The Sister Queens (34 page)

As is my custom, I rise to pour him a goblet of wine. When I am halfway to the decanter, his voice stops me.

“I am not staying.”

“No?” I work hard to keep my face open, as if I have no reason to suspect he is angry.

“I saw your uncle on my way here.”

I do not take the bait, merely remaining mute.

“Is it true you conferred the living at Flamstead on your chaplain?”

“Yes,” I say with a deliberate lightness, “I am surprised that you only hear of it now, for it was done more than two weeks ago. He is already in possession.”

“Well then, you can dispossess him!” The color rises in Henry’s face, leaving it blotched and red. His normal eye narrows until it nearly matches his drooping one.

“Does Your Majesty have some objection to the conduct or reputation of William of London? For if not, why would you wish me to withdraw my favor?”

“By nails and by blood, Eleanor, it is not the man who offends me but the favor itself. Flamstead was not yours to give, any more
than is the money in my purse.” He grasps the bag at his waist to emphasize his point.

“How so, Husband, when you yourself gave me the wardship of Roger de Tony’s lands until he reaches majority? Does not the rectory at Flamstead sit upon those lands?”

“Call your lawyers, lady—a grant of wardship does not convey the power over advowsons.”

“So we have the need of lawyers between us! Here is a pretty pass.” Henry’s flare of temper ignites mine. If he thinks to humble me by his behavior and force my capitulation, then he needs to be reminded that I am not so easily thwarted. “I do not believe I was outside my rights, but if I was mistaken, why, sir, do you seek to embarrass me and undo what has already been done?”

“Will you recall your man?” Henry’s mouth is tight as he speaks, and his words come out in a growl. Ought I to be afraid? Perhaps, but I am too angry that he attempts to bully me to properly fear.

“I am not of a nature to be intimidated by glowering,” I reply, lifting my chin. For a dreadful moment I fear Henry is going to slap me. In fact, I see his hand rise slightly before he drops it again. In all the years of our marriage he has never struck me. That he considered doing so now only redoubles my resistance.

“How high does the arrogance of woman rise if it is not checked!” He virtually spits the words.

“However elevated, sir, it cannot approach the height of your own.”

Henry spins on his heels and storms from my room, calling for his chamberlain as he goes.

The next morning, John Mansel slips into my antechamber more like a mouse than a former Lord Chancellor and a man covered in the favor of both his king and queen.

I shoo my ladies to the other end of the room and motion for Mansel to take the seat beside my own.

“Your Majesty, I thought you would wish to be apprised that His Majesty has sent the sheriff of Buckinghamshire to compel the bishop of Lincoln to evict William of London from Flamstead.”

“The bishop would not dare.”

“He may be sorely tempted, Your Majesty, when his alternative is to appear in court to explain why he does not.”

“Thank you for coming to me. This is news I must have even if it saddens me.”

“There is more. The king this morning dismissed William of London from your household. He is your chaplain no more.”

I see red. How dare Henry! I am not a child whose household needs to be managed for her. The time for lawyers may have come indeed. Struggling to control my rage or at least to keep it from making itself obvious by my voice, I say, “My Lord Mansel, William of London is a worthy soul. I thought to reward him for his faithful service by this benefice, but it seems I may have ruined him instead. You know the laws of this land, both church and civil, better than I. How can I best mend my friend’s fortunes?”

“Write to the bishop of Lincoln and urge him to follow his conscience in the matter. He is a man who is possessed of one where many are not, and by granting him leeway to use his own judgment where the king orders him, you will likely obtain an ally.”

“THIS IS YOUR DOING!” HENRY
yells, not caring that my ladies are present.

“What is my doing?” I ask meekly. If we are going to have witnesses to our conversation, I will use that fact to my advantage.

“The blasted bishop of Lincoln has excommunicated Artaud and placed the church of Flamstead under an interdict.”

I had not heard this, and, being blindsided, must struggle mightily to keep my delight from showing. Writing to the bishop of Lincoln has proved more effective than I dared imagine. “What has this to do with me?”

“Did you not write to the bishop? Come on woman, do not dissemble. Admit it!”

“I do not deny it.” Turning, I address my sister. “Lady Cornwall”—Sanchia starts at the sound of her name, no doubt unwilling to have the king’s attention drawn to her—“run to my clerk and ask for the copy of the letter I sent last month to the lord bishop of Lincoln.”

While Sanchia is gone, Henry taps his foot triumphantly. But he will soon discover I have been too clever for him. Taking the letter from my returning sister, I say, “Your Majesty, when I learned you had ordered William of London turned out from the parish to which I sent him, it became clear to me just how deeply my innocent actions had offended you. Knowing myself to be far less knowledgeable than Your Majesty in the laws of this land, I took the first opportunity to write to the bishop and assure him, whatever his decision in the matter, he was in no danger of making an enemy of me. That, in fact, I relied on his good judgment in an area where my own could not be trusted to be sound.” My voice could not be sweeter. I extend the letter to Henry, who snatches it from me.

He reads it through, then thrusts it back in my direction. He must know there is nothing in it that, to anyone else’s eyes, would justify his laying the bishop’s actions at my door. But this only makes him more angry. “I shall take the matter to court.”

“Be assured, Your Majesty, that no one will be more pleased
than I to see it settled, for the estrangement it causes between us is a source of great unhappiness to me.”

Henry is not moved. He merely grunts and departs without taking any leave. But my ladies are much affected, especially when I loose a torrent of tears as the door closes behind the king. By this evening there will be no one at court who has not heard of Henry’s reprehensible behavior. My husband thought to embarrass me, but it is he who shall be shamed instead.

Standing at the foot of my bed that evening as my ladies undress me for the night, I am surprised I do not feel more triumphant. As I anticipated, I was the object of much solicitude during dinner. The whole assembly seemed to pity me. Henry himself avoided me as best he could. Whatever the legal decision in the case, I am the winner. If they find in favor of William of London, it shall appear to be through no effort of mine, and if they find against him, my show of dismay and contrition this day assures that none may suggest that I acted in open defiance of the king. All are placated except the king. Henry is fuming. And I am, quite inexplicably really, feeling a bit low.

As I slide beneath my covers and the tapers are put out, I realize that Henry has not come to me in more than a month—not since the argument over Flamstead began. This is the longest that he has eschewed my bed since our marriage. Not that Henry would be good company in his present mood. Still, the absence of his familiar form is nearly as oppressive as his anger. Lying in the dark, I shiver. Henry’s square, familiar body usually quickly takes the chill off my sheets. This silliness has gone on for too long. I toy with the idea of seeking him in his chamber. But even should I manage to reach his rooms without being spotted by dozens of people, my pride rebels at going to him when
he
is at fault. I want reconciliation and am even willing to bend to get it, but not so far.

Perhaps I ought to withdraw to Windsor to be with my lambs,
I think, rolling about in the vast empty bed, unable to get comfortable. The domestic tableau there would surely soften Henry’s heart when he grew lonely and followed me. I try to picture the castle, the nursery, my children—but all I can see is Henry’s face at dinner, cold without a single smile for me. It is not a comforting image. A man capable of such looks might well
not
follow me. The only time I had his attention all evening was when I danced with Geoffrey de Langley. There was no mistaking the black looks Henry threw our way. Well, Henry needs to be reminded that he loves me; perhaps I might use de Langley for that purpose. The thought surprises me. I turn it over in my mind, staring into the dark corners of my room. De Langley is younger than the king, well formed, and known for his shrewdness and ambition. If I draw him on to make Henry jealous, he will certainly play the courtly lover in return.

No!
I thrust the thought away with vehemence. I am not capable of such cruelty. There is a special circle in hell for women who cuckold their husbands!

M
ARGUERITE
A
PRIL 1249
L
IMASSOL
, C
YPRUS

“W
e are back where it began,” Jean says. We sit, side by side, our horses drawn so close that our knees touch, looking down upon the city of Limassol. Yesterday the court returned to the coast in preparation for the voyage to the Holy Land.

“Did I love you this much then?” I ask teasingly. Then shaking my head I add more seriously, “No, I could not even imagine such a love.”

Jean has taken me riding. As one of Louis’s closest intimates he is trusted with everything, and
certainly
with my safe conduct. For appearances I have Marie with me. She sits on her own mount at a respectful distance. How glad I am now that I trusted her with my secret on the morning after I first took Jean to my bed in this very city. I remember how I feared her censure; how I dreaded telling her. But I had no choice—I needed her to take charge of my linens, which would betray my having lain with a man to any woman not virgin herself. And I knew also I would need her assistance if I were to have any hope of continuing my intimacy with the Seneschal of Champagne. How surprised I was when, after I made my confession, she threw her arms about my neck saying, “Bless you, lady! At last you will be loved as you deserve.”

“Are you ready to go to the Holy Land?” Jean asks, calling me back to the present.

It seems an odd question. That is why we set forth from France, and already we have been away from home twice the time that I promised my little Louis. “Of course. And surely, despite the pleasures Cyprus has afforded”—I run my hand along the top of his thigh and leave it resting there in comfortable familiarity—“you
are eager to be in battle? You are like all the others in this, like the king himself, spoiling to spill the blood of the Sultan of Cairo and his men.”

Jean laughs. “You are right. I came to fight. But I dread two things about our departure from Cyprus—the weeks we must spend on separate ships without sound, sight, or touch of each other, and being as sick at sea as I was coming here.”