefield at Evesham, broken and bleeding, England’s future lost, and that of her children. But who cares about the future, either? Without her family, there is no future for Eléonore. Thank God Edmund is here with her, out of harm’s way although he has fumed and scowled many times these months as she has refused, again and again, to allow him to return to England and fight. She pushes the plate of birds away.

“Do you not enjoy the
becfigue
? I thought it was your favorite,” Margi says in a low voice. “We sent to the Aix market for them, hoping they would revive your appetite.”

“I am sorry.” Eléonore can barely speak. Her throat, like the rest of her body, feels tight with the effort of holding herself all in one piece. “Today, everything reminds me of death.”

One week has passed since Edward captured Simon’s son and his men at Kenilworth.
The Earl of Leicester hastens to confront the Prince Edward, but the king’s age makes him a slow companion,
Henry of Almain wrote. Eléonore smiled to think of her spry husband feigning tiredness, an aching back, an upset stomach, all to delay Simon’s progress. But she has not smiled since. She will never do so again, she warrants, until Henry and Edward are safe.

Margi orders peas for her, and carrots roasted with honey, and a salad of fresh greens. This she can stomach. She tucks in, but as Louis begins to talk of Outremer, Margi is the one pushing away her plate.

“The Sultan Baybars has taken Nazareth, the city of Our Lord,” he is saying. “The Turks will not stop until they have claimed every city we Christians have built, including Jerusalem.”

“Will there be another pilgrimage to Outremer?” Edmund asks, too hopefully for Eléonore’s liking.

“Should the pope of Rome issue the call,” Margi’s eldest son Philip says gravely. “And I shall be the first to take the cross.”

“You will be the second,” Louis says, beaming.

“Nonsense,” Marguerite huffs. “What is the use of dying a miserable death for a lost cause?”

Eléonore’s head begins to throb.

“A lost cause, the holy city? What cause could be more worthy?” Louis rises from his seat but, weakened from a recent attack of dysentery, he collapses before he can even unfold his legs.

“I agree with the queen,” Joinville says. “Christians have sent troops for nearly one hundred years, wave after wave, and we are repulsed each time. Perhaps God does not smile on the endeavor, since he has not seen fit to make us victorious.”

“God judges us in this world, as in the next, according to our sins,” Louis says. “The righteous he awards with victory, and the sinner with defeat.”

The words hit Eléonore like a slap. Is God judging her, then, by casting her family into danger? What sin has she committed to deserve this sorrow?

“Ruling any people far from home is too costly and too difficult to sustain for long,” Joinville says. “Just ask the good King Henry of England—or his queen.”

All eyes turn to her, but she brims with tears and dares not open her mouth to reply. She mumbles an excuse and rises from the table, bringing her ladies running over to carry her skirts. Voices float after, calling to her, but she can hear only her own questions as she hurries over the floor and up the stairs.

What is her sin? Ambition? Gaining Sicily, while expensive—God knows she paid enough to popes over the years for their battles against Manfred—would have reaped many rewards for England’s treasury. England’s power would have eclipsed that of France. Eléonore would have been the most powerful queen in the world, more powerful than any of her sisters.

But—who cares which kingdom has more power, which kings and queens have more lands? We fight and scheme for our
children’s sakes and then we die, and they may lose all that we built up for them. There is nothing we can give to anyone that lasts—except love.

Is greed her sin? She has been accused of it. She has been greedy, yes, but for her children’s sakes, not her own. She wanted the best for them that life can offer. She wanted to ensure that they would never suffer hunger or fear as she did in Provence—and what did it avail her? Edward imprisoned, nearly killed more than once, his life in the hands of enemies. Edmund hiding here with her, not King of Sicily, never to be king of anything—and who cares? None of it matters to Eléonore now, not when her husband and son might lie dead on the ground, or in the gallows.

She should not have waited to make amends with Edward. She has neither seen nor heard from him since their quarrel at Windsor—years ago, before her attack at London Bridge. She pulls her arms to her chest.
Holy Mother, save my son so that I might hold him close to me again.

Marguerite finds her lying on her bed. “Can you believe Louis’s talk of returning to Outremer?” she says, pacing the floor. “Apparently, our last campaign wasn’t enough of a failure.”

“Why are men driven to fight? They kill one another over castles, over a patch of land in the desert, over ideas.” She wonders if they realize how meaningless are their pursuits, if any man ever wishes he had given himself over to love rather than to killing. Love is the only thing that matters. Does any man ever know this?

Family comes first.
Suddenly, Eléonore understands her mother’s words in a new way. Family is all. She has spent her life lifting uncles and cousins, nieces and nephews to greater wealth and status, and competing with her sisters for the same. Now, though, these goals seem as foolish as the games they played as children—although far more dangerous. Her efforts to gain Sicily for one son turned all of England against her, and may end in death for Edward and Henry.

Now Beatrice wants Sicily, but does she know the price? Her pursuit has cost her much of Eléonore’s love—and more of
Marguerite’s, if there was any left to lose. Oh, it will be awful. Manfred is a fearsome warrior, and will fight to the death. Charles may be killed—and Beatrice may discover what Eléonore, facing the loss of her husband and son, has now realized. She threw all her weight behind the “Sicilian business” as though nothing else mattered—when, in fact, ruling Sicily mattered not at all.

Not even being a queen matters to her now, or Henry’s being king, or Edward’s being prince.
Take it all, O Lord. Just let my son and husband live
.

“Egypt is a brutal place. They will die if they go,” Margi is saying. “I don’t want my children to die.”

From outside the door, a flurry of female voices, the handmaids’ tittering. Margi’s maid steps in and, with a curtsey, announces Henry of Almain. Eléonore dries her tears but her hand is damp when Henry drops to one knee and kisses it.

“My lady, the battle at Evesham is ended.” He remains on the floor with his head bowed. A sharp ache twists under Eléonore’s breastbone.

“So soon! I only heard late last night that the fighting was at hand.”

“It began and ended in two hours’ time.” Why doesn’t he lift his face to her? “The Prince Edward fought most valiantly.”

“By God’s head!” Her pulse bounces about as if her heart had untethered itself. Tears gush forth from her eyes. “Have you come to deliver his epitaph?”

He glances sharply up at her. A smile tugs at his mouth. “Not an epitaph, my lady, but sad news for many. Our army trampled over the rebel forces like a thundering stampede. We are victorious.”

“Praise be to God!” She wipes her tears with the back of her hand. “Your downcast eyes told a different tale. Or”—she presses a hand to her chest—“do you bear bad news of Henry?”

“He is safe, my lady,” and no thanks to Simon, he tells her when he has stood. Maliciously, Simon placed his own helmet on Henry’s head and stood him amid a small group, weaponless, in the battle. “His Grace would not have been recognized save for his constant
calling out of his name, and his crying, ‘Do not strike me! I am too old to fight.’”

“My Henry, too old to fight?” Eléonore smiles. “Were his tongue as sharp as a blade, he would have cut Simon down long ago.”

Henry of Almain lowers his gaze again. “Simon is dead now, my lady, and his eldest son.”

How strange that she feels no remorse, not even a shimmer of sorrow for a man whom, once, she called friend. But that was many years ago, before he tried to destroy her and the people she loved. “You are certain? You have seen his body?”

“I have seen his head, my lady, with his testicles wrapped around his nose.” He blushes, but Eléonore bursts into laughter. Roger, the Earl of Mortimer and Simon’s most impassioned enemy, killed him and sent his head thusly adorned to his wife, Dame Maud Mortimer, at Wigmore Castle.

“May he rest in peace, and his sons, and all the good Englishmen who died for his lost cause,” he says.

“Lost, indeed! Good riddance. England is better off without Simon, and will not even notice that he is gone.” Henry of Almain may feign grief all he likes—gloating over the deaths of one’s enemies is not considered chivalrous behavior—but she will not conceal her delight. “Have you come to fetch me home, I hope?”

“I have, my lady.” He pulls a parchment from his surcoat. “Here is a letter from Prince Edward, summoning you.”

Eléonore tears it open, her eyes filling with tears before she has read the first word.

O brave Queen Eléonore, you have saved us. Now come home and reap your rewards. All of London wants to kneel before you, to pay homage to you and beg your forgiveness—I, most of all.

Beatrice