Four Sisters, All Queens (24 page)

“I bring good news from Rome,” Montfort says. “The pope has released my wife, your sister, from her vow of chastity.”

A cheer arises from the surrounding tables and Eleanor Montfort, her face shining, embraces her husband again. Henry’s shade of red brightens even more. “At what price?” he snarls.

The room grows quiet. Simon clears his throat.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I do not understand your question. Our son, your nephew, is now legitimized—”

“At what price?” Henry says, more loudly this time.

“I—I paid what was necessary to secure your sister’s future—”

“Her future? As the wife of an impoverished foreigner?”

A maelstrom of questions spins and whirls in Eléonore’s mind, chief among them being
why Henry is so angry?
; quickly followed by
must he confront Simon here and now?
This is supposed to be her day. And, when did Henry start to use the word “foreigner” to describe Simon? He sounds like his barons, who use the word to describe Eléonore—while wearing a sneer. It is as if Englishness were everything—in spite of the horrible weather, the bad food, the pasty complexions and the crude, garbled language.

Simon’s jaw drops open at the insult, but his wife appears undaunted.

“Henry, we are here to celebrate your queen and your new son,” she says. “Why don’t we discuss this tomorrow?”

“Because we wish to discuss it now.” He never moves his glare from Simon de Montfort’s bewildered face. “How much did you pay, Simon? We demand to know!”

“Stupidity,” Simon mumbles.

Henry pounds the tabletop with his fist, clattering the dishes, making Eléonore jump. “Speak so that we can hear you!”

“I said that His Grace would not want the details of our agreement to be made public. I am loath to displease him.”

“And what of displeasing your king? Is that not a concern?”

Eléonore touches Henry’s arm, hoping her soft touch will calm him. “Perhaps your sister is right,” she says softly. “Let this wait until another time.”

“If you want to please us,” Henry says to Simon, “you will give us two thousand silver marks.”

“Henry.” Eleanor Montfort’s tone is stern. “You know we do not have it. We are still waiting for my dower from you.”

“And you will wait even longer now that your husband owes us this enormous sum.”

Simon snorts and shakes his head, curls his lips. Murmurs ripple through the hall. Henry’s eyes bulge, his pupils now tiny points. He bares his teeth. Eléonore cannot tear her eyes from him. Soon, he will be frothing at the mouth. She must find a way to calm him.

“Something amuses you, Sir Simon?” the king says with a sneer.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” Simon bows his head, hiding his scorn. “I do not recall incurring any debt from you. I think the opposite is the case. My wife has waited nearly two years for the dower that you promised upon our wedding.”

“Wedding? There was no wedding, only a secret marriage made in haste to avoid scandal!” Henry shouts. Dread gathers like storm clouds in her belly. Henry must be stopped before he says too much—but how? In their years together she has not found an
effective remedy for his temper. “You seduced our sister under our nose, with one goal—to increase your wealth and stature.”

Through the hall, gasps fly upward like shot arrows. Eleanor Montfort’s face turns as red as Henry’s. Under the table, Eléonore clasps her fingers together so tightly she winces against the pain.

“We risked everything to cover up your indiscretion,” Henry rages. “We married you in secret, knowing it would incur the wrath of our brother”—Richard of Cornwall, dark and clenched, glowers from the front table—“and our barons, who would have wed her to one of their sons. And how do you repay us?”

Simon drops to one knee and slaps his hand to his chest. “With my loyalty and my love, my lord. As ever.”

“Is it loyalty, or treason, to promise that the king will guarantee your debts? Because the Count of Flanders brings word that you have done so.”

Simon knits his brows at Uncle, in the seat of honor beside the king.

“King Louis of France has sent me to collect the two thousand silver marks you borrowed,” Uncle Thomas says. “Didn’t you swear that King Henry would repay it?”

Simon’s smile quavers as he rises. “Yes, I did make the pledge. But you told me, Your Grace, that you would give any amount for our cause.”

“I never did.”

“Don’t you remember?” Simon sounds as guileless as a pleading boy. “You predicted that the pope of Rome would command a high price to legitimize our marriage—as, indeed, he did—and you vowed that England would pay it.”

“After extorting it from your lords, no doubt!” Roger de Quincy stands, his large moustache twitching. “Your Grace, I demand an explanation.”

“Treasonous lies,” Henry says, and orders the Earl of Winchester to sit. “Sir Simon, I command you to the Tower this day. You will remain there until you pay your debt.” Eléonore jumps up, losing her composure at last.

“By God’s head, let us have peace,” she says to Henry. Tears fill
her eyes as she gazes at Simon, whose complexion has lost all color. “As your queen, it is my right to intervene. I beg clemency for our brother-in-law, my lord. On this, my special day, I pray you will honor my request.”

Her voice pleads, but her eyes warn him. He has already gone too far. Now is the time to relent.

Henry drops his head, suddenly sheepish. “As our queen wishes.”

“Then we will leave you to celebrate in peace.” Eleanor Montfort smoothes her skirt. “First, however, I must make a correction.”

“You need say nothing, sister. You are the innocent, the victim of this treasure-seeker’s lust and ambition.”

“No, brother, you are wrong.” She lifts her chin and turns to face the room.

“Simon did not seduce me,” she announces. “I was not an innocent young girl when we met, but an experienced widow. I fell in love with him the moment we met, and have loved him for years.” She turns to Henry, who is now the slack-jawed one. “I seduced Simon, and not the other way around.”

She takes her husband’s arm. They stand for a moment like statues, looking straight ahead, avoiding the myriad eyes upon them. Then, together, they march out of the great hall, mount their horses and gallop away, leaving Westminster in a cloud of dust and exclamations.

S
CHEMERS—THERE ARE SO
many—watch and whisper as she nibbles the meat from the bones of a lark. Coming to Simon’s defense did not endear her to the nobility. Nor did it help her to do so, for he is gone, and her dear sister-in-law, too, leaving Eléonore alone to face the English wolves and their fangs dripping with insinuation.

“You must be furious,” Marguerite whispers. But she is wrong. The old Eléonore would be fuming—but she and Henry cannot
both
stomp their feet like little children, or they will accomplish nothing.

She sets down her bird and wipes her fingers on the tablecloth.
“He is passionate, my Henry.” She smiles, remembering last night, his hot mouth, his hard body. “I would despise a dull man.”

“But you’re in love with Simon.”

She arches her brows at her sister. “As you have seen, we have our share of scandal in this court. Let’s not add to it with fruitless speculation.” She lowers her voice. “It is Richard whom I wish to discuss.”

“Your husband’s brother? Elli! You have managed to shock even me.”

“Not for myself. Really, Margi! For Sanchia.”

Richard has taken the cross, she tells her, and plans to leave for the Holy Land next spring with Thibaut. “We must tell Mama to invite him to Provence on his way. But—we mustn’t tell her why.” Richard is too recently a widower, and, faced with Mama’s ambition, would close himself like a tortoise against her.

“Richard of Cornwall, campaigning in Outremer?” Marguerite smirks. “But he will ruin his silks and pointed shoes, and muss his careful hair.”

“Not so careful these days. His wife’s death has left him in disarray, not to mention despondency. I’m sure he hopes to die in Jerusalem so he can join her in heaven.”

“After a long purification in purgatory. You know what they say about rich men and the eyes of needles.”

“He does love money. And beautiful women. Isabel Marshal was extraordinary. But she would have faded like an old bloom next to Sanchia.”

“Like that old bloom, Sanchia would fall apart in Toulouse’s hands,” Marguerite says. “You and I must save her, Elli, I agree. I can’t imagine what Papa was thinking.”

He was thinking of stopping Toulouse’s attacks, and nothing more. He told their
maire
that the marriage would never happen, that Toulouse would never get his annulment. But instead of rejecting his petition, the pope has called for a hearing. If he grants Toulouse his wish, Sanchia will be his, and Provence will be free of
his tyranny at last. Sanchia, however, will suffer for the rest of her life—a sacrificial lamb, like her beloved Christ.

Back in Eléonore’s chambers, the sisters plan. First, they send a letter to Pope Gregory, asking him to deny Toulouse’s annulment request.
We protest his casting out a long-faithful wife simply because she has produced a daughter instead of a son,
their letter reads.
Let not the vows of marriage, sanctified by the Church, be forsaken lightly.

Next, Eléonore arranges for Richard to sail to Outremer from her father’s port in Marseille, and asks him to deliver a package to Sanchia on the way. “Make certain you place it in her hands,” she tells him. “There are secrets in these letters, between sisters, that no other eyes should see.”

It will be a perfect match. Sanchia, who would rather marry a toad than the Count of Toulouse, will swoon over the charming Richard. And, with the Earl of Cornwall’s wealth to protect her family, Toulouse will never attack Provence again. Everyone will be happy except Raimond of Toulouse—which makes the sisters’ plan even more delectable.

Sanchia