The Sister Queens (58 page)

I rush forward as if in fear and, taking the front of his mantle in my hands, rest my head against his chest just as I moments ago rested it on Jean’s. I give a little sob and then looking up say, “Husband, I know not how it came to pass, but I awoke from my slumber to find my bed engulfed in flames!”

“You slept?”

“Of course—did not Your Majesty at this hour?”

Taking my hand, Louis pulls me through my forward cabin, thankfully oblivious to the cover lying on the bench where Marie slept, and into my bedchamber. Although I left the window flung wide, there are still traces of smoke lingering.

“Light more candles,” Louis orders Marie who followed us in. This she does and then begins to pick up things and make them right as Louis stares about wildly.

“Something goes on here. Sheets do not just catch fire while one sleeps.”

I nod my head in honest confusion. “I have no idea how the fire started.” And because it is the truth, it rings true.

Marie, who has been gathering my clothing from the day over
her arm, picks up my
couvre-chef
and then, giving me a puzzled look, asks, “Your Majesty, where is your wimple?”

She and I look in earnest while Louis stands by, searching under my dressing table and bed as well as all about on the floor.

“That must be it,” I say with some satisfaction. “When I awoke, the iron pot that sat here, just next to my covered garments, blazed entirely full of flame. The wimple must have fallen into it and began all.”

“And where is the pot now?” Louis asks. He must be calming, for the question is more curious than angry.

“I leapt up and cast it from the window. Then did the same with everything that burned.”

“God be praised for your presence of mind!” Marie says fervently

“And you?” Louis rounds on her. “Did you do nothing but stand gape-mouthed while your mistress did battle with the fire?”

“Marie was most helpful, Your Majesty,” I chime in, giving her a look. “I could never have cast all those burning sheets out onto the waves alone.”

Louis peers at my lady with the eyes of God on Judgment Day seeking answers, seeking falsehoods, seeking sin. For a moment I quake inside. Is Marie equal to withstanding such scrutiny? Will she lie to the king’s face, even to save me?

“It was nothing, Your Majesty,” she says, coloring slightly—pray Louis attributes that to modesty. “Her Majesty gave commands; I merely followed them.”

“It seems, madam,” Louis says, turning back to me, “that you have saved the ship.” If this is meant to be praise, it does not sound like it. “But
someone
’s carelessness put it in jeopardy. I will have to see that precautions are taken in future.”

I do not like the way he says this. I do not like it at all.

I PASS THE REST OF
the night with my children. My cabin needs airing, and, besides, when I am in the company of my innocent babes, who will dare to say I am with anyone else?

As soon as I am awake and dressed, I go on deck, hoping to hear what is being said about the fire. Marie is with me, and this is the first moment I have been alone with my good lady since she lied for me. Squeezing her hand, as we approach a group of men standing near the ship’s castle, I murmur my thanks.

My Lord Gervase, the ship’s chief cook, is speaking as we draw near. “I always thought my fire was the most dangerous on board. Who would have foreseen the queen’s cabin catching alight?” He laughs slightly, though for the life of me I cannot see the jest. I clear my throat and he bows with a stricken look. “We are all relieved, Your Majesty, that the fire you suffered last night was not more serious.”

“Thank you, my lord. Have you seen the king?”

The Lord Chamberlain answers, “He is in his cabin with the Seneschal of Champagne, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you.” I try to walk away calmly. After all, there is nothing unusual about Louis and Jean closeted together. They are close friends. But, after what I observed last night—the bile in Louis’s voice as he accused Jean’s man of falsehood—I am nervous indeed. I make up my mind to go back to my cabin. Surely Jean will wait upon me when he is finished with the king.

But instead of Jean, a note comes to me telling me I will find him on deck, so back I go. I spot him high on the ship’s castle. Climbing the stairs to join him, I am somewhat surprised when he makes a formal bow.

“Are we here for the view?” I quip nervously.

“No. To be viewed. If I could have conceived of a place where we could more easily be seen, I would have chosen it.” Jean’s face is fixed in a smile, but his eyes belie it. “The king sought me this morning.”

“I know it.”

“Would you like to hear what he said when he found me?”

I am dumb with fear.

“He came upon me as I was talking with le Brun. We naturally turned and bowed upon his approach, and then le Brun said, ‘Your Majesty, I am eager to hear what happened last night.’ To which your husband, looking squarely at me, replied, ‘Has the Seneschal not told you of the fire? I am all astonishment, for he knows as much of it as any man.’”

My hand flutters toward my mouth; then, recollecting that we are clearly visible to all on deck, I arrest the motion. Forcing a smile, I say between my teeth, “Holy Mary, protect us.”

“There is more.” Jean offers his arm and begins to stroll me down one side of the tower’s top as if we are enjoying the sight of the sea laid out before us. “
En privé
His Majesty commanded that I personally make certain that every fire aboard, except the main, be extinguished every evening and that I report as much to him before I sleep.”

“It sounds to me as if he is merely affrighted of what might have happened had the fire been more serious.”

“Does it? Then you are not listening closely. Do you know where I will be sleeping this evening? On a pallet at His Majesty’s feet. He told me his nerves are much agitated by recent events and that he might sleep more soundly for knowing that I am near at hand.”

“Dear God, he knows.”

“So it would seem—”

I feel as though I might retch, and I can see Marie’s face where
she stands, far enough away to be polite but still close enough to overhear, go pale as death.

“Or at least he suspects. But it seems to me that he gives us a warning. He wants to be given reason to conclude he is mistaken.”

I wonder for a moment, might Louis love both of us, Jean and me, such that his suspicions pain him?

“As I was leaving,” Jean continues, “he said to me, ‘Seneschal, you are a gentleman I have valued from the first. There are none, other than my own brothers, whom I love more. So do not think I give you this commission to punish you, but rather because I know that you above all can be counted upon to do that which is right and to do it thoroughly.’”

My husband orders Jean to give me up. However else his words could be interpreted, I know it plainly. And my charitable thoughts of a moment before fade, leaving me angry. “What does Louis know of what is right?” I demand. “Had he loved me as he ought to have …Had he loved me with even a tenth of the fervor he shows for God—”

“Yes. But consider, Marguerite, he is not on trial here, nor need he fear being censured for his actions. We, on the other hand, are in grave danger of being called to account.”

“He has not the nerve.”

“Can we take that chance?”

For one wild moment I want to say yes—to defy Louis, to pin my fate and my very life on this love I feel for Jean, a love unlike any I have ever known. Then a noise calls my attention down to the deck; it is the voice of a child. My children are out, taking the air. Jean Tristan, walking just beside his nurse, is earnestly conversing with her. I can see her struggling to keep from laughing as she gives him an answer. In a blinding flash I am nearly overcome by pain—pain of the soul so intense that it manifests itself physically and in its grip I am ready to double over. Whatever I am willing
to risk for the sake of my own happiness, I am not willing to risk my precious son.

Leaning one hand on the parapet to steady myself, I begin to cry. Jean looks at me helplessly. He dare not pull me to him or even wipe away my tears. I myself let them fall unhindered rather than show those below that I am crying by dabbing my eyes. “I would gladly die by any means rather than live without you.”

“As I would die for you.”

“But it is not only
our
lives that hang in the balance.” I look down again at our son, popping out from behind his nurse’s skirts for the amusement of his brother, and think of the child in my womb who may also be Jean’s. When I lift my eyes to Jean’s face, I find him watching Jean Tristan as well.

“Surely,” I say, recalling his attention, “Louis does not suspect
all
.”

“Praise God I have no reason to think so! Have you?” Jean’s voice is choked with terror. Never, in all the years we suffered in the desert, have I seen him as afraid as he appears to be now.

“No. If anything, Louis shows Jean Tristan favor above all his other children. Have you not remarked it?”

“Yes. Yes, I have.”

My heart is pounding in my throat. “Oh my darling…” My voice trails off, momentarily stilled by a sob that rises up within me and cannot be contained. “I love you beyond any man, beyond God against whom I sin in loving you, more than my own soul, which I have cast into the fiery pits of hell merely for the sound of your voice and the touch of your hand. There is only one thing that I love more than you—my children. I would lay down my life for them. Even as you
are
my life, I must lay you down to protect our son. I know you will understand this, and forgive me, for you too love the boy body and soul.”

“Marguerite”—Jean’s voice breaks with the anguish of the moment—“I will always love you.”

“That will be enough then,” I reply. It
must
be enough.

“Oh God, I warned you once that when this crusade was over we would be separated.”

He is right. I can see him in my mind’s eye, comforting me on the day we learned the dragon was dead. But then we thought the separation would be thrust upon us by the difficulty of meeting privately. Fools!

“When we go ashore,” he continues, “I will ride at once to my own lands. Put distance between us so that Louis will forget his awful suspicions.”

“But you will come back to court.” My voice sounds nakedly pleading for someone who has just sworn off his company.

“Can you bear it if I do?”

“Can I bear it if you do not? Besides, if you do not, Louis will seek a reason. Come back and serve your king. You are his friend, and you can surely remain mine.” Friend—how bitter the word tastes in my mouth.

“I will be everything to you that I can be save lover. Everything. I swear it.”

I nod. My head hurts. The sun is too bright. I cannot endure it. Whatever oaths are made on this awful day, I know that from this moment on Jean will be an empty, aching place that no other person can ever fill though years pass—separated from me by words of love too dangerous to be repeated.

HOME.

On this occasion, I, not Louis, am the one moved to prostrate myself in prayer. I lie in front of the little altar so often used by my
husband on the deck of his ship, thanking God most earnestly. It is the last day of June, and I have spotted the islands not far from the castle of Hyères in my father’s own county—or rather my sister Beatrice’s. There is a port near Hyères.
Provence, my first home, on your familiar soil my foot will rejoice after six long years in lands not my own.

“Your Majesty?”

I lift my head to see Jean looking at me curiously. And, as ever since that fateful morning after the fire, the sight of him brings a cruel mix of pain and pleasure. We have continued to pass much time together, but always publicly. We play at chess, stroll the deck, and eat dinner at the king’s table. But Jean passes every night at the foot of the king’s bed—an homage that seems to please Louis greatly. There is rarely an unguarded moment between Jean and me, and the words of love we whisper furtively when one does arrive begin to take on tones of desperation.

“May I help you up?” Rising to my knees, I take the hand Jean offers. “I fear your prayers of thanksgiving are premature,” he says in a low voice. “His Majesty declares we will not land.”

“Why ever not?”

“The precise point his council has just been pressing. These are, after all, his brother’s lands—”

“Says Charles of Anjou. But I say they are my sister’s.”

“I am sure that you do, only do not say so too loudly within hearing of the king. It will only strengthen his resolve to go on to Aigues-Mortes.”

“But that would mean another month at sea!”

“Or more. The council will push him as hard as they can. But Louis is not a man for yielding. He has been kind to you of late; I have remarked it.” Is that pain I see in Jean’s eyes? Does it hurt him to see Louis drawing closer to me?

“His kindness means nothing to me.”

“For the present it may mean you have the power to set us all upon the land. Is that not worth something? It is Tuesday.”

Jean’s reminder of Louis’s weekly conjugal visit would nettle me more did I not know that the short time my love spends alone on his pallet at the foot of the king’s empty bed while Louis is in my cabin is as torture to him.