The Sister Queens (8 page)

MARGUERITE AND I ARE CURLED
close before her fire, silent and content on the third evening after my arrival, when I finally have the courage to mention it. Something I have never said aloud to anyone—not to Mother, not to Uncle Guillaume during our travels. “I am marrying an old man.”

My sister, who has been gazing at the flames, looks up, startled. “Eleanor, no. You are the English king’s first bride. Surely he must be a man in his prime.”

“He is not ten years younger than Father.” My voice unexpectedly comes out in a whisper, as if all the air has been choked out of me by my fears.

Marguerite sucks in her breath audibly. This is not the reassurance I hoped for. “Still,” she says, her voice with a note of forced cheerfulness, “he is not thirty, and did you not tell me by letter that Uncle Guillaume calls him a ‘fine man’?”

“You have the handsomest man in Christendom!” I feel my cheeks grow warm as I say so. Over the past days I have been forced to admit to myself that the King of France is all my uncles and my sister said he was. He is so handsome that he appears to shine. He dances better than anyone I have ever seen. Everything he does, everything he says, conveys an easy, kingly authority. My stomach tightens into a knot. Perhaps I should have said nothing to my sister.

“This is not about what I have.” The sympathy and superiority in my sister’s eyes are maddening. “All our lives you have measured what was yours against what was mine—everything from your complexion to your newest cloak. It has to stop. It will only make you unhappy.”

That does it. I find my voice and loose my anger. “So,” I cry, springing from my chair to stand before Marguerite, “you believe that you have already won! That your husband, your palaces, your kingdom are all destined to be better and greater than mine!”

My sister, looking up at me, blushes.

I am glowering, but I don’t care. My sister deserves to feel uncomfortable. “I may have been born second, Marguerite, but I will not remain behind—not in honor and not in dignity. England will not be second to France!”

“I do not want to outdo you,” Marguerite protests somewhat feebly. “I only want you to be happy. If you are not, I will grieve. I could never take pleasure in the disappointments of others.”

Her ludicrously misplaced piety breaks the back of my anger. I take a step away from her and laugh, or rather snort, something I am prone to do despite my mother’s constant reminders that it is unbecoming. “Never? Oh no, Marguerite, I will not let you paint yourself the saint! I well remember the times you bested me at hawking and reveled in the fact. And all the times you
thought
that you bested me in lessons—”

“Thought?” Marguerite rolls her eyes. “
Did
. But though I
am
the better student, we will
both
be great queens.”

“You sound like Uncle Guillaume.” I return to my seat. “Before I left, I heard him talking with Father. ‘Two queens,’ he kept saying, ‘four daughters, and two of them queens.’”

“Two of us queens
together
.” Marguerite reaches for my hand, and I give it to her willingly. “And if your Henry is not young, he must certainly be kind and more than a little enamored of you. After all, he made no fuss about your dowry.”

“True. I just hope he is not very ugly”—I scrunch up my nose in a manner calculated to make my sister laugh, even though the fear that I feel, I feel in earnest—“or I might have to close my eyes every time he kisses me.”

My time at Marguerite’s court is so full of delightful activity and abundant opportunities for sisterly companionship that I find myself thinking less and less frequently of my husband-to-be. There are days when I do not think of Henry of England at all. Days when I do not worry about kissing him. Then, when I have been with Marguerite nearly a month, a letter arrives from my groom. It is addressed to my sister, not to me.

“Listen to this, Eleanor.” Marguerite is in my rooms, having interrupted my evening’s toilet to share the content’s of my betrothed’s missive. “‘I hope you will not consider me bold, but since the illustrious bishop-elect of Valence has gone on a matter
of business to the court of Emperor Frederick, Your Majesty seems best situated to send me news of my intended, your dear sister the Lady Eleanor. We pray she is well despite all this damp weather.’” Raising her eyes from the paper, Marguerite says, “He is very attentive.”

I turn at the dressing table, frustrating Agnes, my childhood nurse, who is trying to plait my hair, beguiled in spite of myself by my soon-to-be husband’s concern for me. “He is well-informed too,” I answer, “for surely our uncle made no mention of his travels to His Majesty. Not after admonishing us to avoid the subject.”

Marguerite nods in agreement, then lowers her eyes and reads silently for a moment. “Your groom grows impatient,” she remarks, placing her finger upon a particular passage. “‘We approach Your Majesty affectionately, asking that you speed our lovely affianced bride on her way to her new home in England. We have been eagerly awaiting her since our marriage contract was confirmed at Vienne.’”

Marguerite sets the letter down before me so that I can read the rest myself. But before I can complete a single sentence, she speaks again. “I think you must continue your journey as soon as our uncle can return to accompany you.” Her voice is agitated, but I cannot imagine why. She paces away and then turns back to face me, wringing her hands slightly. “We cannot risk the English king’s impatience growing into something more—into a search for another bride.”

“Marguerite, calm yourself. Surely there is no need for exaggerated concern. I believe I will reach England before His Majesty tires of waiting.” My response is meant to set Marguerite laughing, but instead her shoulders fall and she gives a deep sigh. Turning completely in my seat despite Agnes’s clucking tongue, I ask, “Whatever is the matter?”

“I …I will miss you.” My sister’s face hangs like that of an old woman. “The last weeks have been like a return to Provence.”

“Do you wish yourself back in Provence?” I ask. I cannot believe what I am hearing. Much as I was sad to leave home, and much as I have enjoyed my sojourn in France and the respite it has offered from my apprehensions over my upcoming marriage, being with my sister has awakened a burning desire in me for my own court. I am convinced our destinies lie in being queens. I would not go back to being only a count’s daughter.

“No,” she says, “but I wish I had a sister here.”

I know what she means. Her new sister, Isabelle, is the strangest little thing. I asked her if she liked my gown at the banquet celebrating my arrival and complimented hers, and, unbelievably, she told me that such vanity is offensive to God. I hope that my own new sister, with whom, auspiciously, I share a name, will be more to my liking.

“You will always have me,” I say. “Wherever I go, for as long as I live.”

THE WINTER WINDS, IT SEEMED
, wished me in England as urgently as His Majesty. As a result, my ship touched ground earlier than anyone expected. I was sincerely glad of it. This sea voyage was my first, and I did not enjoy it. From the moment we left Wissant, Agnes and I took turns being sick. I thought my stomach could not feel more agitated. I was wrong. As we pass through the gates of Canterbury, word comes that the king is already in the city.

“He must have left London before we landed, for he traveled more than three times our distance,” Uncle Guillaume tells me. “He waits for you at the steps of the cathedral.”

“At the cathedral?”

“It appears he intends to be married today.”

In my surprise, my ice-cold hands drop my reins. Thankfully I am not the type to swoon, or I might well be lying on the cold January ground beside my palfrey this very minute.

Still, my countenance must be pale, for the king’s proctor, Sir Robert de Mucegros, says bracingly, “I am sure His Majesty will be postponed until tomorrow in deference to his lady’s fatigue. It is only His Majesty’s naturally enthusiastic temperament running ahead of him.”

I sit up straight, gathering both my reins and my wits. I am here to marry Henry of England whether the man or the thought be palatable or no. What must be done is best to be done quickly. “Sir Robert, I am at His Majesty’s disposal. If he likes, he may wed me straight from the saddle, though I would beg an hour to warm myself and change my gown.”

When we reach them, we find the cathedral’s grounds enormous, though not large enough for my party, so only a score or so of the most important ride on with me. Even so, we spill off the frozen path and overhang the square beside the church where we pull up to dismount.

Another large party is already there. All of them are male. All are noblemen sumptuously dressed and wearing heavy fur-lined cloaks, though I doubt there is enough fur on this island to make the weather bearable. None are young. I do not allow myself to hope for much, and it is just as well. As my uncle helps me from my horse, a man outstrips his companions and clasps Robert Mucegros in an embrace. The gentleman is short and square. Dear Lord, I know that my husband is old, but must he be short as well? Sure enough, it is Henry of England. Releasing Sir Robert, he turns in my direction. He is not at all handsome. His face is ruddy from the cold and one eyelid droops alarmingly, giving him a sleepy look.
But his smile is merry, and his curly hair and beard give him a comfortable look. He is also beautifully and meticulously dressed. If he is a man of fashion, we shall at least have something in common.

“Lady Eleanor,” he says in a voice as deep and as warm as his smile, “Our Lord and Saint Edward be praised for your safe arrival! We have gathered the first among our magnates to greet you and pay their respects. We have also brought gifts meant to honor you. But we see now that all our efforts pale to insignificance in the shadow of your beauty.”

He executes a bow as easily as a younger man would. And I find myself, all in all, rather more satisfied than not. It could certainly be worse. And as Uncle Guillaume promised me, he appears to have good teeth. “Your Majesty does me great honor by his compliments and even greater distinction by giving me his hand.” I curtsy and then, knowing already the king’s inclination, I add, “When, sir, shall we wed?”

“Where is Edmund Rich?” the king asks of those surrounding him. The group parts slightly to make way for an ancient-looking cleric in a miter. This then must be the influential archbishop of Canterbury. “Your Grace, we would be married as soon as practicable.”

“But the feast,” says a man standing near to the king. I cannot know his name, but I am sure I soon will, for his manner of address suggests great familiarity with my future husband. “All the preparations.”

“We will save the celebration for the Lady Eleanor’s coronation. If she does not object, surely no one else can.” Henry looks again, rather meaningfully I think, at the archbishop.

“If Your Majesty wishes, I can be ready in an hour,” the prelate replies.

“His Majesty does wish.”

MY NUPTIAL MASS DRAWS TO
a close. Like the ceremony of betrothal at the cathedral door preceding it, I felt strangely absent from the service. Still, I do believe I smiled and spoke as the situation required, and everyone around me looks abundantly pleased with me.

As we leave the altar, the king turns to Edmund Rich and says, “You had best come at once and bless the marriage bed.”

“At once?” The venerable archbishop forgets his manners in his amazement.

“I have waited many years for a wife,” Henry replies, his eyes sparkling. “I will not wait an hour longer.”

I am bustled without ceremony to an apartment in the castle where I made ready for my wedding. While Agnes and my ladies undress me, a host of servants stoke the enormous fire in the grate, bring in wine, and warm the sheets on a large, carved bed, which they garland with swags of costly fabrics in rich colors. I am redressed in a chemise of finest chainsil so delicate that I can see every curve of my own body as I sit before the mirror of polished steel to have my hair combed. Before Agnes can finish, a knock sounds at the door. She pulls me to my feet and covers me with a fur-lined pelisse even as the door swings open to reveal the archbishop of Canterbury, still magnificently clad in the vestments in which he celebrated my nuptial Mass. With him are several priests swinging censers of incense, and behind them a half-dozen noblemen whom I saw in church, escorting my husband. Like the others, he is still in his court finery.

My ladies lead me to the foot of the bed, and the archbishop makes the sign of the cross over me as his attendant priests circle me and nearly choke me with their incense. After praying over me,
the archbishop turns to the bed and, after his priests administer a goodly dose of incense there as well, sprinkles it with holy water, praying all the while. I am too nervous to pay much attention, but I hear mentions of Sarah, Rachel, and Rebecca, matrons of the House of David, and numerous allusions to the Blessed Virgin.

Then, quick as they came, they are all departing, Agnes with a quick peck on my cheek as she goes. Henry of England and I are alone.