Four Sisters, All Queens (10 page)

“And are we to sleep between the Pater Noster and the Ave Maria, or during the silent prayer?” she asks.

The archbishop regards her for a long moment—unused to questions from women, apparently, since he doesn’t answer hers. “Isn’t that what you wished, Your Grace?” he says to Louis. “A ritual of prayer to last until the morning?”

“Do not fret, my bride.” Louis’s voice sounds far away, as if he had already crossed into the shadowy world of credos and penances. “The Lord will sustain us through the night.”

Marguerite closes her eyes, imagines a bed, imagines herself lying down in it, sinking in softness, burrowing in quilts. Today she became the bride of the King of France. She had a royal wedding and a magnificent feast with course upon course heralded by
trumpets: a pie from which songbirds flew; a gold-beaked swan roasted and refitted in its feathered coat; a pudding of cherries sprinkled with rose petals, and an endless stream of sycophants filling her time with gratuities and expecting inanities in return. Afterward, minstrels and jongleurs performed under the arbor. And, through it all, the appraising eye of Blanche, whose frown deepened with every compliment paid to Marguerite. When troubadours from her father’s court performed a sequence of songs in her honor, Blanche’s face turned bright red under her white makeup.

“The White Queen covets all the praise in her court,” Uncle Guillaume said. “Have you noted the paucity of women? She employs only a few female servants, and all are either old or plain.”

Thomas laughed. “I do not envy Margi.”

At this moment, she does not envy herself. If the queen mother resents compliments given on her wedding day, how will she react when Marguerite dons the crown of France? All of France will honor her then. Without adequate sleep, how will she forbear her mother-in-law’s acerbic comments, her droll sarcasms? How will she make a good impression, and gain her respect? Yet she must do as Louis wishes. He is her husband, after all—and he is the king.

Yet not even the king can stop her thoughts from roaming as she prays.

Was that a smirk on Blanche’s mouth today when her young son Charles snatched a piece of meat from Marguerite’s fingers? And then the little beast stuck out his tongue and declared that she was too petite to be a queen. “You look like my sister’s queen-doll, only not as pretty,” he said for all to hear. Blanche never uttered a word of reprimand, but hid a smile behind her hand.

Marguerite would have used her hand for a different purpose—but instead she ignored him. Reacting would only increase his enjoyment, as she knows from experience with Beatrice. Of course, no child of the Count and Countess of Provence, even one as spoiled as Beatrice, would behave so rudely.

The manners are despicable here.
During silent contemplation, she composes a letter to Eléonore.
I saw a nobleman blow his nose
in the tablecloth. I heard the queen mother’s ladies-in-waiting tell bawdy jokes about my husband and the washerwoman. Their own king! Even the troubadours lack refinement. While ours in Provence sing the
chansons de gestes
of knights and chivalric deeds, these poets fawn over the queen mother—while she dimples like a girl and pretends to blush.

A slow ache spreads through her knees, then a tingling, then numbness. Her head slumps forward; she jerks awake and resumes her prayers.
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum.
Blanche indulged the impudent Charles, yet snapped irritably at the nine-year-old Isabelle. “I am going to marry Jesus,” the child said to Marguerite, her face as earnest as a martyr’s.

“The nunneries are filled with wives for our savior,” Blanche said. “You are my only daughter, and you will marry to benefit France.”

Isabelle’s smile held the secret of a child determined to have her way. “I have heard that you love the poets,” she said to Marguerite. “Do you know this song? ‘
Amongst others I feign the status quo, while the day seems tedium congealed
.’”

Quoting Arnaut! Were Isabelle older, this alone would bind them in friendship. And yet—who else in this court would suffice? For all the love poured upon her during her wedding ceremony, the nobles’ wives held themselves aloof during the feast. Is it because she hails from the south—a country bumpkin—or because she is going to be queen? Perhaps, after all these years of Blanche’s rule, the French are unaccustomed to friendly queens.

Without Aimée, she would be bereft. Her handmaid is her only tie, now, to Provence. Memories rise: The music her family made together. Marguerite playing the vielle. Her father striking his dulcimer. Eléonore on drums. Mama’s riddles at table, the slant of her eyes as she offered clues, her mysterious smile as Marguerite and Eléonore shouted their answers while Sanchia cringed in the corner, afraid she would be called upon—and then, more often than not, solved the riddle. And the hunts, grand affairs with thirty or forty men and women and nearly as many dogs. The fragrance
of lavender wafting up from the trampling hooves; the apricots, peaches, cherries and tangerines dangling ripe from the trees; the jump and wriggle and strain of the dogs at their leashes. And always Eléonore’s shout as she raced ahead with her bow, eager to be the one to fell the deer. The troubadours and trobairitz, new ones arriving at court every day, it seemed, bringing new songs.

I see scarlet, green, blue, white, yellow

Garden, close, hill, valley and field,

And songs of birds echo and ring

In sweet accord, at evening and dawn.

She can hear their song, the song of Provence. The harp and vielle rise up in accompaniment, and the voices of Papa and Mama singing along while she and Elli link arms to dance, spinning faster and faster until, exhausted, they fall to the floor, laughing, dizzy with music and happiness…

Marguerite. Marguerite!

She opens her eyes. Louis’s frowning face hovers above. “Are the prayers finished?”

“You fell asleep.” He averts his gaze, as though embarrassed to look at her. “You must confess this sin tomorrow.”

“I was afraid that might happen.” She gives a little laugh. “Forgive me.” She shakes her head, but the music that lulled her to sleep continues to play.

“It is not my forgiveness that you must seek, but that of our Lord.”

Is sleeping now a sin, also? “I will. But for tonight, I must go to bed. My journey from Provence was very long.” Louis’s mouth droops. “Yet—I do not want to disappoint you.”

“I do not lament for myself, but for you.” He helps her to her feet. “To be unable to sustain your prayers for even two hours . . . but you will become stronger, in time.”

“And you? Will you come and sleep?”

“I do not desire sleep. I have spent many nights with our Lord in prayer, and he protects me against that temptation.”

Later, in bed, Marguerite ponders again the strange notions of God in her new kingdom. Sleep, a temptation? Is it another of God’s tests, like the fruit tree in the Garden, to give us bodies in need of rest and then to punish us for sleeping? She snuggles into the mattress Louis and Blanche have provided for her, down deep under their tempting gifts of furs, linen sheets, and an embroidered quilt.
Forgive me, Father,
she prays, but she forgets what she is supposed to have done as she plucks a peach from the tree and takes a bite of Provence.

S
HE BECOMES
Q
UEEN
of France in a gown of silk spun with gold—another gift from Blanche, who apparently nurtures a fondness for shiny clothes—and a face and neck covered in white makeup, and lips so darkly ochred they appear bruised. Her second day in Paris, and already she is transformed. Yet the capitulation is not complete: she declined the razor’s edge.

“You do not look like yourself, my lady.” Aimée’s voice holds a tinge of disapproval. Marguerite, looking in her mirror, can only agree. From inside the glass, Blanche de Castille stares back at her. When she accepts the crown today, she will be another White Queen. No matter: she came to Louis as her true self for their wedding, but as Queen of France she will wear whatever mask is required. She only hopes her mother-in-law will welcome the change.

She enters the cathedral through the back, avoiding the onlookers already crowding the floor, and finds Louis kneeling before the altar in his gold chain mail suit. His knees must be made of plate armor. His eyes widen at the sight of her so altered—but, already an expert in the art of diplomacy, he tucks his startled expression behind a smile.

He pushes himself to standing in increments, weighted by the suit. “I was just praying for you, and voilà,” he says, “you appear.”

“What did you request for me, my lord? Courage, I hope—and makeup that doesn’t smear when I cry.”

He clears his throat. “I prayed for your forgiveness. For falling asleep last night.”

“Oh, that!” She laughs. “I had forgotten all about it.”

“And I asked that God might strengthen you for tonight’s prayers.”

“I hope he doesn’t wait until then to provide me with strength. Otherwise, I may collapse of fright during the ceremony.”

“Fright? Of whom, the Count of Champagne? Old Queen Isambour?” Dare she mention Raimond of Toulouse? But no—the music has begun. “Grab hold of me if you feel yourself falling,” Louis says. “I’ll hold you steady.”

She takes his arm and he leads her to a platform on one side of the choir. He bows, then takes his place opposite her. Golden thrones encrusted with jewels and cushioned with silk glimmer between them, on the choir stage. Ribbons and banners streaming from the rafters lend a festive and colorful air, even more so than at yesterday’s wedding—and the crowd is larger, too, filling every space with men and women and children who stare at her and yet, because of the paint, do not see her.
Breathe,
Mama always said. She does, and is calmed by the fragrance of incense mingling with the perfume of lilies filling the chapel, and the faint warm scent of fire from the thousands upon thousands of burning candles. The entire room shimmers, as though they were in a jewelry box.

Spectators continue to stream in: nobles in the front, townspeople in the middle, servants and villeins in the back, spilling out the doorway, standing on tiptoe, stretching their necks. Excited talk and laughter careen about the room. Then the archbishop ascends the platform and the room grows silent except for the clanging of a bell.

Her gaze drops to the front row, where her uncles grin proudly at her. If only her parents could be present—but they dared not leave Provence to the mercy of Toulouse’s marauding knights. When he has ceased his attacks, perhaps they might visit her in Paris. Papa would be impressed to see her on the French throne—and if he had
any qualms about her ability to govern Provence someday, they would surely disappear.

Papa. She imagines his proud gaze as the archbishop anoints her with blessed oil and presents her with a golden scepter—but then all else is forgotten, even her father, as the monks chant their ethereal song and the king’s nobles—Hugh, Count of Lusignan, Pierre, Count of Brittany, and Thibaut, Count of Champagne—struggle up the steps bearing an enormous gold crown. The archbishop utters a blessing and they lift the crown to Marguerite’s head, then hold it there, supporting it with their hands. His Grace turns and, waving incense, leads them to the center platform, where Louis stands before his throne. Noblewomen descend on her like a flock of solicitous birds, straightening her skirts as she sits beside her husband, barons holding up her crown and Louis’s, too—the weight of rule being too great, it seems, for anyone to bear alone.

The air thickens, warmed by the breath and blood of one thousand onlookers. Perspiration beads on Marguerite’s brow and upper lip but she dares not remove it with her handkerchief or even a gloved finger for fear of smudging the paste on her face. As queen, she must always maintain the appearance, at least, of dignity.

As the archbishop conducts the mass, she peruses the crowd. Soon she will be responsible for these, her subjects, and many more. Her uncles reminded her last night of the duties of a queen: to intercede for those accused of crimes, asking the king for mercy; to administer the kingdom’s finances, furnish the royal palaces, and arrange advantageous marriages for the sons and daughters of the barons; and to advise the king in matters of war and peace—including, she vows, a peace treaty with Provence. She may rule from time to time, when Louis leaves the kingdom. And she will, if God please, provide heirs to the throne—which, in France, means sons.