Four Sisters, All Queens (46 page)

Beatrice

The Magnificent Queen

Grand Cairo, 1250

Nineteen years old

T
HE SULTANESS OF
Egypt frowns down at them from her high throne, her fleshy face a dark moon in folds of white linen. One of her hands rests on her golden throne; one holds a scepter, also of gold. On her left, a man in a white turban listens to Marguerite’s petition and murmurs in the sultaness’s ear. Not that he needs to whisper for their sake: Neither she nor Marguerite understands a word of Arabic.

Marguerite, in her men’s robes and long headdress, holds up a jar made of animal hide. “This vessel is filled with livres, hundreds of them. We have more coming; many more, all that you have asked for. I pray you, take this money and set my husband free.”

“Hundreds?” The sultaness’s laugh tinkles like a fountain of water. “Would we release a king for such a paltry sum?”

Marguerite makes her case: The king’s health is sensitive. She has heard that he is very ill. He is beloved by his subjects and barons as well as the lords of surrounding lands. If he dies in the Mansoura jail, many kingdoms will send troops to fight against Egypt, seeking revenge.

“And if we free him, he will return to wage war against our people again,” the sultaness says.

“We only wish to return home.”

Shajar al-Durr smiles thinly. “Do you know how your husband spends his time in our prison? Trying to convert his guards to the Christian religion.”

Beatrice imagines him in his hair shirt and coarse tunic, rashes oozing and bleeding, telling the Saracens in their soft gowns that his is the path to salvation.

“He loves God, as you do,” Marguerite says.

Her remark has hit its mark: The sultaness’s eyes soften as they meet Marguerite’s. Her sister stands with a straight back and a bold thrust of her chin, as defiant as a shield. Beatrice marvels at the change: Have her man’s clothes brought it about, or is it her success at saving Damietta? So reserved before, so contained, she now moves with vigor, commanding men as though she were a king, even laughing at the bawdy songs the Genoan sailors sang as they rowed the boats up the broad, flat Nile. Nothing could subdue her, not the bump of crocodiles against the galleys; not the swarms of mosquitoes about their heads and faces; not even the white-hot blast of the midday sun.

“Love of God is not why you have come,” Shajar al-Durr says. “If it were so, you would heed his commandment not to kill. You are here because you want what we have.”

“We want the holy city. It is where our Lord was crucified. Where he was raised from the dead and ascended into heaven.”

“Also our ports of trade. Our fine cloth. Our beautiful rugs. Our spices. Our poetry and philosophy. Our music. Our gold. Especially our gold.”

Marguerite says, “I know nothing about gold. My husband came to claim Jerusalem for Christians.”

“Then why isn’t he in Jerusalem?”

Marguerite says nothing, and Beatrice knows why: They heard Robert of Artois and the other barons urging Louis to swoop
down like a hawk on Mansoura and seize the sultan’s palace now that Shajar al-Durr’s husband is dead. “A treasure trove of riches,” Robert said, “ours for the taking!” The barons’ greed knew no end; nor did Robert’s arrogance. They had, indeed, come to Outremer for the gold.

“No matter why we came, we have lost to you,” Beatrice says. “We are at your mercy, for now. But the people of France will soon hear that King Louis and his brothers are captive. They will eagerly fight for him.”

The man beside her laughs. Shajar al-Durr lifts her hand and he is silent, but his eyes shimmer with mirth.

“Have you come to threaten me,” the sultaness says, “or to negotiate your husbands’ release?”

“We wish to free all our men—today,” Marguerite says.

“Have you brought five hundred thousand livres? No? Then I cannot let even a single man go with you. If I did, I might lose my neck.” A shadow crosses her face. “I may lose it, anyway.”

“And I may lose my husband.” Marguerite’s voice rises. “We have four children.”

“I am sorry.” The sultaness’s eyes fill with tears. “My husband died recently. I loved him as only a woman can love. And now my son Turan Shah is slain. I loved him as only a mother can love.”

Beatrice’s throat tightens. How would it be to lose Charles? Life would lose its luster. Even to lose her babies would strike her senseless. Yet the sultaness Shajar al-Durr sits on her throne and conducts business even while her heart breaks, even while the men who killed her son may be conspiring against her.

“My people are watching me closely,” she says. “To have a woman as their ruler has not been permitted before. We hope the caliph will allow it now. But even if he does, the Turks may not. So I must proceed with care.”

“And if something happens to you before I can collect the ransom? What will become of my husband and his men?”

Shajar al-Durr’s thick eyelashes fall over her cheeks like fans. When she lifts her Nile-green gaze, Beatrice thinks she might
burst into tears. “Whether we live or die is for Allah to decide.”

“Then, by God, lower your ransom!” Beatrice cries. Marguerite reaches over and grips her hand.

“I have nearly half of what you require at Damietta,” she says to the Egyptian queen.

“That is not enough.”

How can Marguerite sit so calmly and bargain for their husbands’ lives as though she were negotiating the price of corn? Maybe she doesn’t care about Louis—and Beatrice wouldn’t blame her—but Charles is somewhere in this city, living in filth and disease, enduring terrible tortures, starving to death.

“Did you hear my sister? It’s all we have!” Beatrice cries. “You’ve got to let them go. My husband—I’ve had a baby, and she is very sick. Charles has never seen her.”

Shajar al-Durr is silent.

“If you do indeed fear for your life, then I beg for your leniency, O Queen.” Marguerite’s voice rings out. Dear God, what has happened to her? It is as if she became a man when she donned a man’s attire. “If you die, who will stop the Mamluks from brutally punishing our men?”

“Your men came to kill us. Why should I concern myself with them?”

“And our women? How will the Turks deal with us, sultaness?”

Shajar al-Durr frowns. She speaks in her musical tongue to the man beside her, and he responds.

“My general will ensure safe passage home for you. He has given me his pledge.”

Beatrice’s heart begins to run around in her chest, causing her breath to come in pants. “Marguerite,” she says, “they want to send us home without our men. I won’t go!” She glares at the sultaness. “I will not leave without Charles.”

“There are many more besides the two of us,” Marguerite says. “One hundred women, at least.”

Shajar al-Durr lifts a penciled eyebrow. “Your men brought their wives? They must have envisioned an easy victory.”

“They trusted in God.”

“Foolish women, to come to this place! If the Turks knew you were here, they would invade Damietta at once. You would all be enslaved.”

“And children. We have babies. Are they not innocent?”

No one speaks. Beatrice thinks of her baby, crying. There stands Marguerite, implacable. Beatrice shivers.

“Bring our men to Damietta, and I will pay you two hundred thousand livres,” Marguerite says. “We will surrender Damietta at once, and sail for home. I will send the rest to you in one year.”

The sultaness confers with her general. His voice rises, but she silences him with a single word:
Leh,
with an emphatic shake of her head.

“You must go to Acre, the Christian city, and gather the rest of your funds. When you have paid us, you may return home.”

They kiss the sultaness’s ring. She rises, large and magnificent, and glides as gracefully as a cat to the palace door. Her companion draws his sword as she leads them out to the street; several other men join them, wielding long, curved scimitars and glaring at passersby.

“My guards prefer that I ride. They fear that I will be attacked,” she tells Marguerite and Beatrice. “But how can I rule my people if I cannot walk among them?”

They stop not far from the palace before a sand-colored house, plain and simply built in the Egyptian fashion—hiding a richly ornamented interior, Beatrice guesses—but with a perplexing, five-sided hole in the heavy wooden door.

“That entry was made for your husband, to humble him,” the sultaness tells Marguerite. “To pass through it, he had to kneel.”

They walk down a hallway hung with softly lit lamps and lined with Turkish guards who glare at them from under their red hats, their hands clutching the scimitars in their belts. They pass two doors, then climb a set of stairs to enter a modest, clean room overlooking a tree-shaded courtyard and, through a window, the sea. Louis sits on the floor, cross-legged, rocking and muttering
with closed eyes. He is clean and shaven, but his tunic is ragged and dank.

The sultaness speaks to one of the guards in her language. “Your husband was provided with suitable clothing, but he refused it,” she tells Marguerite. “He would have refused the daily walks by the sea we offered to him, but our guards forced him to go. We would compel him to eat, also, if we could.”

Louis continues to rock.

“I have brought your wife to you, O King,” Shajar al-Durr says. “She has traveled from Damietta to beg for your release.”

His eyes open but he does not stand. Nor does he look at Marguerite. “Praise God, I am rescued,” he intones.

“My lord, a king’s ransom is very high,” Marguerite says. “You must remain here for a time, until I can gather the funds the Egyptians demand.”

He closes his eyes again. “I should have brought the queen,” he says. “She would not have failed me.”

Marguerite turns away, blushing a bright red. “His mind is afflicted,” she says to Shajar al-Durr once they have left the room.

“Who is the queen of whom he speaks? Aren’t you the Queen of France?”

“In name only.”

“You do not rule?”

“King Louis privileges his mother. I have no real power.”

The sultaness narrows her eyes. “You are mistaken,” she says. “I see formidable power.”

Marguerite gives a little laugh. “Tell that to my husband. He sees only weakness—when he sees me at all.”

“He is a fool,” Beatrice says. “A blind fool.”

“It matters not what the French king sees, or anyone else,” the sultaness says. “True power does not rely on others’ perceptions.”

“It comes from God, is what you mean.”

“No,” Shajar al-Durr says.

They follow her down the stairs. “Your husband is in this room,” the Egyptian queen says to Beatrice. A guard opens one of
the closed doors to reveal a small, windowless room, dimly lit. As her eyes adjust, she sees men lying on the dirt floor. A fecal smell stings her nostrils.

“They have caught the sickness,” the sultaness says. “From drinking bad water.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” Charles says, struggling to his feet. She stares at him as he steps toward her, smiling broadly, for the beard sprouting on his face and the fatigue lining his eyes make him look like an old man. A guard lifts his sword to stop him before he reaches her; the sultaness speaks sharply; and then Charles’s arms are around her and she is holding him tight.