Four Sisters, All Queens (20 page)

Two of Henry’s guards step forward with their blades drawn, but the king waves them back. “Our sister wished for a private wedding,” he says, averting his gaze.

“Why would she wish for that?”

“We knew you would object,” Eleanor says.

“To such a fine match?” Richard’s laugh cracks. “The king’s sister and a French dandy with only a crumbling manor to his name? I cannot imagine why anyone would protest.”

“Now, see here, Sir Richard—” Simon begins.

“I see much, Sir Simon. I see that you have insinuated yourself into my sister’s heart for your own gain.” He glances at the chaplain and presses his mouth shut. Clerics love to spread tales.

“Richard! Your quarrel is with me, not with my husband,” Eleanor de Montfort says. “I chose Simon of my own volition.”

“That is not a choice for you to make. Your duty is to enhance our kingdom, not to satisfy your own desires.” He glares at Henry. “I should have been consulted about this marriage. But it is not too late. What has been done, can be undone.”

He turns to leave, but Eléonore stops him. “Stay, Richard, and celebrate with us. Simon and your sister love each other. Doesn’t Eleanor deserve some happiness in life?”

“She married our Lord Jesus Christ seven years ago. She deserves the nunnery,” he says. “Her seducer, Simon de Montfort, deserves to burn in hell—and he will, if I have to spend every coin in my treasury to make it so.”

N
O MUSIC PLEASES
the ear so well as the clink of silver. It is a tune that Richard of Cornwall plays very well, having so much of it in his purse. His song enchants the archbishop of Westminster into
declaring the marriage invalid. It marches the people of London to the palace, where they shout out of tune, demanding the heads of those associated with the scandal. It stirs the indignation of the barons, who send their most pugnacious member—and, heretofore, an admirer of Simon’s—to protest the match.

Roger de Quincy, the Earl of Winchester, rides into London in typically dramatic fashion, galloping through the streets as though racing to a fire, kicking up clouds of dust, and shouting for all to clear the way or be trampled under his horse’s hooves. He marches into the palace in his battle armor, including a silly peacock plume atop his helmet, and sings Richard’s song of discord.

“The barons of England are outraged over the travesty that occurred, with the king’s blessing, on the sixth of January,” he says. “We demand that the marriage of the lady Eleanor Marshal, Countess of Pembroke, to Simon de Montfort, a Frenchman”—his lips curl—“be nullified at once. Else, we must insist that the king abdicate the throne.”

Henry’s face reddens. “On what grounds?”

“Henry is God’s chosen monarch,” Eléonore says.
Breathe.
“Our Lord placed him on the throne, and only our Lord can displace him.”

“Well may he do so. The clergy stand with us on this matter. I have brought a petition to that effect, signed by England’s most prestigious barons and our exalted bishops.”

“What arrogance!” Henry leaps to his feet. “I would like to see you try to remove me.”

De Quincy’s jaw tics. “By conducting this marriage in secret, you have broken your pledge to consult the barons’ privy council. This is a grave offense.”

“The people of London would not support mutiny against their king,” Eléonore says. “They love Henry.” And yet she needs Simon and Eleanor’s love in this conniving court. She peers within for a solution, sees its rippling image, amorphous and shifting, as on a dark pool.

“Without the support of your barons, you cannot rule,” the earl
says. “And we will not support this union of our English princess with French nobility. Think of it, Your Grace! Should you perish, Simon de Montfort might claim the throne. And if he sired a son? England would be lost forever.”

“And the sun might fail to rise tomorrow and the world would perish,” Eléonore snaps. “You forget the king’s brother. Richard of Cornwall holds a stronger claim to the throne than do the Montforts.”

“I have forgotten nothing, my lady. But the complexities of this situation are too great for a foreigner to grasp. And I did not ride all this way to discuss the succession to the throne.”

“What have you come to discuss?” Henry asks.

“The marriage of the Countess of Pembroke to the Earl of Leicester cannot stand. The barons of England have not given their permission for it, and will not do so.”

“Permission?” Henry barrels toward the little man, who stands his ground—for a moment.

With the tip of his long index finger, Henry prods the earl’s collarbone. “Pray tell me, Winchester, under whose authority do you hold your lands and titles? Mine, that is whose.” The baron steps backward, but Henry advances.

“Under whose authority do I hold the kingdom? As the queen has already pointed out, none other than God has given it to me.” He punches his own chest. “As God’s anointed king, I will arrange any marriage that pleases me, your permission be damned.”

His red face, his wild eyes, the veins bulging in his neck and on his forehead: Henry reminds Eléonore of a snarling beast. She would shrink back in fear if she didn’t know the gentleness beneath that fury. Might he someday unleash it against her? But—no. Henry would not.

The Earl of Winchester, too, seems surprised by the king’s attack. He dances backward before tripping and nearly falling to the floor.

“That will teach you to harass your king,” Henry says. Winchester looks as though he’d like to stab him in the back.

“You seem to forget, my lord, how you depend on your barons’ support,” he says. “I pray that you will come to your senses soon. For, by refusing to accede to our demands, you have placed your throne, and your person, at great risk. Were I you, I would gird myself for war.”

“R
UBBISH,
” E
LÉONORE SAYS
when Roger de Quincy has gone. Surely he exaggerates the barons’ wrath. After all, Eleanor Montfort is the youngest of Henry’s siblings, and a woman; her offspring would lay no claim to the English throne. They must placate the barons, she tells Henry, and protect Simon.

“You need only apologize, and the matter will resolve itself,” she says.

Henry thrusts out his lower lip, reminding Eléonore of her sister Beatrice, who crashes around breaking things when she doesn’t get what she wants. “Apologize to that sniveler Winchester, with his peacock’s feather? He should be grateful that we didn’t throw him into the Tower.”

Who is the peacock? Eléonore wants to say. Who is the sniveler? “I agree, he is tedious,” she says. “Perhaps we should inform him of your sister’s condition.”

“Risk my sister’s honor? You surprise me, Eléonore.”

She raises her brows. Cannot the Earl of Winchester count to nine? When the child is born, the entire kingdom will know the truth. “An apology seems our only recourse, then. A few words on your part, a minor puffing of the earl’s chest. A small price to pay for your sister’s happiness.” And for Simon de Montfort’s friendship, she might add. Considering the barons’ grumbling against “aliens” and “foreigners,” Eléonore may need Simon’s support in the future.

Henry looks at her as if she had spoken in a strange tongue. “A king does not apologize to his vassals. We must convey strength, Eléonore, never weakness. Disaster would ensue, otherwise. Usurpers always await, coveting our thrones.”

If her years in Provence taught her anything, it is this: Real strength lies not in denying one’s deficiencies, but in admitting them. For once, though, she keeps an opinion to herself.

T
HE CROWD HAS
grown larger every day. Now, little more than a week after the Montforts’ wedding, thousands press against the castle gates, waving torches, hurling rocks, brandishing fists. “Send the foreigners home!” they cry, forgetting that their great-grandparents came from Normandy, or Germany, or Wales. The Earl of Winchester, whose ancestors were Scottish, has smashed all his casks of French wine, declaring that only “fine British ales” will be served at his table. Immediately the guest list for his feast celebrating St. David of Scotland shrank to only a few friends.

“Damned be Simon de Montfort,” Henry rages to Eléonore in her chambers as her tailors fit her for a new Parisian gown. “Damn him and his ambition! Always grasping for what is above him. I would have given him anything except my sister, for the love of God.”

“But you did give him your sister.” Eléonore turns, her arms spread. “Not for the love of God, but for the love of your sister.”

“Yes, but what about the love of Henry? Simon’s ambition knows no bounds. Next he might try to take the throne.”

“Nonsense.” She turns again. “Not only is Simon your brother-in-law, but he is also French. And, as we can hear so clearly at this moment, the French are unpopular in England.”

“I wish they would stop that noise.” Henry stomps over to a window and slams the shutters shut. “Shouting for Simon’s head, and on what grounds? He has done nothing without my consent.”

“Be grateful that they are not demanding your head, then.”

Uncle Guillaume enters, newly arrived from Uncle Thomas’s wedding, ready to embrace Eléonore but for the pins at her waist and sides. Henry kisses him as if he were a long-lost brother, so pleased to see his friend that he doesn’t notice his somber expression.

“No one is calling for your head today, Your Grace, but they
may be soon,” Uncle says. “Your brother wields much influence in England.”

“His purse wields much influence, you mean,” Eléonore says.

“Do you think that Richard is behind this?” Henry gestures toward the window. “And over such a trifling matter?”

Uncle folds his arms over his chest. “Some say the Earl of Cornwall fancies himself the next king.”

“He has always thought himself more capable of ruling,” Henry says. “He has told me so many times.”

Her pins removed, Eléonore steps down from the stool. “Money matters to Richard, not power. He already has the wealth of a king, without the hardships.”

“As king, he would lose that wealth,” Henry says. “Gascony alone would suck it like marrow from his bones.”

“He claims to have lost much of his fortune already.” Uncle moves to a window to look down upon the jeering crowd. “All the barons have suffered since the pope’s legate arrived, demanding coins for the next campaign in Outremer.”

“I would not listen to those mutterers.” Henry steps before him to shutter that window, as well. “Ottobuono is a good man.”