Four Sisters, All Queens (18 page)

“I received a letter from Mama yesterday.” She breaks open the first seal. “She wrote of difficulties in London.”

“King Henry’s love for me has caused your sister much misfortune. The barons whisper against Elli whenever he gives me a gift. Which is often.”

“Have you considered declining his gifts?”

“And insult my king?” He grins. “His Grace enjoys giving to me. His face lights up like a child’s at Christmas.” He settles himself on the divan while she reads.

“I envy Elli,” she says as she reads. “Facing down disgruntled barons would be a trifling task compared to keeping one’s marriage from being annulled.”

“Annulled? Louis is smitten with you.”

“His mother is not.” She drops the letter to the table by her side. “She wields her power like a noose, strangling Louis’s appetite for me. If I don’t conceive a child soon, she says, she will send me to Provence and marry him to the countess Johanna.”

“That cannot be.” William pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at his face. “This is disturbing news, Margi. Very upsetting. Provence needs you on the throne.”

“I have done little for Provence, I’m afraid.”

“You do not know that.” He tucks his handkerchief into his sleeve. “Without your influence, might Toulouse have taken your father’s castles? His attacks have not ceased, but they have subsided.”

She hides her surprise. Has Toulouse run out of funds? Is he
injured? Whatever the reason for his retreat, it has nothing to do with her.

“Simon de Montfort aims to spoil the queen mother’s plans, at any rate,” she says. According to Eléonore, he has proposed to Johanna of Flanders who, enthralled, has agreed to marry him in the spring.

The creases deepen in her uncle’s forehead. “Blanche must hear of this! The English king’s seneschal, the Count of Flanders? Normandy is on the border—too close for the White Queen’s comfort.” He brightens. “No need to worry, my dear. The White Queen will block that alliance.”

“But Uncle, that is the very circumstance I dread. An unmarried Johanna of Flanders is as tempting to Blanche as mouse to a cat.”

“Have you seen the countess? Quite plain. She resembles a mouse, in fact. Your husband would not choose her over you.”

“Dear uncle, do you still not understand? Louis has no choice. Blanche chooses for him.”

He waves his hand. “I can provide her with a different alternative. Fear not: when I leave the queen mother’s chambers today, Johanna of Flanders will pose a threat to you no more.”

Eléonore

The Taste of Treachery

London, 1237

Fourteen years old

S
IMON DE
M
ONTFORT
bursts into Eléonore’s chambers unannounced, causing her to prick her finger with her sewing needle and drop the peacock feathers she is affixing to a new hat.

“Allow me,” he says, and drops to his knees, presses her finger to his lips, and kisses away the drop of blood. His eyes hold anger, and a glint of mockery. Red smears his upper lip.

“Treachery cannot be tasted, after all,” he says. “If so, your blood would surely hold a bitter edge.”

She tucks the lines into her memory: They are perfect for the song she is writing. But petulance, not poetry, is Simon’s reason for being here—indeed, his reason for being at all, she has learned. She pulls tight the cord of self-control, hiding her annoyance.

She stands. “Apparently, I have offended you.”

“You have injured me, and deprived my future,” he says. “I thought we were friends.”

“So we are.”

“Snatching away my bride-to-be and giving her to your uncle is hardly the act of a friend.”

Eléonore gasps. “My uncle?” Guillaume, marry? Has he renounced his bishopric? “You must be mistaken.”

“If only I were. But Johanna is quite clear.” He pulls a letter from the pouch on his belt. “Thomas of Savoy is nearer my age and experienced in government, and he has the approval of the French queen,” he reads. “We announced our betrothal yesterday, and will be married before Christmas.”

Thomas. Of course. He and Johanna will make a perfect match. Both tall, fair-haired, and prone to bouts of laughter, they could almost be brother and sister. Both are noted diplomats, respected by barons, kings, and clergy. And Johanna, like Thomas, adores dogs, horses, and everything to do with the hunt.

“You did this,” Simon says. He crushes the letter in his fist.

“I had nothing to do with it. I am as surprised as you.”

“No one but you knew of our plans.”

“But why would I interfere?”

“Yes, why? Out of jealousy, to think of me with another woman?”

Eléonore forgets, for one moment, that she is queen; she drops her gaze like a shy girl. In fact, she dreaded his marriage to Johanna, not out of jealousy but because it would take him far away from the English court.

“Or perhaps you think Thomas of Savoy would be more useful in your pursuit of Normandy,” he says. “Yet he is also uncle to the Queen of France, and would be as likely to help her as you.”

Eléonore thinks of her letter to Marguerite, telling her of Simon and Johanna’s plan. She only wanted to reassure her sister—how cruel of the White Queen to taunt her with threats of an annulment!—but now she wonders: did Margi use the letter to advance her own interests?

“In Flanders, I could have helped King Henry regain those lands, and their riches, taken so unfairly from England,” Simon says.

“I know! I wanted that.”

“But not enough to keep our secret.”

“Simon, I only told my sister because—”

“Aha! You admit it! You told the French queen of my plans.”

“Yes!” Eléonore’s eyes fill with tears. “The queen mother threatened to annul my sister’s marriage, and to marry King Louis to Johanna. I was trying to console her.”

“She used your news to prove her loyalty to France—and to betray you.”

Dear sister, I cannot believe you would do such a thing. Please tell me it is not so!

Eléonore remembers herself. “This is a family matter. I will not discuss it with you.”

“I am not a member of your clan, so my welfare is not your concern?”

“You know that is not true.” He turns to leave. “Simon, wait. Simon! I command you to come back this instant.”

He whirls around and drops to his knees before her, his cap in his hand, his eyes downcast. “You summoned me, my lady?”

“Cease this mockery,” she snaps. “Stand before me, Simon.”

He obeys, but still will not meet her eyes. “I apologize for what has happened,” she says. “I betrayed you, although I did not mean to. Your friendship means everything to me.”

Now he looks at her. “You might make amends.”

“How? I will do anything in my power.”

He shows his perfect teeth. “You can find another wife for me,” he says. “Someone as good as Johanna of Flanders, or better. Someone very rich.”

Marguerite

Immaculate Conception

Flanders, 1237

N
O ONE IS
happier than Marguerite at the wedding of her uncle Thomas to Johanna of Flanders—except, perhaps, Uncle Guillaume, who has at last gained the favor of the White Queen. Blanche seats him next to her during the banquet and flirts and laughs as though they are old friends, while he glows with anticipation over the lands and titles that will surely follow.