Four Sisters, All Queens (14 page)

Eléonore

Ruffled Feathers

Westminster, 1236

B
EFORE THE CORONATION
, she sits in her chambers, thumbing through the
Lancelot du Lac
Henry had given her the previous day; and writing to Marguerite about their journey to Glastonbury.
They were real! Arthur, the great king who fought off the Saxons and brought peace to England; the Round Table and its knights; the Lady of the Lake; the magical sword; the wise Merlin; the noble and pious Guinevere—they are all real, as I have argued. The monks told of a leaden cross bearing their names and bones buried under a tree.
Eléonore could not contain her excitement: proof at last! But she had not seen the artifacts. The monks have reburied them, and stand vigil day and night to guard them against robbers.

Henry promised to build a shrine in their chapel if they will let me carry the relics in a special ceremony,
she writes.
He is the most generous man I could ever imagine. Perhaps, in time, I will not shrink from his caress.

She strikes out this last line. What does Marguerite know about a man’s caress? King Louis is young and handsome, unlike Henry, but his mother keeps him from her. After two years of marriage, they have not been able to consummate, she whispered to Eléonore
in Paris last month. Henry, on the other hand, has no difficulties in the marriage bed. The problems are all Eléonore’s.

She cannot bear to look at him, at his drooping eyelid, at the hair blanketing his chest, his back, his neck, his feet. He reminds her of an ape, even in the dark or especially so, when she cannot see his gentle eyes but can only feel his hair scratching against her smooth body. When he kisses her, his beard tickles her skin, filling her with revulsion. She knows the quantity of hair has nothing to do with his age, but she cannot help thinking,
Old
.

“My lady, His Grace has come to see you,” Margaret says. She turns the letter on its face and rises to greet him, sweet Henry, smiling shyly after their night together. He has a gift for her, he says, and takes her by the hand.

“Not another gift! Henry, this is too much.” In the six days since their wedding he has given her a belt with a diamond-studded holster and matching dagger; cloth of taffeta, velvet, and the finest silk woven with gold thread; a ring in the shape of a lion—the Plantagenet symbol—with emerald eyes; necklaces, bracelets, cups and, best of all, books: his copy of
The Great Books of Romances,
a psalter, a book of hours, a bestiary, and a collection of songs from Provence, all gilded and illuminated in rich colors as well as silver and gold.

“Nothing but the best for my queen,” he says, as they step into the great hall and she sees the palfrey, a beautiful dappled mare with a yellow mane wearing a saddle with stirrups of gold. She will look splendid riding it in today’s procession, he says.

She strokes the horse’s cheek and murmurs to her.
Sweet baby.
If only Henry’s hair felt as soft, or if only her heart were. His smile is indulgent: he hopes those are tears of joy? She nods, blinking and turning away from him, hating to lie.

He is trying to buy her affection. The adornments and entertainments at their wedding ceremony will be the talk of Canterbury for many years. Her coronation is sure to be equally opulent. Already she has seen lions in cages, dancing girls in exotic costumes, and a cake as big as a house that surely contains something fanciful within.

“It thrills my soul to bring you happiness,” Henry says, pulling her close for a kiss that she must return, and eagerly.

“I am happy,” she says, laughing, wiping her mouth quickly against her sleeve. “So you can stop spending the kingdom’s treasury, if that is what it is for.”

“It is—but there are other reasons to put on a spectacle today.” He helps her onto the horse and she walks the beauty around the hall. The Count of Ponthieu, he tells her, has been granted an audience with the pope. He will argue that their marriage is invalid and that Eléonore is not the true Queen of England.

“Ponthieu? I thought he had given up this fight,” she says, dismounting. “What about the White Queen? Didn’t she attack him?”

“Blanche, too, thought Ponthieu had given up. His reputation for obstinacy appears well deserved.” Someday, they may need the barons to attest that they paid homage to Eléonore as queen. “I have planned an event that they will not forget.”

T
HE ENTIRE CITY
of London, it seems, has come to the procession, all dressed in their finest garments and ornaments: thousands lining the streets to gawk at the three hundred sixty knights and nobles on splendidly bedecked horses, each carrying a gold or silver goblet for the feast; at their king, in his purple, green, and red silks and plush furs; and, most of all, at Eléonore, who sits high on her horse in a dusty rose gown, mantle of gold and ermine, and glittering necklace of rubies—another gift from Henry—and tries not to shiver in the January chill although she has never felt so cold. Already the Earl of Norfolk has been heard to complain about the king’s giving them an “alien” queen. Only an hour from gaining the crown, she does not want to remind the English that she is, as Norfolk (preposterously) said, “nearly French.” Everything must be perfect on this day, and the English, so often conquered in the past, deplore the very idea of foreign rule.

Her hopes for perfection soon fly apart, however, when the
heavy cathedral doors open with a mighty crash during the coronation ceremony. The Count of Ponthieu runs down the aisle, cutting through the crowd with his sword. A woman shrieks; a child begins to scream, nicked on the shoulder by the blade. Henry, sitting on the throne beside Eléonore, leaps to his feet. “Seize him!” he shouts.

It takes four strong knights to subdue him bodily—but they cannot silence him. “This coronation is illegal, for they are not truly married,” he cries, struggling against his captors. “It is a travesty and a sham. The king has already betrothed himself to my daughter.”

The archbishop sets down the incense. “This is a grave allegation. Where is your proof?”

The count waves a parchment. “Here is the
verba de praesenti
he signed with my seneschal, naming Joan as his wife.”

Eléonore stares at the man who may or may not be her husband. He signed a
verba de praesenti
? Is she an adulteress, then? She scans the crowd for Uncle, finds him through her tears.

Uncle steps forward to address the archbishop. “We have already dealt with this . . . most delicate situation at Canterbury, before the wedding.” The marriage to Joan is invalid, he says, because of a prior agreement the count signed with Queen Blanche of France.

“He lost a battle with the French, but she allowed him to keep his lands and castles in exchange for the right to choose his daughter’s husband. Since the queen is contesting the
verba de praesenti
before the pope of Rome, it obviously violates this agreement.”

“And we are too closely related,” Henry says. “Cousins in the fourth degree.”

“My lady, since you are most affected by these charges, I ask what you desire.” The archbishop turns to Eléonore, his expression grave. “If Pope Gregory rules in the king’s favor, then nothing will change. But should he rule for the Count of Ponthieu, he will annul your marriage. You will lose everything—and your children will be considered illegitimate. They will inherit nothing.”

Eléonore’s racing pulse sends her to her feet. Lose everything—when she stands on the cusp of having it all? Her children illegitimate? She is only the daughter of an impoverished count. What sort of future could she make for them?

The cathedral is hushed with expectation. All eyes are on her, waiting for her to do something, to say—what? She needs time to think. Her pounding heart urges her to flee, to escape from these eyes, this terrible pressure, this husband who has humiliated her so. He signed a
verba de praesenti.
Why didn’t he tell her? Under Eléonore’s accusing glare, he seems to crumple. His eye droops so sadly, it might slide off his face completely. He has never looked so old—or so pitiful.

“I only wanted a family,” he murmurs, so low that no one else hears. “With you, Eléonore.”

Tears spring to her eyes. In seven days with Henry, she has seen only kindness, generosity, and passion.
My lion,
she called him. But even a lion has weaknesses: Henry’s is a yearning for the family he never had.

She reaches over and slips her hand into his. Her thumb slides over the hair on his fingers, hair like the silk on a baby’s head. Standing with him, she looks out at the people who would call her queen. What kind of queen would she be, to shrink from this small test? She narrows her eyes at the Count of Ponthieu, still and subdued but his eyes defiant. She thinks of Margi, who, as the Queen of France, may help her to defeat him. A frisson of excitement shivers through her. Eléonore always did love a contest.

A
FTER THE CEREMONY
, Gilbert Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke, waves a wand to clear a path for Henry and Eléonore from the chapel to the banquet hall, while nobles of the Cinque Ports carry silken cloths lined with silver bells on their lance tips to shelter the royal heads. The nobles vied for this privilege, as have others serving the royal couple during the feast—including Simon de Montfort.

“Will the Count of Ponthieu feast with us today?” he asks Henry, a twinkle in his eyes. “Shall I add a drop or two of something to his hand-washing water? A tincture of spiderwort to hasten his digestion of the meal?”