The Sister Queens (18 page)

Surprised by his comment, I laugh out loud. Then, recollecting that my sister is on an English throne, I cover my mouth.

Joinville appears to have the same realization, for he looks suddenly sheepish. “Pardon my impudence, Your Majesty. I forgot your relationship to the English queen.”

“Yes,” I reply, seating myself on a nearby bench and affecting great seriousness, “we ought to show more respect for the King of England’s grandfather—particularly as
my
husband’s grandfather took this lovely château from him. We can afford to be gracious to those we vanquish.”

Now it is Joinville’s turn to laugh. He has a beautiful laugh. Warm and melodious, it shakes his frame. “Then, His Majesty the Most Christian King of France has every reason to be affable.” Joinville’s eyes examine me where I sit. Giving an exaggerated bow he continues. “Our sovereign bests Henry of England at every turn, beginning with his choice of bride.”

“Sieur de Joinville! It is very lucky for you that my sister Eleanor is not here,” I reply in mock horror. “She would upbraid you roundly and with reason. I, however, know how to accept a compliment. You are in no danger from me. I merely protest that the Queen of England is exceedingly fair, clever, and charming, and were you to meet her, your opinion of my merits might alter.”

“Impossible.” The tone is still light, but the eyes are all conviction.

While it is perfectly chivalrous and appropriate for me to play at love as the ladies in song and story do, I know I am in danger here lest the game go too far. My morning thoughts of Joinville tell me as much. I must parry those serious eyes. “It is a great shame that this château will belong to my brother Charles when he is of age as he is the Count d’Anjou.” I am surprised by my own candor the moment the words are spoken. It seems that, though I change the subject, I have a need to speak truth to the Sieur de Joinville.

“You do not like the count.” It is a statement, not a question; yet I reply willingly enough.

“No one much likes him. He is a prating, pompous fourteen-year-old. I could, perhaps, forgive him that. But he is ambitious beyond his years. I do not trust him.”

“But you trust me.” One dark curl has fallen down over his right eye. It dangles, just grazing his eyebrow, which is raised slightly, awaiting my reply.

“So it seems, for I give you the power to do me harm. If you repeat what I have said, the Dowager Queen will make much of it, to my detriment.”

“I would never lift voice or hand to injure Your Majesty.” Joinville pushes the obstinate curl back as he speaks. “I take your unguarded words as a pledge of friendship and return one of my own. Before coming to court, I heard that His Majesty cleaved too closely to his mother. These last days I have seen it to be true. The Dowager Queen treats the king as a boy, and thus unmans him. It is unseemly, and so is the way that she treats Your Majesty.”

The seneschal could not have chosen more apt words if he wished to ingratiate himself with me. Yet I sense no fawning in him. His voice has a steadiness and certitude about it more generally associated with age than with a youth first arrived at court. I gesture for him to take a seat beside me, and he does readily. “They
say you are penning the story of the Count of Champagne’s crusade. What was it like in the Holy Land?”

“I have no idea,” Joinville replies frankly. “I did not travel with the count. I must write based on his report.”

“You do not sound satisfied.”

“Well, people often misremember things to their own advantage.”

“You mean the count paints too flattering a picture of his deeds?”

“No.” Joinville laughs again, lightly. “He expects
me
to paint the flattering picture. But, yes, he exaggerates. He is a good writer himself, and I wish
he
would tell this tale and spare my reputation. Perhaps he correctly judges that few men can tell their own story without being called braggart.”

“Sieur, I do believe you worry over nothing. Surely it is not what you write but how you write it that will determine your reputation? All those who read your account will know that Thibaut’s wishes directed your pen.”

“The best writings, like the best men, tell the truth. I would make a name for myself as a man who can be relied upon.”

M
ARGUERITE
J
ULY 1242
T
HE
F
RENCH
R
OYAL
C
AMP
O
UTSIDE OF
S
AINTES
, P
OITOU

A
nd all this because we snubbed the Countess of La Marche. I wonder if the dragon thinks of that—of how certain she was that Isabella of Angoulême had neither the power nor the influence to start a rebellion. Doubtless she does. She has feared conspiracies against her beloved Louis for as long as I have known her, and in the end she created one involving both the English king and the emperor through miscalculation. How fortunate for my husband
then that our kingdom is rich and his knights were ready. And now Louis has raised the oriflamme and achieved a victory in battle. Perhaps soon we can go home.

The tent is hot. And while I find it oppressively so, the baby slumbering against my chest appears to find it soothing.

“Shall I take her to her nurse?” Marie asks.

I am torn. The Princess Isabella, now four months old, calms me. But she also makes me warmer, so I nod and hand her to Marie grudgingly. Watching Marie disappear, I wonder again why it was so much easier for me to accept a second daughter than it was a first. Perhaps because there have been other causes for distress.

When I became Queen of France and Eleanor Queen of En-gland, I never imagined our countries at war. Foolish of me, I suppose. I knew that Louis and Henry of England were rivals and disagreed over the ownership of certain territories, but I was used to the Savoyard way of thinking that families are best served by uniting. “When the members of a family fight among themselves, they are all the losers.” This philosophy shared by my mother’s brothers has allowed them each to grow rich and powerful without dividing the dominions of the House of Savoy, without ever giving my uncle the Count Amadeus a single sleepless night. But Louis and Henry are not brothers, though their wives are sisters. So I sit near the southern border of Poitou, bearing my husband company as he seeks to rout the English and their Gascon allies and subdue the rebellious Poitevin nobles.

Marie returns. She bustles about my tent with an amazing energy, apparently oblivious to the heat. Jeanne stares at her wanly from the couch where she reclines. She has been ill. At first it was hoped that she was with child. She and Alphonse have been married nearly five years and she has yet to breed. But it turned out she
only suffered from that sickness of the bowels and belly so common in an armed camp. The illness is past, but Jeanne is still greatly weakened.

“Will Your Majesty take some refreshment?” Marie inquires.

“No. We dine shortly with the king. I will change now.”

Jeanne makes an effort to rise and assist me, but I wave her back to her place.

“I wonder that you bother,” she remarks listlessly. “You know that Louis will make no effort at finery.”

“Indeed. But I will feel cooler in fresh clothing,” I say. I am dissembling. Despite my estrangement from Eleanor, this war has had one positive effect. It has made Louis feel like a warrior. He may still dress like a monk sworn to poverty, but he has a warrior’s appetites. He eats better than I have seen him do in years. He waters his wine less; using the heat and the exertion of battle as his excuse when Blanche turns an accusing eye in his direction. And he is back in my bed far sooner than I could ever have imagined. He will notice what I wear tonight, make no mistake.

The ground we tread on the way to the king’s tent is dry and dusty. Men and animals have denuded the once lush patch where we camp. Jeanne trails slightly behind me. I can see the Charente River glimmering between the tents. The sun is in its descent, and perhaps within a few hours we will have some relief from the heat. The standards of Louis’s knights banneret hang limp. There is no breeze to carry them aloft.

Knights and noblemen bow in acknowledgment as we pass. I cannot help but think of one who is not among them. Jean de Joinville is in Champagne, no doubt ably administering those territories while Thibaut is at his court in the Navarre. Sometimes I find it strange that a man with whom I passed not more than a dozen hours, and those hours more than a year ago, should be so
much in my mind. But perhaps it is not
so
strange. It is no more uncommon to take an instant liking to someone than it is to take an instant disliking. My sister Eleanor used to brag that she could make up her mind about anyone or anything before I could say my alphabet. But I own it
is
unusual for me. I am a deliberative person. Not, as Eleanor liked to tease me, indecisive, but someone who likes to give every person and every question a fair chance to show their character. So the immediate amity I felt with the Seneschal of Champagne intrigues me and will not be forgotten.

When Jeanne and I arrive at Louis’s tent, he and Alphonse are already present. They are glowing, not only with the sweat of the day but with the recent victory at Taillebourg. Louis is talking to his constable, Humbert de Beaujeu, doubtless about the next engagement. I see the marshal hovering nearby. The entrance of the ladies, or rather ladies other than Blanche who is already present and clearly part of the discussions, brings military matters quickly to a close. Louis approaches to lead me to the table.

“You prepare to lay siege to Saintes?” I ask, taking Louis’s arm.

“In a day or perhaps two. You will be quite safe here.”

“From all but the heat,” Jeanne remarks, taking up Alphonse’s arm.

Louis gives the Countess of Poitiers a withering look. He dislikes complainers.

“I am not the least concerned,” I say lightly. “The English king, the Count of La Marche, and their allies stand no chance against Your Majesty.”

“We do not know if Henry of England is still with the rebels. Rumors have reached us that he has broken with the Count of La Marche and already flees toward Bordeaux.”

I say nothing, merely sinking into my seat between Alphonse and Louis, but I feel a great surge of relief. Eleanor is at Bordeaux.
With luck, albeit a commodity of which Henry of England seems to have precious little, her husband will reach her safely.

The basins are brought round. Hands are washed and wine is poured. I expect any moment to see food carried in. Instead, there is a great commotion just outside—feet scuffling, loud voices, the distinctive sound of blows. It is as if a battle has suddenly erupted. Louis and the other gentlemen are on their feet instantly, hands on sword hilts. Before they can charge out into the gathering darkness, however, the tent flap opens and a tightly drawn group of knights lurches and shoves its way through. At the group’s center I can see two figures being dragged violently along as blows rain down upon them. They do not appear to be knights or even common foot soldiers, but are dressed in the manner of cooks.

“What is the meaning of this?” Louis barks.

The Count of Taillebourg breaks from the knot of men. “Your Majesty, we have uncovered great treachery.” Turning back, he grabs one of the two servants by his hair, half lifting and half dragging him out where the king can see him better. The man’s visage has aspects of a cornered beast. His glance darts about desperately as if searching for escape. His clothing is torn, and one of his eyes already begins to blacken. “This man and his accomplice were caught poisoning the food intended for Your Majesty’s table.”