The Sister Queens (54 page)

“You are a fine one to talk, my Lord of Joinville! Where is your
surcote
?” Fussing over him gives me a sense of ownership, a sense I have been sorely missing since we came on board.

“I felt no need of it before this fog closed in, and I am not cold now, standing beside you.”

“No more am I, for I have not only you to warm me but my mantle. Would you could come inside it.” I reach up and run a hand along Jean’s cheek. As my little finger trails over his mouth he teasingly bites its tip.

“I begin to think this fog is our friend,” Jean says, leaning down to kiss me again. As his lips are nearly at mine there is a sudden jarring bump and I am saved from sprawling on the deck only by Jean, whose hands snatch the front of my mantle and hold me upright.

Without volition I give a little scream, and I am not alone. As the ship shudders again and seems to be arrested in its forward motion, myriad voices cry out in surprise and terror.

“Come!” Jean grabs my arm and drags me along in the direction of the ship’s castle. Near it, we run upon a group of sailors with their commander, a Templar. Louis, arriving at the same moment from another direction, casts a glance that encompasses the entire scene, and Jean drops my arm.

“Lower the lead,” someone orders, and, going to the rail, a sailor does so.

“We are aground,” this fellow says in a voice that seeps with the fear I am feeling.

“Ahoy!” the Templar cries out over the unseen water. “Galley! Ahoy, we are grounded! Come and take His Majesty aboard!”

There is no reply, only unrelenting whiteness.

I realize suddenly that I no longer see Louis. Then I hear his voice speaking the Latin words of a familiar prayer. I follow the voice and Jean follows me.

I assume that Louis is headed to his cabin to summon his counselors and see what is best to be done. But midway across the deck the voice no longer retreats from me, and I run upon him, literally. He is lying cruciform, facedown on the deck before a makeshift altar that he had constructed before we embarked.

“Your Majesty,” Jean says. Louis turns his head but does not rise. “What is to be done?”

“It is in the hands of God, Sieur. Surely you sense as much?”

“But Your Majesty, though the Lord disposes, we ought also to act, for we are not some cowering rabble but God’s servants.”

“What would you propose? How can we assess either our peril or the condition of this
nef
when we cannot see three feet from our faces?”

Even as Louis speaks I feel the wind rising, buffeting against me where I stand. The ship seems to skiddle sideways like the crabs I showed the children on the beach, and a loud scraping noise assures me I do not imagine it.

“Throw down as many anchors as we have so that, at very least, we are not driven by the winds and waves into worse trouble before this fog lifts.”

“Give the command then, in my name if you like. But I know my place, and it is here before the body of Our Lord.”

Jean turns and heads back for the sailors. So furious is the pace of his steps that I must run to keep up. Reaching the captain, he says, “Drop all anchors on the windward side.”

The man does not question Jean’s authority, presumably because he takes no issue with what he is being told to do, but gives the order promptly. Five huge anchors are hoisted and thrown into the sea.

“What else can be done to secure us?” Jean asks.

“Sir, I dare not try to steer the ship off whatever grounds her without eyes. I might make things worse. There is nothing to be done until the fog lifts and the light of dawn rises. God willing, we will still be here then to see our peril.”

Close as he is, I can hear Jean’s teeth grinding at this response—so like the king’s own. Jean has not Louis’s knack for surrendering himself to fate, or at least for surrendering me. “Come below,” he says. “The children will be frightened.”

But when we reach their cabin, all my babies are sleeping soundly, though their nurses are in the highest state of agitation. “Ought we to wake them,” one asks, “so that we may leave the ship?”

“There is nowhere to go at present,” I reply, laying my hand upon her arm in hopes of calming her. “It is best then that they should slumber on in comfortable innocence. What good could come of their waking? They would only hear the awful wind and see the stricken faces of those around them. If my darlings must drown, I would not have them suffer a moment of fear beforehand.” Saying the terrible words out loud, admitting to myself that my children, my beloved children, might perish, takes its toll on me. My limbs begin to tremble violently.

“A stool for Her Majesty,” Jean orders.

One is quickly brought. Placing it beside his son’s bed, Jean leads me to it.

“Your Majesty,” he says, “I swear to Saint Nicholas that if he will but rescue you and your children from the danger in which we find ourselves at this moment, I will make a pilgrimage to his shrine at Varangéville.”

“Would that I could do the same! But His Majesty…” My voice trails off for a moment. How can I say in front of these women what I am thinking, that Louis is so far gone in his mind, so contrary to any project of mine, that should I promise a pilgrimage without his permission, he would only make me recant my vow?

It is fortunate that Jean knows the king as well as I do. He sees my difficulty and tries, God love him, to smooth it. “Perhaps Your Majesty can make a different type of pledge. Say to God that if he brings you and those you love through this fearful ordeal, you will build him a model of a ship worth five livres to remember this night by. And if you do, I will take it from Joinville on foot and shoeless to the shrine of Saint Nicholas and offer it for you.”

“Yes, I will commission a ship, but of silver and worth a hundred times what you suggest, if we all live to see the dawn.”

“And I will sit with Your Majesty until that dawn so that you might not count out the dreadful hours alone.”

“MAMA?” SOMETHING TOUCHES MY FACE.
I open my eyes and there is light, glorious, glorious light. Jean Tristan is sitting up in his bed, curls tousled, eyes still drowsy, one hand on my cheek. When at last I surrendered to sleep last night, I must have fallen forward onto his bed.

“Good morning, my lamb,” I say, catching my four-year-old
up in a hug and inhaling the smell of childish slumber that clings about him as if it were the finest perfume.

The nurse on the pallet at the foot of little Jean’s bed stirs at the sound of my voice. So does my chevalier who has fallen asleep against the wall near the door, his head thrown back and his mouth slightly open.

As if aware of my eyes upon him, Jean opens his own and says, “Dawn.”

“Let us go on deck at once.”

Jean is clearly as eager as I am to see our situation in clear, fogless day, but as he jumps to his feet and straightens his wrinkled tunic, an expression of doubt crosses his face. “Ought Your Majesty not change? What will the king think, seeing you this morning in the same garments you retired in last evening?”

“If he thinks of me at all, he might well think that, like him, I have passed a largely sleepless night praying for our deliverance.” I raise my hands to my head, straightening my circlet and wimple as best I can; then, after giving Jean Tristan a kiss on the end of his nose and bestowing kisses on a still-sleeping Pierre and baby Blanche in her cradle, I join Jean by the door.

The first thing I notice in coming upon deck is that while the fog has flown, the wind has not abated. It whips at my skirts and carries the end of my veil momentarily into my mouth.

“By Christ’s passion!” Jean’s voice trembles, and I see why. Near the front of the ship on the leeward side a massive outcropping of rock is visible rising high above the rail. I can see Louis, his chamberlain, and the constable among the group of gentlemen and sailors assembled at the prow.

“You see,” the king says triumphantly as soon as we reach him, “even the sandbar upon which we rest is the work of Our Lord, sent to protect us from greater ruin!”

Jean nods vigorously in assent, then, turning aside, asks the archbishop of Nicosia who stands nearby, “How bad is the damage?”

“The master mariner has four men in the water now. We should know when they are pulled aboard.”

And sure enough, gazing down at the surface of the wind-whipped water, I can see heads bobbing, then disappearing, then surfacing again. A rope ladder hugs the side of the vessel, trailing in the water near the men who dive.

Returning my gaze to the deck, I see that all of the men look haggard, but no man’s eyes are shadowed by circles as dark as the king’s. Making my way to Louis’s side, I say, “Will Your Majesty not come with me and have something warm?”

Louis’s eyes flicker over my face. Is that surprise I see? Then they fall again to the men in the water. Finally, after a few moments’ silence, he says, “I believe I will. My night of prayer was fruitful to be sure but has left me depleted in strength if augmented in spirit. My Lord of Joinville,” he adds, “bring the master mariners and the members of my council to my cabin to give their report and offer their advice when the ship’s condition is better known.”

I am pleased that Louis has condescended to go with me. Bustling ahead of him, I give orders for something hot to be brought at once to his cabin and, reaching that location, demand that his valet bring a change of clothes and warm water so the king may wash himself. Settling down on a stool, I find it strange that Louis struggles to screen himself from my view as he changes. Does he not realize we are married twenty years?

Emerging from the corner behind his bed just as a bowl of broth with a hunk of bread in it is carried in, Louis seats himself at his table and waits for the bowl and ewer to be brought so he can cleanse his hands. That task complete, he looks at me and says, “And where did you pass the night, lady wife?”

I am startled, not because I have anything to hide but at the very fact of Louis’s asking. “With Your Majesty’s children that they might not be roused by all the noise and confusion.”

“And the Seneschal of Champagne?”

“With me to assuage my fear.”

“Very thoughtful of him.”

Try as I might, I cannot tell if Louis compliments Jean in earnest or means his comment in an ironic vein. The king eats steadily and calmly without another word. If I am less calm, I hope he does not know it. Finally, sopping the last bit of his soup with the remnants of his bread, Louis says, “Are you glad to be going home?”

“My feelings on the subject are mixed, Your Majesty. I greatly long to see France and our children there again and feel it is in the best interest of both that you should return to an active reign. And yet—”

“Yes?” Louis eyes are scrutinizing me in a way they have not for many a moon. Are they seeking truth? Or are they seeking empathy with his own regrets at departing from the Holy Land? I cannot tell him the truth, but I can offer him understanding of his own truth. This I owe him as a wife and, moreover, I wish to give him, for when he is like this, a normal man with needs, wants, and fears, there is a little love left in me for him still.

“And yet, there are things about the Holy Land that one must regret leaving behind, unless one has a heart made of stone.”

“So there are.” Louis’s eyes burn.

A knock sounds on the cabin door. A procession of Louis’s advisers, with Jean bringing up the rear, enters in the company of the master mariners and a sailor who was doubtless among the divers—rubbed dry but still ruddy from the cool of the water.

Louis gestures for the gentlemen to sit, and they take the remaining stools around his table, shifting me by increments closer
to the king’s side.
This,
I cannot help thinking,
is how I always imagined sitting—among those closest to the king, ready to be of service.

“Sirs,” Louis says, addressing the mariners who were left standing, “what say you? What have waves, water, and sand done to this great ship of mine?”

“Your Majesty,” says one of the master mariners, a man with fine hair of no particular color touched with gray at his temples, whose age could be forty or four hundred, so weathered is his skin, “I will tell you plainly—the keel is in a bad way. I fear, without repair, she will not stand the high seas but will break apart.”

There is a general groan from the men around me. But Louis remains unperturbed. “Can the repairs be made?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, but might I be so bold as to suggest that before they are attempted, Your Majesty, the queen, and all attached to the royal household be ferried by boat to one of the other ships? Already they are gathering within hailing distance.”

“And what say you gentlemen? Le Brun? Joinville? Shall I abandon this ship and seek another?”

“Your Majesty, we are not sailors, but these men are, and sailors of the highest skills.” The constable inclines his head in a show of respect to the mariner who has just finished speaking. “If they advise that you are safest on another vessel, I will not gainsay them.”

“Nor I,” adds the chamberlain.

“The destiny of all of France lies with Your Majesty.” Jean speaks to Louis, but his eyes are, at least momentarily, on me. “Pray make yourself safe as these good men suggest.”

“And what of the rest of you?” Louis asks, looking round. “What of the hundreds of other souls aboard this ship? Shall they not be more frightened if I leave it? Shall they not wonder that I think so little of them and so much of myself?”

“Surely not!” urges Joinville. “For at least with respect to the
last point, every soul on board knows that you are king, and all came on this voyage with you prepared to die for you.”

“And I am humbled by that commitment. But I have lost enough men already, Joinville. And at least in battle and in captivity I partook of the same danger as they, though it pleased God to spare me. No, gentlemen, I cannot leave this ship.”

“At least send Her Majesty the Queen and Your Majesty’s children. They are not bound by the honor of fighting men which you insist in standing upon.”

I think Jean very brave for saying this. Surely he can see that in his present mood Louis will think such a plea nonsense. Le Brun sees as much; when Jean turns a pleading eye upon him seeking support, the constable merely says halfheartedly, “It would not delay repairs a moment to transport Her Majesty to the nearest ship.”