The Sister Queens (47 page)

E
LEANOR
D
ECEMBER 1251
Y
ORK,
E
NGLAND

E
leven-year-old Margaret, always so reserved and decorous like the aunt for whom she was named, clings to me, crying.

“I do not understand,” I say, though I understand perfectly and would cry too if I did not think it would make matters worse. “You were fine throughout our journey. And only look at the beautiful rooms His Grace the archbishop of York has prepared for us.” I sweep out a hand to encompass our surroundings, so lavish they nearly rival the best of my own chambers. But the gesture is wasted because Margaret will not raise her head from my breast.

“I do not want to be married,” she says, sobbing. “I want to go home to Windsor with you, Papa, and the boys.”

There is nothing I can say to that. Some wild part of me wants to slip away to the stables with my daughter and ride for home before anyone notices we are gone. The Eleanor who was a bride herself fifteen years ago might even have done so. The Eleanor I am now knows the gesture would be both useless and foolish.
At least,
I think, stroking my daughter’s waist-length hair to soothe her,
I need not frighten her further with talk of the marriage bed
.
That is a mercy indeed!
Alexander of Scotland is forbidden to touch his wife, my daughter, until she attains her fifteenth year. Henry and I insisted on this, and hope by it to preserve her childhood just a little longer and guard her from the dangers of too early a pregnancy.

“Mother,” says Edward as he bursts into the room without ceremony, trailed by his friend, a rather more timid Nicholas de
Molis, “can my friends and I have our leopard tabards now?” Then, suddenly aware of his sister’s distress, he adds, “What is wrong with Margaret?”

“She is only a little homesick.”

Edward regards his sister as if she were insane. “But we have just arrived and everything is splendid! There is a fire eater in the courtyard; would she like to see him?”

“Perhaps later.” While I speak, Margaret raises her mournful eyes to me, clearly wishing her brother gone. “For the moment it is enough that you and your companions should enjoy him. Why not go along and explore the rest of the archbishop’s palace? But do not go out into the streets.” There are multitudes in town for the wedding, and with Scots and Frenchmen mingling among the English, there is bound to be violence along with boisterous celebration.

“What about the leopard short coats? Nicholas, Bartholomew, and Ebulo have not seen them yet.”

“I’m sorry, but your friends will have to continue waiting to admire them. You know those tabards are for the wedding banquet.”

“Oh Mother.” Edward sighs the words as if I am denying him his birthright.

“Edward, enough! You have a trunk full of beautiful new things. The tunic you are wearing was new this morning.”

“Fine. But when I get married, I will wear whatever I want in whatever order I like to wear it.”

Though I cannot think what to say to this remark, Edward turns and races out, obviating the need for response. De Molis bows and edges out, drawing the door shut behind him. As soon as he is gone, I disentangle myself from Margaret and lead her to the washbasin. Pouring out some cool water, I wipe her forehead and then clean away the traces of tears from her face. Finally I
wring out the square of linen and, bending her over the basin and lifting her hair, lay it on the back of her neck to calm her. Should any of my English ladies see me do such a thing in December, they would no doubt cluck their tongues and predict a dire chill for the princess. But I, who grew up hot-blooded, know that with agitation comes overheating and without relieving the latter the former cannot be eased.

Sure enough my daughter’s breathing slows. I remove the cloth and lead her to a bench where we can sit side by side.

“Margaret, you cannot doubt that your father and I want the best for you. And though you do not believe it now, being the Queen of Scotland is a very good thing indeed. Nor do we send you alone. Did you know that when your aunt went to France these many years ago, she was left entirely alone—without a single blood relation, without her nurse, or even a lady-in-waiting from her own country?”

Margaret shakes her head solemnly. She has heard many stories of my sister before, but not this one. No, until now I have confined myself to the pleasant and diverting tales of my sister’s girlhood and my own. But as Margaret leaves her own childhood behind, she is ready for the sterner stuff of life.

“You, by contrast, will have Lady Cantilupe and Sir Geoffrey de Langley who have been appointed by your father especially to see that your rights and privileges are respected at all times in your new court.”

“Will you write to me every day?” Margaret asks, eyes welling again.

“If you like. But I imagine you will have more to tell than I. You go to see new places and make new acquaintances while I return to all the familiar scenes and people.” And with that single phrase I am transported back to a different chamber, a different
leave-taking. “I know,” I say, “I will give you something of mine—something to take with you and to wear when you are feeling far from home.” I wonder, did my sister take my
aumônière
to the Holy Land with her? Does she still wear it as frequently at thirty as she did at thirteen?

Two large casks of my jewels and other finery sit on top of several of my larger trunks. The first cask does not yield what I seek, but in the second I find it—a fine gold belt patterned with shields made of pearls. I paid a fortune for this piece. It was intended to dazzle the eyes of visiting dignitaries when Henry knights the Scottish prince. I slip it around my daughter’s waist and fasten it. Then we both break out in peals of laughter as it slides down and over her hips. “It will need some adjusting,” I say, “but I am sure His Grace knows a good jeweler. He knows everyone in York.”

TWO EVENINGS LATER I PUT
Margaret to bed, singing to her as if she were a tiny baby. As her eyes fall shut and she surrenders to sleep, I turn to her nurse. “Sit up beside her tonight. I would not have her wake alone.”

The good woman nods, and I notice a tear escape from her own aged eye, dropping onto the embroidery in her lap.

Returning to my own room I seek distraction. “Willelma,” I call, “Christina, let me see all my garments for the wedding.”

At once there is bustle; there is finery. I am holding a new mantle, fingering the heavy gold braid and ermine trim when Henry enters. I expect him to look pleased, for no one loves the display and pageantry of state occasions more than my husband, but he looks concerned.

“Yes,” I say, turning to Christina, “it is all perfect. Pray remove
it now and cover it for the morrow.” She and Willelma scurry off with my other ladies in their train, each bearing an item to the room that has been designated my wardrobe for these festivities.

“Henry, will you take some wine?”

He nods, and I hurry to pour for him. After a deep gulp he says, “The streets are impassable. Already people take their places along the route to the Minster with more shoving than it pleases me to see. Can you imagine how they will behave after a night spent drinking to stay warm?”

“Can we get through safely?”

“Perhaps, but why attempt it? I have spoken to Walter de Gray, and he advises we marry them here at dawn.”

“Here?” I will be very sorry to miss the pomp of a larger ceremony; yet I suspect Margaret will not. And surely I will not enjoy myself at all if my child is terrified en route by obstreperous crowds in the streets. “Will the Scots agree to it?”

“The boy’s guardians are smart. They know the largest part of the crowd is English, so they have more need to worry for the safety of their charge than we do.” Suddenly Henry chuckles. “The boy is smart as well.” Having been a boy-king himself, my husband has an affinity for his soon-to-be son. “After you withdrew with Margaret this evening, I asked him whether, since he is here on English soil, now might not be an opportune time to pay homage to me for Scotland. And he avoided the question like the most polished diplomat. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘I came here in peace to become your son, not to answer difficult political questions.’ If he is this clever at ten, he should be as silver-tongued as de Montfort before he is twenty.” Henry laughs again; then he looks sober. “If he is not good to her, all his cleverness will be to no avail. I will march across his precious border and bring her home.”

I FINISH READING THE LAST
line of my letter from my daughter the Queen of Scotland and lay it in my lap. Four months into her marriage, Margaret writes daily, as do I, in obedience to both my promise and my inclination. Though she is homesick, there is nothing in her letters that causes me to repent of her father’s decision to wed her where he did. The politics of the marriage appear sound, and, surely, as the couple is very young, affection will follow from being raised together side by side?

I am at Reading this fine spring evening with another marriage much on my mind. I have just dispatched Adam Marsh to Odiham with a message for the Earl and Countess of Leicester. Sometimes I do not know why we bothered, Uncle Guillaume and I, to work as we did to marry Henry’s sister Eleanor to Simon. The marriage was meant to secure a smooth relationship between Henry and Simon, but its efficacy was short-lived. And I fear much of the blame lies with my husband, though that is something I was careful not to say in my letter—not even between the lines.

A man can be tied to a family or to a king by matrimony, but if you would keep him loyal and content, you must treat him with constancy and justice—train him to your service as one trains a child. But Henry is not good at consistency. He sets those who would do his bidding in one direction and then lambastes them when he finds them where he set them! Ever since he sent Simon de Montfort to Gascony, he has done nothing but complain about the earl’s management of things there. To be sure, de Montfort has not been as effective as any of us would have wished, and his methods—well, they would not be mine. But to withdraw royal support from the earl would be disastrous for our son Edward.
Edward
must
have Gascony. Yet at the time of Margaret’s marriage, there was a great danger that all the castles de Montfort had captured for my son would be lost again because Henry would not pay the cost of their defense, though he clearly promised to do so before de Montfort set out. I pressed as hard as I dared to get Henry to pay those monies. Though I was successful at last, I do not think Henry has forgiven me yet for taking the earl’s part.

So I am not sorry Henry is not with me here but is in London. My evening will be quiet without my husband’s company, but at least it will not be contentious. I will move to Windsor tomorrow. My ladies think this relocation a result of my desire to see my children. And so it is. Edmund’s last letter was accompanied by a tooth, the first he has lost, and he longs to “frighten” me with his smile, which he says resembles that of a beggar on the street. But I am also deliberately closing the distance between myself and London. Uncle Peter says that additional Gascon lords arrive in the capital daily, each complaining loudly of abuse at the hands of the Earl of Leicester, and there is talk that the next parliament will bring the earl to an accounting for his actions. If Simon de Montfort is to be tried, it behooves me to be close enough to receive reliable reports of the proceedings.