The Sister Queens (21 page)

“Pshaw,” Henry replies, “she cannot compare to you. She is too skinny. Clearly, I do not remind you often enough of your beauty.”

I laugh at my husband’s gallantry. It is an endearing gesture. He need not compliment me extravagantly to be in either my good graces or my bed, but the habit of pleasing me begun in the early
days of our marriage has never left him. “You tell me often, sir, but I never tire of hearing it.”

Henry is in as fine a mood as I have seen since our return from the miserable mess in Poitou. Amenable, I judge, to nearly anything. I look again in the direction of my mother and give an audible sigh.

“What troubles you, Eleanor?” Henry is all concern.

“I am not troubled, only a little saddened that the countess must leave us soon. Of course, I understand that my father cannot bear to be without her longer when he is ill, but she is a good companion to me and, I think, an asset to our court.”

“You can have no doubt of my esteem for the Countess of Provence. In fact, I was thinking of making her a gift. Would four hundred pounds per annum please you?”

“Henry!” I lean to kiss his cheek, and he beams.

“I shall have the endowment drawn. Shall we say half a dozen years?”

“More than generous.” And I
do
think it generous. But such a gift was not the topic I had in mind when I raised my mother’s departure. That lady has impressed upon me, with Peter and Thomas at either elbow, the importance of securing a loan for my father from my husband. Ill though he is, the count is engaged in a military matter and short on funds. It would hardly seem grateful to raise that issue now, but I will find the moment for it.

“WALLINGFORD CERTAINLY IS A FINE
castle.” Henry stretches out on his back in my bed, hands clasped behind his head. With the firelight glinting in his beard and hair, I think he looks much younger than his thirty-six years.

“I am sure he remembers that he had it by your hand,” I reply, rolling on my side to see him better.

“He is a good brother.”

“Yes.” I can agree without dissembling at present. There is no purpose in reminding Henry of past instances of less than perfect behavior on Richard’s part. And with the help of God and Sanchia, there will be fewer such instances in future. “A fine and loyal family is a prize beyond measure.”

“True.” Henry rolls to face me and cups my cheek in his hand. “And you are the great architect of my family and thereby my happiness. By your relations, I have gained loyal advisers, a caring mother, and now a new sister; and by your body I have been blessed with three healthy children.”

I feel a lump in my throat. Leaning forward, I give Henry a gentle kiss. “You must not forget, Henry, that you are in part the author of your own contentment as well as the source of all my own. Did you not marry me, love me, and take to your bosom all my kith and kin as if they were your own? These were none of them preordained things. My own sister Marguerite has not a single soul at her court who shares with her bonds of blood and kinship.” I think to myself that, did not the duty of sisterly loyalty forbid it, I might say more—I might say that it does not seem to me that my sister’s husband loves her very much.

A heat born of our moment of tenderness is rising between us. Already I know that a second coupling this evening is inevitable, and I welcome it. But before I surrender to my passions and to those of my husband, I cannot let this moment pass. After all, there has been so much talk of family. “Henry, I am worried about my father.”

“He is ill, I know.” Henry’s voice is sympathetic, but his attention, like his hand, is already wandering to my breast.

“Yes, but he is also in need of better defenses. Have you given thought to my mother’s request for a loan?”

“I want to give her the money, Eleanor”—Henry dips his head to kiss the hollow between my breasts—“but my council is worried about the security for such a loan.”

“Mother said today that we might have castles for that and might select them ourselves.”

“I have a castle in Provence. Why do I need more?”

“Because”—I kiss the side of his neck just below his earlobe—“you are married to an heiress of Provence.” It pains me to speak of my father’s death, and I pray it will not be for many years, but every man is mortal. “And when that day comes, we may need to defend our claim.”

“You mean from Louis?” Henry is clearly interested in this new line of conversation. He pulls back far enough to look me squarely in the eyes again.

“The French king will want Provence; that is certain. It is greatly to his advantage to expand his territories in the south.” I stroke Henry’s chest soothingly. I want to press my point, but I do not want my husband to become so agitated over Louis that I cannot conclude it, or that his present mood is spoiled. After all, I am nearly as eager as he to be done with politics and on to matters of love.

“Can we take possession of the castles your father will give us as surety?”

I wrack my brain to remember what Uncle Peter said upon this point during the light of day. Henry does not help the situation as, during the pause, he begins to rub his hand between my thighs.

“Of course.” If that was not the case, I think, my uncles will now have to make it so. “But let us leave those details to my uncles and to another time.”

“Agreed.” Henry begins to lower his head to my breast once again.

But I cannot be easy until I clarify the point. I arrest his head in both my hands. “You will make the loan?”

“Four thousand marks, just as your mother asked.” It is amazing to me that he can remember the amount. But so it always is; his moments of political lucidity come and go at the most unpredictable of times.

As for my own head, with Henry’s promise secured, I have not another moment to spare for politics—English or Provençal. I desire nothing more this night than satisfaction of my desire at the hands of my husband.

M
ARGUERITE
F
EBRUARY 1244
P
ALAIS DU
R
OI
, P
ARIS

L
ouis, my darling Louis! In a single instant you have made me happier than I have been in many years, and more powerful. I look down into the face of my son, only minutes old. He has downy golden hair, so fair that it is nearly without color. His solemn blue eyes return my gaze.

“I think he can
see
,” Yolande remarks in amazement from where she stands beside me combing my hair.

I hope he can also hear. The bells have begun to ring all across Paris. Ringing hours before dawn. Waking the city’s inhabitants.
The King of France, the greatest and most respected monarch in Christendom, has an heir at last—my son.
My
son.

“The king is coming!” Matilda exclaims, bustling into my bedchamber from the room beyond.

“Is
she
with him?” I dare to ask, because Louis’s Garde des Sceaux and the other officials who were present to see me delivered have withdrawn so that I can be made presentable. All my ladies know precisely whom I mean.

“No,” my sister-in-law replies, her eyes sparkling, “you were delivered so quickly that she has not yet arrived at the palace.”

“Good.” This is
my
moment of triumph. I do not wish to share it with the dragon. “Clever Louis,” I say, touching his tiny cheek, “born at night while your
grandmother
slumbered. Born with so little suffering compared to your sisters. Do you come to make me a true queen at last?”

I hand the baby to Elisabeth, pinch my cheeks, bite my lips, arrange the coverlets, and then take the baby back, nodding to Matilda. She throws open the door, and my husband strides in.

“Your Majesty”—I incline my head acknowledging the king—“you have a son.”

“So I have heard, God and the Virgin be praised.” Louis moves to the side of my bed, and my ladies scatter, bowing as they go. “You have done well, my lady wife.”

As he looks down on me, I see a ghost of the former Louis in his eyes—a glimmer of warmth and enthusiasm, even of fondness. I wonder how to feed the spark into a blaze. Will this prince bring Louis back to me?

“Will Your Majesty sit?” The offer is more than idle
politesse
. Despite the authority with which Louis entered, he is frail. A bad bout of the sickness of the bowels that struck his men at the end of the Poitevin campaign did not spare him. Even a year and a half
later, he is not fully recovered. But Louis, usually so calm, is too excited to be still. He moves around to the other side of the bed, a vantage point that allows him to see the baby’s face.

“He is very pale.”

“No indeed, Your Majesty, only fair and handsome like his father.” I smile upward. “Will Your Majesty hold him?”

Louis hesitates. To encourage him, I hold the baby up. Louis takes the child with great care—the sort of care with which I have seen him handle the precious relics for his Sainte-Chapelle.

As if reading my mind, Louis says, “How I wish the palatine chapel were ready for his baptism.” He seriously considers the prince for a few more moments, brow furrowed and lips pursed in concentration.

“I must strive to be a better king, for now I am an example to the next king.”

I feel my heart soften toward this man, standing in the flickering candlelight, his son in his arms. True, he often neglects and underestimates me, but he is never deliberately hard upon me. He is
every day
hard upon himself.

“Your Majesty is acknowledged by all to be a great king. And, Louis, you are a good man.” I say the last very quietly, so as not to embarrass him in front of my ladies who have withdrawn to a respectful distance. I hold my breath wondering if Louis will take my words as I mean them—as a mark of compassion and affection—or if he will find them patronizing. His mouth relaxes into a little smile, and I relax in turn.

Handing me the baby, Louis says, “You have given me, and indeed France, a great gift. What can I give you in return?”

I do not think the question is asked in earnest. And even if it were, to answer it openly, to lay myself bare, is more than I have strength to do. Besides, I know that Louis loves me in his way. He
cannot love me differently, just because I need him to. So I give the gallant answer, “What can I want when I have Your Majesty for my husband?”

“Perhaps a fine piece of samite to wear when you are churched? So fine that all will know you are the mother of a prince.”

Smiling up at Louis, I hope the cloth will be fine enough to make Blanche jealous, or at least to remind her that
I
am queen. I have been patient. And after nearly ten years and three hard-gained pregnancies, my patience has been rewarded. No one and nothing can threaten my position now. I can hardly wait to write to Eleanor.

IT IS DECEMBER, THE GRAYEST
of months, the grayest of times for France and for me. Louis is sick. Louis is dying. How can a year that began so well have come to this?

Someone is shaking me. My heart rises to my throat. Is this the dreaded moment when someone rouses me to say that Louis is gone? No, it is only Marie, waking me to resume my vigil at the king’s bedside. I rise in the watches of the night, unable to give an accurate count of how many times I have done so since Louis was taken ill here at Pontoise. Yolande, bleary-eyed and not yet completely awake herself, stirs the fire and warms some wine for me. Marie and Matilda dress me in silence. No one comments on the slight but obvious swelling of my belly as they might have in happier times, but I feel a small kick as the babe in my womb stirs. The only sound in my bedchamber is a whispered undercurrent of prayer. As things have grown more serious, Elisabeth has taken to praying continuously under her breath. I am not sure she is aware of this.