The Sister Queens (20 page)

My pace ever quickening, I move through a series of chambers, Sybil in my wake. By the time I reach the stairs, I am nearly at a run. I hurry down them in a manner hardly befitting a queen, and, opening the next door, reveal a much-bespattered John Mansel. His mouth is fixed into a grim and rigid line, and his eyes, while not seeking to avoid mine, have a deadness about them I do not like.

“Your Majesty.” His perfunctory bow gives me a moment to steel myself. The news cannot be good.

I DO NOT KNOW WHICH
is harder to bear—the dreadful troubadour songs about Henry’s cowardice in battle or the weight of my sister’s mercy. The year of Our Lord 1243 has begun very badly indeed.

“The treaty is just,” Uncle Peter says. We are closeted together in my rooms in Bordeaux. “Urge Henry not to defer a moment longer. He must go to pay homage to Louis and sign.”

“I know,” I snap, “but can you blame him for delaying? To kneel before the French king as his man! It is an unpalatable thought.”

“Louis has no desire to embarrass Henry. You know what Marguerite writes—Louis pushes aside the criticism of his own advisers over the lenient terms of the treaty on the grounds that Henry is his brother by marriage.”

“Lenient? You call the sums we will be required to pay per annum lenient?”

“I do.” Uncle Peter strides to the window and pretends to give the view some consideration, though I know for certain there is nothing to be seen, just an early-spring garden not yet beginning to bud. Turning, my uncle regards me narrowly with intense eyes. “Eleanor, you have to stop behaving like an angry child who has lost a game.”

“I am not!”

“You are. It rankles you to lose to Marguerite, but put your feelings aside.” Peter approaches me where I sit, and, leaning close, continues in a low tone. “Henry has a short memory; he was deserted by the Count of La Marche and already forgives him. Take a lesson—forgive the French king for being the better military commander.”

“How can you say ‘better’? You know that we were outnumbered and defeated by the count’s mismanagement before Henry even set foot off our ship!”

“Mayhap. But Henry was also outmaneuvered. Louis of France gained nothing that he did not win fairly.” My cheeks grow warm with a combination of anger and shame. I know my uncle speaks the truth. Henry fought badly at Taillebourg, then turned and fled.
But I bristle at any reminder of my husband’s shortcomings. “The bigger loss in this campaign was Gascony,” Peter continues, “which Henry gave away on a whim. We must concentrate on getting it back for Edward.”

I cannot defend Henry in this. The grant of Gascony to Earl Richard robs our son. “How? When Henry feels that Richard saved him from capture.”

“Richard
did
save him. And for this very reason we must bide our time. Richard returns from the campaign stronger than he left, both in Henry’s affections and in the imagination of the average Englishman. Sting him now and his cries will raise the sympathy of too many. Let us make as much of him for a while as the king does.”

My uncle moves away and takes a seat by my fire. For some moments both of us are silent. And then it comes to me. “No, we shall make
more
of him,” I say. “I will urge Henry to finalize the marriage contract with my father immediately and to be generous in the financial terms. If we must pay Louis from the royal accounts, why not Richard? Then we will use the preparations for a lavish wedding to wipe away the traces of disgrace that dog the king. Give the English a spectacle and they will forget much else. The troubadours will have a new song to sing—a song of the women of Provence and their beauty.”

“YOU LOOK LOVELY; IT IS
foolish to fuss,” my mother says, entering my cabin and passing behind me. Willelma holds a small polished bronze mirror a few feet away while I attempt to see myself in difficult circumstances. We are in the waters off Dover, and the November winds toss the ship most unpleasantly. It has taken me a long time to make my return from Gascony to English shores, and I intend to arrive looking my best.

“It is foolish not because I look beautiful, but because no matter what I do, I cannot measure up to Sanchia’s loveliness,” I reply. When my mother and sister arrived in Bordeaux to join Henry and me, I was completely taken aback by my sister’s exquisite looks. True, she was always a beauty, but seven years ago when I saw her last she was but a child. Now she is a woman of seventeen with all the assets and attractions womanhood brings. She is so stunning that in my darker moments I wonder if it is wise to have her at my court. Surely every man will ignore me once she is in England. If I catch Henry glancing in her direction with any eyes other than those of a brother, heaven help her!

“Your sister will need more than beauty to make a success of this marriage.” Mother takes the mirror from Willelma and gestures for her to leave.

It is amazing, I think, how quickly my mother and I resumed our familiar roles. All my worry that our prolonged separation might have left us awkward strangers disappeared within an hour after I greeted her in Bordeaux, but so too did my firm intentions to be treated as an equal. I will always be daughter to my mother, even if I am a queen, a grown woman, and a mother myself three times over.

“I see clearly how it lies between His Majesty and the Earl Richard. Your uncle, of course, instructed me on the topic while the match was being made, but I always understand better what I have seen with my own eyes.” Apparently satisfied with my appearance and assuming that will be enough for me, mother flips the mirror over and looks at herself. She bites her upper and lower lip to bring the color, then smiles at her reflection.

“Then you understand the importance of reining Richard in. He thinks himself the more able of the brothers.” I go to the window of my cabin and gaze out at the white cliffs that welcome me home. They are drawing close. It will soon be time to disembark.
I turn back to my mother. “Richard is not alone in his assessment. Too many of Henry’s barons underestimate my husband in favor of his brother. If he cannot be checked, he is a danger to us.”

“Sanchia knows she is tasked with bending Richard to the royal will.”

“But is she equal to the undertaking? She is so reticent!” I find my sister boring. She is entirely pleasant, respectful, and attentive to me, but there is no spark in her.

“Not everyone can have your boldness, Eleanor. She may be timid, but she is loyal and, more important, she is dutiful. This is the one characteristic I managed to impart to all my daughters, however different their temperaments. So we may count on Sanchia to try.”

“That is not entirely comforting, madam. My husband has spent three thousand marks and four manor houses to secure this marriage, and to try is not always to succeed.”

“No, that holds true for
all
of us,” Mother replies gently.

I feel my face growing hot. How dare she remind me of Henry’s recent failure? But perhaps she does not; perhaps she only remembers and refers to some less than successful endeavors of my own. She is right, of course; if effort were the measure of success, my husband and not Marguerite’s would be heralded as the greatest king in Europe. But even with all of my uncle’s coaching and all my prompting and encouragement, Henry missteps again and again in governing.

“For a few weeks at least, we can guide her,” my mother continues, ignoring my discomfort.

I feel vaguely cross with my sister for being as she is. Unfair? Perhaps. I have no other sister of marriageable age, so Sanchia provided the most direct and obvious way to tie Richard to my family, whatever her faults. And besides, he talked of her with such
ardor after seeing her. But Savoyards are many. Another bride, less close in degree of relation but more apt for the purpose, might have been found had I known to look. Standing opposite my mother, I realize her interests and my own were not entirely the same in this matter. She wanted a wealthier and more prestigious husband for Sanchia than the Count of Toulouse, and she may well have thought it best not to apprise me of my sister’s shortcomings before the marriage contract was executed. This thought fans the embers of my annoyance into white-hot anger.

“Let us hope Richard finds the coinage with which Sanchia pays her marriage debt as irresistible as he finds gold from my husband’s purse,” I snap.

My mother winces. “Eleanor!”

“A man will do much for a woman who pleases him in bed,” I say petulantly. “If my sister has not the sort of personality to push her husband in the direction we need him to go, nor the cleverness to trick him, she may still manage him effectively through his lust.”

My mother regards me for a moment or two without speaking. But if she thinks to cow me, she will be disappointed. A cry from on deck breaks our standoff. The sailors are making preparations to land.

“I will go and make certain of your sister. She will be nervous about being seen on English soil for the first time.” My mother’s eyes smolder, but her voice is even. She glides across my small cabin as if the ship were not even moving. Such an appearance of serenity despite the circumstances! At the door she turns briefly. “I think, Daughter,” she says in the same mild tone, “you would do well to leave off preening and perfecting your outside appearance, and lavish more attention on matters of your character.”

By the time the plank is dropped for us to disembark, I am thoroughly miserable. I wish I had not spoken as I did to my
mother. Gazing down at the enormous party of noblemen assembled for our arrival, each splendidly dressed and beautifully mounted, I should feel proud. Only a few months ago, Henry’s barons made him the subject of ribald jests, and now, here they are, looking grave and respectful and entirely appropriate to welcome me and my relations home. But I feel maudlin. I am disappointed that Henry is not among them, even though I knew he would remain at Westminster. Henry would make me feel better and tell me I have done nothing wrong—even if I have. Instead, Richard is at the head of the welcoming party, looking tall, grave, and stately. His height always offends me, though his being taller than Henry is no more his fault than my being taller than my husband is mine. Whatever lingering anger Richard feels over Henry’s revocation of the grant of Gascony, it is certainly not on display at the moment. With any luck, the gift of my sister to this man will wipe away all his resentment over lands lost.

Richard saw Sanchia last more than three years ago in my father’s house. My figure blocks hers at the top of the plank, but as soon as I begin to descend, accompanied by the sound of trumpets, I see his eyes widen. The fool, he is practically salivating! When my mother, sister, and I are all assembled on dry land, I make the introductions.

“Lady Cynthia.”

From the way Richard says her name—or what she must become accustomed to answering to on this strange English soil—before he kisses her hand, you would think he was a boy of nineteen who had never been wed before. As he helps her to her horse, I notice his hand lingers at her waist far longer than necessary. I may be sorry for my coarse language with my mother, but it is abundantly clear to me, and doubtless to all the gentlemen standing close by, that Earl Richard is already imagining his bride naked. Perhaps this is not so surprising because his last wife, though he
loved her exceedingly, came to him at thirty and as a widow. He has never had a young woman and a virgin. Well, other than his mistresses, some of whom have been young. I will not speculate on their virginity.

I roll my eyes slightly at my mother, but she studiously ignores me.

With my sister mounted, we move off. There is no time to waste; Sanchia is to be married before month’s end. There are thousands of dishes and details to be seen to as everything will be done with utmost style. Henry promised me in his last letter that my tailor works from sunup to sunset to make certain that my every garment for the celebrations will be talked about for weeks by the English gentlewomen. Riding at the head of the party along a road lined with my subjects, I see their eyes pass from me to admire my sister, who rides at Richard’s side just behind me, and I wonder if expensive gowns will be enough.

HOW A MONTH MAY CHANGE
everything! My sister is a sweet thing, willing to oblige me in everything. She has my looks bested, but is so shy that despite her loveliness she often seems to fade into the background when in company. I like her better for the fact that she never tries to outshine me.

As for Richard, thus far his pleasure in her, and in being a member of my family, has made his relations with Henry the easiest I have ever seen them. At the rate he is bedding Sanchia—who is as open to my suggestions for this activity as she is to my suggestions on mode of dress or English customs—I am hopeful there will be a full cradle within a year to seal the marriage in the most satisfactory way possible.

And my mother! The lady has a head for politics I aspire to
match. She knows exactly whom to flatter and whom to ignore. Looking down the table to where she listens to Simon de Montfort, her hand on his arm, her easy smile encouraging his confidences, I forget for a moment my apprehension that this Christmas banquet hosted by my brother-in-law and sister comes uncomfortably close to rivaling the lavish nature of the wedding banquet in their honor that I presided over. Indeed, let Richard spend his money to feed Henry and our court for once. He has certainly had his share of our treasury.

Sitting beside me, Henry spreads his fingers contentedly over his stomach. “I am completely satiated.”

“Completely?” I place a hand on his thigh beneath the table. With our little Beatrice eighteen months old, Sanchia’s is not the only belly I mean to see filled in the next months. As Uncle Peter reminded me recently, one son, even if he be a very sturdy boy, is not sufficient hedge against an uncertain future.

Henry’s sleepy eye widens a little at my insinuation. “Eleanor, have I told you how lovely you look?”

I am wearing a new gown made from the lengths of glimmering ruby fabric that Uncle Thomas brought for me when he came for Sanchia’s wedding. He brought the same for my mother and sister, and all three of us are clad in his offering for this banquet. While I approved of the idea as a show of family unity, a part of me chafes at the very direct comparison that dressing so similarly is bound to inspire. “As lovely as my sister?”