The Sister Queens (38 page)

“What? But I thought all agreed? Only yesterday at dinner I heard the Count of Brittany and the constable discussing the fine harbor there and how it would make supply of our armies an easy thing.”

“His Majesty, as you know better than anyone, has no interest in easy things.”

“True.”

“The Count of Artois has convinced him to march against Cairo, saying, ‘He who wishes to kill the serpent must first crush the head.’”

“But Cairo is inland.” My mind runs over the vast stores of supplies we spent so much time and money collecting at Cyprus. Some of them have of course been ferried ashore during the last
months, but the majority of our supplies lie safely still in the bellies of our ships—waiting for a trip to Alexandria that will not be made.

“We must depend on the river.” Jean sits at last and puts his head in his hands. When he looks up, he says, “More than thirty-five leagues of river and we will have to control it all or risk being cut off from resupply.”

“God help us.”

“He will have to. This is what His Majesty counts upon—the divine righteousness of our cause.”

“And you?”

“I believe in the power of Christ and his saints, but I do not understand why it is necessary to make our victory in God’s name less certain and more difficult than it need be.”

“When do you go?”

“The king would depart at the beginning of Advent, and it is providential.”

“Let us pray so.”

I HAVE BEEN CRYING MOST
of the day—not sobbing, but breaking into tears without warning and over the oddest things. I am not alone. Earlier, as she finished a shirt that Robert will take with him, Matilda’s cheeks were tracked with tears. Even my sister Beatrice, usually brassy in her confidence, is subdued, but she blames her melancholic turn on the babe in her belly rather than on any fear for her husband in battle.

Tomorrow they go. All the men, or nearly all. Louis leaves five hundred under the command of the Duke of Burgundy to hold the city until his return and to safeguard me and the other wives.

My ladies have left me, each to pass a last evening with her
husband according to her own nature, some in forced cheerfulness and others clinging and solemn. I do not believe there is a single one among us who does not fear or dread the rising of tomorrow’s sun.

Louis made it clear that he will pass the whole of the night in his camp outside the city walls, praying. He took his leave of me after we dined. And though I am a faithless wife in the eyes of the Lord, my heart ached to see him go. But when, overcome by a sudden feeling of tenderness, I urged him to take care for himself, his reply reminded me that my concern is wasted.
“Deo adjuvante non timendum,”
he said. “God helping, nothing should be feared.” His tone was so nonchalant, as if Our Lord’s help was a thing certain. Not for the first time I wished I had a little more of his faith, and he a little less of it.

Jean left with Louis. It would have been unseemly for him to linger behind. But he swore he would find a way to return to say the farewells we had not the luxury of before the last battle. I sit at my dressing table, carefully examining my face for any evidence of tears. I would send my love away with an image of my beauty, not of my sadness, etched in his memory.

A knock sounds. I am surprised it is so bold. It must be other than Jean. Marie rises from her place before the fire and goes to the door. It opens to reveal a guard I do not know.

“A messenger from His Majesty the King,” he announces.

Jean stands just behind him, looking very officious. I nearly laugh in spite of myself.

“I cannot stay long.”

I take his hand and silently lead him to my bed. Fully clothed, we lie face-to-face, drinking in the sight of each other.

“Promise me something.” I reach out a hand to touch his cheek.

“What?”

“Promise that you will confess before you go into battle.”

“No.” Jean’s voice is fierce. “The danger is too great. Do you believe for a minute that any confessor is above being bribed, or merely using what he knows to his own advantage?”

I drop my hand.

“You know I speak truly,” Jean continues. “You do not even trust William de St. Pathus so much. You do not confess our sin. You carry its full weight upon you day after day. This is the burden we agreed to when first we came together. I do not flinch from it now.”

“You never flinch from anything,” I say, taking his hand and placing it on the swell in my belly. “That is why I love you.” I put my other hand behind his neck and kiss him.

Mine is not the sort of kiss to incite passion but rather the sort that is beyond passion—a kiss that is a seal, that says, “Y
ou are to me as holy ground.”
And I feel in his lips, in the hand that cradles his unborn son, the same sort of love returned, a love that puts the other before everything.

“Do you not know,” I say, drawing away and regarding him solemnly, “that I will worry every minute you are gone that you have fallen under some Saracen’s sword?” Jean opens his mouth, no doubt to reassure me, but I place a finger on his lips. “That worry alone will be nearly unbearable. Would you heap upon it the fear that with every exchange of blows you risk eternal damnation on my account?”

“What can I do?” Jean asks.

“What has the king complained of endlessly while we waited for the last of the ships to arrive? That the men have fallen into evil and idle ways, just as they did at Cyprus. Into gambling, into drinking, into
fornication
.” Jean looks puzzled; clearly he does not understand where I am headed. “Go to your confessor and tell him that you have had carnal knowledge of a woman not your wife.” Jean raises his eyebrows. “It is the truth. Not the full truth, but I
think you may do penance for the sin without confessing the lady’s name.”

“The priest will think I have been with a whore!” Jean’s face reddens. He sits up suddenly, leaving me to look at his back. “That very thought defames you, Marguerite, in a manner I cannot bear.”

I rise slowly from my own side of the bed and move round it to his to stand before him. “If I can bear the worry and the waiting, surely the ill thoughts of a priest who does not even know whom he insults can be nothing to me.”

“Does it mean so much to you?”

“Yes.”

He swallows hard. “Then I will do it.”

I lean down and kiss him again.

“And will you do something for me?” he asks. “Will you give me something of yours to carry with me over the many leagues that lie ahead?”

I nod and then retreat to my wardrobe. I have so many things—costly things, among them brooches and rings of great value that might preserve Jean from want in some faraway city. But when it comes to imbuing luck and to the protection that love can provide, there is only one object worthy of my knight.

Returning to my bedchamber, I hold out the much-worn
aumônière
, the crimson and orange of its poppies faded. A true gift of the heart—first Eleanor’s and now mine.

As if he knows as much, Jean says, “It shall be sewn into my pourpoint over my ribs as a reminder that as Eve was Adam’s rib, you are mine.”

E
LEANOR
A
UTUMN 1249
L
ONDON
, E
NGLAND

“H
enry, will you not come with me to Windsor? It is so beautiful this time of year, and the children would be happy to see you.”

“Eleanor, I have work.” The words come out in a tone of admonition, not regret. As if to punctuate my husband’s thought, John Mansel and a clerk carrying a sheaf of documents enter.

“Beg pardon, Your Majesties,” Mansel says, spotting me and preparing to retreat.

“No, no, come ahead,” Henry replies. “The queen is leaving.” His eyes move in my direction as he speaks, but I do not have the feeling that he truly looks at me.

“What shall I tell the children?”

“I will ride out next week or the week after, as my business allows.”

“I will be very sorry not to have your company on my journey.” I am not even rewarded with a smile.

Closing the door behind me, I turn to stare at its oaken length. The man who sits behind this door is not the same man who thirteen years ago took me as his bride, called me his treasure, and meant it. He is not even the same Henry as two years ago. That autumn Henry ordered a bower woven through with colored leaves and late-blooming flowers built in a corner of my garden at Windsor as a surprise for me and then ravished me inside its shadows.

The marital contentment I took for granted for so long has vanished. I cannot say precisely when it started to fade. I suppose it began to diminish so gradually that at first I did not notice it. Certainly by the time the fuss over the living at Flamstead arose, I
was aware that something was wrong. But, foolishly, I thought Henry and I were only experiencing a small episode of rough weather and things would right themselves of their own accord. The last months have disabused me of that notion and left me far less sanguine. Nothing I do pleases Henry anymore, at least not for long. Nothing I say charms him.

Turning on my heels I return to my apartments. My ladies are packing my things.
They
look up and smile as I enter.
They
are very much as they ever were. But the rooms themselves seem suddenly faded. The color has drained from the pink and white roses on my walls. Doubtless sunlight has faded them, and fixing them would be easy enough if I had the energy to order it. An artist could come in and touch up the paint while I am at Windsor. I wish it were as easy to understand the fading of my husband’s love for me and that it were as easy to fix.

In the evening Henry comes to my rooms as is his habit. Henry, the King of England comes, not
my
Henry. His face is sullen from the moment he enters. He takes his glass of wine from my hand with no thanks and no smile.

“Henry, what is the matter?”

“The matter?” My husband pauses where he is undressing beside my fire. “Other than my being overwhelmed by complaints from the Gascon barons about de Montfort’s rough treatment of them? He has disinherited William de Solaires.”

“I do not want to talk about Gascony.”

“Really, madam, well, here is a first. You have badgered me about securing Gascony ever since we took it back from Richard.”

I am on the verge of demanding whether it is wrong to care for the fortunes and possessions of our beloved son, but I stop short, letting my hands drop from my hips. Such a remark will only set us upon a political discussion and a contentious one at that. Ever
since I pressed my point over Flamstead and won, I have been nagged by the growing conviction that the cost of my victory was greater than my pleasure in it and that, in fact, I made things worse for myself.

As I stand looking at my husband—his posture indicating that he is waiting, perhaps even wanting to fight—I think back to a letter Marguerite sent me, to the proverb “Better a bad peace than a good quarrel.” Perhaps that is correct. Perhaps being right and proving as much to Henry is not as important as being in his good graces. I promise myself I will not say another word, and then I do.