The Sister Queens (17 page)

“Wife, you and your ladies are a credit to this occasion, delighting the eyes of all.”

“I hope Your Majesty knows well that it is only his eyes I care for, only his approbation that can please me.” I flush slightly as I speak, conscious that at the very moment I make my claim, a portion of the sparkle in my eye and the toss of my head are directed to Jean de Joinville.

Louis is clearly delighted, as along with modesty he prizes loyalty greatly. He turns to his companion saying, “You see, sir, not only newly married men such as yourself hear pretty speeches from their wives.” Louis turns his head back in my direction, and Jean de Joinville’s gaze follows it. “Madam, this is the Sieur de Joinville, Seneschal of Champagne, and a gentleman of great piety.” I wonder if the seneschal knows that, by referring to him thusly, Louis hints that he is already finding royal favor. When a man impresses the king, he is always quick to praise his piety—even if he knows so little of the gentleman that he must take that piety on faith.

“Sieur,” I say, trying to smile with my eyes, “we hear from every direction that you are a fine writer and much sought to set forth tales for those who wish to be educated or amused.” Do I imagine it or is de Joinville hanging on my every word? I wonder if he is breathing. His lips, slightly parted, seem better suited for other things, and I try to keep my eyes from lingering on them as I raise an eyebrow and continue. “Do your talents run to poesy, or only prose?”

“Only prose, Your Majesty.” De Joinville’s voice is strong, clear, and pleasingly without affectation.

“What a pity. In Provence we had so many poets. They were as common as red valerian along a roadside and so much taken for granted that I did not think to bring one with me when I came to France.” The image of the minstrel who accompanied me from my father’s court years ago passes before my mind’s eye, causing me to question the motivation for my half-truth. “It seems I must continue looking.”

“I am very sorry to disappoint Your Majesty.” De Joinville clearly means it. The list of those wishing to see me pleased at the court of my husband is not very long, but perhaps this young man may make up for the absence of many.

THIS EVENING, TAKING A PAGE
from Louis’s book, I am on my knees upon reaching my bedchamber. I dismiss my women without letting them undress me and pray to the Virgin that Louis will come to me, for I am ripe. I can smell it.

When I was younger, I never noticed. But, after the birth of our daughter, in those first days of despair when I cursed God and my body, my dear Yolande, suspecting the cause of my great distress, offered to school me in the ways of my own flesh. She taught me how to detect the pungent change in my own urine. And now the scent pleases my nose, hinting at a secret source of power and pleasure.

I hear the door open, but I do not move. I know that if it is Louis, seeing me thus, dressed in the color of purity, hands clasped and eyes closed, will excite his feelings for me as little else can.

I am right, and, strangely, in the dark for a moment I forget the face of my husband, even his flashing blue eyes. Instead, I imagine a head full of dark curls, and I am startled when, reaching out to wind my fingers into them, I find Louis’s lank, fair hair in their place. What will my confessor, William de St. Pathus, make of that?

I awake early the next morning, full of excitement and anticipation. My ears are alert to every sound, from the birds conversing riotously outside my window to Marie’s soft steps beyond my chamber door as she consciously tries not to wake me while beginning the business of her day. As I stretch and roll to my back, the touch of the coverings on the flesh of my limbs sends shivers through me. I wonder whether I will see the Seneschal of Champagne today and if so, how soon? There are so many people gathered at court. Three thousand knights have come for Alphonse’s
investiture. But at the moment only one of them has the power to intrigue and divert me.

I close my eyes, trying to picture Jean de Joinville, and I am startled when his image comes to me naked. Perhaps I should not be. I may have lain with my husband last evening, but I am far from satisfied. In the last year, our “dear” mother Blanche moved from the Palais du Roi to her own residence on the right bank of the Seine. I was sure, with the dragon gone, I would have more success persuading Louis to pay me his marriage debt. I was eager to have him between my thighs again, not only so that I might have a son, but because my body harkened back to the early days of our marriage when it received pleasure from my husband. But I have been bitterly disappointed. Now there is none. No hands run eagerly over my body as he penetrates me. No lips suck teasingly at my pert nipples causing me to gasp with gratification. I am not certain that Louis even sees me as he satisfies his needs. His needs alone are considered.

I examine my imagined Joinville closely, running my mind’s eye down his chest to the nest of dark hair above his member, hair as curly and irresistible as that on his handsome head. Almost unconsciously the fingers of my left hand rise to my nipple and begin to rub and pinch it in turn. My right hand finds its way between my legs. I am shocked to discover how sensitive I am to my own touch, and how my pulse quickens as I stroke myself. Imagining that the hands upon me are Joinville’s, I give a little moan and another; then, fearing I will be heard, I put my left fist up to my mouth and bite upon my curled first finger. Strangely, even this brings pleasure. I hesitate for only a moment and then plunge the first two fingers of my hand inside myself. My hips writhe beneath the covers as I give myself all the pleasure that heedless Louis denies me. Lying back, satisfied at last, I feel a
certain smugness. I have paid myself my own marriage debt, and whatever sin there may be in that, I cannot repent of it.

ALL AFTERNOON I WATCH FOR
Joinville but do not see him. Sitting beside Louis, I receive dozens upon dozens of people. Blanche is with us in the hall, but she is indisposed and cannot sit for long periods. When she rises from her seat at Louis’s other side and descends from the dais to walk about the crowded room, Louis twines his fingers in mine. The unexpected gesture of familiarity draws my full attention to my husband. Louis is enjoying all the pomp and ceremony of this gathering of nobles and knights, in spite of himself.

“Those who pay homage to us are the finest men in Europe,” he says when we are momentarily at liberty. “Look at them.” Then he sighs wistfully. “How much better it would be to see them in the field.”

I draw my eyes away from the throngs of brightly dressed dukes, counts, seneschals, and bishops where I have been searching for Fat Thibaut in hopes that Jean de Joinville will be at his side. “In the field, Your Majesty?”

Louis’s eyes burn with more heat than blue seems capable of emitting as he answers, “In the Holy Land, doing God’s work.”

Of course, crusade. Louis thinks about crusading a great deal as of late. He, I, and indeed all of Christendom know that Richard of Cornwall, brother of the English king and a powerful nobleman in his own right, is presently on crusade. His absence accounts for the timing of Alphonse’s investiture. According to Eleanor’s husband, the territory of Poitou is English, and King Henry has conferred it on the Earl Richard. My husband insists that the same lands belong to France because his father overran them shortly
before his death, but Louis has only played the role of lord over them from a distance. Now he brings his brother here to sit above all the other noblemen in the region and receive their homage. It is a bold move—a gamble by my husband and the dragon to secure his power over this western territory and to open the possibility of converting it, at some later date, into a royal domain rather than a county held by a vassal. It would be bold almost to the point of recklessness were Richard of Cornwall within striking distance, able to defend his interests. Yet even as he moves to benefit from Richard’s absence, Louis envies Richard and is jealous of his crusade. Every song, every story celebrating the Englishman’s triumphs excites and chafes Louis.

“Your Majesty does God’s work here in France. The city of Paris is ringed with religious houses that you have raised to Our Lord’s glory and your own.”

“For my own glory I care not a whit.”

I am not fooled. Louis may be a very pious man, but man he is. He longs for military glory, for the prestige of being victorious on the field of battle. He longs to hear his exploits sung. And though I like crusade poetry very much myself, I would rather hear songs of love at present. A movement to my right distracts me from my reply. Blanche has returned, and Alphonse and Jeanne are with her.

“Your Majesty, I have just received word that Isabella of Angoulême, Countess of La Marche, has arrived.” Blanche speaks very softly, stepping in close before Louis. Jeanne and Alphonse draw in as well. We form a tight circle, as if we are plotters within our own court.

“She is very clever,” Alphonse hisses. “If you receive her before I am invested, she can avoid kneeling to me.”

“She is not clever enough,” replies Blanche with a derisive snort. “We and not she control the time and manner of her reception.”

“Make her wait?” Louis sounds slightly dubious, and I am nearly aghast. Isabella of Angoulême is not only Countess of La Marche; she is also Dowager Queen of England, mother-in-law to my sister, a woman equal in rank to the dragon.

“Why not?” asks Blanche. “We have not come this far to have our work undone by a woman who steals her own daughter’s husband. Any public insolence toward Your Majesty or the Count of Poitiers, any disturbance caused by the countess, could give others in your brother’s territory courage to defy him. You know that Hugh of La Marche is popular among his peers, and so is his wife.”

We
are
, it seems, plotters in our own court.

“Your Majesty,” I venture, surprised at my own courage, not so much in having an opinion as in speaking it, “if she is so, might you not incite the Count of La Marche by treating his lady with discourtesy? Might not the countess urge her husband to be less compliant where you would have him more?”

Jeanne nods her head timidly in agreement, and I give her a grateful look.

“Ridiculous,” scoffs the dragon. “Why would
any
man listen to his
wife
on such matters? Hugh of La Marche will no more listen to Isabella than His Majesty will listen to you.” Blanche’s last phrase is accompanied by a cruel smile. She turns to Louis expectantly.

“We shall do as you say, madam. Let the countess be kept waiting.” Louis does not look at me as he speaks. Blanche, however, gives me a very meaningful glance before ascending the dais to take her seat at Louis’s left. While Louis is turned toward her, I rise and flee.

My eyes brim with tears, so I keep them on the floor as I move toward the nearest door, eager to escape the lively room and its chattering inhabitants. As I reach the door, my steps quicken. Passing through it without looking, I run against someone.

“Your Majesty, my apologies.”

It is Jean de Joinville. I recognize his voice even before I glance up into his mortified face.

“Sieur, the fault is mine. I found the great hall too close for my comfort and, in my hurry to get some air, did not look where I was going.”

“It
is
warm,” Joinville says solemnly, “much warmer than the weather I am accustomed to in Champagne this time of year.”

He studiously ignores the implausibility of my statement—he knows I am from the south where it is as warm as it is beautiful—and I feel a rush of gratitude for the gesture. The seneschal’s eyes have a remarkable depth when they are serious. Fearful of falling into them, I lower my own eyes again.

“Perhaps in the gardens you will find relief?” he continues. “With a breeze and a little shade. Would you like me to come with you?”

The last question is spoken so low and with such intensity that I cannot help but raise my face again. His arm is already extended, and his expression exhibits all the gravitas due me as his queen. But, do I fool myself, or do I see more than a desire to be useful in his eyes and in the way his nostrils seem to tense and relax with every breath as he waits for my answer?

“Yes,” I reply, setting my hand lightly on his forearm. The sleeve fits very closely here, and despite its presence, I quiver like a vielle string at first contact.

We make our way outside. “Let us take the way along the parapet wall,” I suggest. “The air will be fresh there and the views unmatched.”

“As Your Majesty wishes.”

Once at the wall, I release Joinville’s arm and gaze down at the convergence of the Loire and Thouet rivers. The sky is blue and sown with white clouds. Our height above the town of Saumur is
dizzying, and the greens of the flat valley beyond the city walls stretch to the horizon. I was not lying when I said the views are spectacular, but they are not
my
views. After seven years of marriage, my eyes still search for the rock-ribbed mountains and red earth of Provence. After a few moments in silence, de Joinville turns his back to the parapet.

“What a graceful château. It is hard to believe that the English built it.”