The Sister Queens (36 page)

I realize that Louis is looking at me expectantly. He has clearly asked me something. Dear God, what was it? Marie, who hovers by habit just behind me, comes to my assistance. “I observed, Your Majesty, that the empress is willowy like you. Might you not make a present to her from your wardrobe?”

“Excellent!” Louis clasps his hands delightedly. “Surely there can be no insult in such a gift from the Queen of France.”

Still dazed, I force a smile. “Indeed, Your Majesty, I will send her something of my best so that if we are
en retard
, we will not be outdone in quality. Marie, bring out my new gown made from the damask the Countess of Jaffa helped me to secure, and my pale blue
surcote
. It will look lovely with the empress’s dark eyes.”

Marie’s jaw drops slightly. She hesitates. I nod dismissively, and she bustles off to my wardrobe. A short time later Louis leaves with the
surcote
. It is Jean’s favorite, and he will never see me in it again.

My day passes slowly. No matter what my occupation, my mind is disturbed with regularity by two equally unsatisfactory images—first, the empress clasped in Jean’s arms wearing a beautiful tunic of his choosing and second, the empress likewise embraced but wearing my very own
surcote
. The smile on Jean’s face as he strokes her dark hair causes me much agony, though I chidingly remind myself the entire vision is woven of my own foolish fancy.

At dinner I keep my attention assiduously on Louis and our guest. I am unfailingly gracious to the empress, though the fact that she looks so lovely in my clothing, as lovely as I imagined she would, rankles me. As the meal comes to a close, I see Jean from the corner of my eye, trying, and not for the first time, to gain my attention.

Smiling at Louis, I say, “Shall we have dancing?”

Louis has always been a most excellent dancer. I long for Jean
to watch my husband lead me to the floor; to see me flirting with him as our footwork is admired by all the court; to be jealous. True, the king has not danced since we left French soil, not even when the King of Cyprus held a banquet to welcome us. But now surely he will feel the call of duty—the duty to be a gracious host. And sure enough he rises. I do likewise, expecting him to offer me his hand. Instead he says, “Madam, with your indulgence, I would lead our guest to the floor. I am sure the Seneschal of Champagne would be honored to partner you.”

I suppose I ought to have foreseen it. Louis, who is so supremely unconscious of his own rank, was bound to be scrupulously sensitive to the rank of our visitor.
Well,
I think, watching Jean come forward for me with a hand outstretched,
I can manage a single dance without falling to pieces.

The musicians play a
nota
, a dance suited to conversation, but for the first moments we are silent. Then as we make a pass, Jean says quietly, “When can I see you?”

“You are seeing me now.”

“To talk.”

“Mercy, I had the impression that was what we are doing.”

He gives me an exasperated look as the pattern parts us. Then I see his glance wander to the empress. Even now he cannot keep his eyes off her.

When we draw back together he begins again. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why that
surcote
?”

“You admire it and you admire her. Is it not fitting then that she should wear it?”

I watch the play of emotions on Jean’s face. “This is about the empress?” His voice sounds oddly relieved, and his relief irritates me. “Then it is nothing.”

Nothing! The cruelty of his words stings me. Here is another man who considers my feelings nothing—or rather something to be dismissed out of hand. I am grateful the dance is over. Louis comes to retrieve me, giving his partner’s hand to Jean in the process. The next dance is an
estampie
, too complicated and quick for conversation, which is just as well for while I can feign a smile, I doubt I could manage a word. At every turn I seem to be confronted by the image of Jean and his pretty partner. I feel as if a great weight presses upon my chest. Is this what Eleanor feels when, in the heat of summer, she finds herself unable to breathe? When the music stops I say, “Your Majesty, I have a sudden headache. Do you think I might slip away to nurse it in solitude without giving offense to our guest?”

“Alone?” Louis seems genuinely concerned, and my conscience pricks at this lie though it has lain quiet through so many others.

“I would not have an indisposition of mine spoil the festivities in honor of the empress.”

“Your consideration is laudable.” Louis unexpectedly draws my hand to his lips. Only a few months ago I would have been thrilled at such a gesture, but now I only hope it makes Jean jealous. “Go and find relief. I will offer your excuses when your absence is remarked.”

The music begins again. With so many bodies in motion I feel certain I can steal away without being noticed. But at the door of the hall, I glance back and find Jean’s eyes upon me. In the corridor, I pick up my skirts and run toward the staircase. Surely, if I am quick I can reach my rooms.

I am not quick enough. At the bottom of the steps he catches me, pulling me out of the circle of illumination created by the nearest cresset and into the shadow of the steps.

“My Lord of Joinville, I must ask you to let me pass.”

“You are being ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous?” I twist, trying to free myself from his grasp.

“Yes, ridiculous.” Jean pins me against the wall, effectively thwarting my attempt to escape.

“I am not the one making a fool of myself over the Empress of Constantinople.”

“The empress is here to gather knights—”

“And
you
were her first acquisition!”

“I gave her a letter pledging to go to Constantinople should Louis choose to send a force. Nothing more than she will get from many of the others.”

“And did the others send her vair and
cendal
? I think not! Did you send her a fine linen shift as well?”

“Stop, please. The empress is nothing to me. Do I need to swear it?”

“The empress is nothing you say, but it is I who feel like nothing. Four days without word. You left me to think the worst.”

“And did I not also think it?” Suddenly I see the pain behind Jean’s exasperation. His eyes are nearly hollow with it. “When I waited in vain for Marie to bring a summons from you once you knew of my return? Tonight at dinner when your glances and smiles were only for Louis, a man who deserves them better than I? As for being nothing, you are everything—light, breath, food, drink—I am starving without you.”

“But with me you are ruined. You said so yourself. You betray your king and your better nature.”

“My king, yes, but myself, no. I am the man who loves you, body and soul. I can be no other. If I have learned anything during these last agonizing days, it is that. You need be jealous of no woman, not now, not ever.”

I know he is not lying. I know it from the fierceness of his look,
from the tone of his voice. I raise one hand up to the side of his face, and he turns to kiss my palm. Then a noise from above reminds us where we are. The shadow suddenly seems too shallow to safely contain us.

“Go,” he whispers hoarsely. “I will follow.”

And I want to run, to scamper to our garden, to seal our new understanding with a meeting of bodies, but suddenly I remember the look in Louis’s eyes as I left him and I feel his lips upon my hand.

“The king,” I say, “I cannot say why, but I know he will come to me tonight.”

Jean moans. “I cannot bear to think of it.”

“No”—again I reach up, this time to stroke his cheek—“not for that. He thinks I am ill. He will come to see how I fare.” I feel Jean’s muscles relax with relief. And then I am gone, my feet given wings by my happiness.

M
ARGUERITE
J
UNE 1249
O
FF THE
C
OAST OF
E
GYPT

P
raise God we have come to Egypt at last, though there are not as many of us as there should be. While we were still within sight of the Point of Limassol, a great wind, like the breath of a fierce beast, came up, driving many vessels from our fleet to whence God alone knows and we do not. It is hard to understand why the Lord should see fit to blow so many of Louis’s good knights off course for a second time. Everyone on the royal
nef
wonders at it.

Looking at the remaining ships, perhaps half of those that departed from Cyprus with us, I myself wonder but one thing—not what God meant by this second storm, nor whether we have enough knights left to meet the infidels, but is Jean’s party among them? It is the question that has been dogging me for nearly three weeks—keeping me from resting as the rough waves have kept others. The image of him cast up on some strange shore discomforts me, but strangely, I do not fear him lost at sea. Surely, if he were gone from this world, my heart would know it instinctively.

And now in a short time I will know if he is among the missing. Louis has sent word to the other ships anchored around us in the open water calling those of rank and status to the royal
nef
so that the first battle of this campaign can be discussed. While I wait for the arrival of this august group of knights, and for the one among them the sight of whom will banish all worries in an instant, there is something to distract me.

The land mass that this morning was merely an indistinct sliver has grown to a distinguishable shore. The outline of a city is clear
as are the figures of men on the beach. Such men! They glisten more golden than the sun that sets them on fire. And rising from their number, a constant beating of drums and sounding of horns render the air alive with the anticipation of battle. I feel it as keenly as the knot of men surrounding the king. Beatrice and I are the lone ladies on deck. The same drums that excite the men terrify the rest of my companions. We sisters from Provence, it seems—much as we are dissimilar in other ways—are made of sterner stuff than the Frenchwomen.

“So few!” Beatrice says. “If this is all the mighty Ayyüb can muster, we will be in the Holy Land less time than we were in Cyprus.”

“I hope so,” I say, thinking of my son Louis still counting the days at home, and Beatrice’s little Louis left behind with a nurse at Limassol. Besides, an army conquered with ease would mean fewer dead and fewer injured.

Then a sailor in the riggings calls out,
“Le barche,”
and Beatrice and I join the rush to the opposite side of the deck. The water is littered with an assortment of ships’ boats approaching from every direction. Just below, so close that he must step aside as the rope ladder is dropped, is Jean.

He smiles up at me mischievously, as if he enjoyed worrying me all these weeks. He is up the ladder in an instant. How I wish I could clasp him to me when he reaches the deck, but instead Louis does. Jean’s greeting to me is limited to a slight bow as he moves away to make space for other knights scrambling aboard.

He and his cousin are quickly drawn into a group including Louis’s brothers. Though everyone talks at once, Jean remains silent, gazing in my direction. I know he pays no more attention to what they are saying than I am paying to Beatrice who continues
to comment on each new arrival. He looks wonderful. His skin has a warm glow imparted by many hours in the sun. I cannot detect any loss of weight, which would suggest that he avoided seasickness on this journey despite his fears.