Four Sisters, All Queens (61 page)

William de Valence’s empurpled face is her reward.

“We are the king’s brethren,” he bellows. “You, on the other hand, are nothing.”

“You and your brothers are tyrants who take what you want with no regard for others,” Simon retorts. “You care nothing for England! You think only of your own interests.”

“Whose interests do you consider during your meetings with Llywelyn ap Gruffydd?” William snarls.

Eléonore catches her breath. Simon, meeting secretly with Llywelyn? It cannot be—but why, then, is he turning pale?

“You are not the only man with informants.” William puffs out his chest. “I know about your treasonous talks, with the Earl of Gloucester’s involvement. Conspiring with the enemy! Were I king, you would be in the Tower and your lands confiscated.”

“You have already confiscated my lands, and with no legitimate reason,” Simon snarls. “And I hold properties in the Welsh Marches, as does Gloucester. Why wouldn’t we talk with Llywelyn?”

“Because he has attacked our castles in Wales.” Henry leaps to his feet. “He has declared war on England.”

“And I cannot imagine what your interest in the Marches might be,” William says. “Unless you are referring to Pembroke, which is mine by right, and which Llywelyn besieged—at your instigation.”

“Grievous slander!” Simon cries. “Had I hired Llywelyn to attack Pembroke, you would not be here today to accuse me.”

Shouts clatter about the room, hurting Eléonore’s ears, compelling her to rise and leave the noise, but she would not miss the outcome of the debate. The Lusignans must go.

Peter de Montfort, officiating at this mad Parliamentary meeting, pounds the gavel. Lord Norfolk is recognized.

“Your Grace, these provisions did not spring up independently, but from increasing unrest. We have watched helplessly as you and the queen award the sweetest fruits of the kingdom to foreigners, passing by your own lords. We have seen aliens flood our lands and take what should be ours as you tax the rest of us to enrich their holdings.

“Now you want to extort even more from us to benefit your foreign ventures, even as the people of England suffer the deprivations of a terrible famine. Have you seen the emaciated bodies
lying in the streets, as I have? Have you seen the mass graves of victims? The price of corn has risen so high that even I can scarcely afford to feed my family and my tenants. Hang Sicily! Let Wales be Wales. The people of England need our aid.”

“Had we Sicily, England would receive all the aid she needs. Famine has not struck there,” Eléonore says. “We cannot isolate ourselves on this island and expect to thrive.”

“Yours is just the sort of thinking we reject,” Simon says. “We have had enough of foreign ventures. You want to be a great power? Look to France, where the good King Louis is eradicating injustice in his kingdom.”

“And without asking permission from his barons,” Eléonore points out. “His hands aren’t bound by a charter that robs him of his sovereignty.”

“Your sovereignty depends on the goodwill of your barons,” Norfolk says to Henry. “The majority here support this charter, and now you must sign it. Let the wretched and intolerable Poitevins—and all aliens—flee from your face!”

“Enact what you will, you cannot be rid of us,” William says. “I am Earl of Pembroke, and my brother is archbishop-elect of Westminster, supported by the papacy.”

Simon turns on him. “Are you so concerned about the loss of lands and titles? Were I you, Lord Pembroke, I would flee this island with my brothers today. Because, if you remain, you will lose far more than your possessions. You will lose your heads.”

Marguerite

A Woman’s Grasp

Paris, 1259

Thirty-eight years old

T
HIS
C
HRISTMAS, THERE
will be a grand procession, led by Marguerite and Louis. She wears the most opulent gown imaginable, blue velvet covered in peacock feathers, each fastened to the skirt with an emerald or sapphire and sewn with thread of real gold. Her cap is of gold cloth, also, and her slippers, and her crown sparkles with jewels and glimmering gold—reminding the Parisians, she hopes, that their king was once a young and vibrant man with a zeal for life befitting his suit of gold chain mail. If she glitters enough, might they not see him as he was instead of the wraith he has become, grim and haunted and filled with self-loathing? Might they overlook the slump of his back, as though he carried a great weight, and his suspicious eyes, like those of a bird of prey scouting for blasphemers and heretics to attack? (He has now, famously, had a man’s lips cut off for blasphemy.) She would comb his hair if she could, and shave his grizzled beard, and put him in a bejeweled tunic, boots of soft leather, and a mantle of fur instead of the rags and hair shirt. She would put his crown upon his head, for God’s sake.

“Whether you like it or not, you are still a king. You ought to
dress like one,” she says when she enters his chambers and sees him attired as usual on the morning of the big day. He used to don shiny red cloth and holly for Christmas. He used to wear rings. He used to dance under the mistletoe with her, and stand on his throne to lead the Yule Log carols as the city’s peasants streamed through. But nothing, with Louis, is as it used to be.

He used to rise from his chair when she entered a room, and kiss her in greeting. No longer: He has not done so since Egypt. Is it because she saved his life?

“My lord, your valiant queen rescued us even as she recovered from a difficult birth,” Jean said, noticing Louis’s indifference to her when the men returned to Damietta at last. He knelt before her and kissed her ring. “I offer my most humble thanks.” Louis harrumphed, and said one needn’t be thanked for doing one’s duty. And yet if she were Blanche, he would have kissed her feet.

Marguerite refuses to take offense. Louis has not been himself since Egypt. She rarely sees him smile except in the Saint-Chappelle, the breathtaking chapel he built, as he prays over the relics of Christ displayed there. In the throes of passion, he forgets his guilt over losing the holy city, thousands of men, Damietta, and his favorite brother. At all other times, self-pity seems to ooze from his pores. “The Lord called me to glory, and I failed,” he moans, until Marguerite thinks she will scream.

Has his mind left him? He seems to relish the stares and whispers his bedragglement attracts. Wonderment or derision, the reactions are the same to him—so long as he can draw attention to himself. “Not to me,” he says, “but to our suffering Lord.” That is fine. Do what he will, he cannot detract from her accomplishment. Peace with England is at hand, and the replenishment of France’s bankrupt treasury. Such is her achievement today, hers and Eléonore’s: the signing, at last, of the treaty between the two great powers.

“You may display humility and yet be well-groomed,” she says. “Allow your men to prepare your hair and beard for the procession, at least, my lord. Rise to the grand occasion! We will
enjoy peace with England for the first time in two hundred years.” He scowls until she adds, “And the scholar from the university, Thomas of Aquino, will join us at the feast.”

“Yes!” He lights up. “Albertus Magnus’s young philosopher. He has just written a new treatise, I hear. I hope he will read to us.” Yet when Louis arrives for the ceremony, he looks the same as always, unkempt and clad in sackcloth.

She, on the other hand, glitters like the queen she is on her jennet, a smart, sure-footed mare, a high-stepper in ceremonies who has also served her well on many a hunt. The sounding of the trumpets brings the citizens running to the roadside to cheer and toss flowers, shouting Louis’s name, but rarely hers. That adulation was reserved for Blanche: Marguerite is no White Queen. If she were, Louis would look like the King of France today instead of an abused slave.

Behind them, Eléonore looks stunning, although her gown is simpler. She needs no glitter to outshine Marguerite, as always. Gray has only just begun to appear in her hair, like silver threads woven in the dark curls springing daringly from her hat—and, having borne only five children to Marguerite’s ten, she is as trim of figure as ever in red taffeta studded with diamonds, red silk stockings and silver slippers. She blooms like a flower in all that red, in spite of the paleness of cheek that Marguerite has noticed in her lately. Simon de Montfort’s intrigues are exacting a toll from her and King Henry, who looks peaked even in his cheerful green and gold.

Marguerite knows Simon. She has heard him groan to Louis about his sad lot as the King of England’s brother-in-law. Poor man! The landless third son destined for a dreary clergy post, he became, thanks to King Henry’s magnanimity, Earl of Leicester, a leader on the barons’ council—and the king’s loudest detractor. He is like a pampered pet who begs for food, then bites the hand that offers it. She will be surprised if he has any new thing to say during his arbitration hearing with her tomorrow—but she also knows better than to treat his allegations lightly. Simon de Montfort has
befriended many powerful people in England, while Henry has made formidable enemies. Richard of Cornwall’s return from Germany couldn’t be more timely.

Richard has never appeared happier; his opulent crown suits him well, as do the royal robes he wears about his broad shoulders. Sanchia, on the other hand, looks as if her heavy German garments weigh too much for her delicate frame. Her face is thin; dark circles rise like bruises under her eyes—and yet her remarkable beauty is only enhanced. How is it that Richard never looks at her, while the rest of the world cannot tear its gaze away? What is the song by Bernard de Ventadour?
Endless talk about love may breed boredom, and set deception weaving
.

Poor Sanchia has the beauty, but not the intellect, to hold her husband’s attention—as Mama knew when she pressed her into marrying him. Raimond of Toulouse would have been worse, but Sanchia would be with him now if she and Elli had not conspired to save her. If Sanchia’s happiness were Mama’s concern, she would have sent her to an abbey or convent as she desired. In truth, she sacrificed her daughters for her own interests. (Even Eléonore, who craved queenship, had to lie with an old man.) When she told them “family comes first,” she appears to have meant the house of Savoy, not the sisters from Provence.

And yet, Mama has made one daughter happy—the least deserving one. Beatrice, bathed in sable and mink, her green-and-gold eyes slanting like those of a tigress, looks as if she had a mouth full of juicy secrets. Her latest triumph is no secret, however—Provence is indisputably hers at last! Or so she thinks. Nor is her newest venture a secret: she and Charles have cast their eye on Sicily now that the pope has withdrawn it from Edmund’s grasp.