Four Sisters, All Queens (71 page)

As much as Beatrice adores the troubadours—only Sordel remains, and a few others—she does not complain. Charles shares power with her in every way but one: he will not allow her to negotiate with Marguerite. This bothers her until he lays her down and removes her clothes with his slow hands. At those times, she thinks not at all of her sisters. Instead, she begs God, in her heart, to let her keep Charles always.

“What if you die?” she has taken to asking, lying in his arms. “What will happen to me?”

His grin skewers her. The gap between his front teeth. His ruffled hair.

“You would soon find a strapping Sicilian bull to take my spot in your bed.”

“At least two would be needed to replace you. Perhaps three.”
She jests, even with a lump in her throat the size of a broken heart. She has no illusions about her future should Charles be killed in this campaign. Manfred would take her as a hostage, perhaps lock her in a tower or donjon and leave her to die. Would her sisters help her then? Would anyone?

She has no desire to find out. As she kneels before the cardinals and takes the Holy Communion, she touches the vial around her neck, filled with a sweet and deadly poison. Death before dishonor. Marguerite’s courage in Damietta still reverberates, like a battle cry. Beatrice will be every bit as brave.

Marguerite

Never the Enemy

Paris, 1267

Forty-six years old

W
ERE
B
EATRICE STILL
alive, she would mock Marguerite.

Are those tears of sorrow or of joy
?
You wished for this, did you not
?

“Yes,” she says into her handkerchief—only she and Eléonore are in the carriage—“yes, I did wish her dead. But only once, when she reneged on her promise to give Tarascon to me and then left us in Outremer to rot, I thought, or lose our heads to the Saracens. I watched their ship sail away and hoped it might sink to the bottom of the sea.”

And now Beatrice is in the vault, dead of dysentery contracted in the rank Sicilian heat, an ignoble end to a reign begun on a velvet couch in a grand procession just two years ago.

“I entertained murderous fantasies when I heard that she and Charles were pursuing Sicily,” Eléonore says. “Remember how excited she was? Thinking, as always, of herself. She could be quite maddening.”

“She was obsessed with queenship,” Marguerite says, dabbing at her cheeks. “That, and her precious Charles.”

“She seemed not to need anyone’s help. Not as Sanchia did.”
Eléonore presses her face into her hands. “I wonder, still, if I should have known Sanchia was dying. If I could have saved her.”

“Perhaps, if you had not been hiding in the Tower in fear for your own life.” Marguerite cannot help the edge in her voice; she and Eléonore have explored this terrain many times, and they never find anything new in it. “And Sanchia seemed always to complain of one malady or another.”

“Beatrice said we neglected her. That we should have done more.”

“Are we physicians? Seers? Beatrice thought queenship conferred magical powers. She discovered the truth before she died, I suppose.”

“I hear she was admired in Sicily. The poets praised her there. Charles, on the other hand, is despised.” So hated that he could not hold a proper funeral for her in Sicily, for fear he might be attacked.

Marguerite scowls. “I am sure he is just as cruel to the Sicilians as he has been to the Marseillais. Our sister’s death will be a cause for rejoicing in Provence. Now Charles will have to abdicate, and name Charles the Younger as count.”

“But he is still a child!”

“No matter. Papa’s will is clear: when Beatrice dies, her eldest son inherits the county—not her husband.”

“Charles cannot rule until the boy comes of age?”

“No. That task falls to Sanchia—or, now, one of us.”

“Which one, do you suppose?” Eléonore smiles through her tears.

“I thought—since Paris is nearer—”

“Please take it. I am fully engaged,” Eléonore says. She and Henry have not completely quashed the rebellion in England. Simon’s death only agitated his supporters, including Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the self-styled Prince of Wales.

“Llywelyn is like a child with a stick, prodding a hornet’s nest just to watch the confusion. Every skirmish that flares up, we find he instigated.” She and Henry have given castles to Edmund in Wales, and have sent him there to fight.

“And Edward?” Her spirits lift at the very thought of him, the brave knight, the bold prince beloved by his people. He is the son Marguerite might have had if not for Louis’s indifference to their children and Blanche’s influence upon them.

“He is as restless as ever,” she says, sighing, “roaming about with his Marcher friends in search of jousting tournaments.”

“Jousting? That’s a foolish risk.”

“Yes, but what son listens to a mother’s counsel anymore?”

“Especially when the mother is so like the son.” Marguerite smiles. “Remember when Mama likened you to Artemisia?”

“The warrior queen.” Eléonore smiles. “I remember. I was foolish, too, always eager to prove myself for no good reason, always willing to fight for things that didn’t matter—just like Edward and his tournaments. And yet”—she lowers her voice—“I hate to see him risk his life, and England’s future. His wife is particularly anxious, being so eager to take my place.”

“That won’t happen for many years,” Marguerite says, putting her arm around her sister.

“I hope you are right, but I fear that you are not.” Elli’s voice quavers. It occurs to Marguerite: she has not seen her sister cry since she fell off her horse at the age of nine. “Henry is getting old. He has become sickly.”

“Louis, as well. But I expect he will live long. A lifetime of mortifications have made him immune to death.” And sent his mind staggering from his body, too drunk with pain, apparently, to find its way back. She wonders how he has fared in her absence. Will she find him, again, lying on the chapel floor in his own mess, too sick and exhausted to take his bowels to the toilet?

But, no, here he comes riding up in full hunting regalia and surrounded by a crowd of fifty men: counts, dukes, bishops, priests, knights. She sees his sallow cheeks, his too-thin body curling like a whip, his mouth open as if he were laughing, which he is not, for he has not laughed since their son died—indeed, not since they returned from Outremer thirteen years ago.

When they have passed through the palace gates, Eléonore
exclaims. “What is this?” Horses, carriages, chariots, nobles and servants fill the courtyard.

“Jean,” Marguerite breathes.

“Oh, my,” Eléonore says.

When the carriage stops and the door opens, Jean bows and kisses Marguerite’s ring—something he would never do for Louis, not being “his man.” He was Marguerite’s man. He still is, judging from the look he gives her.

“What a pleasant surprise,” he says as he helps her from the carriage, leaving Eléonore to the servants. “I had not expected to see you until the king’s announcement this evening.”

“Announcement?”

The clop of horses’ hooves; the clatter of wheels. She turns to see two more carriages and a chariot, with their attendant knights and servants and horses, entering through the gates. “What is happening?” she says.

“I hoped you could tell me.” He pulls a handkerchief from inside his sleeve and mops his brow. His eyes closed, he takes a deep breath. When he opens them, they appear almost milky.

“Jean! You are ill. You should be at home.”

“So I told the king. But he insisted that, even were I on my deathbed, I should come to hear his news.”

After sending a servant to escort Jean to his chambers, Marguerite steps into the castle, across the floor of the great hall where the hunting party has gathered for the afternoon meal, and up the stairs to Louis’s rooms. She finds him within, embracing Charles, whose arms hang limply by his sides.

“My condolences over the death of your queen,” Louis says.

“I am bereft,” Charles says. “I scarcely know what to do without her.” The catch in his voice sounds forced. She meets his hard gaze with her haughty one.

“You will feel better when you have heard my announcement tonight,” Louis says.

“Louis,” she says, “my lord. What is this announcement?”

His smile is as sly as if he has caught her in some deception.
“You must wait to hear it, the same as everyone else. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go and pray for God’s guidance.” And then Louis has gone, leaving the two of them.

“Are you mourning the loss of my sister, or that of Provence?” she says to Charles.

He frowns. “I am yet the Count of Provence.”

“Not according to my father’s will.”

“No,” he says, “but according to the agreement Beatrice signed with me.”

“What sort of agreement?”

“It made me Count of Provence in my own right. Our son will inherit, but after I die.”

Marguerite’s heart begins a slow pumping, as though she were climbing a hill. “Beatrice would not have signed that. She loved our father, and would have respected his wishes.”

“The only man she loved more was me,” he says. “And that is why I have come to you.” Her hasty burial at Viterbo was necessary for the time being, he says, but it was not what she wanted. “She begged to be laid to rest beside her father.”

“In the mausoleum I had built for him? That is impossible.” She turns away, twisting her hands. She is too late! Beatrice has already signed away her share of Provence. Her heart feels shrunken, like a shriveled walnut in its shell.

“Impossible? Why is that? The tomb is certainly large enough. Hadn’t you intended to bury your mother there? Yet she preferred the company of her brothers to that of her husband.” His tone is accusing, as if Marguerite were to blame.

“Your point escapes me.”

“Your sister’s final wish was to lie between her father and me.”

“She never considered my wishes. Why should I care about hers?”

“She adored you. But you couldn’t see it, blinded as you were by greed.”

“You accuse me of greed?” Her laugh is loud, like Eléonore’s,
raucous as a raven’s. “It is time to end this discussion.” She tries again to step around him, but he grabs her by the arms.