The Sister Queens (33 page)

Lying beside me, stroking my cheek, he whispers, “Marguerite—my God, how many times I have imagined saying your name, how many times I have heard myself speak it in my dreams—from this moment I live for you.” He begins to kiss me again, every part of me—lips, neck, shoulders, breasts—and as he does, his fingers move between my legs, searching tenderly for a place that will give me pleasure. When he finds it, I cry out softly.

“Jean,” I beg, “take me or I will die.”

“You will not die, I promise,” he replies with a slight laugh, “and I will take you. But I would not just receive pleasure from you; I would give it.”

I turn toward him, again trying to pull him into me, but he gently resists, dropping his mouth to my breast again and suddenly thrusting a finger inside me. I abandon all control and all thoughts
of control. Waves of pleasure roll over me like the waters that break on the beaches of Limassol not far from where we lie. My hips move without effort to meet his finger and then, deep inside me, something begins to spasm. I bury my face against Jean’s shoulder to muffle my gasps of pleasure. Just as it begins to subside, Jean slips himself inside me and I thrill again. Rolling him on top of me, I wrap my legs about his buttocks and my arms about his neck, drawing myself up to him even as he plunges into me. He is groaning, and the sound gives me a feeling of delight and power. I long to make him lose control; to make him tremble as he has me. I feel my muscles begin to tense again and then, without warning, Jean withdraws from me and begins to thrust against my belly. Looking down along my own nakedness, I reach with both hands and desperately try to pull him back inside, but he will not be moved. And a moment later he spills milky white seed across my stomach. I begin to shake with sobs both of joy and frustration.

As if he understands perfectly, Jean cradles me in his arms, pushing the hair back from my face.

“Si non caste tamen caute,”
he whispers.

And then I know, this is one of the prices I must pay. If I cannot be chaste, I must, at least, be cautious. Because Jean is not my husband, he cannot let himself run inside me. He cannot risk quickening my womb.

LOUIS APPEARS HAPPIER TO SEE
Jean than he is to see me upon our return. Far from being rankled, I take pride in the favor the king shows Jean. He is mine now, and I would have everyone recognize how glorious he is.

At dinner our first night back in Nicosia I am seated between the two. To be so close and not touch Jean is maddening. As the
first course is carried away, I wonder if I might brush my hand across his knee beneath the table without anyone noticing.

“Was it exhilarating to stand where Saint Paul preached?” Louis asks Jean, taking a sip from a glass of such a strikingly dark red liquid that I wonder if he has stopped watering his wine.

“Your Majesty, there was much about the journey that was both exhilarating and humbling. I am beholden to Her Majesty for suggesting the trip, and to Your Majesty for honoring me with the commission of escorting the queen.”

I misswallow some of my own wine and am left coughing. The double entendre in Jean’s answer causes a small spasm inside me. He is toying with me.

“I am very pleased that you and Her Majesty have become friends,” Louis says, wiping his mouth.

I hope I do not color at this remark, and I pray if my cheeks
are
pink, those around us attribute the fact to my having just recovered from choking. I am remembering what Jean did to me among the sand ridges of the salt lake at Akrotiri—the flawless blue sky framing his head as he took me, and how the beautiful pink birds rose up in a cloud, disturbed by my cries of ecstasy. These were not the actions of a mere friend. I believe there is sand in my garments still.

“Come and hear Mass with me tomorrow morning. Afterward we will have a good talk. I want to show you an extraordinary tent that I received by way of a present from the King of Armenia. There is some fighting in that country, and the king sends word that any of my knights who are bored waiting to sail to the Holy Land may do service with him and earn a profit.”

“Will Your Majesty permit such an excursion?”

“I am of mixed mind on the subject. I hope every day to see the last of my ships arrived so that we may proceed to the Holy Land. Any delay once they are landed waiting for knights to be recalled
would be insupportable. But at the same time, some of the men are finding distractions far more dangerous to their mortal souls than honest combat.”

Louis glances to see if I am paying attention. I take care to appear as if I am looking down at my trencher while watching him from the corner of my eye. Apparently convinced that my attention is fixed on my food, my husband mouths the word “prostitutes.”

“Reprehensible to be sure, Your Majesty. Men serving their God and their king ought not to debase themselves so. But perhaps it is also understandable. Not every man has the comfort of a wife upon this journey.”

When Jean departs for the evening, I retreat to my rooms. Though it is early, I have my ladies undress me and then dismiss them. Their chatter will only distract me from the one entertainment that can satisfy me—thinking of Jean. Of course, remembering the moments of our travels together is no substitution for having him with me, and I have no expectation of seeing him in my bed this evening. Now that we are returned to court, other arrangements must be made. So, knowing I will see Jean again in the morning at Mass, I say my prayers and climb into bed, eager for sleep.

Then Louis arrives. He has not touched me since we boarded our ships at Aigues-Mortes; yet tonight he comes. I feel nauseated at the sight of him, not out of guilt or fear that he will discover what I have done, but at the thought of his touching what Jean has touched.

“Wife,” he says, nodding curtly to acknowledge me where I lie trembling as if I were a new bride beneath the covers. He puts out his candle, slides in beside me, and immediately presses his frantic mouth against mine.

I am glad that it is dark and he cannot see my face; glad too that he has not sought or required any sort of reciprocation from me in many years. With his tongue still pushing invasively into my mouth, he thrusts himself between my legs. Over and over he stabs himself into me, pinioning me against the mattress. I feel as if I am being violated. Hot angry tears flow down my cheeks. Louis grunts like an animal, “Uh, uh, uh,” in time with his thrusts.

I want to cry out, to pound on Louis’s back with my fists and make him stop, but there is nothing to be done. He is my husband and has rights over my body. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for it to stop. Yet on and on it goes, and with it my mortification. At last Louis experiences release. After a few moments, he withdraws from me, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and, adjusting his shift, rises to leave.

“Good night, Wife, and God save you,” he says from the threshold with ludicrous formality. As the door falls closed behind him, I begin to sob openly. How did I bear this for so long? And then I realize that before Jean touched me, I had come to expect nothing from the marital act but an opportunity to conceive a child—to make myself more indispensible to my husband and more secure in my position as queen.

E
LEANOR
J
ANUARY 1249
P
ALACE OF
W
ESTMINSTER
, E
NGLAND

I
pick Marguerite’s letter out of my lap and read it once more. She is a different woman, as if the air in Cyprus has blown away all the cares in her life. Perhaps we are merely light and shadow, the two of us. We cannot both tread an even path at the same time. For years while my marriage to Henry was as smooth as the undisturbed surface of a pond, I could tell that Marguerite, though restrained in her complaints, was unsatisfied with Louis. And now, I find my husband increasingly either distracted or argumentative and Marguerite—scanning the pages, I suddenly realize my sister has mentioned her husband but once. Singular. And who are these young men in whom she takes such a sudden interest? The half brothers of Uncle Peter’s wife? This might be reason enough to recommend them to Peter’s favor. But what can Geoffrey de Joinville, Simon de Joinville, and William Salines be to Marguerite? I remain puzzled, but my sister can twist my arm from a very long way when she wants to. They
are
family. Uncle Peter will surely help me place them and it will please my aunt as well as my sister, so why not?

A servant comes to put more wood on the fire. I stir and stretch contentedly like a cat safe in the warmth of the blaze from the reach of winter cold. I finger the front of my pelisse; it is made of the most beautiful siglatoun and lined in gris. What satisfaction it gives that I can have such luxury in a garment that few eyes will ever see—that, in fact, is intended solely to cover my chemise and keep me warm while I wait for Henry to come to me for the night.

A knock sounds, startling me. If it was Henry, he would simply enter. My ladies have gone for the evening, so I merely say, “Come,” rising as I do to greet the unexpected caller.

Uncle Peter strides in, looking exhausted. “Henry has just presented the living at Flamstead to his wardrobe clerk.”

“What?”

“To Artaud de St. Romain.” Peter flops down on a stool before the fire.

“But I gave that benefice to William of London a fortnight ago. I, not Henry, have wardship of those lands.”

“Is that what you plan to tell His Majesty if he comes this evening?”

“If?”

“The king is very angry, Eleanor. Angrier than simple misunderstanding over authority warrants.”

“There is no misunderstanding,” I reply, pacing away from my uncle. “The authority is
mine
.”

“All right,” Peter says, shrugging. “We can take that position, and we can likely defend it successfully. But what I want to know, Eleanor, is
why
Henry challenges your gift so fiercely.”

“How should I know, Uncle?”

“You have not quarreled?”

“Not about Flamstead.”

“What then?”

“A dozen little things and nothing at all.” It is my turn to shrug. I recall in a rush a disagreement of the evening before over some behavior of my cousin, Gaston de Béarn, in Gascony. As if I could control all my relations however far-flung! “Believe me, Uncle—I am as mystified as you, both by this particular action of the king and by his general mood of late. It used to be that I was perfection in his eyes and excepted from his reproachful tongue. But now he questions my expenses and inquires into every mundane household decision I make. The other day, without warning, he accused me of thinking more of your opinions than his.”

“Then he had best not find me here.” Peter rises wearily. “What shall I write to William of London?”

“That he must stay where he is. He is the rector of Flamstead, and he should pay no mind to whosoever says otherwise.”

Uncle Peter goes and I resume my seat, but I no longer feel comfortable or content. I now dread Henry’s arrival; yet at the same time I would have it over, for nothing else will give me such a clear idea of how things stand between my husband and me at present. My suffering is not long. Scarce have I tucked my slippered feet up beneath me when the door swings open and Henry walks in.