The Sister Queens (4 page)

Now I am crying too.

Eleanor throws herself into my arms, equally heedless of the cup she casts aside and the wine that spills from it.

“Oh Eleanor, if only you could come with me! How cruel that Jeanne de Toulouse is betrothed to one of the king’s brothers rather
than you! The lady is no doubt vile like her father, and even were she not, even were she all accomplishment and good humor, no one can bear me such company as you do. You hold all my secrets and I yours.”

My chest is heaving. I am crying so hard that I cannot continue. Even if I could, what would I say? No words of mine uttered in either protest or prayer can change my destiny. I will be Queen of France and must therefore be parted from the sister whom I love more than any other person.

Her continued distress allows me to rein in my own. I must make an effort to support her spirits. “Eleanor, do you remember the time, at Mother’s castle, at Brignoles, when we planned to run away and become trobairitz?”

Eleanor sniffs, and, wiping both eyes, manages to look ever so slightly saucy. “Are we going now?”

“That would be ill-advised,” I reply. “For, if you remember, we gave the scheme a miss, upon discovering that neither of us has a facility for rhyme, though I sing as beautifully as a lark.”

“You? I have the sweeter voice.” Eleanor is smug, and that is better than seeing her miserable.

“And I the sweeter temperament.” I feel my own spirits rise as the evening suddenly becomes very much like thousands of others we have passed in similar banter. A friendly competition, like a joust or a contest among troubadours, is what we have. Eleanor may win one day and I another, but the pleasure lies in contesting the other, not in vanquishing her.

“You must write to me often,” I demand.

“What shall I tell? Nothing will change here.”

“And that is precisely what I will wish most to hear; that all I love remains as I left it.”

“Then I promise to write to you nearly as often as I will think of you.”

“Nearly?”

“I cannot be at my escritoire every minute. And you must write to me in return. As queen, you will be better able to command messengers into the saddle than I will.”

“I will write,” I reply, suddenly feeling solemn again. “And let us exchange tokens of our promise.” I rise and go to the foot of our bed, expecting to find my trunk, but it is not there. I stop dead, feeling panic rising within me. All my things are packed away for my journey north. I have nothing left in the rooms of my childhood but the clothing I took off this evening and the clothing I will don at sunrise.

Lifting the protective coverings from my new garments, I wonder what I can give to Eleanor without being caught by my mother or my eagle-eyed uncle Thomas. My glance alights on my new slippers with the wonderfully pointed toes and a strap that closes them at the ankle above an open instep. Made of soft, light-colored doeskin, they are embroidered with a myriad of small gold stars. Such shoes are meant to be seen protruding from the bottom of my skirts once I am astride my horse rather than to be walked in. However, if I am careful with my skirts, I may easily wear the plain black slippers that I took off this evening with no one being the wiser. So I catch the pretty slippers up and hold them out to Eleanor. “Here. Only pray don’t lift your skirts when you wear them, or Mother will know.”

Eleanor laughs. “And what do you expect her to do? You will be many leagues away, a married woman.”

“But not, I suspect, safe from maternal scolding. Mother can write to me as easily as you can.”

Eleanor appears genuinely puzzled by my reply. When she is convinced she is right, words have never been enough to persuade her otherwise. She doubtless cannot imagine being chastened by a letter. Going to her own things, she returns with the fine woolen broadcloth
aumônière
she has been laboriously embroidering for months. Eleanor does not like to embroider; she has not the patience for it, while I excel at it. But, having been struck by the idea of decorating the bag with the poppies that are everywhere about Aix by the beginning of the summer, she has lavished much attention on this particular work. Always drawn to displays of finery, she planned to wear the
aumônière
suspended from her favorite scarlet girdle.

“You must take this, Marguerite, and make sure when you wear it that one of my letters is always inside with your coins and other things.”

“Are you certain?”

“Entirely, for I love no one so much as you.”

But I notice as I take the bag from her hands that she holds on to the strings until the last possible moment.

M
ARGUERITE
M
AY 1234
O
UTSIDE
S
ENS
, F
RANCE

I
cannot breathe. My nurse, squatting beside me where I sit, squeezes my hand. She has spotted him too. The little party is very close now. A handful of young gallants and their attendants riding toward our larger party, magnificently dressed like the knights in the poems and songs of my great-grandfather Alfonso
of Aragon, a “troubadour among Kings” (though he would always have it a “King among troubadours”).

Most beautiful of all those riding toward us is Louis.
My
Louis. I know who he is by his armor. It is gold—all gold. The chain mail, even his spurs. But I must confess, though his magnificent attire draws my eyes, it is his more personal attributes that hold them. At twenty years old, he is
so
tall and
so
well favored. He has tawny golden hair blunt cut at his shoulders, a long straight nose, and lips that while unsmiling presently are appealingly full. And his eyes are blue. Not the crisp, sometimes harsh blue of a summer sky over Aix, nor the gray, weeping blue of a woad-dyed dress, but an altogether softer, warmer blue than I have ever seen.

Those clustered about me, where I take my rest underneath the shade of my tent, part like the biblical seas as my soon-to-be husband dismounts and moves forward to greet me. He is followed by two other richly dressed gentlemen and half a dozen attendants bearing a variety of objects. I rise from my seat and fall again immediately into the deepest curtsy I have ever made, keeping my eyes modestly downward. When I rise again, Uncle Guillaume, who has also finished making his reverence, provides the introductions.

“Your Majesty, may I present my niece, the Lady Marguerite of Provence, by God’s grace your affianced wife.”

“Marguerite, may I present His Majesty, Louis, by God’s grace King of France; His Highness, Robert, Count of Artois; and His Highness, Alphonse, Count of Poitiers.” I know these are Louis’s brothers, and I notice that neither has his poise or good looks. Alphonse seems very near to my own age, and I struggle to remember just how old he is, as I am sure I have been told.

“My lady.” Louis’s voice is warm. He reaches out to take my hand, bowing over it solemnly. “All of France welcomes you. We
convey particular greetings from our dear mother, Blanche, by the grace of God Queen of France, our sister Isabelle, and our brother Charles, each of whom is overjoyed at your safe arrival. We bring also some little tribute as testament to your beauty and value to us.” With this, Louis beckons forward his attendants, ticking off the gifts they carry: “Two ceremonial saddles and a bridle of gold for a lady we know by report to be a most excellent horsewoman; a collection of jewels, the greatest of which is made to seem insignificant in comparison with your beauty; a cloak of sable as soft as your eyes; and, most important, a golden chalice for our nuptial Mass that we may share the blood of Our Lord and be made one with fitting dignity.”

Acknowledging the gifts with another curtsy, I find that my training is happily sufficient to overcome even my awe. “Your Majesty, we thank you humbly for these gifts. They are of great value in themselves but even more so in our eyes as tokens of your love and respect for us.” Then, remembering my uncle Guillaume’s constant admonition that Louis prizes piety above all, I add, “We give thanks daily to God and to his Blessed Mother for sending us such a husband.”

Uncle Guillaume smiles at me. The king smiles at me. Those gathered on every side smile at the sight of the king and me standing together. I have done well. And like that, the formality in Louis’s manner drops away.

“My lady, shall I ride beside you on the way into Sens?” he asks, holding out his arm.

“Your Majesty,” I reply, laying my hand upon it and feeling a sudden thrill as I do so, “I would be beside you from this moment on whenever you will have me there.”

When we reach the palace of the archbishop of Sens, my uncles and I discover we are to be parted. I must take my leave of them as
attendants carry in my chests and Louis disperses his men. Lisette and several of my ladies are shepherded inside by an imposing-looking woman of advanced age. The archbishop himself stands prepared to lead me in once my good-byes are completed.

“I apologize, Thomas,” he remarks, “but thanks to the events of the morrow, the city strains at the seams and so too my palace.” The archbishop’s contrition appears genuine; no doubt he was hoping to impress my uncles with the lavish nature of his dwelling and is sorry to be deprived of the opportunity. “We thought it most fitting to install the Lady Marguerite here with the rest of the royal family, as tomorrow she will join it. It seemed also pressing to find room for some of her attendants so that they might prepare the bride, a task where gentlemen will not be wanted.”

I nearly laugh out loud. How little His Grace knows my uncles! They might not dress me themselves, but no two persons, once my parents were left behind at Lyons, have been more instrumental in preparing this bride!

“I have secured lodgings for you at the chapter house,” the archbishop continues, oblivious both to my suppressed mirth and to the displeasure of my uncles, which I can read clearly in their pinched lips and flared nostrils.

“Are we not to be received by Her Majesty Queen Blanche?” Uncle Guillaume’s tone is more insistent than inquiring.

“Certainly.” Louis has returned to my side. “Our mother is eager to show you every gratitude for your good offices in delivering the Lady Marguerite, but would allow you time to retire and refresh yourselves. We shall all dine together this evening, and she will greet you then.”

There is no answer for this, and clearly there will be no moment of privacy offered to me and my Savoyard kin. I want to embrace
both my uncles, but such a show of open affection with so many eyes upon us seems sadly out of place.

“Until tonight then,” I say, trying to project cool confidence. Then on Louis’s arm and preceded by the archbishop, I am whisked through the stone entrance. I assume I will find my women just inside, but apparently
I
am not to be given any time to rest or recover before facing my new family.

“Here she is, Mother.” Louis’s words are directed to a trim figure at the bottom of a great staircase. The woman is surprisingly imperious for a lady of such small stature, and surprisingly dour for a woman still of an age to be beautiful. She remains silent and expressionless for a moment, content to look me up and down as if appraising a horse for purchase. Then one side of her mouth rises slightly, giving not so much the impression of a smile as of a wry smirk.

“Pretty. We have not been misled in that. Come here, child.” I glide forward and, stopping directly before the Dowager Queen—for who else would dare speak to me so boldly?—slowly sink in reverence. I stay down. “You may rise.” Her voice holds a note of grudging, cautious approval. “How was your journey?”