The Sister Queens (59 page)

I sigh. I had planned to tell Louis I am with child and thus relieve myself of his attentions for the next months. But now, it seems, is not the time to tell him.

When Louis comes to my cabin in the evening, I am not tucked into bed, lights out. Instead, I sit by my open window, looking at the Provençal coast by moonlight.

“Louis,” I say, rising to my feet as he enters, “will you take a glass of wine with me?”

The offer seems to catch Louis off his guard, and when he says nothing, I proceed as if he has assented, filling two glasses and handing him one.

“Lady wife, you are very lively this evening.”

“The sight of my childhood home, though it be but from a distance, cheers and excites me.” I force myself to remain standing very close to him as I speak. This is a seduction, of the body, yes, but even more so of the mind. Hence my use of his Christian name, which no longer falls freely from my tongue as it once did, and my application of every drop of the rose water that remained in my possession. I find the scent nearly overwhelming and hope I have not gone too far.

“Your eyes are very bright,” Louis remarks, looking into my face in a way that once would have thrilled me.

I swallow hard. Then, taking his hand, I draw it up to my breast, firm and round thanks to my condition, and press it there, saying, “And my heart beats like the wings of a bird.”

Louis stands for a moment, breathing audibly, then downs what is left in his glass in a single gulp. I follow suit, then place both glasses on a table just behind him. The action necessitates my moving in closer still, and Louis buries his face in the hair at the side of my neck. Raising his lips to my ear, he whispers, “Do you think I am a failure?”

Whatever I was expecting him to say, it was not this. “It is impossible for anyone to think it—I least of all who have been your wife these many years.”

Louis draws his head back so that he can look me in the eyes again. “I am going to return to the Holy Land,” he says fiercely.

I do not believe that he will, or at least I pray it is not so. I know for certain I will never set foot there again. But I say, “Of course you will.” And if it is a lie, I have told bigger ones.

“Yes,” he says. Then he lowers his head to the place where my neck meets my shoulder and kisses it.

“And you will be victorious next time,” I murmur. “You will cast the Saracens out from the great cities, and their leaders, driven before your armies, will convert or die.”

My words unleash Louis’s passion. There is no image he covets more for himself than that of the victorious religious warrior. Even as he throws me on the bed and crawls on top of me, his mind clearly puzzles over his losses and schemes to avoid them in future. “There will be no blasphemers in my next army, no men who ignore holy days, or consort with prostitutes. All shall be Christian men first and warriors second. Surely then God will be pleased. Surely then he will not deny me victory.”

I make no response to these exclamations, but silently and determinedly, in a manner almost as if it were my trade, do all that I can to be certain Louis enjoys himself. Running my hands down his back, watching the muscles in his jaw tighten and his eyes
clench shut, I wonder how it is I feel like a strumpet in the bed of my husband, whereas I never felt so for an instant with Jean though we were fornicators plain and simple.

When Louis is finished, I curl up beside him and put my head upon his chest; I must keep him with me if I would discuss the topic of our landing. I am drawing breath to begin when Louis says, “They want me to put into port in Provence.”

“And you would rather not?”

“Will I not look like a dog, slinking home with its tail between its legs if I come to France by a back way? I ought to land as I departed, with great state, at Aigues-Mortes.”

“Of course, Louis, you must do as you think best. But the Kingdom of France has waited long and anxiously for your return. It seems almost an unkindness to forestall by another month or more the event they so long for.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do. Since our dear mother’s death, your people have looked to Your Majesty’s brothers for justice and for law. However well-meaning those gentlemen, their judgment is not equal to your own.” I seriously doubt Louis’s brothers are well meaning. Charles at least would take France if he could get it. But it is safer to suggest them less able. Louis himself worries about their governance in his absence. They did not leave us on the best terms, and their “wanton” behavior at Acre rankles him still.

“Hm.” The fact that Louis does not refute my arguments instantly is very encouraging.

“And landing at Hyères would be a kindness to me.…” I let my voice trail off.

“Yes?” Louis pursues my lead eagerly.

“It would give me an opportunity to see my mother, whom I have not laid eyes upon in six years.”

“It is natural you should long to see your mother.”

This is exactly the reaction I was hoping for. The dragon’s death, having robbed Louis of his ability to see his mother, appears to have made him sensitive to my need to see mine.
Funny,
I think almost idly while waiting to see if he will say more,
that he can identify with this desire but not my fierce yearning, as a mother myself, to see our own children.

Louis disentangles himself from me with care and sits for a moment on the edge of my bed. “I must go.”

I could ask why, but I have no real interest in his staying. As he stands and retrieves the mantle he uses to cover his fine linen shirt on the walk between his cabin and my own, he says, “I will think upon what you have said and am obliged to you for making me consider my decision anew. If I find that nothing but my vanity drives me to sail on, then we shall not. After all, it would be foolish to let a failing rather than sound consideration drive my judgment.”

E
LEANOR
L
ATE
S
UMMER 1254
B
ORDEAUX
, G
ASCONY

“M
y sister is returned safe from the Holy Land at last.”

I have gone to find Henry in his rooms. Every day more and more Gascon rebels revert their allegiance to my husband, the way smoothed by the clemency he now offers, so Henry is more frequently in residence at Bordeaux than he was when I arrived in Gascony earlier this summer.

“I am very glad to hear it,” he says, looking up from a letter. I can guess by the telltale sketches that lie beneath the letter that it is a report on the work at Westminster. Whatever else engages him, wherever he may be, a portion of my husband’s mind and heart are at the abbey where his workmen are making magnificent progress on the choir and eastern sections. “I will order a special Mass of thanksgiving in honor of the news,” he continues.

“Oh Henry, what a splendid gesture.” In truth I am more excited by the prospect than I might ordinarily be. The event will give my ladies and me an excuse to dress in our finest, and I need a diversion. Marguerite writes from Aix, where she has stopped to visit our mother en route to Paris. The thought of the two of them together, on ground as familiar to me as their good faces, makes my heart ache. How I wish I could be there as well! But never mind; in another month or so we will leave for Edward’s wedding in Castile, and there will be excitement enough.

“I am glad you’ve come with your news at just this moment,” Henry says, reaching out a hand to me. He smiles. “More glad even
than usual.” Then his smile fades, and I wonder if I imagined it. “We have something to discuss.”

Something serious. This much is obvious.

“Your uncle and I spent the morning closeted together. He feels that the presence of our court here reminds my subjects in Gascony that I am more than the shadow of a king ruling from afar and that this has been beneficial to the calming of the region.”

“I am glad to hear it. But I hope that when we all return with Edward’s bride and the King of Castile’s signature on a treaty, we sail home. I am not easy being away from little Katherine for so long.” If my uncle is counseling Henry for a prolonged stay in Bordeaux, he and I will have words later.

“I fear we must both make a sacrifice—”

It is as I feared. I swear if I have to spend a year complete here, I will go mad.

“It is best we do not go to Castile with Edward.”

“Not go to Castile?” I am confused. The conversation heads in a direction I had not anticipated. I was prepared to plead my case for a timely return to England. The idea of not going to Castile—well, it is absurd. I brought Edward here for his wedding. I had countless gowns made for its celebration and for his knighting. Henry and I are to travel to Castile in great state. What was the point of the time and money spent to prepare a magnificent show for the Castilians if we remain in Bordeaux? And how can my son be wedded if I am not there to witness it? “Surely you do not mean it! You would miss your son’s wedding merely to placate the ever-contentious noblemen of Gascony?”

Henry looks stricken. “Eleanor, you cannot doubt I love Edward, nor that he is first in my mind. But Gascony is
his
, his birthright. You have reminded me of this often. Everything we
have done here—the money spent, the battles fought, the bribes paid—has been done for Edward. How is he better served then, by having us bear him company to Castile, or by having us remain behind to see that nothing gained is lost?”

As a mother I want to argue with his logic. How can I be certain that my son arrives safely at Alfonso’s court, that he is treated as he should be, that he is knighted rather than imprisoned, if all is not done under my eye? He is fifteen, yes, but still less fully a man than he thinks himself. Yet even as my heart fights my uncle Peter’s conclusions, my head sees they are well drawn. Just because Henry and I do not go does not mean Edward will travel alone or unprotected. I have worked for so many years to see Gascony secured from encroachment, whether by Earl Richard or Alfonso of Castile, and handed over to my son intact. I cannot falter now.

I wipe defensively at a tear that moistens my eye. “Well, sir, my mother did not see me wed; yet the marriage stuck.” I try to manage a teasing smile. “So I suppose Edward may be properly wed without us. I can wear my new gowns when the couple returns to join us and we celebrate them here.”

Henry knows, despite my cavalier tone, that it is not the prospect of a delay in putting on my finery that brings my spirits down at present. After all these years he knows me better than anyone. He must know too that I will cry when Edward leaves us to head south. I suspect I will not weep alone.

MY EYES ARE MOIST WITH
tears, tears of joy and pride. Edward’s party rides into the courtyard, back from Castile. The hooves of their horses stir up a golden swirl of autumn leaves. I can see faithful John Mansel on one side of my son. When his eyes meet mine,
he smiles broadly and gives a nod. It is done! Peace with the King of Castile must lie in his saddlebag.