The Sister Queens (40 page)

“My, he is very handsome,” I say, laying a finger upon the figure.

“Shall I tell His Majesty you are looking for a handsome knight?” Maude jokes.

Christiana de Marisco gives a deep throaty laugh and pretends to be shocked.

“No indeed,” I insist, pretending likewise to be scandalized. “His Majesty
is
my handsome knight.” Of course, I am not at all shocked. My acquaintance with Maude stretches back several years, formed over the course of my residences at Windsor, a castle her husband managed for the Crown. I like her mischievous sense of humor. I like her generally. And I particularly like that she can be useful to my current plans.

“It is you who lacks a husband at present,” I continue, adopting a softer and more serious tone. “Do you not grow tired of keeping Windsor Castle all alone?”

“My late husband was a good man—”

“I’ll not say nay, as he was relation of mine,” I quip. Maude was married to Peter of Geneva who came to England as part of my retinue when I arrived as a bride, but she has been widowed for more than a year.

“I do not want to tempt divine providence by asking for another.”

“Ah,” I say, drawing her arm through mine and leading her away, leaving the others occupied with my beautiful book, “but what you will not ask for you may receive nonetheless.”

“What nonsense you talk.” Maude squeezes my elbow.

“Not at all. I am expecting the arrival, once the sailing weather is dependably good, of a kinsman of my uncle Peter’s, Geoffrey de Joinville. I have heard he is more handsome than any knight in that book.”

“And will it please Your Majesty for me to marry him?” Maude looks unsettled. When I try to meet her gaze, she lowers her eyes to the floor.

“It would please both the king and myself very much.” Of course, I have not discussed the matter with Henry, and it is sure to displease his barons even if it pleases him. Maude has a good deal of territory in both England and Ireland that will go along with her hand if she marries again. No, my plan is to persuade my friend to the match first and then tell Henry, when the young de Joinville is on English soil and introduced at court, that Lady de Lacy fell in love with him at first sight. Henry is still a man much moved by tales of love.

Seeing that Maude has not raised her eyes, I add, “It should please you too, for he is a strapping young gentleman of barely twenty-one. Who would not want such a man in her bed?”

“You think to scandalize me out of my surprise,” Maude says, shaking her head with a slight laugh.

“I will assure you, my dear friend, that if you accept Geoffrey, you will find him possessed of more assets than youth and vigor. His Majesty will see to it that he has an office worthy of your hand. You have my word.”

Maude is practical. She knows that, given the importance of her possessions and the fact that her son by Peter died, she will not be allowed to remain widowed indefinitely. I feel sure she would rather have my choice of husband than the choice of my husband’s advisers. Sure enough, she squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and says, “Let it be as Your Majesty pleases.”

And I am pleased—pleased because I will be able to tell Marguerite that I have found a handsome fortune for yet another one of those de Joinville brothers in whom she takes such an interest. I give Maude a kiss on the cheek. We return to the others, and I call out, “Who will be the first to read aloud?”

BY MID-MARCH, ONE OF MY
chambers at Westminster is full of ladders and men with brushes.

“Since you love the
Chanson d’Antioche
so much,” Henry says, holding a candle aloft to see the painters’ progress one evening before we retire, “I thought it only fitting you have some of the stirring deeds it recounts to decorate your apartments.”

“I cannot wait to see you astride your warhorse,” I say, putting my arms about his waist. We are standing directly before a figure modeled on the same besieging knight I so admired from the book.

“I will be astride you much sooner than that,” Henry replies, dropping his mouth to the place where my neck meets my shoulder.

It is as if we are newly married again. I need only glance at Henry to spark the king’s lust. I am ecstatic. Marguerite must be nearly ready to give birth in the Holy Land. With any luck I will
be with child myself before the babe my sister now carries is weaned. Henry takes my hand to lead me back to my bedchamber.

“No,” I say, my voice coming forth as a hoarse whisper though we are entirely alone, “take me here, beneath these images that I may imagine we are already on a far-off shore, conquering the Holy Land together.”

M
ARGUERITE
S
PRING 1250
D
AMIETTA
, E
GYPT

I
can barely rise from my bed in the morning. My ladies think it is because I am so great with child. Matilda chides me for not beginning my confinement, for still climbing to the battlements every day, looking in the direction of the river and hoping for the sight of Louis’s messenger, of Louis’s colors.

But it is neither the babe inside me nor “too much exertion” that causes my malaise. I am no fool. I have had no word from the king in nearly four months. No word from Jean. Something terrible has happened. And the weight of not knowing how terrible bends me nearly to my breaking point. For all I know, both men are dead and all my children are fatherless. Is it any wonder then that I am weary?

Leaning on the stone in front of me, surrounded by archers, flanked by a concerned Marie and my sister, I look at the river winding into the distance and see a sinuous and treacherous serpent. Somewhere along its length between myself and the French army, the Saracens must command it. I wonder what happens to the supply barges I send. What do the men eat if provisions are not getting through? Then I am seized with terror almost to the point of panic at the unwelcome thought that dead men need no nourishment. I want to scream, but if I become hysterical, what and who is to hold my court of women or the larger city together? Only alone, in the deep watches of the night, when like a child I demand every candle be lit to drive out the unseen monsters of the dark, do I cover my face with a pillow and scream until my throat is raw.

Descending from the tower, I find my sisters-in-law and the other noble wives waiting in utter idleness in my chambers. They
no longer look up hopefully at my return, nor does every knock at my door as each long day unwinds cause them to start in hopes of a royal messenger. We have become old and broken women, even as the air is filled with the sounds and smells of spring. The only soul oblivious to our torture, I think as I find my seat, is Beatrice’s little daughter lying in her cradle. She waves her tiny fists in the air as Matilda, now beginning to show with child herself, rocks the cot slowly with her foot.

I cannot write to Jean. If I could, if I could pour out all my worry, all my thoughts of him in his absence, how the picture of the pink birds of our afternoon at Akrotiri comes to me at unexpected intervals catching me off guard, what sweet relief it would be. But such candor in writing would be misplaced, even under extremis. Thank God I can write to Eleanor. I call for my escritoire and bury myself in the letter I started yesterday.

When the door opens, I do not look up. It is Marie’s exclamation, “Your Grace!” that captures my attention.

The Duke of Burgundy stands on the threshold, smiling. Smiling!

“Your Majesty, soldiers in the south tower believe they have espied our troops.”

I am on my feet in an instant, large as I am. “Show me.”

I take the duke’s arm and make the climb with all my ladies, babbling like excited children, trailing behind me. When we reach the top of the tower, soldiers and archers make way.

“You see, Your Majesty, coming along the right bank of the river.” The duke points out over the landscape to guide my gaze.

The sun is just past its apex overhead, so there is nothing to hamper our view save the distortion created by distance and heat rising off the ground and water in waves. I can clearly see Louis’s standard and a number of others that I recognize.

“God be praised, God be praised,” Matilda says with a sob from behind me. She continues to repeat the phrase over and over as the ladies embrace one another, wild with joy. I alone stand unmoving. I will know no relief until it is clear who has returned. The number appears significant, but not as many as left us. And where are the litters? Surely if Louis was still among the living he would never abandon the wounded; yet I see not a single man carried or even assisted among those who march ever nearer.

“Stop!” I command sharply, and the celebration of my women abruptly ends.

“What is it?” my sister-in-law Jeanne asks, moving beside me and laying her hand on my arm in concern.

“Your Grace, something is wrong, I sense it,” I say, looking at the duke.

The duke stares back at me as if I were an imbecile or a small child to be indulged. “What could be wrong, Your Majesty?”

“The queen is right,” replies a nearby guard, shading his eyes with his hand. “Look at their clothing.”

The duke and I peer out again. The first ranks of men are much closer now, and though they wear the tunics of French knights and carry their shields, they have the swarthy complexions of Saracens and the footwear as well.

“Dear God, they are infidels.” The duke’s voice is quiet, yet its message, so horribly unwelcome, carries to all the ladies in my party. As if with one voice, a great wail rises up to replace the laughter and embraces of a moment ago.

I feel my legs giving way beneath me and clutch the wall to keep from falling. A Saracen bears the oriflamme of France. Louis has been defeated, that is sure, but where is he? Where are my brothers-in-law? Surely all of Louis’s army cannot be dead. Jean cannot be dead!

“Send to all the gates of the city,” the duke barks to a nearby knight, “that none may be deceived by these men and grant them entrance. Your Majesty, I must get you and the ladies inside before their archers reach the edge of their range.”

I know he is right; yet even as I let him lead me back down the stairs I wonder if the instant death provided by an arrow might not be a blessing.

“Find out all you can,” I say, “then come to me and we will decide what is best to be done.”

“PRISONER?” I AM SEATED BESIDE
a window, out of sight of those on the plain between the city and the river but where, even with an imperfect view, I can glimpse the tents of the enemy as they go up.

“That is the message from Sultan Turan-Shah.” The Duke of Burgundy looks grim, but not panicked. There is something in that anyway. Nearly everyone else seems to be. “He warns us to lay down our arms and retreat to our ships or risk being taken as His Majesty was. Or worse.”

“Do you think he speaks true?” Both the duke and I wonder about this new sultan. We wonder what happened to Sultan Ayyüb. If he was killed in battle, then the victory of the Saracens may not have been overwhelming.

“Who can say with an infidel, Your Majesty.” The Duke shrugs and opens his hands expansively.

“I agree,” I reply, nodding. “All that the sultan’s message tells us is that he considers it to his advantage that we believe His Majesty lives.” I shift in my seat, momentarily distracted by the sound of weeping from somewhere nearby. “Can we defeat his forces?”