Four Sisters, All Queens (22 page)

The crowd murmurs in surprise as the brothers stand. A few fall to their knees in awe: exactly the sort of encouragement Louis does not need. Beside him, Robert resembles a plucked chicken, bony legs and feet protruding from his undertunic. His face, too, glistens with pious tears, as if he had not last week dumped garbage from a high window onto the departing Count of Champagne’s head, then filled the Fontainebleau castle with squeals of laughter. Thibaut,
meanwhile, clutches the White Queen’s arm as though afraid she—or he—might fall through the floor.

Extending the dubious box before him, Louis steps down from the high altar, his expression as tragic as if the Lord’s pierced and flagellated body lay within. Robert walks with him toward the cathedral door, his gaze shifting from the trembling gold box to the ecstatic crowd pushing against the royal guards with arms outstretched, striving to touch the relic. The queen mother, flanked by Alphonse and the florid Thibaut, shoves her way in front of Marguerite, leaving her at the rear of the procession with the elderly Queen Isambour.

“Imagine how our poor Lord must feel,” Isambour says, noticing her flush. “He died on the cross, but the glory goes to Blanche.”

What can Marguerite do but walk with her head high, like the queen she is? She turns from side to side, looking from one face to another, but all eyes stare at the box, the barefoot king, the hysterical Blanche. Almost all eyes.

There: A youth meets her gaze. He is younger than she, not quite a man, and richly attired in blue and gold, the colors of Champagne. His eyes dance. He knows. Marguerite has to glance away or else burst into laughter.

Outside, hysteria. Townspeople in linen and fine scarlet cloth; prostitutes in their yellow hoods; mothers with their children; beggars in rags—all jostle for a glimpse of the so-called crown, trampling, in their frenzy, those unlucky enough to fall. The guards swat grasping hands away from the royal family, but an old man crawls, unnoticed, to Louis’s feet and clutches one of his ankles.

A knight presses the tip of his sword against the poor man’s hand, pricking the thin skin—but in the next moment, Louis hands the box to Robert and snatches the weapon away. The old man cowers, arms crossed over his head. Louis tosses the sword to the ground and kneels beside him.

“What do you need, friend?”

“I am ill, my lord. I suffer with every breath. Please help me.”

Louis lays his hands on the man’s head. Marguerite turns away,
resisting the urge to flee this blasphemy. Instead, she steps into the royal carriage to wait for her husband, away from the nonsense a tangle of dusty weeds has inspired. Yet—how Louis shines. Marguerite hasn’t seen so much life in his sleep-starved eyes since their wedding day. Soon, with Father’s Geoffrey’s encouragement, he may regain his vitality in other ways, too. Marguerite smooths her skirt, reddens her lips, and waits.

When the carriage door opens, Blanche folds herself into the seat. “Louis and Robert will carry the Crown to Paris—on foot,” she says, smiling as proudly as if the idea were hers, which it probably was.

“They are walking? That will take more than a week.” What fools the French are, as gullible as children! Marguerite might laugh except for her mother-in-law’s cold stare and the realization that she must wait even longer to conceive her child.

“I don’t expect to see them for two weeks. Their feet are quite tender.”

“They will walk barefoot?”

“What are a few blisters compared to the pain our Lord endured on the road to Calvary?” Blanche’s eyes fill with tears. “Jesus was whipped, mocked, and pushed to the ground, all while carrying his cross on his back, all while the Crown of Thorns cut into his scalp.”

Marguerite looks out the window, sees Louis and Robert making their halting way down the rocky road, Louis’s face alight with rapture, Robert’s smile a grimace.

“The very Crown of Thorns that Louis holds in his hands today,” Blanche presses.

Marguerite can hold her tongue no longer. “The crown in Louis’s hands would not dent an unbaked loaf of bread, let alone draw a man’s blood.”

Blanche gasps. “Do you doubt the word of God?”

“I doubt the word of Baldwin. Haven’t you wondered, Queen Mother? About the thorns? Our crown has none. Where are they?”

“The thorns were removed before the crown came to France,”
she says. “For safekeeping. They touched the blood of Christ, and must not float about unprotected.”

“What did France purchase, then, with her silver?”

“Prestige, you silly girl. Glory. The honor of possessing the most important of our Lord’s relics.” Her tone softens. “Soon we will own a piece of the True Cross, as well. The Emperor agreed today to sell his fragment to France.”

Marguerite knows better than to roll her eyes. Antagonizing Blanche will only cause her to tarry. “I’m sure we will be leaving soon, Queen Mother,” she says. “Mustn’t you hasten to your carriage?”

“I will ride with you,” Blanche says. “We have matters to discuss.”

“I didn’t think you were interested in anything I have to say, my dear mother-in-law.” Marguerite summons her sweetest tone.

“I thought we might discuss your childlessness, and France’s need for an heir.”

Marguerite fumbles behind her back for the door latch. Perhaps she will walk with Louis. She would rather trek barefoot to Paris than listen to Blanche’s harangues. Alas, the carriage begins to move.

Blanche removes her crown and places it on the seat between them. As she speaks, she traces its points with the tips of her fingers.

“You are eighteen years of age, married five years. And still not a single pregnancy.”

Marguerite looks out the window. How she longs to hurl herself out onto the road.

“Barrenness is a woman’s worst fate. I do pity you.” Blanche sighs. “But it must be the Lord’s will. You are not as pious as M. de Flagy said. Not a good match for my Louis, I fear.”

Marguerite’s face grows hot. The countryside moves past at an excruciatingly slow rate. Shouting, sobbing, praying people line the road, but their noise is not, unfortunately, loud enough to drown her mother-in-law’s words.

“No response from the Queen of Riposte?” Blanche smirks. “I know this must be difficult for you—but do try to consider
France’s interests above your own. For the sake of our country, you must admit defeat. I sent a letter to the pope this morning, asking him to annul your marriage.”

A
S
B
LANCHE PREDICTED
, Louis and Robert arrive in Paris exactly two weeks after beginning their long walk, their clothes stinking, their legs covered in filth. Robert’s undertunic sags about his knees, his body having grown even thinner; Marguerite can see the shape of his skull in his sunken face. Louis’s feet are cracked and swollen, yet he steps as jauntily as if he had danced on a cloud all the way home. His eyes seem to crackle with an internal fire. “Darling,” he says when she greets him in the great hall. He holds out his arms to her but his eyes wander, seeking Blanche.

He smells, inexplicably, of cabbage. She deftly avoids his embrace by clasping his hands and leading him up the stairs and onto the balcony, where a ceremony is planned. Marguerite wears a saffron tunic and no jewelry except her crown, striking a balance between queenly elegance and the simplicity the occasion demands. Their audience swarms over the plaza, all the way to the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris, where workers building the western towers shoo the revelers from the scaffolding. Those near the palace cry out, their faces radiant and eager. Louis kisses Marguerite, evincing cheers, then lifts the box for all to see. His odor forgotten, Marguerite dimples at the warmth in his eyes. This is not the Louis she left behind in Sens. She turns to his confessor, standing just below; Father Geoffrey winks at her.

And then, when it seems the shouts cannot increase, Blanche steps onto the balcony in an undyed tunic and white wimple, her face clean of makeup. Marguerite cannot help staring: Blanche is quite old—her white paste does hide wrinkles—but still lovely. No wonder she was once renowned for her beauty. And yet she is still the same White Queen. The crowd roars; she flings out her arms to embrace her sons, pulling them to the fore—and shunting Marguerite aside.

“As mother to your most pious king, I can well imagine the Virgin Mary’s sorrow as her son Jesus suffered on the cross,” Blanche cries. “The Holy Crown of Thorns reminds us of her pain as well as his, endured for our sins.” Marguerite presses her lips together, or else her jaw would drop. In comparing herself to the Holy Mother, Blanche has sunk to new depths. She looks down at her yellow gown, so ostentatious next to the queen mother’s attire that it might as well be made of pure gold.

“My son and I purchased this Crown, and the fragment of the True Cross soon to arrive, for the many blessings they will bring to France,” Blanche says. “They add to the glory of our country, and make of Paris a new Jerusalem.”

A new Jerusalem! The woman is brilliant. Is this the same Blanche who railed at her over the relic’s price? Now, apparently, the Crown of Thorns is the best bargain the kingdom has ever struck—and Blanche and Louis are to be thanked.

And Marguerite is diminished, shoved aside, and publicly so. Everyone saw Blanche step in front of her, and watched as Marguerite shrank back like a chastened child. In the past, the White Queen concealed her disdain behind false smiles and solicitous words, but today she shows the world that she reigns as queen, and that Marguerite is nothing.

Marguerite heads to her chambers in a blur, suppressing her tears. On her desk she finds a letter from Eléonore, announcing—oh, how cruel!—that she has given birth to a son.

We have named him Edward, after Edward the Confessor. He is a beautiful baby, strong and healthy.

Tears blur her letter of congratulations, smudging the ink. She throws the quill across the room. How triumphant Eléonore must feel! Yet, were this a contest, her sister would hold an unfair advantage: No jealous mother-in-law thwarts Elli’s success. Henry’s mother, Isabella of Angoulême, lives across the channel, now Countess of Lusignan. If only Blanche would move away, too.

Marguerite lies on her bed. Her future now rests in the hands of Pope Gregory—who wants more than ever to please Blanche.
His war against the Holy Roman Emperor relies on France’s support. Her father’s help against the Cathars means nothing to Pope Gregory now, for Papa cannot spare a single knight to fight Frederick for him. The pope will grant the White Queen’s request. Toulouse will take Provence and exile her parents, or imprison them. Eléonore, disinherited, will lose what little respect she has gained in England. Sanchia and Beatrice will not marry kings; they will be fortunate to be paired with minor counts. She has failed her family utterly.

Exhausted by her tears, Marguerite falls into a deep and dreamless slumber. She awakens to a face above her own and a hand on her mouth, stifling her startled cry.

“Shhh,” Louis whispers. “Make no sound, or your maids may run to awaken my mother. It is time, Marguerite! In the midst of my prayers with Father Geoffrey, the Lord spoke to me this night. Praise be to God! He is ready to bless us with heirs.”

Sanchia