The Sister Queens (10 page)

“So it seems.” Louis looks down again and turns another page. Then, as if struck by something, looks up at me again. “If you want your rooms painted and your incomes and allowance do not permit it, I shall be happy to advance you the money. I sincerely hope, however, you will select a more exalted theme. Perhaps the parables.”

I feel as though Louis has slapped me. Mild-mannered Louis, who shows the most exquisite kindness to the sick in our city’s hospitals; who cleans their filth and changes their dressings. Can he not see that I do not envy Eleanor her freshly painted rooms, but the solicitude of her husband—a man who, from what my sister’s letters tell, rises each morning intent on finding some novel manner of delighting or pampering his wife? My eyes sting. But even if a loss of composure might recall my husband’s attention, I cannot bear to expose my feelings to someone so clearly indifferent to them. Turning on my heels, I retreat as quickly as I can without appearing to run. I lose control of my temper for only a single moment before reaching my rooms. Rushing past Agnes d’Harcourt, who never seems to be absent when Louis and I are in the gardens together, I do not allow her sufficient time to make way, and the clumsy little spy tumbles off the path and headlong into a bed of butterbur.

Bursting past a collection of ladies in my hall, I gain my bedchamber before the tears come. My women know well who is welcome to follow me uninvited into the private parts of my apartment and who is not, so only Marie, Elisabeth, and Yolande trail behind. I crumple to the floor on my knees, sobbing. Taking up a handful of my voluminous skirt, I bury my face in it.

“Your Majesty”—Marie kneels beside me, and I can feel her hand on my shaking shoulders—“are you unwell?”

“Unhappy.” The voice that speaks the truth is not my own. I look up. Yolande stands directly in front of me.

“Louis no longer loves me.”

“Ridiculous,” Elisabeth chimes in. “You are Marguerite of France; your beauty and piety are widely celebrated. At this minute artists are busy carving your likeness at Saint Germain-en-Laye at the king’s request.”

Yolande glances at Elisabeth with a combination of indulgence and disbelief. Her Grace is two years younger than Lady Coucy but always behaves as if she is the mother hen to both Elisabeth and me. “The important point, Your Majesty, is that the king prefers no woman to you. Well, no woman of his own age.”

“What difference does that make?” I ask, allowing Marie to help me rise as I dry my eyes with the kerchief she offers. “He still favors the dragon, and she is quite as effective, if not more so, than any mistress in keeping my husband from me. And she has a powerful ally, God himself.”

“It is true that His Majesty’s increased piety is fomented by his mother
and
his confessor. But I would not suggest that Your Majesty try to reclaim the king from God. Moses’s wife was not successful and nor shall you be,” says Yolande grimly. “And if the king wishes to go about his palaces ill shod and poorly dressed, what can that matter to you so long as he urges no economies of dress upon you? You must turn your mind from bringing back the Louis of your wedding day and concentrate on securing your own position. And in this, the fact that you have no other young lady for competition will prove most helpful.”

Elisabeth standing nearby pats the bulge at the front of her
surcote
meaningfully. She is six months gone with child. Her husband,
Raoul, brings her little offerings from the palace kitchens at odd times throughout the day. I wonder if Louis would be so agreeably attentive.

“A baby, I know,” I snap, striding to the window and staring out into those same gardens, where Louis remains staring fixedly at the papers in his lap, even though the roses are beginning to bloom. “But as His Majesty forgoes his favorite foods for Our Lord, he has given up other things as well.” The time is long gone when the slightest arching look from me was enough to inflame my husband’s desire.

“But surely he has the needs of a man?” Elisabeth counters.

“At present he appears content to be nearly as celibate as a monk.” My voice is bitter and I know it, but that is how I feel. I am sixteen years old; yet my husband forces me to live as if I were an elderly woman past the age of all desire. Yolande and Elisabeth cannot imagine what it is like to toss and turn night after night, longing for the touch of my husband’s hand, dreaming that his legs and arms are wrapped around me in a lover’s embrace, only to wake and find myself tangled in my covers, achingly alone. Then to receive letters from Eleanor hinting broadly that the King of England is not at all the grave, older man she expected and that his touch is her delight. It is nearly unbearable.

“Well, if he is not currently subject to a man’s passions, he is still subject to a king’s duties. Every king needs a prince. His counselors will remind him of this fact soon enough if they do not already,” says Yolande. “Then he will be back in your bed. And when you bear the king a son, the court will buzz about you as bees circle a hive. Blanche’s bullying of you and reign over the rest of us will be at an end.”

I nod dumbly, less convinced of Yolande’s words than she appears to be herself. And I feel tears sting my eyes again. How can
I explain to my companions that even if Louis returns to me more frequently by night, and even if the birth of an heir makes me queen in verity, I will not be content? I miss the Louis who was my friend; the Louis who played chess with me and walked in the gardens; the Louis who held my cold hands as we examined the progress of the building at whichever monastery or religious house held his interest at the given moment. If I tell my ladies that I am lonely, they will be confused. The palace teems with courtiers and others, never more so than now with the preparation for two weddings under way. This very month both Robert and Alphonse will be married. I will have two new sisters to wait upon me and join in my entertainments. Besides, if I confess to my ladies that I am lonely, they will be hurt. And I would not cause them such pain even to unburden my own heart, for truly they do bear me good company.

E
LEANOR
S
EPTEMBER 1237
P
ALACE OF
W
OODSTOCK
, E
NGLAND

I
cannot imagine that I ever thought Henry old! Riding ahead of me, his goshawk on his arm, he cuts a very fine figure. He maneuvers his horse with confidence and virile firmness. Simply watching him kindles a desire in me to be with him. I give my horse a sharp kick and thunder past my ladies, giving my beloved Willelma d’Attalens, who came from Provence with me, a look of apology in response to her glance of unspoken admonition.

“There you are, Wife,” Henry says with evident satisfaction as I reach his side. “I wondered at your lagging, you who so love to be first.”

“First in your heart.”

“That you are, madam, even when I ride out alone. No, I was speaking of your delightful thirst for life and adventure.”

A sudden stirring in the underbrush ahead and to the king’s right stops our pretty talk and draws our attention. Perhaps it is a rabbit or a quail? Henry, clearly thinking the same, prepares to throw his hawk. Then a man springs from the cover of the bushes. My horse rears in surprise and, as he does, I hear Willelma scream. I fight to bring my animal back under control. Henry, leaning precariously from his own mount, grabs hold of the beast’s bridle and helps to bring its head down and forelegs back to the ground.

All this time the strange man stands not two horse lengths before us, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and muttering. With my horse firmly beneath me again, I catch my breath and look more closely at the man. His clothing is of good quality but filthy, as is his lank hair. He appears to be having a conversation and holding up both sides of it without need or notice of us. Every
few words he punctuates his utterances by rolling his eyes, rocking back on his heels, and moaning pitifully. Some in our party snigger, but not my husband.

“Poor fellow,” Henry says, speaking low, “I think he is mad.”

As if to confirm my husband’s surmise, the man begins to flap his arms as though fending off some sort of attack from above. My husband waits a moment longer until the wretch quiets himself and then, regarding the man with his customary half smile, says, “Good sir, you disturb our sport. We would ask you to stand aside.”

But rather than removing himself from the path, the man rushes forward shouting, “Henry, scourge of England, poor pretender to the throne, resign your office and be gone like the pestilence you are!”

Every gentleman accompanying us is in motion at the same moment.

Uncle Guillaume and Imbert Pugeys reach the madman quickest. To my mind it is not coincidence that Savoyards are first to my husband’s defense. My uncle strikes a blow with the hilt of his sword, knocking the villain to the ground even as he continues to rail against my husband. Then a multitude of men is upon him.

“Hold!” Henry has some difficulty making himself heard, for Imbert Pugeys and Simon de Montfort are thrashing the fallen fellow soundly and noisily. “That is quite enough!” The king’s men straighten to their full heights, setting their clothing to rights as they do. My husband’s insulter is left prone on the ground, sniveling.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the man’s utterances are treasonous! He should be flogged, hanged, or both!” Simon says, breathing hard from his exertions.

I follow Henry’s gaze to the man on the ground. He is sitting
now, rocking himself and singing some sort of childish song. Blood runs down his face from a gash where my uncle’s hilt met his pate.

“Treasonous coming from any other man here, but this man’s wits are out, de Montfort. Can he know what he says, let alone own it?” Henry shakes his head in the negative as if answering his own question. Turning to one of our attendants, he continues. “Take him back to the palace. See that his wound is tended and he is fed. We would do as much even for a beast, and surely he is little more.” Then addressing me, he says, “Madam, it is not too late to have some pleasure from this afternoon’s excursion. Are you in a mind and mood to ride on?”

I AM SUDDENLY AWAKE AND
do not know why. Did I hear shouting or did I dream it? The room, my room, is dark. The last of the fire is gone, so it must well and truly be the middle of the night. I am about to close my eyes again, and then it comes, a cry, “Help! Oh someone, help!” Though the voice is terrified, I know it at once! It belongs to Lady Margaret Biset.

“Henry!” I sit bolt upright.

“What is it?” The voice is muffled and groggy from beneath my covers. The king is a heavy sleeper, but my voice never fails to rouse him.

Before I can answer, another shrill scream shatters the night, joined by hoarse cries and the sound of feet running on stone.

Henry, now fully awake, jumps from bed, stumbling in the dark. I can hear him pulling on his garments.

“Dear God, what can it be?” I know I sound hysterical. I feel hysterical and, at the same time, angry at myself for being so.