Four Sisters, All Queens (13 page)

His eyes crinkle as he smiles at her—not just crinkles but lines, deeply etched, eroded by time. Old. If his face were a rock, she could use those lines for climbing, and those in his forehead, too, to boost herself to the top of his head. Up and over his crown, holding onto the emeralds and rubies. He extends a hand to help her from the carriage. Russet hair curls along the backs of his fingers. Old. A shudder runs through her.

“You are shivering.” He removes his outer mantle, green velvet lined with fur, and places it on her shoulders. “January is our most inclement month. And February.”

“It is never this cold in Provence,” she says as he fastens the clasp at her throat. “Not in Aix, or Marseille.” The skin around his left eye slumps like marzipan left in the sun to melt. He appears sad. She wishes she hadn’t shuddered.

“You’ll think the climate here atrocious,” he says. “Complaining about the weather is a favorite English pastime, and with good reason. There.” He smoothes the fur, crushing her new gown, a gift from Margi. “Is that better? Good. Welcome to England.”

She remembers her uncle’s instructions, and drops into a bow. “I am delighted, Your Grace,” she says. “I have looked forward to this day all my life.”

Uncle Guillaume’s advice prods her.
Do not appear too eager, lest he lose interest in you. King Henry is notoriously fickle.

“I mean—I have long wanted to visit your kingdom.”

Canterbury, he says, is one of England’s most popular destinations. His voice sounds slightly gruff, an old man’s voice. “You are aware of the pilgrims who journey here year-round?” Knights serving King Henry’s grandfather, Henry II, assassinated the saint Thomas à Becket in this very chapel, he says as they walk toward the magnificent cathedral. A line of barons, ladies, priests, monks, merchants and peasants, bearing candlesticks, jewels, goblets, robes, and other precious gifts as well as donkeys, horses, several goats, chickens, and a gaggle of honking, screeching children snakes its way across the plaza and through the chapel doors. “A mere visit to his shrine, it is said, will cure any illness.”

Eléonore wonders why the king has never sought a cure there for his drooping eye. And does he always talk so much? Perhaps he is nervous, too. She smiles, reminding herself of her goal—capturing the king’s fancy and holding it until she is queen—and changes the subject to one that she knows they both enjoy.

“Have you been to Glastonbury, my lord?”

His smile broadens. “King Arthur is a hero of mine. Even if he is only a myth.”

“A myth? My lord, no! He was as real as you or I.” Her eyes shine with the fires of Camelot. “Monmouth’s
History
is a bit fanciful, I admit.”

“And what of Lancelot? Is he Chrétien de Troyes’s invention, or did Monmouth omit him from his account?”

“I have not read it, my lord, but have heard parts of it recited in my father’s court.” Toulouse’s attacks have increased, not diminished, since Marguerite’s wedding to King Louis. The count can barely afford to feed his court, let alone buy books.

“We have Chrétien’s book at Westminster. Fully illuminated. It shall be my wedding gift to you.”

“My lord!” She wants to squeal and jump about, but he is twenty-eight, a grown man.
You must act his age, not your own
. “But—I have nothing for you.”

“Heirs to the throne will be gift enough.” She stiffens. “Forgive me for frightening you. I forget the difference in our ages.” His eye seems to droop more than ever now that his smile has gone. “I can imagine how I must appear to you.”

Eléonore stops and lays her palm against his cheek, touching the place where it sags. She searches for some kind thing to say that would bring his smile back.

“A youth of such unparalleled courage and generosity, joined with that sweetness of temper and innate goodness, as granted him universal love.”

“That is from Monmouth, isn’t it?” He scowls. “Are we back to Arthur now?”

“No, my lord, I am answering your question. That is how you appear to me. As generous and courageous as King Arthur.”

“Do you think so?”

“Indeed I do.”

The corners of his mouth twitch.

“And as sweet-tempered,” she adds.

“Sweet-tempered! My dear, you must tell my sister,” he says, then throws back his head and lets out a mighty roar—of laughter.

In the next moment they are stepping into the cathedral. The making of heirs is forgotten amid the fanfare of trumpets, the servants bowing—to her!—the appraising stares of some nobles, the shouts and cheers from others, the lofty choir with its series of pointed arches ascending like stairs to heaven, and the glimmer of a starry sky’s worth of candles flickering on the walls and on every surface. The cathedral shimmers as if bathed in fairy dust.

Uncle approaches and Eléonore introduces him. “A most illustrious house, Savoy,” King Henry says.

“More so than ever, now that our Eléonore joins her sister in marrying a powerful king,” Uncle says. “My sincere compliments, Your Grace. I attended King Louis IX’s wedding to our Margi, and it was a lackluster affair compared to this.” He makes a sweeping gesture. “Canterbury Cathedral is transformed!”

Pleasure writes itself on the king’s face. “Could I have arrayed the very stars throughout the chapel, they would pale against the beauty of my bride-to-be.” His eyes caress her face. Eléonore leans toward him, her heart unfurling like a slowly blooming rose.

“You will find our Elli to be a woman of stout heart, loyal and bold, an excellent companion,” Uncle says. “And she can ride, shoot, and spar as well as any man.”

“Do you enjoy the hunt, then?” King Henry looks as though he has shucked an oyster and found a pearl.

“I enjoy winning,” she says, grinning at him.

“A brilliant match,” the king says to Uncle. “Delightful.”

“Yes, truly, Your Grace. And, as you may know, it was I who arranged this marriage. If you will grant me an audience for even a short while, I can provide many more ideas for increasing England’s stature.”

“Henry, what are you doing?” A tall woman with hair the color of russet, like the king’s, rushes over and takes Eléonore’s hands into her own. “Your bride has traveled across the sea and, today, all the way from Dover. My dear, you look tired.”

Eléonore yawns. “A drink of water would put me in the right.”

“Nonsense!” The woman places an arm around her shoulders. “Oblivious as usual, Henry. Are you going to give your young bride some nourishment, or let her faint away here on the floor?”

Uncle’s petition forgotten, the king and his sister Eleanor Marshal lead the party into the monastery, where a great banquet awaits. Servants bring washing cloths and bowls of water, gourds of Henry’s favorite wine from the Loire Valley, bread, and dishes of meat, fish, and cheese.

“Ours must seem a bland diet compared to the fare in Provence,” Eleanor Marshal says. She eyes Eléonore’s gown. “Our fashions pale in comparison, as well, it appears.”

Marguerite had this gown made for her, a confection of purple silk with silver lace, on Eléonore’s stop in Paris.
You cannot greet the King of England in your clothes from Provence. They will think you a simple country bumpkin
. Judging from the out-of-date gowns she is seeing here—trailing tippets! wimples!—Eléonore thinks her sister need not have gone to the expense.

“I can make anything you own into something equally beautiful,” she offers, eyeing her sister-in-law’s austere gray tunic and surcoat. “After wearing my sister’s castoffs all my life, I became a proficient seamstress.”

Eleanor Marshal shakes her head. “I took a vow of chastity when my husband died. Dressing to allure would gain me nothing.”

“A vow of chastity? Why? You could marry any man you choose.”

“A woman, choose? Things
must
be different in Provence.” Her laugh is wry. “I was given in marriage to an old man. For the sake of the kingdom, they said. May the Lord spare me from that fate a second time.”

A striking man with wavy, jet-black hair and blue eyes refills the king’s water pitcher. Eléonore catches her breath at his smile.

“Simon de Montfort, from France,” Eleanor Marshal whispers. “Have you ever seen a more handsome fellow? And he speaks so eloquently. Henry adores him.”

A shout rings out, and the clatter of horses’ hooves. “More visitors?” Henry says. “My God. Interrupting our meal.”

A servant appears. “The Count of Ponthieu, Your Grace, with his daughter, Joan.” Murmurs fill the hall.

The king scowls. “Ponthieu? What? Impudence.”

Through the windows Eléonore sees a man in armor pulling a woman to the door, where a row of knights stands on guard. She hears the clang of swords and the clatter of a blade to the stones. She cranes her neck to see the fight. “Let them enter,” King Henry grumbles.

Moments later the Count of Ponthieu stands before them, his helmet under one arm, his daughter beside him, sullenness puckering her face. She is tall, with hair as sleek and shiny as sable—drawing
Henry’s eye. Eléonore remembers Uncle’s warning:
King Henry is notoriously fickle. You must captivate him now, or he may change his mind before the wedding.

“I came to discern whether the rumors are true,” the count says, fingering a mole on the side of his nose. “Now, Your Grace, I must ask: How can you marry this one”—he gestures toward Eléonore—“when you are already married to this one?”

Gasps fill the hall. Joan of Ponthieu shoots a defiant gaze at Eléonore, as though she would challenge her to a duel. Eléonore’s blood quickens. The skinny waif would not stand a chance.

“But Sir Simon, you know the betrothal has been contested,” Henry says. Eléonore’s pulse thuds in her ears. Her King Henry, already promised to another? Why has no one told her? She turns accusing eyes to Uncle.

“Until the matter is settled, Your Grace, you are still bound to my daughter,” the count says.

“We are too closely related.” Henry’s voice rises. “I expressed this concern from the beginning, Lord Ponthieu, but you pressed me to move forward. You said you held influence with the pope.”

“And I do,” the count said. “But not as great an influence, it seems, as Queen Blanche.”

“To hell with that woman!” Henry cries. “Does she think she rules the world?” Eléonore frowns. Would King Henry prefer to marry this girl? His face pinkens, and the muscles in his neck bulge.

Eléonore reaches over and touches his arm. “Breathe,” she whispers. Her mother’s advice, and most beneficial.

Henry takes a deep breath before continuing. “The White Queen aims to withhold from me the lands France stole from my father. Ponthieu is too close to Normandy for her comfort. And she has Pope Gregory’s ear. If she wants him to annul our contract, he will do so.”

“I am willing to wait for his ruling. My daughter’s honor hangs in the balance, as does that of your new intended bride.”

“I have waited long enough for marriage!” Henry bangs a fist on the table. “It might be years before he decides.” He turns wild eyes to Eléonore.

Uncle rises from his seat. “Your Grace, I have information that can help in this matter. If you will meet with me privately.”

“I do not see how involving other parties would be beneficial,” the count says.

“Quiet!” Henry roars. “I have not given either of you permission to speak.”

With a trembling hand he touches the platter of food in front of them. She watches, fascinated. Will he hurl it at the count, or at her uncle? Uncle, back in his seat, mouths a command to her:
Do something
.

Joan smiles at Henry, aiming to beguile him with her buxom figure. Eléonore places a hand on her own, still-flat, chest. Should she intervene, or would she only agitate Henry more? His eyes linger on Joan of Ponthieu, the forbidden fruit. He licks his lips. Eléonore leans toward him.

“My lord,” she whispers.

He draws his gaze away from her competitor. She places her hand on his, possessing him.

“Our meal is interrupted, as you noted. May we dine, and then discuss this matter? I have traveled so far today.” She gives him the wide-eyed look that always melted Papa’s resolve. Joan of Ponthieu might have the body, but Eléonore has the heart-shaped face, the long lashes, the perfect smile. And, at the moment, she has the King of England’s full attention.

“Of course,” Henry says. His smile is the sun emerging from behind the clouds. He claps his hands, and servants come running. “Set up tables for the count and his entourage,” he commands. “We will meet in my chambers once the feast is finished.”

“And my uncle, too?” she murmurs. “He met with the White Queen during our visit to Paris. He spent quite a lot of time with her.”

“We do desire the attendance of the bishop-elect of Valence,” Henry says. “We are most eager to hear your news, sir.”

Eléonore sends a look of triumph to Uncle, whose grin is as satisfied as if he had already filled his belly.