Four Sisters, All Queens (55 page)

Blood Ritual

Berkhamsted, 1255

Twenty-seven years old

M
URDER AND SUPPER
make a bad combination. Sanchia pushes her plate away as the messenger makes his report: A Christian boy’s body has been found in a well in Lincoln, at the home of a Jewish man. For his murder, King Henry has arrested the Jew and eighty-nine others.

“Ninety Jews!” Richard leaps up from his seat, nearly knocking his supper off the table. “For the death of one child?” The startled messenger stumbles backward, hiding behind his hands as any man from King Henry’s court might do.

But Richard is not one to lash out, except at Sanchia sometimes. He has treated her kindly, though, since last Christmas in Paris when he came to her chambers and held her until her headache went away. He kissed her and coaxed her, then, into the great hall for the feast. Elated by his show of love, she even accepted a goblet of wine. As she drank, she began to feel even happier. She shone—yes! Why not say it?—as never before, alight with Richard’s love. The French barons drooled over her as if she were the main course, their eyes moving like hands on her arms and bosom. For she and Richard sat not at the queens’ table, but
with Beatrice, to console her after Marguerite so cruelly shunned her. How vicious sisters can be, in spite of their love for one another, or maybe because of it.

“You made me proud,” Richard said to her later, as he escorted her to her chambers. “The French nobles will not forget you—or me. Can Gascony be far from our grasp?”

Forget Gascony!
She wanted to beg him. Eléonore would not forgive them if Richard took Gascony for his own. And besides, the rebellions there have stopped now, after King Henry married his son Edward to the King of Castille’s daughter. But Richard will not stop talking about Gascony. He is like Margi in that way, clinging to his notion of what ought to be even when it isn’t. Marguerite will always think of Provence as hers, and Richard will never forswear Gascony, for it was given to him once, never mind its being taken away again.

So pleased was he with Sanchia that night, he took her to her chambers and made love as tenderly as if she were one of his mistresses. He has not spoken a harsh word to her in the month since their return to Berkhamsted. Only now does he erupt—but not, thank the Lord, against her. This time, his anger explodes against his brother.

“Ninety Jews! And some of them the wealthiest merchants in Lincoln,” he says. “Henry will confiscate their lands and their goods for himself if the judges rule against them. What are the charges?”

“Ritual murder, my lord,” the youth says. “They are said to crucify a Christian boy every year and drink his blood.”

“Nonsense,” Richard grumbles. “Henry awarded the Jews’ taxes to me as repayment for a loan, but now he misses the revenue and wants it back. I wonder who invented the crucifixion tale?”

“It sounds plausible to me,” Sanchia says. She has noticed how Abraham stares at her when she emerges from the chapel after prayers, wearing her cross and holding her rosary. She can imagine him coaxing some poor little boy into his clutches and doing terrible things to him just because he is a Christian.

“Even more incredible is that people believe these stories.”
Richard scowls at the messenger, who blushes. “Are you acquainted with any Jews? They are an erudite race. Thinkers and talkers, for the most part. Certainly not killers.”

“I know a Jew or two,” Sanchia says. “They do like to talk. But they killed Jesus, don’t forget.”

“Even so, the story seems unlikely. Concocted, no doubt, by greedy men for whom the Jews are lucrative targets.” He sits down in his chair again. “Please ask the king to postpone any hearings or judgments until I arrive. I will leave for London on the morrow.”

The messenger bows and takes his leave, and another—an older man, richly attired—steps into the hall.

“My lord, I am the bearer of bad news. The pope of Rome’s nominee for the German throne, William of Holland, has fallen gravely ill.”

“Is he a friend of yours, Richard?” Sanchia asks. He rubs his hands together; his eyes are bright.

“My best friend in the world, should he die.” He hands the messenger a purse of coins and sends him to the baths, then leaps up to dance Sanchia down the steps of the dais and around the floor. “Bad news, bah! Germany is a heartbeat away from being mine, my dear. And you shall be my queen.”

“I, a queen?” She laughs. “In paradise, I hope.”

“You will not have to wait that long, my pet.” He grips her hands. “Sanchia, I know of what you are capable. I saw you in Paris, stunning the nobles.”

A flirtation, she wants to say. They were, after all, French. He twirls her away, pulls her close. He smells of wood smoke and lime. His eyes shimmer. “We are going to be king and queen of the Germans,” he says. “Or the Romans, as some say. I prefer Romans.”

“But the Roman empire is gone, while Germany thrives.”

He grins. “This is what I have been talking about.”

“The fall of the Roman empire?”

“No, you!” He pulls her in, touches her waist. “You’re an intelligent woman, Sanchia. You’re conversant on many topics. But you need confidence to shine.”

“I like talking with you, Richard.”

“The Germans are going to love you. My charming queen.”

Sanchia takes him by the hand and smiles. She likes the excitement on his face, like the flames in a fireplace. He leads her up the stairs to the second level, where her gown trails across the blue and gold floor, inspired by the sultan’s palace in Outremer, Richard says, paved with ornate tiles in many, vivid colors. This is something else she loves about him: his eagerness to try every new thing.

He leads her into her chambers and lays her down and strokes her skin and kisses her cheek, her throat, her arms. She gazes at the canopy over her bed and imagines herself a queen: always in demand, her every move scrutinized, her every word recorded, her every hour filled with obligations. She has observed Eléonore and Marguerite in their courts. And she has thanked the Lord many times for her quiet life, more comfortable than theirs—for Richard is wealthier even than kings—and unburdened by a crown on her head. The only kind of queen she ever wanted to be was the Lord’s.

“Sit up, love. I want to undress you,” Richard says. Sanchia’s head is beginning to ache. He pulls off her surcoat, her gown, her chemise. She shivers. The maids have forgotten to stoke the fire. His beard tickles her breast. “My queen,” he says. Her temple throbs.

He rolls over her, a ship on her sea. Pain swells and crests, rocking her on its red tide then unfurling, velvet beneath her feet, plush, climbing an endless stair to a far-off throne. Her legs tire and the heavy crown squeezes her skull; the velvet is soft. She spreads her fingers and kneels, presses her palm against the carpet, feels it sink in like a cheek on a down pillow, settles on her knees in the pile, feels it envelop her like a blanket.

When she awakens, the room is dark except for the flicker of the fire, revived by a servant, for which she is glad because her clothing is nearly all removed and she lies on top of her bed in only her stockings. Someone might have laid a blanket on her, except that no one does more than necessary in this household. Richard likes to be left alone. To oblige him, the servants keep a distance
from her, as well. As though she were an extension of him rather than her own person.

A pulse of pain in her right temple brings her back to herself. Richard had been making love to her.
My queen
. He wants to make a queen of her. She hears a gasp. She sits up, listening. Nothing. It was only her imagination. Perhaps it was she who gasped. The very idea of being a queen makes her want to suck in her breath and hold it until she faints away again.

A long cry streams like a moonbeam into her room. She feels in the dim light for her robe—where are her ladies?—and grasps it on its wall hook, slides it around her then steps barefoot through the music room where her harp glints like stars and where, at the other end, her ladies stand in a whispering clot outside Richard’s chambers.

Sanchia slides across the floor until she hears the sound again—a shout this time, and Richard’s uttered name. She touches the backs of her ladies and they give way; like parting waters they spread. She moves through them to see Richard in the moonlight making love to Floria, her back arched, her hair a dark pool on the linen sheet, her eyes open and staring into Sanchia’s.

She steps backward, her heart pounding, into the cushion of her ladies, who swarm about her like drones about their queen, shielding her across the floor, murmuring condolences—“Men are good for making babies and breaking women’s hearts.” “Do not fret, my lady: His interest in her will pass. It always passes.” No wonder he so eagerly brought her to Berkhamsted. She’d known he wanted Floria, of course—hadn’t she seen them kissing once? But that was years ago. She’d never thought he would go so far. Richard has such affection for Abraham—but even more, it seems, for Abraham’s wife. Sanchia lets her ladies flutter her to the bed, their sighs drying her tears, their murmurs singing her to sleep. In her mind she sees what she has just seen. And she envisions what will be seen tomorrow: Richard’s lying smile.
You were dreaming, my pet.
Floria’s tears:
Don’t tell my husband, I promise you, I will never come near him again.

That is how she will rid herself of the Jewess—by telling Abraham what she saw tonight. Richard will be angry. He may lash out at her. But she will endure. She must, for that temptress Floria is endangering his mortal soul.
Forgive him, Lord
. She is his wife.
Give me strength
. What is her duty if not to save him?

S
HE VISITS
R
ICHARD’S
chambers in the morning, gives him a kiss as he eats his fruit, ignores the smell of Floria drifting about like smoke from a spent fire. He yawns; is he tired, poor thing? Was he up late last night? “I am sorry I became ill, darling. What did you do after I went to sleep?”

“I tended to business. We depart for London today.” And that will be the last he ever sees of Floria. “What, no protests?” he says. “I thought you might be upset.”

“I truly do not understand it,” she says. “Why must we go to London? For the sake of a few worthless Jews?”

“If they were indeed worthless, we would not trouble ourselves. Nor would Henry, I dare say.” He pushes himself out of his chair, on his way to the stables to arrange horses and a carriage for the journey.

“Justine is ill. Might I ask Floria for help packing my things?”

She watches his eyes, but they give nothing away. “I expect she would enjoy your company,” he says. “I have Abraham occupied in the treasury room, figuring our losses should Henry execute his new prisoners.”

“So,” Sanchia says, “your concern is money.”

“I am also concerned about the deaths of innocent people.”

“If they are innocent.”

As soon as he has gone, she pokes through his bed and under it, not even knowing what she seeks—love letters or tokens of affection from the Jewess, a lock of her hair, perhaps. The only clue she finds is the unfinished chess game on the table between two of his chairs. Does Floria play, then? Marguerite and Eléonore used to, competing as fervently as jousters at tournament, shouting and
goading each other while Sanchia tried to paint or play her harp. She has always avoided contests. If she won, then someone else would lose, and she doesn’t want to make anyone feel bad.

Yet she knows enough about chess to see that this game is evenly matched. Of course Floria would play, being married to Abraham, who gave this ivory set to Richard last Christmas. Such funny pieces, and quite large. She picks up the queen, cool and solid and smooth, its chin propped on the heel of one hand, its face scrunched in a painful wince. This is how she will look if Richard makes a queen of her. But if his affair with Floria becomes known, he will be no one’s king. Sanchia must stop it now, for his sake as well as hers.

She slips outdoors, through the gardens and across the broad meadow behind the château, hurrying lest she be spied by Justine or some other servant who would try to accompany her. Her words, forming in her mind, are for the Jewess’s ears only. When she reaches the door of the long, low stone house she pauses, her heart pounding. (
Stay away from my husband, or else
!) She is glad for the large shrub which hides her as she gathers courage. A movement on the other side of the window catches her eye: Floria sprinkling flour on a table, then plunging her hands into a ball of dough. (
I want you out of Berkhamsted. I don’t care where you go. Just leave
!) As she kneads, the muscles bulge on her bare arms, the arms of a vulgar working woman.