Four Sisters, All Queens (7 page)

Country Bumpkin

Sens, 1234

T
HE FANFARE OF
trumpets startles her awake—that, and her carriage’s sudden stop. She lifts her head from Aimée’s lap. Outside the window: Uncle Guillaume’s thickly bearded face.

“Are we in Sens?” Has she slept for so long?

“Not yet. But your husband cannot wait for us to arrive, it seems.” He beams. “King Louis approaches, my dear.”

Aimée snaps the curtain shut. Her fingers fly about her mistress’s head, tucking her loose hair into a crespine (for she is married now, already given by proxy to King Louis by Papa), tying a yellow barbette under her chin, topping her with a scalloped fillet. “You’ll not be caught by surprise as long as I serve you,” she says, dabbing red ochre onto Marguerite’s lips. From outside, fanfare. Marguerite lifts the curtain, sees Provençal horses bearing red-and-gold-striped banners and, in the distance, cathedral spires. Her time is nearly at hand. She takes a deep breath.

Guillaume raps again. “Will you keep His Grace waiting?”

“Go. Hurry!” Aimée pushes her out the door. “Go and charm your king, and save us all.”

She takes her uncle’s proffered hand and steps down to the
ground. “I don’t know who is more excited about this meeting, you or Aimée.”

“I think the king outshines us both.”

Marguerite sees him—and gasps.

“I agree,
ma chère,
but of course you will not laugh,” Uncle Guillaume murmurs.

She is permitted to smile, however, and she does so, as broadly as her mouth will stretch as she glances into his eyes and then away, not letting her gaze linger on his mail suit of dazzling, eye-popping gold.

“My lord.” She curtseys deeply.

“Please do not be intimidated. I have dressed to impress you, but I am only a humble man under this armor.”

“A most dazzling man, my lord.” His eyes are a shade of blue she has not seen in eyes. They ask questions to which Marguerite has no answers. She has questions of her own, but now is not the time—not until she has won his affection.

Light bounces off his suit and across her eyes. She averts her gaze. He moves toward her.

“You are far more beautiful than anyone has said.” He stands so close that Marguerite can feel the sun’s reflection off his suit. Her breath catches in her throat. “M. de Flagy did not describe you fully.”

“‘
Singing proves merely valueless/ If the song moves not from the heart,
’” she sings softly.

The king blinks in confusion. “Pardon?”

“By Bernard de Ventadour, my lord.” He knits his brow. “Do not mind me. I have recently awakened from dreams peopled by troubadours, and filled with song.”

“Troubadours?” His face smoothes out, relieved. “Ask Mama. She knows all about them.” Does the White Queen share Marguerite’s love for song, then? If so, befriending her may not be so difficult.

A young man and a boy approach. As they bow, the king introduces them: his brothers—Robert, tall and broad-shouldered, the
quintessential courtly knight except for his smirk; and Alphonse, small and dark-haired, blinking with purpose.

“Welcome to France, my lady.” Robert bows. “We hope you will enjoy our brother’s company more than we do.”

Alphonse sniggers. “Yes, please keep him amused. We are tired of hiding and running away from him.”

The king creases his forehead. She turns to present her uncles. “I believe you are acquainted with Guillaume, the archbishop-elect of Valence, and Thomas, the Count of Piedmont.”

“Who does not know the men of Savoy?” The king smiles as her uncles kneel before him. “The Holy Roman Emperor is said to keep your counsel these days,” he says to Guillaume.

“I dined with him a fortnight ago, my lord,” Guillaume says, standing. “And the pope of Rome the week before that. It would please me greatly to share my insights with you—”

“Yes, of course, you must speak to my mother.” Louis turns to Marguerite. “Shall we proceed to Sens, my lady? Mama waits to receive you there.”

He takes her hand and, bowing, kisses the air above it. Marguerite’s skin tingles as if he had touched her with his lips. He turns and strides to his horse, his brothers behind him. Beside her, Uncle Thomas arches an eyebrow and Guillaume shrugs.

“The king has no interest in policy making,” Guillaume says as the men escort her back to her carriage. “Can we blame him? Tomorrow is his wedding day.”

“He is enchanted by his new bride.” Thomas winks. “As is every man in his entourage. Did you note how they stared at you, Margi?”

“And you are not even wearing a gold suit,” Guillaume says.

Marguerite’s legs ache from the long hours of sitting. She longs to walk, but of course she cannot, for the crowd that has gathered along the roadside would suck her into itself, consuming her. Outstretched hands make her want to shrink back, but smiles and shouts hold her in the window of her carriage.
“Vive la reine!”
Goosebumps tickle her arms.
“Vive la reine Marguerite!”

She ventures a wave, uncertain how to respond to these Franks and poor villeins, barefoot and dirty in their coarse clothing, fresh from work in the fields. A girl hands her a bundle of wildflowers; she crushes them against her nose as though they were fragrant roses. She blows a kiss to the girl; the people cheer. Standing so close, can they hear her thoughts? Pollen itches her nose, but she suppresses a sneeze for fear of spitting on them.

The path to Sens grows more clotted as the procession nears the city. People swarm the bridge, leaving little room for the carriage. At times it stops altogether, allowing hands to reach her window. “They will tear you apart with their love,” Aimée says. Marguerite lifts her hands, touches fingers and palms in passing, accepts the prayers and good wishes of her people.

“How pretty she is! She and the king will make handsome heirs.”

“Shh! Do not talk so about our queen.”

“And see? You are making her blush.”

In the crush, the spires of the Sens cathedral disappear from view, but a blast of trumpets announces its imminence. Her pulse flutters in time to the rat-a-tat of drums. So much depends on her success here. If she fails to stop Toulouse, her family may be lost—and so may be Provence, lost to that greedy tyrant, her people and her lands torn apart like a hind overcome by hounds.

The carriage passes under the jutting upper stories of tall houses which block the last light of the now-waning day, but no matter: Lighted candles ensconced on the outside walls illuminate the way and highlight the red, green, and blue banners and fragrant garlands of flowers draped over windows and doorways.
“Vive la reine!”
people continue to cry, but the shouts subside as the ragged and frayed tunics of the peasantry and the pale linens of the townspeople give way to colorful silks, velvet and fur, gold buttons, glittering jewels. These are the barons of France and their families, too refined to shout, too elegant to do more than smile and wave—if that. For at least one in their midst does neither, but watches her with contempt on his soft, almost womanly, face.

Toulouse.

She ducks behind the curtain. Why has he come to Paris? Not to congratulate her on her marriage, surely; not to bow before her tomorrow, when she takes the crown. Whatever his mission, it cannot bode well for Provence.

The carriage halts at the cathedral grounds. Myriad candles and torches illuminate the festive scene: horses munching from oats poured onto the grass; silk-clad men and women drinking from under shelters of branches and leaves; the cathedral, its spires piercing the night sky, its enormous rose window overlooking the sculptured saints lining the path to its door. Perfumes scent the air, and horse dung and burning tallow. Laughter and music weave an intricate dance under the peeping stars; a baby cries; horses whinny and nicker. Uncle Guillaume opens the carriage door and beckons her forth. Aimée hands her a mantle; she pulls it close. The air is cool for May—but this is not Provence.

The king’s smile makes her forget the chill. Her hand in the crook of his arm, they pass a mélange of faces—friendly, curious, bland, sullen—before stepping into a white palace beside the cathedral. These, the king tells her, are the archbishop’s apartments, given up for their use.

Up a set of stairs, then into a lamplit room. On the walls: a tapestry of gold, red, and saffron hexagons from Outremer; another depicting the crucified Christ, tears like diamonds on his cheeks. Carpets pad the floor in red and blue. Green velvet curtains hang at the windows. Gold and sandalwood perfume the air. She detects a faint fragrance of rose as well. Sumptuousness stretches like a cat in her lap. Her father’s household was never so luxuriant.

“Behold my mother.” Louis murmurs as if this were the cathedral. Marguerite blinks, adjusting her senses: the flickering light, the music of the vielle—and the woman with the snow-white face on the red velvet throne. When her sight returns, she moves across the room to kneel at the feet of Blanche de Castille, the legendary White Queen.

She extends her hand, allowing Marguerite to kiss her heavy gold ring. “I am deeply honored, my lady.” Marguerite’s hand
trembles as she touches the cool fingers. “You are much acclaimed in my home of Provence.”

Blanche de Castille gives an indelicate snort and looks away, as if bored. Louis helps Marguerite to stand.

“Your home is in France now.” The queen mother’s voice holds a chill, like the night air. “The people of France are your people.”

Marguerite tries not to stare. This is the woman of whose beauty the troubadours sing? Her shaved hairline makes her forehead seem to bulge, ledge-like, over her eyes. The paste covering her face and throat renders her a White Queen, indeed.

She clears her throat. “And as queen, I only hope I can serve the French people as well as you have done.”

“M. de Flagy told me that you are a good girl.” The White Queen’s voice has softened. “I can see that he was correct. We are going to get along very well.”

“It is my fervent wish.”

Her blue-gray eyes, the “eyes of vair” praised in many a song, peruse Marguerite from head to feet and back up again, as did M. de Flagy’s, but without the leer.

“The problem is,
ma chère,
you do not look French. Your skin is as brown as a peasant’s, exposed to the sun during your rambles in the southern fields, I presume. Your hairline encroaches most unattractively onto your forehead, and your gown looks thin and garishly dyed. You remind me of one of those vulgar flowers that grow in the South, or of a common servant prancing about in her mistress’s clothes.”

“Yes, my lady.” Heat rises in her face.

“But these superficial flaws are easily remedied. I will send someone over in the morning, before the wedding ceremony, to pluck your forehead and to help you with your makeup. I will also provide you with a wedding gown, for I am sure the one you have brought is inadequate.”

From outside, shouts:
Where is our new queen? We want the queen!
The queen mother’s smile disappears.

“That is all for now. Louis, my love”—her voice becomes a
caress—“you are in demand. Go and present your little wife to the people, then send her to her room to rest. I will wait for you here, darling. We have matters of the kingdom to discuss.”

“Yes, Mama.” The king kisses her hand, then offers Marguerite his arm. When they turn to leave, she remembers her uncles, standing in the doorway and waiting for their introductions.

She turns back to the White Queen. “My lady, may I present my guardians, my uncles Guillaume and Thomas of Savoy? They have come to pay their respects.”

The White Queen heaves a sigh, as if exhausted by the short meeting with Marguerite. “Not tonight. Tomorrow. I have had my fill of country bumpkins for one day.”

Tears spring to her eyes. “Yes, my lady.” As they start to walk away, the queen speaks her name.

“You may call me ‘Mama.’ I have only one daughter, and she is a silly child. It may please me to have a girl in the household with some sense in her head. As long as it has not gone
to
your head.”

“Yes, Mama,” Marguerite says. And walks out of the room with her husband, the king, her emotions whirling like bees around a vulgar flower.