The Sister Queens (12 page)

“No one ever consults me.” My husband’s voice takes on a slightly whining tone.

“Eleanor does,” I reply quickly, before Henry is carried away into a listing of his grievances. “She seeks your permission, your aid, your blessing. She has no mind to act without your approbation. Can you say as much of your barons?”

Henry is silent for a few minutes, unconsciously fingering my hair and staring into the fire. I neither move nor speak, marveling at how
I
have learned to patiently hold my tongue, a characteristic Marguerite urged upon me for so many years with no success. I must remember to tell her in my next letter, though I doubt she will believe me.

Finally Henry looks directly at me and smiles. Taking my hand, he pulls me up onto his lap. “Let my sister and Simon de Montfort come to see me,” he says.

“Oh Henry! You will permit the marriage?” I throw my arms around his neck and give him a kiss on the cheek.

“How can I do otherwise,” he asks, “when the happiness of my two favorite ladies appears to hinge upon it?”

“SHHH!” I TRY TO SOUND
stern but cannot help giggling. It is the sixth of January, the Feast of the Epiphany, and Eleanor Marshal and I are making our way to the king’s private chapel in the Palace of Westminster. We do so supposedly for no reason in particular beyond satisfying her urge to see her brother and mine to see my
lord. But in truth, Simon de Montfort is waiting with Henry, and he and Eleanor are going to be married. This fact has been kept a secret even from my ladies. Well, not from Willelma, who shepherds us along from behind with a pained expression as if she were our nurse and we mere naughty children. The archbishop of Canterbury is expected to put up a fuss when he hears of the marriage because ’twas he who witnessed Eleanor’s vow, but she will look duly penitent, and what will she care for Edmund Rich’s words once she has Simon?

When we reach Henry’s apartment, he is waiting to lead his bright-eyed sister through to his chapel and up to the altar. Having presented her to Simon, he takes his place at my side. As the ceremony begins, Henry’s hand finds mine. It is a far cry from our own nuptials, but, as I approach the second anniversary of my marriage, I cannot witness the binding of any two people without happy tears. I hope Eleanor will be as content in her marriage as I am.

Henry absently fingers the wedding ring on my hand as Simon places one on his sister’s, and I give his hand a little squeeze in return. Only one thing could make our happiness more complete—a prince. I must give Henry a son. Only this week my physicians prescribed a new tonic to awaken my slumbering womb. It tastes dreadful, but I take it without complaint—anything to conceive a child. Willelma thinks the tonic a waste. She is adamant that my womb will be fertile when the time is right.

“Women are like gardens,” she insists. “They have seasons. You are still in winter, but spring will come, perhaps with your next birthday, and then you will bloom and your belly will swell like a good melon on a vine.”

The thought of myself as a melon nearly makes me laugh out loud.
And why not?
I think defiantly.
Surely a wedding is a joyful occasion.

ELEANOR AND SIMON HAVE LEFT
us and gone off to their estates, but the rancor caused by their wedding more than a month ago lingers. There has been gossip among the court, talk among Henry’s advisers, and tonight it appears we will hear from my husband’s brother.

“The devil!” Richard bursts into the great hall at the Palace of Westminster after dinner. Henry and I were dancing, but Richard now bars our path. “Is it true?”

“Richard,” Henry says, trying to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, only to have it shoved away.

“Is our sister married?”

“With our blessing.” Henry’s voice is cold, but the skin on his neck begins to flush as he grows hot with anger.

“To Simon de Montfort?”

“A good and faithful servant to the Crown.”

“A Frenchman of middling fortune.”

All the dancing has stopped now, and the music too. My uncle Guillaume glides over, a smile on his face. “Your Majesty, Earl Richard, perhaps you would be better met more privately.”

“We would be better met a month ago before this nonsense proceeded,” Richard growls, but he allows my uncle to turn him toward the outside aisle. Henry barks a command for the musicians to begin playing once more and then stalks after his brother. I trail behind, because who shall tell me I may not? Screened from the view of curious courtiers by one of the large pillars supporting the ceiling, the brothers face each other again.

“You had no right to marry our sister without consulting me—without consulting your magnates!”

“No right? Speak to me of rights, will you!”

“Yes, I will. You know, even if you found it convenient to ignore such fact, that custom dictated consultation with and consent from your council over such an important marriage. And as for my rights, am I not also the lady’s kin? As near in relation as you? As concerned about her welfare?”

“Her welfare? If that is all that worries you, be done. Lady Montfort is quite abundantly happy with her situation.” For the first time Henry glances in my direction. “Is that not so, Eleanor? Our sister writes to the queen glowingly of her new husband.”

“This is not a fanciful troubadour’s romance! It is a royal marriage! It ought not to be managed by women.”

My uncle, silent himself, gives me a meaningful look, warning me to hold my tongue. He need not worry. Angered as I am by Richard’s intimation, I am even more afraid to be drawn into this nasty quarrel. I move closer to Henry’s side, between him and a large stone pillar.

“Get out of my sight.” My husband spits his words at his brother with vehemence.

“I shall do better than that. I will away from London, to see the Marshals and hear what they will say that you marry the widow of their august brother to Simon de Montfort.”

And with that, Richard turns on his heels and storms from the hall. For a moment or two Henry and I stand quietly. I can hear the music and the footfall of the dancers one aisle over, and also the beating of my heart.

“Pompous fool,” Henry mutters under his breath. But I can see he is shaken. Then, in a falsely bright voice, he says, “Eleanor, come and dance with me.”

I take his hand, but, as he leads me back to the assembled court, my eyes linger on my uncle, who remains unmoving in the shadows, lost in thought.

THE TOWER IS SO OBVIOUSLY
a fortress,
I think as we approach it this pale February day. I hope my husband and my uncle know what they are about. Will not the rabble of rebellious barons think we make more of them than they deserve by our change of residence?

Once I am inside my chambers, my mood lifts. How could it not, surrounded by hundreds of pink and white roses?

Uncle Guillaume enters late in the afternoon while my ladies are still unpacking. “Niece.” He nods, and by his manner of doing so I know that he would speak with me privately, so we withdraw to my chapel where only God can hear us.

“This thing multiplies all out of proportion,” he says as soon as we are alone.

“The number of earls and barons who have risen up in support of Lord Richard scares Henry even if he will not say it.” I wonder, as I speak the words, if it is a betrayal of my husband to admit this. But no, how can it be when my uncle is the head of His Majesty’s council? He seeks always to aid Henry in governing.

“These English are so fastidious about their rights and precedence. The points they choose to stand on, and perhaps to fight over…” Guillaume shakes his head again, this time in dismay.

“If this marriage makes the king stronger, what matter that they were not asked in advance?” I ask. “That was the union’s purpose, to strengthen Henry.”

“Yes, Eleanor, but against whom? Against the possibility of too much baronial power. You cannot expect Earl Richard, his cohort the Earl of Pembroke, or the other barons to appreciate that effect as we do. A letter has come, demanding that His Majesty dissolve the council that currently advises him, and submit matters of state to a new council of barons selected from among those who oppose him.”

“Ridiculous! Why should any man, let alone a king, allow himself to be governed by his enemies?”

“Yet His Majesty considers it.”

“What—?”

“You yourself said he was frightened.”

And now I am frightened. This is not at all how I imagined it would be. My father has such power in his domains, and he only a count. My husband is a king, but his rule seems less absolute. I look up at the brightly colored saints in a window.

“What can be done?” I ask.

“Richard wants to go on crusade. Crusades cost money.”

“You think the Earl of Cornwall can be paid to stop his protest against my husband?”

“In my experience, men can be paid to do or cease doing nearly anything so long as it does not trespass upon their principles, if they have them. Let us hope this is only a matter of wounded pride with the Earl Richard—pride that can be salved with silver.”

THE EARL RICHARD IS ALL
smiles as he pushes back from my husband’s table with a satisfied expression. “Brother,” he says, “my compliments to your cooks.”

And Henry, who appears to have forgotten that it took a flurry of negotiation and more than six thousand marks to make Richard so jovial, slaps him on the back and says, “I hear that while you were out of the city you acquired a fine new horse to take on crusade.”

Out of the city indeed! Oh Henry, how can you be so cavalier when he was out of London to raise mischief against you? I cannot take any more. Pushing back my own chair, I make for the door. Before I reach it, my uncle reaches me.

“Niece, why the sour look when everything is as it should be?”

“You do not find this playacting of brotherly love a little cloying for your taste?”

“Any show of fraternal harmony suits me admirably and ought to suit you.”

“I know, considering how things stood only a month ago. But to pay for loyalty that ought to flow naturally from bonds of blood and family—”

“There are worse uses of money. And we have learned something important. The Earl Richard can be bought. A man who can be bought is never a serious threat. Remember that, Eleanor. It is a lesson that may serve you well while I am gone from these shores in answer to the emperor’s call.”