The Sister Queens (60 page)

At Edward’s other side a slip of a girl rides. Her magnificent clothing only makes her appear younger to my eyes. Did I look so childlike when I married Henry? I must have, for this Eleanor is thirteen. I see how she looks at Edward for reassurance as the horses slow to a stop, and he dismounts and offers a hand to help her do likewise. Her eyes are adoring. She is a lamb and I love her already.

I do not wait but bustle forward. This, after all, is a meeting of family. “Edward, you look well.” I refrain from embracing him as I do not know if his dignity could bear such an action in front of his new bride. Henry, however, is heedless of such things and pulls our son into a bear hug, causing Eleanor to step slightly aside.

“My dear daughter,” I say, taking one of her hands, “you must be weary from the road. Come inside and take some refreshment. Edward”—I turn to my son who stands talking with his father, uncles, and the other sundry male members of the court who have gathered in a knot around him—“it is just as easy to talk sitting comfortably inside as standing in this dusty courtyard. Your wife is tired.”

I expect at least a sharp look in response to this. After all, what fifteen-year-old boy wishes to be reminded of his duty by his mother? But I mean for Edward to know, I am not intimidated by his new status as landowner and knight. He is still my boy. Great is my surprise then when, instead of bristling, he pulls me into an embrace, and then, offering one arm to me and one to his bride says, “You see, Eleanor, I told you my mother thinks of everything.”

Through all this the other Eleanor remains silent, but I do not
like her the less for it. There will be time enough for her to find her voice and her place in this court of ours.

The sun sets on the day of Edward and Eleanor’s return from Castile, but our feasting and festivities continue. When at last the evening is at an end and I make my way to my apartment, escorted by an orange autumnal moon that draws my eye out each successive window that I pass, I find I am not at all tired. No more is Henry when he arrives in my rooms for our precious private time together.

“We have a treaty of peace with Castile—how shall we celebrate?” Henry spins me around in his arms as if we are still in the great hall, dancing at this evening’s banquet honoring our son and his bride.

Laughing, I fall exhausted onto the stool nearest my fire. “Let me catch my breath and we can talk of it.”

Henry pours a glass of wine and hands it to me. “To the King of England and his magnificent victory in Gascony,” I say, raising my glass before drinking.

“Simon de Montfort could not pacify it, but I did.” Henry is beaming. Can it be that this man I love, who has tried so many political schemes and failed, has, at last succeeded at something that does not involve art or architecture? He looks ten years younger. No, in this light I swear he looks as he did when I married him.

“You did indeed.”

“I know you are eager to go home, but what would you say to a journey through France? I long to see all the wonders of that kingdom that we hear so much of, and to visit the grave of my mother.”

The idea delights me—not the prospect of paying a visit to my husband’s dead family members but the possibility of seeing my own sister, come home from crusade alive but whose letters hint at a lassitude that disturbs me. “Oh yes, Henry, write to the French king. I will write to Marguerite. I feel certain we will be given
permission for our passage. After all, so much is merely common courtesy.”

“To Fontevrault first, then on to Chartres. Imagine seeing its great cathedral.” Henry is clearly picturing the structure of which he has heard so much, because his eyes twinkle and the lid that droops habitually is, for the moment, wide-open. “But enough talk of travel plans,” he says, looking down on me. “To bed, woman. Some part of our celebration at least need not wait for permission from the King of France.”

“BY HEAVEN, LOUIS OF FRANCE
is a man of exquisite taste.” Henry whispers the words, for we are inside the great Cathedral of Chartres. Like Westminster, the rebuilding work here is not finished. But, as at his abbey, my husband’s artistic vision is sufficient to supply those pieces yet missing. “The glass, the color—they overwhelm me.” Truly my husband does seem overcome, for he turns away from his view down the church’s long nave back toward the doors by which we entered.

I could point out that most of the windows were not commissioned by my sister’s husband, only salvaged by him, but I do not. I am highly pleased with the King of France at the moment. Far from merely permitting our sojourn in his country as a matter of
politesse
, he makes much of us, inviting us to pass Christmas with his court in Paris.

“I see Marguerite’s hand in this,” I told my uncle when the letter came, “for Louis and Henry have ever been rivals who spoke to each other only in the coolest manner even before the war in Poitou.”

Looking at my husband, his attention focused on the myriad of glass panels depicting the life of Christ above the central doors, I
remember my uncle’s reply. “It matters not whose hand caused the invitation to be extended, but rather what we make of it.”

So, I will see my sister soon, but our talk will not be solely of our children and our shared history. We have peace with the noblemen of Gascony, so why not a new treaty and better understanding with France? Surely the latter will help insure that the former holds, and it will allow my husband and me to focus our attention on securing Sicily for Edmund.

One of the doors swings open. A man I do not recognize enters. His frame is gaunt but his posture is straight, suggesting that illness or fasting and not age has made him wasted. His manner of dress is very plain and no fur lines his cloak despite the December cold; yet the fabrics he wears are costly rather than coarse, and the sword at his side is extraordinarily fine. His fair hair, nearly colorless but untouched by gray, is blunt cut at his shoulders. His eyes, which seem to be fixed singularly on me, are piercingly blue.

Stepping forward, he bows. “You are Her Majesty Eleanor of England, are you not?”

“I am, sir.”

“There is something of your sister’s look in you. I am Louis of France.”

“Your Majesty!” I drop to a curtsy. “We had no expectation of seeing you before we reached Paris.” Henry has moved to my side. Louis gives him the same intense look he moments ago fixed on me.

“Henry of England, you are welcome in my kingdom.”

“I am grateful for your hospitality. I have long desired the satisfaction of seeing my beloved mother’s grave at Fontevrault, and you have provided it.”

“This pleases me. The loss of a mother weighs heavily on her sons.” Louis’s eyes are filled with pain. I cannot remember the last
time I saw a man look so very sad. My husband glances away slightly for a moment as if unnerved by the raw display of emotion.

“It does,” Henry says. “The bond of family is mighty. And on this score I am beholden to Your Majesty in more ways than one, for my wife had the greatest desire to see her sisters and mother after a separation of nearly a score of years, and your gracious invitation makes that possible.”

“And she shall see them sooner even than she thinks.” Louis turns his attention once more to me. The eyes that moments ago said so much are now like windows shuttered, reflecting only my own image back at me. “Her Majesty the Queen of France, the Countess of Provence, and the Dowager Countess of Provence should arrive before nightfall. They are but a little behind me.”

I wonder why, if this is so, the party did not travel together? I wonder too why Louis does not simply say
“your sisters and your mother.”
His manner is very unlike my Henry’s, but his tone is obliging, so I do not dwell on these questions. Rather I focus on the fact that in but half a day I will see my family.

“You must join us at the archbishop’s palace this evening,” Louis continues. “His Grace extends me his hospitality, and our first meal together can be easy, free from the eyes and formalities of a more formal court banquet.”

“Nothing could suit us more,” Henry replies enthusiastically. This is typical of my husband; his opinion of men is ever changeable. The French king has been his enemy since childhood, but now, standing in this cathedral, Louis is pleasant and a novelty, so all the past is forgotten for the moment. I see that Henry will open his heart to the King of France.

Louis offers a smile by way of return, but it is wan and bloodless. I wonder, after five months at home in France, whether Marguerite still bears the marks of crusade as clearly as her husband does. Then,
as if he were an errand boy rather than a king, Louis says, “I will leave you. I did not intend to disrupt you in your occupations.”

“Nonsense. I wish to walk the labyrinth, but I may do it as easily another time.”

“You are a king who takes pleasure in meditation and prayer then?”

“Nothing gives me greater satisfaction, save perhaps my dear family. And you are a king whose pious works are spoken of everywhere, and certainly in my England. I would be honored were you to walk the labyrinth with me and will wait upon your convenience to do so.”

The smile that Louis offers this time is full. His eyes sparkle and his cheeks take on a tinge of color. “I will walk with you now since you like it. And after, if you are interested, I will show you how my mother had a portrait of me hidden in the windows here, acting the role of King Solomon.”

“CAN WE NOT RIDE FASTER?”

“Would you race to the archbishop’s palace?” Henry asks with a touch of a smile. “That would hardly be dignified.”

“What care I for dignity when my sister and mother are so close?”

Henry laughs. “Eleanor, if you do not care for appearances, then why have you donned one of your best gowns? I know you are eager to see your family, my dear, but we will be at the palace quickly enough without riding as if we are hunting stags.”

But oh the journey seems to take forever. Then at last the images of the faces of Marguerite and my mother that I conjure in my mind’s eye give way to the façade of the archbishop’s palace, its windows glimmering with reflected candlelight from within. We
ride into the courtyard and my eyes, searching for a groom to take my horse, find Marguerite standing with the king, flanked by torchbearers. Her figure is as it was when I saw her last—slender and lithe. How has she managed this when she is thirty-three and has birthed eight children, the last only weeks ago? I am suddenly conscious of the roundness of my arms and the increase in my waist since I saw my sister last. As I pull my horse to a stop, she runs forward, and all thoughts of such trivial things are forgotten.

“My darling Eleanor, you are here.” Her arms are about my neck and she is crying. I taste tears as well, but I sense a difference. Mine roll down my cheeks in tangible proof of my joy, but hers shake her in violent sobs. Something is the matter, but this is not the moment to ask what, and when she at last stands back from me, her face is composed. “This is a day of such happiness! However shall I bear it?”

“Perhaps your years in the desert have made you less accustomed to happiness than you deserve to be, but it is generally borne with a smile,” I reply, squeezing her hand. “Oh, I have missed you more than anyone.” Then, feeling guilty that my outburst might have been overheard, I ask, “Where is Mother?”

“Just inside, with Beatrice.”

The mention of my younger sister’s name stills my steps. I am not angry with her anymore; the passage of time has seen to that. But I realize that until this moment I never gave her a single thought. I had forgotten, in fact, that she traveled with the French party. I suppose this makes me a dreadful person, but I do not feel myself to be so.

Marguerite shepherds me inside. I am in my mother’s arms while a lovely blond woman, sporting far more jewels than the rest of us wear, watches with sharp eyes. “Sister,” she says as my mother releases me, “it has been too long.”

This then must be Beatrice. I accept her stiff embrace. Nothing—I simply have no feelings for Beatrice. “It has indeed,” I reply, hoping my voice is more cordial to her ear than it sounds to mine.

Marguerite takes my hand as if we were children. “I will not let go of you tonight,” she whispers.

I wish we could scamper off, hide under a table, and talk as we did as girls until the candles have burned down and our nurses come to look for us. As it is, we
are
separated. Marguerite takes her seat at Louis’s side and I take mine at Henry’s—the two kings between us as they have been since they married us away from our Provençal home.

The meal is splendid. Henry and Louis, reticent with each other at first, are soon engrossed in talk of architecture. I gaze across them longingly, wishing I could speak to my sister. Charles d’Anjou is to my right. I am thankful that years of correspondence with Marguerite have prepared me for his temperament and I can endure his prating on with relative equanimity, even as it galls me that such a man should govern what was once my father’s.

At last the bowls are brought forward, and I hope for an opportunity to surround myself with the company of my own choosing. The King of France rises from his seat and I do likewise. Turning to Henry, he says, “Is there more of Chartres that you would see, or are you well content for Paris?”

“Were I alone to be consulted, I would set out for Paris as soon as possible. I have the most burning desire to see your Sainte-Chapelle.”

“Splendid. Let us leave at dawn.”

“At dawn.” Henry seems abundantly pleased with the idea, but I have the strongest desire to kick him in the shins. If we are to rise early, then the evening is likely over and I have not had five minutes of quiet with my mother or sister.

“Shall I call for your horses?” Louis asks, confirming what I suspected.

For an instant I think of begging to be left behind to pass the night with Marguerite. She is so recently recovered from her confinement that surely her husband cannot yet be sharing her bed. We could curl up in the dark and share confidences as we did as girls. But the thought is as ridiculous as it is appealing. If I am to ride through France tomorrow beside its king, I must be Queen of England and represent my own kingdom properly. I can hardly appear still clothed in this evening’s gown.