Four Sisters, All Queens (12 page)

The gathered crowd erupts into cheers, tossing flowers to Marguerite and calling her name. Louis offers her his arm. With musicians before them and the queen mother behind, she walks in a rain of petals through a stone gate, past a line of servants standing at attention, and into the great hall, bedecked with colorful banners and bejeweled tapestries and filled with long, linen-covered tables and benches. Louis leads her up onto a dais and they take seats at the table with Blanche, while the rest sit according to their rank.

Servants scurry in bearing great platters of food: duckling, carp, venison, lettuces, cheese, cooked apples, foie gras, olives, raspberries, and bread—and pouring wine into goblets with pitchers of water set alongside for mixing. Louis hands her their golden goblet and watches her drink; she returns it with lowered eyes. Tonight they will spend their first night together as husband and wife—on their backs in the marriage bed instead of on their knees in the chapel.

Her stomach flutters, causing her to pick at her meal although she has not eaten all day. Coming from a home where food was scarce, she is accustomed to hunger. Louis, too, eats little, and grins much. When the musicians begin to play, he leans toward her. He is tired, he says, of music and crowds. Would she welcome a tour of the château and grounds? The gardens are most impressive.

They step into the courtyard and it is as he said: cherry trees blossom wantonly, filling the air with fragrance, and lilies bloom around a burbling fountain.

“This fountain seemed much larger when I was small,” Louis says. “I remember hiding behind it. Now I see why I was so easily found.”

“From whom would little Prince Louis have hidden?”

He grimaces. “My tutor. I had neglected my studies. His beatings were quite severe.”

“What a pity!” She reaches up to stroke his cheek. “A good teacher would have inspired you instead of beating you.”

“Oh, but I was a very sinful child. I was much more interested in chasing frogs and torturing beetles than reading my psalter.” He sighs. “Think of my poor mother, trying to bring up an unruly boy while ruling a kingdom of malcontents. I caused her much woe—until my fourteenth birthday. On that day Mama appointed M. de Flagy to me, a true gift from God. His daily whippings helped me to mend my ways.”

Marguerite gasps. “Daily whippings! You poor boy.”

“It is not so serious as that.” He plucks a blossom and tucks it into her crespine. “But I did not bring you into these beautiful gardens to discuss my tutors. I had hoped for a kiss under these trees from my lovely wife.”

He brushes her cheek with his lips. His breath is hot on her face. His heart thumps against her chest.

“You are lovely.” He kisses her on the mouth, gently at first, as if he can feel her pulse, too, racing in her breast. At last, when she winds her arms around his neck, delighting in the taste and feel of him, his kiss deepens.

“I cannot wait to join our bodies,” he murmurs. “I pray that the priests will bless our marriage bed soon.”

“Soon enough, my son.” Blanche’s voice is a lance piercing their privacy—or their illusion of it. “First, however, we must discuss affairs of the kingdom.”

Louis stiffens. His hands fall from Marguerite’s body. Blanche’s face holds disgust, as though she had found them naked and fornicating on the lawn.

“Your presence is required in my chambers, Louis. If you are not too busy.”

What “affairs of the kingdom” cannot wait until tomorrow? This is the life of a queen, Marguerite supposes: no time to call one’s own, ever subservient to the people’s needs. She had thought that, as queen, she would have control over her life as well as the lives of others. Now, after three days of fulfilling others’ desires while putting off her own, she thinks the opposite may be true.

Inside the great hall the music continues, but the diners, weary after days of travel and revelry, are dispersing. Marguerite nods to her uncles, across the room, talking together and glancing at her. Blanche speaks to Louis but Marguerite cannot hear her over the din. They pass through the great hall and up the stairs to the queen’s chambers, where Raimond of Toulouse awaits outside the door, flanked by palace guards.

The White Queen greets her cousin with a kiss. “Your presence is not needed here,” she says to Marguerite. “I will have one of the guards show you to your chambers. I know how you love your sleep.”

“But . . . I am the queen,
ma mère
. I would like to participate.” She hopes the quavering in her voice is not detectable. Blanche
arches her brows at Louis:
Do you see what I mean about her?
He averts his gaze from Marguerite, refusing to meet her eyes.

“These are delicate negotiations,” he says.

“And I am your queen. I want to be included.”

An uncomfortable silence follows.

“Perhaps you can be of use to us,” Blanche says at last. “My cousin Toulouse says that your father has taken a number of French knights as hostages. He demands an exorbitant ransom for their release. How much influence can you wield with him?”

“If Raimond of Toulouse will agree to stop attacking our castles, I think my father would reduce the ransom,” she says.

“
Our
castles? Is your allegiance yet with Provence, then?” The White Queen turns to Louis. “Do you agree with me now?” His gaze droops. “Louis, I will see you inside. Marguerite, enjoy your rest.”

When she has gone, Marguerite knits her brows. “Am I Queen of France, or is she?”

“It is . . . complicated. You would do well, I think, to avoid this meeting. Toulouse is temperamental and vindictive. One errant word from you might worsen matters—for all.”

“But didn’t you marry me for my ties to Provence? Doesn’t your mother want an alliance with my father?”

“That will come in time,” Louis said. “You must be patient. For now, it is best that you keep yourself apart from the situation. Mama and I must consider Toulouse’s proposal carefully and do what is best for France.”

“What is he proposing? Some bold new plan for ruining my family, no doubt.”

“I cannot discuss it with you now.” He holds both her hands. “Please, darling, wait for me in your chambers. The priests are blessing the nuptial bed even now, and I will join you soon.” He pecks her on the forehead with lips like a smooth stone, then steps into his mother’s chambers. Marguerite wants to follow, but a guard blocks her way. She heads into the great hall, where her uncles wait for the bed-blessing ceremony with several men:
Odo, the abbot of St. Denis; the red-faced Count Enguerrand of Coucy, the noble she saw blowing his nose in the tablecloth during the wedding feast; Louis’s uncle Philip Hurepel, who once fought Blanche for the kingdom and lost; Thibaut of Champagne; and still others. Her uncles pull her aside.

“Why aren’t you in the meeting with Toulouse?” Uncle Guillaume demands. “We hear he is plotting to invade Provence yet again, and with a greater force than before.”

“Blanche barred me. She said my connections to Provence would upset the ‘delicate’ discussions.”

“I knew it!” Thomas says. “Blanche will not give up her power so easily.”

“You must be stronger, Margi,” Uncle Guillaume says. “Otherwise, we have married you to France in vain.”

“I welcome your advice, Uncle. Or perhaps you would care to provide an example, and force your way into the meeting? It is taking place in the queen mother’s chambers.”

Thomas grins. “Margi, you remind me more of your mother with each passing day.”

“You have our sister’s wit,” Guillaume says, “but are you as discerning as she? How will Louis and Blanche respond to Toulouse’s request? How should they respond?”

She ponders for a moment. “I think,” she says, hesitating, “that the White Queen will say no. Toulouse has her affection, but she will not help him. For one thing, the pope of Rome is indebted to my father for supporting him during the Albigensian raids. France does not want to fight the Church.”

It was the one policy of her father’s with which she disagreed. How could he allow the Church to attack his people? Why would he aid the pope of Rome by granting his troops safe passage to Languedoc? “We know the Cathars,” she argued, “and they are not heretics.”

“We know nothing,” her father had responded, “except that the pope is winning his war against the Holy Roman Emperor. His power grows daily. If we refuse him now, he may refuse us
someday when we need his help.” Now, however, when they do need his help, Papa will not request it. Favors from the Church, he fears, might come at too high a price.

“Also,” she tells her uncles, “the Holy Roman Emperor now supports Toulouse. Blanche would not want to join that alliance.” In the bitter fight between the pope and the emperor, France has managed to remain neutral.

“Well spoken, Margi,” Uncle Thomas says. “Do you see, brother? We will leave France in very good hands.”

“But you’ve only just arrived,” she says with a little laugh. “You’re to become advisers to the crown, remember?”

“Your mother-in-law is not interested in our advice,” Thomas says. “She is sending us home.”

“Home! But that is impossible. There must be a mistake.” Her head begins to ache.

“There is no mistake.” Uncle Guillaume places his hands on her shoulders. “All who accompanied you from Provence must return in the morning. Blanche commanded it today.”

“All?” Marguerite’s voice falters. “Even Aimée?”

“Blanche has appointed new ladies-in-waiting for you, probably daughters of the barons who are friendly to her,” Thomas says. “They will certainly spy for her.”

“Try not to cry, my dear.” Guillaume kisses her tears. “It is most unqueenly, and your subjects are watching.”

“I do not care,” she says as she dries her eyes. “I can’t lose you. Uncles! You, at least, must stay with me. My parents would want it.”

“There is nothing we can do,” Thomas says. “The White Queen has spoken, and the king has concurred. None of us, not even Guillaume or I, will be allowed to enter Paris with you. It is why we stopped in Fontainebleau for the night. We leave for Provence tomorrow.”

Eléonore

A Fickle King

Canterbury, 1236

Thirteen years old

B
Y
G
OD’S HEAD
, he is an old man.