The Sister Queens (53 page)

“Trust your uncle. He will get to the bottom of this matter and set it to rights.”

“But our sailing will be delayed.”

Of course, he is correct, and I ought to be as vexed as he is. But, though his marriage is needed to bring the troubles in Gascony to a close, I find myself suddenly loath to surrender my son to this other, unknown, Eleanor. “Are you so eager to be married then?” I ask, hoping to needle him into a denial.

“Why would I not be? You have read what John Mansel writes: ‘The lady is as delicate as a flower with appealing brown eyes, and the golden skin of the Castilian race.’” I am stunned that my son has committed our envoy’s lines to memory. When I do not reply, Edward continues. “Did you not tell me that my father was impatient to wed you?”

“Aye. But he was a man full grown.”

“Why must you make me feel like a boy?” Edward crosses his
arms over his chest and glowers at me, apparently oblivious to the fact that in doing so he looks yet more the child. “I am as much a man as my father, and when I am married you will no longer be able to ignore that.”

“If that be so, surely you will not begrudge me these last opportunities to think of you as the carefree boy who ran through my gardens at Windsor? To think of you as
my
Edward?”

“You may think of me however you like, Mother,” he concedes. “If only you will never say anything like that when we are in company.”

I laugh. What other answer could I have expected? “I know you are eager to run off and examine your new armor for when the King of Castile knights you, but seeing as we are not presently in company, can you not embrace your mother before you go?” I push, and I know that I push. But I know also that even as he chafes to be freed from my mothering, Edward loves me. And sure enough, he puts his arms around me before he goes.

M
ARGUERITE
S
PRING 1254
T
YRE
, K
INGDOM OF
J
ERUSALEM

“T
he king is on his way.” Jean sweeps into the cozy room where I sit and gives me a kiss on the top of my head. Marie does not look up from her book.

“When?” I lay the fine linen shirt I am hemming for Jean down in my lap.

“The messenger says His Majesty planned to leave Sidon after
Mass this morning. He will surely be here before nightfall. Tomorrow we ride for Acre.”

“Tomorrow!” Marie exclaims, her eyes widening and her book forgotten.

“Yes, having been made to see he must go home at last, His Majesty wishes to set sail at the conclusion of the holy season of Lent.”

“I will set everyone packing,” Marie says, rising and scurrying out.

“And what finally persuaded Louis to leave for France? Certainly not you or I,” I say as Jean takes the seat next to mine and puts his feet up on a nearby stool.

“Indeed not. I seem to remember it was your offhanded mention of departing that set us here.”

“That was a fortunate mistake indeed.” I pick the shirt back up and resume my stitches. “Though I could not have foreseen how it would turn out when I made it.”

For two full days after news of the dragon’s death no one could talk sense to Louis. On the third day he emerged from his chapel and resumed giving orders for work on the walls of Sidon. Jean and I were taken aback but said nothing. All day every day for a month Louis wrote letters to archbishops, bishops, priests, and monks throughout France, ordering them to pray for Blanche’s soul, and still he said not one word about departing. At the end of that time, with nearly every royal messenger en route somewhere between Sidon and the port at Acre, I gently asked if we might not soon head there ourselves. Unlike the last time I dared to raise our departure, Louis did not rage. He merely left me where I sat without a word. The next day he commanded Jean to choose a party of his knights and escort me, my children, and my meager collection of female companions to Tyre. Ours was a terrifying trip through hostile land as the king has truce with neither Egypt nor
Damascus. The memory of what their combined forces did to the poor souls at Sidon never left us for a moment of our day-long ride. But when we arrived, this city, once the center of the Kingdom of Jerusalem and now left quiet by the rise in eminence of Acre, became a home such as I have never had since my childhood.

“Providential.” Jean smiles broadly. “As to what turns the king’s thoughts in the direction of home, it is money, or rather the lack of it. The Counts of Poitiers and Anjou have not sent more, despite His Majesty’s request. It is amazing how quickly the barons of these lands ceased to beg His Majesty to bide once they discovered he has no further money to expend.”

Taking a last stitch, I tie off my thread, break it with my teeth, and hold out the shirt to Jean. “Here, something to add to your trunk.”

Jean grasps my wrist instead of the garment and kisses that place on my hand where the thumb and first finger meet before releasing me and folding the shirt. “Caym can add it later.” He pauses for a moment, leaning back contentedly. Then, quite nonchalantly, he adds, “His Majesty’s letter thanks me for my good service here and invites me to take accommodations on the royal ship for the voyage home.”

“Jean!” I jump up and with a twirl of pure delight land in his lap.

“You are wrinkling my new shirt,” he says sternly. And then, burying his face along one side of my neck, he adds, “I thought you would be happy.”

“Shall I call for dinner? It should be nearly ready.”

“Leave it.” Jean kisses the side of my face and then takes my earlobe gently in his teeth.

“It is the middle of the day,” I object.

“But everyone is busy packing and we have nothing to do.”

“If everyone is busy packing, then my bedchamber is occupied,”
I tease. In the back of my mind I realize that, after nearly half a year, these are the last moments left for us to live as we have since Jean let this house in the king’s name for my accommodation. Half a dozen of Jean’s men lodge on the lower floor, in what would be the hall of the place if its merchant owner were in residence. But Jean spends every minute he can with me and with the children. We let ourselves pretend we are a wealthy merchant and his wife. I order Jean’s dinner, make his shirts, supervise the drawing of his bath, and lie with him all night while Caym behaves as if he is in his small chamber, and Marie insists I am alone in mine. Jean gathers the children and reads to them, removes their splinters, wipes their tears. He takes me to market, talks with me of politics and theology, and shares with me his plans for his lands at home without ever mentioning that I will not live with him upon them. It is perfect bliss.

Jean drops a hand between my thighs, and I can feel the heat of it through my garments. “All right,” I relent. “If this is to be our last day in paradise, then let us not think of duty or waste it packing. Where shall we go?”

“What about that little spot in the garden? The one that cannot be seen from any windows?”

In half a year one can learn a great deal about a place, and about a person.

LOUIS ARRIVES IN TYRE AS
dusk falls and, surprisingly, comes directly to see me and the children while his tents are being pitched. The sight of him confirms that the life I have been living is not real. And, although his arrival means we will soon head home at last, I find I have never been less happy to see my husband. Yet, bound to pretend otherwise, I call for a cold supper to
celebrate his arrival. And we sit, Louis and I, at either ends of a table with Jean between us, partaking of it together. It seems a thing unreal to look up and see the king dining at our table, or rather
my
table, I remind myself. The thought of myself in the singular saddens me deeply.

“My Lord of Joinville, I have sorely missed your good counsel. You must return with me this evening to camp so that I may share my plans for the voyage to France.” Then, giving me a hard look, Louis adds, “The queen surely will be fine without you for one evening, having had you to herself these many months.” Louis’s tone reminds me of the distant past, when Eleanor and I used to compete for my mother’s attention.

“Your Majesty will be quite safe, as I will leave my knights behind,” Jean says to me for Louis’s benefit. Perhaps, like me, Jean heard something odd in my husband’s voice and saw it in his look. Is Louis merely jealous of my time with Jean or does he suspect exactly what goes on here? This thought nearly stops my heart.

“If you would like, Your Majesty,” Jean continues, “I can wait below to allow you some private time with the queen.” Yes, clearly Jean does sense something, but to offer intimacy with me to throw Louis off the scent! I would feel angry if I were not quite so frightened.

“That will not be necessary, Sieur. I have not so much to say to the queen as I have to you.” I feel myself begin to relax. Surely here is evidence that Louis’s bitter tone stems from his having missed his friend and nothing more. Louis wipes his hands on his cloth, and I rise to bring him a bowl as we dine without servants. “Thank you, lady wife,” he says as I take the bowl and cloth away. “I hope you will not be lonely this evening if the Seneschal and I depart now.”

“It is a hard thing for me to forgo Your Majesty’s company,” I
reply, bowing my head slightly, “but I do not believe, Husband, that you or anyone could ever fairly call me a demanding wife.”

WE ARE AT SEA IN
a blanket of fog. Never have I seen anything like it. It is not as on land, but rather like the white smoke of a hundred fires gathered and held by some invisible means close around our ship. I cling to the rail, trying to make out the shape of the galley nearest us, but can perceive nothing. I cannot see the sun, but I know it must be sinking for enough hours of the day have passed already.

“I cannot believe that this morning we could see the Mountain of the Cross on the island of Cyprus,” I remark.

“Yes, Your Majesty, as clear as anything,” Marie answers from my elbow. “But never mind, my lady, just like God, it is still there though we see it not.”

“I am not sure that is comforting, Marie, for while God presumably watches over us with interest, the mountain has no care for us. It does not look out for us. And, as we cannot see it and tell by its size and location precisely where we are, we may likely run afoul of the shore.”

A shadow of a man approaches along the rail, gloomy and foreboding until, coming finally close enough, Jean’s familiar features emerge from the haze. “His Majesty the King is saying here lies proof that we ought not to have set sail from the Holy Land.”

“His Majesty has been looking for proof of that every minute since the plank was drawn up at Acre on the twenty-fifth of April.”

“True,” Jean says, coming close alongside me.

“I will check on the children,” Marie says, slipping away into the surrounding whiteness.

With Jean pressed close beside me, the fog seems as white velvet or soft white wool, curtaining and cushioning us from the rest of
the ship’s inhabitants. Furtively, Jean gives me a kiss. “You should go below and get to bed.”

“Bed has no appeal for me in our present circumstances.” I take his hand where it hangs between us. We have been at sea three weeks today. I am ravenous for Jean; yet we have not arrived at a single practical idea that will allow us to couple. Memories of our little house tease us both at intervals. Did we appreciate the gift of that place, that time together as much as we should have?

“Well, this damp cannot be good for you,” Jean replies, squeezing my hand. “You will take a chill.”