Four Sisters, All Queens (42 page)

Eléonore harrumphed. “My sweet uncle would not harm a fly. Having a volatile temper does not always translate into violence—as you know.”

“William says—”

“Why should I care what William says?” Eléonore snapped, forgetting to remain calm. “Why do you care? Why you listen to that braggart is beyond my comprehension.”

“He is my brother,” Henry said. For the first time, his face closed against her like an iron gate. Eléonore knew then that the rules had changed for her and Henry.

If she had not fought Richard’s appointment to the Gascony post, perhaps Henry would not have distanced himself from her. Given his reverence for the very idea of family, it must seem heretical, in a way, for her to speak against a brother. For her to oppose two brothers would be akin to blasphemy.

Eléonore understands this: she too reveres family. “God first, family second, country third.” These were Mama’s last words before sending her off to England. Yet Mama knows that loyalty need not be blind. The more clearly one sees, the more skillfully one may fight.

Eléonore sees Henry quite clearly. She sees Simon, too. She sees how much alike they are, yet how different—like steel and flint, harmless apart but producing sparks when rubbed together. Each is as stubborn as the other, each as temperamental, each as ambitious. She had thought it might do them both good to gain distance from each other. She had thought to save Simon by sending him across the channel. Most of all, she had thought to keep Gascony out of Richard of Cornwall’s grasping hands.

She should have suggested Richard for the Gascony post. He might have negotiated peace with the rebels, and at a much lower price than Simon’s endless wars have cost. Sending him far away might have helped Sanchia, too.

Her sister’s letters have become increasingly disturbing.
He goes very hard against me since our baby died.
Although she soon had another son, Richard had lost too many, it seemed, to develop affection for another child.
He ignores our little Edmund, which breaks my heart, for he is a precious child, although brutally conceived
.

“Brutally conceived.” Should Eléonore be alarmed, or amused? The caw of a crow can make the timid Sanchia tremble. Why, though, did she turn as pale as a corpse when Eléonore refused her request to give Gascony back to Richard? Eléonore’s “no” made Sanchia recoil as if it were a punch from Richard’s fist.

But Richard is not a fighter. He is a negotiator, the best in England. He is a lover, too, as Joan de Valletort made clear last year. Her appearance at Sanchia’s feast with Richard’s illegitimate son sent scandalized ripples through the hall—which she appeared to relish. Apparently, she intended to ensure that Richard would not forget who bore his first son. Richard, it seemed, had forgotten nothing: the moment the baroness walked into the room, he snapped to attention like a dog on point.

Sanchia could not compete. Golden hair and full lips do not compensate for a lack of sophistication, not with a man like Richard. Mama knew this, which is why she sparkled at Sanchia’s wedding feast as though she were the bride. Dazzled by Sanchia’s beauty and bedazzled by Mama’s wit, Richard failed to notice his new wife’s blush and stammer, her twisting of the tablecloth in her lap, her uncertain laughter at the banter she did not quite understand. Had he known, he would certainly have found another to marry, for a loving and pious heart means little to a man who has no heart at all.

Richard married Sanchia not for her heart, but for her influence on the queens of England and France—so he says. Their mother
tells another tale, how he visited their château on his way to Outremer and was smitten by Sanchia’s perfection. She has the same effect on every man, even Henry—although why should she think “even Henry,” as though he were incapable of desiring other women?

Voices rise from the hall. Eléonore springs from her chair and sweeps down the stairs to hear the verdict. John Maunsell bows, hiding his expression. William taps a rolled-up parchment against his thigh, his lips pursed in their usual pucker of condescension. But it is Henry’s face she seeks, that long, beloved face with its drooping eyelid that seems, tonight, to sag a bit more than usual. He is tired. Exhaustion dulls his eye when he returns her gaze.

“How have you fared?” she says to Henry, reaching for his hand.

“You mean to ask how Simon has fared,” Henry says. “We have drawn up . . . terms.”

“Terms?”

“Rules, my lady,” William interjects.

“Guidance for his conduct upon his return to Gascony. How we wish for him to deal with the people,” Maunsell adds.

“What rules?” she asks. Like Henry, Simon does not prefer the “guidance” of others. “May I see them?” She reaches out but William yanks the parchment away.

“They are reasonable,” Henry says. “Given the circumstances.” He averts his gaze from her incredulous stare.

“That must be why you are so eager to let me see them.”

“My lady, let me say this, if I may: Simon de Montfort will be very surprised at what our Charles the Simple has devised,” William says. His laugh—a dry cackle—tells Eléonore everything she needs to know.

Marguerite

The Time of Sorrow

Egypt, 1250

Twenty-nine years old

T
HE SILENCE STRETCHES
and groans like a man on the rack. Marguerite paces the balcony of the sultan’s palace, holding her belly with both hands, the child she carries as heavy as her foreboding. If only the interminable winds would cease—or bring her some news.

The men departed six months ago, horses high-stepping and spirited, off to Grand Cairo once they heard that the sultan Ayyub had died—but not before a lively discussion over which city to conquer next. The barons argued with one another and with Louis, in whom they were already losing confidence. His later decisions had proved as disastrous as his early ones. Camping outside the city walls to guard Damietta had resulted in many deaths, for the Saracens attacked them while they slept. Later, Louis sent home some of their best warriors for succumbing to the Saracen prostitutes who came to their camp. Then they became stranded for months when—
quelle surprise!—
the Nile flooded the land, making a lake too deep to ford. As the waters subsided, Alphonse finally arrived—bringing, in addition to troops, Robert of Artois’s plump wife Matilda of Brabant, who
jumped into her husband’s arms—allowing the party to proceed. But—to where?

Alexandria, Charles urged. Not only is the city near Jerusalem, but the merchant ships at its busy port could keep the army well supplied. The barons agreed, but Robert argued: Grand Cairo must be their target. Conquering Egypt’s capital would weaken the sultan’s hold on Jerusalem, making it possible to take the holy city.

“If you wish to kill a snake, you must cut off its head,” he said.

Louis slapped his brother on the back. “Praise to God, we are of like minds,” he said. “Let us take Cairo, then, and claim not only the Holy Land but all of Egypt for our Lord.”

The decision was not well received. Everyone grumbled: the barons occupying the Damietta homes, running short of money for food; the foot soldiers camped on the beach, who had eaten most of their provisions, and especially Beatrice and Charles, who never let the presence of either Marguerite or Matilda inhibit them from declaring Louis and Robert to be incompetent fools.

“They would hurl us along the same path to destruction that the King of Navarre’s campaign followed,” Charles said, pacing in the chambers where Beatrice and Marguerite lay side by side, hands on each other’s swollen bellies. “It is as though my brother had no knowledge of the past.”

More likely, Louis wants to demonstrate his favor with God by succeeding where Thibaut failed. Marguerite said this to Jean, who agreed with her—smiling, for he loves Louis, and grins over his antics as a parent might indulge a child. Marguerite, meanwhile, wished her husband might camp forever outside Damietta, leaving Jean to guard the palace and keep her company. Every night, after finishing his duties in the camp, Jean would visit her chambers and sit, propped by cushions, on her bed (there being no chairs or sofas in this world) to talk by candlelight. Their discussion ranged freely. Poetry, philosophy, politics, and art. Champagne, Provence, and the
Roman de la Rose
. The papal feud with the Emperor Frederick. The White Queen’s love affairs—Marguerite has told him all she knows, of course. The rebellions in Gascony. His children, and
her children (but never his wife). Dominicans versus Franciscans. The harmonies of Pérotin, astronomy, the flavor of cardamom. They talked—sharing knowledge, trading witticisms, opening their hearts, feeding Marguerite’s long-hungering mind with the sweet fruits of friendship until, depleted of words, they would at last fall asleep with only their hands touching. Mornings she would awaken and trace her fingertips in the indentation left by his head on her pillow, and recall every word, every gesture. Afternoons she would nap in order to remain awake with him that night, for the conversation that she wished never had to end.

Now the absence of his voice is more oppressive than the wind’s hum, which amplifies the silence but deafens her, at least, to Matilda’s chatter. Robert’s wife talks only about her hunger and her babies left at home, and her husband who is, according to her, the most wonderful man on Earth. “He is called ‘Robert the Good,’ do you know?” she says at least once every day. Marguerite did not know, but she does now.

She had thought Beatrice might keep her company. But pregnancy was hard on her sister, pulling her down to sleep so frequently that Marguerite wondered if she had caught a sickness from the swarming flies. Whenever they talked, the
question
between them, lurking in the shadow of every uttered phrase, would invariably rise and ask itself, and Marguerite would lift her eyebrows, waiting, until Beatrice would snort with irritation and stomp off to her chambers.

The feud ended when Beatrice had her baby. Marguerite remained by her side through the long, difficult birth, holding her hand, mopping her brow, encouraging her sister to be brave, cheering when the infant at last came forth. Afterward, Beatrice’s eyes filled with tears as she and Marguerite cooed over the babe, a beautiful child who looks nothing like Charles.

“I did not think you cared for me,” she told Marguerite.

“Ridiculous,” Marguerite said. “We are sisters.”

“I have never felt like one of you.”