The Sister Queens (9 page)

Stepping forward, the king takes my hand and leads me not to the bed but to stand before my mirror. Directing my attention to my own image by gesture, he says, “You are beautiful.”

And I am. My hair is a glorious mass of auburn touched with gold; my cheeks are flushed pink with agitation.

As I watch in the mirror, Henry lifts the pelisse from my shoulders and drops it to the ground. I hear a sharp intake of breath. His hands take my waist from behind, pulling me against him, and I feel the heat of his body through my shift. He kisses my neck where it meets my shoulder, his right hand wandering over my body to cradle my breast, and it is my turn to gasp. Then turning me, the king takes my face in his hands. At this distance his drooping eyelid gives him a sly rather than sleepy look. Pulling me to him, he puts his mouth upon my own. He nips at my lower lip and slides his tongue between my lips. So this is kissing. It is not unpleasant, though I do close my eyes without thinking.

My husband takes his mouth away and lifts my shift up over my face and head. Caught up in my new experiences, I had momentarily forgotten what comes next. My sudden nakedness has a sobering effect. I shiver both with cold and trepidation.

The king scoops me up in his arms as if I were a child and deposits me on the bed. Then, regarding my trembling form with a kindly expression, he pulls the covers over me and says, “Some
wine, I think.” Pouring me a glass he commands, “Drink it all.” I do the best that I can with shaking hands and a throat suddenly closed with fear. When the glass is drained he is not satisfied. “And another.”

I have had nothing to eat since I broke my fast this morning, so I can feel the second glass even as it goes down. His Majesty must see its effects, for he nods his head contentedly and takes the glass from my hand. Then he begins to undress rapidly.

My good nurse advised me to look away, as if I were about to have a splinter removed from my finger. But I cannot. It is in my nature to face what I fear. As the king’s braies come off, I catch sight of it. I have never seen such a thing, not even when I stumbled upon a stable boy and kitchen maid engaged in the act of love behind a garden wall, for then all I could see was his back and her face as she panted and moaned. My husband’s member is like the slightly gnarled limb of a flesh-colored tree. It stands straight out from his body. I cannot fathom how such a thing will fit inside me; yet this is what must happen, according to my mother’s description.

Lifting the covers, the king slides into bed beside me and begins to kiss me once more. I hold my body back from his, as far as I can; yet I can feel the tip of it brushing my legs. I want to put my hand down and push it away, but I dare not. Moving his mouth to my ear, my husband says, “Eleanor, I will try to be gentle, but you must relax. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” I stammer.

“Henry.”

“Yes, Henry.” I cannot see what difference it makes what I call him at a moment like this!

Sitting up, the king rolls me onto my back. “Draw up your knees,” he instructs. And when I lie helpless and uncomprehending, he arranges my legs himself as if I were an inanimate thing.

Between my legs and kneeling over me, Henry kisses me again. Pressing his mouth once more against my ear he says, “Promise you will tell me if I hurt you.”

I can only shake my head by way of response. I have lost my tongue.

I feel his fingers spreading me, and for a moment something round and smooth, like the tip of a nose, hesitates at the entrance to my
cloistre virginal
. Then with slow steady pressure he begins to slide into me. My eyes tear, but he cannot see them, for his head is buried in my hair and he is kissing the side of my neck. And I refuse to cry out, no matter what I promised, even when a sudden shove causes me a sharp pain. I close my eyes and clench my hands into fists beside me against the pain of subsequent thrusts. Thankfully, after perhaps half a dozen more, Henry gives a great cry and slumps down upon me, pulling me to him in a tight embrace. Withdrawing from me, he pulls the blankets, which have come off during his efforts, up to cover me modestly, then lies beside me, stroking the hair back from my face.

“You were very brave,” he says solemnly, “and have made me very happy.”

“I am glad,” I mumble. I suddenly feel very sleepy, even though it is only late afternoon.

“I promise next time will be better.” His voice is soothing, as is his touch upon my face. I have a hard time focusing my eyes on him. “Sleep,” he croons, “sleep, my beautiful bride. My treasure.”

NEVER IN ALL MY LIFE
have I met anyone more desirous of seeing me pleased than this man who has known me less than a week. On our travels from Canterbury to Westminster, where we are now ensconced, His Majesty spent nearly every minute trying either to
keep me warm or to draw me out on the subject of my likes and dislikes. There was no use telling him how much I hate the English weather, with its constant rain and a cold beyond any I have ever known. So, I confined myself to more pleasant topics. Finding that tales of chivalry delight me, he promised to take me to Glastonbury to see the resting place of the noble and much celebrated King Arthur. I have been allowed to wait for nothing, to want for nothing.

Now, shortly before my coronation is to begin, he arrives, full of excitement, at my apartments. “Eleanor, come to the window!” Striding through the cluster of ladies who have been buzzing about me adjusting my attire, he catches my hand and draws me to the casement before I can say a word. A truly dazzling site meets my eyes—hundreds of riders, clad in silks of every color and mounted on horses of every description, are approaching the palace in orderly ranks. Each rider has something gold or silver before him on his saddle.

“Who are they?”

“The wealthiest men in London, my love, bearing goblets to serve our guests at your coronation banquet.”

I feel suddenly giddy with delight. In a short time I will be a queen, and every moment of my coronation day, every detail of the event, promises to be as grandiose as the sight of these cup-bearing riders. I throw my arms around my husband’s neck and kiss his cheek. He laughs with pleasure at my being pleased, then steps back to examine me.

“Madam, you are a vision.”

I twirl so that he may see me from every side. Then stop and look squarely at my husband. “Your Majesty looks quite exceptionally fine as well.” And in truth, he does. Magnificent clothes cannot make him younger, but they do seem to make him more dashing. He is undeniably regal.

“Henry,” he corrects me. He cannot stand for me to call him anything but Henry, even in front of my ladies. “And thank you. A compliment from the most beautiful woman in England is well worth having.”

The most beautiful woman in England? Certainly the most celebrated,
I think an hour later as, following my husband, I make my way along a path of blue ray cloth from the palace to the Westminster abbey church. A thousand eyes must be upon me as I walk beneath a canopy of purple silk suspended between the silver lances borne by barons of la Cinque Ports, and I thank God again that for once the endless English rain is not falling. Small silver bells at the canopy corners above my head tinkle merrily with every step. I am flanked by a pair of bishops. One is my uncle; the name of the second I have already forgotten in my excitement.

Inside the church, I am greeted by hundreds of expectant faces. My husband’s knights, barons, clergymen—all of the most important men in his kingdom—fill the church, turning it to a sea of brilliant hues, sparkling with a smattering of gold and silver. Prostrating myself before the high altar while Edmund Rich intones a prayer, I feel my own breath but also something more—a humming as if the church itself is breathing. The archbishop invokes the blessing of the Virgin upon me, that I may be fruitful and continue the line of English kings. I know my duty in this area and am prepared to do it, but hearing the subject raised in church embarrasses me. I am glad my face is down beyond the sight of the crowd for I am sure it colors. I am mortifyingly certain that every man standing among the pews is thinking of what my husband does to me in an attempt to seed my womb. And still the archbishop sounds the subject, naming all the great matriarchs of the tribe of David, the bearers of some of the world’s most important sons.

At last there is silence. I draw myself to my knees. The
archbishop leans down and, removing the golden circlet sitting upon my hair, anoints my head with holy oil. I am keenly aware of the fragrance of the unction and also of incense. I pray, even as the archbishop blesses my ring and slides it onto my finger, that my shortness of breath, my wheezing sickness, will not be engendered by the scented heaviness of the air.

I watch with rapt attention as His Grace raises a crown,
my
crown, for all to see—a marvelous ring of golden lilies, shining in the light of numberless candles. It is surprisingly heavy as he places it upon my head. I hope that I can do it justice. That like Esther, whose compassionate example the archbishop extorts me to follow, I can intercede with my husband to the benefit of his kingdom,
our
kingdom. As I accept the virge and scepter, magnificent sound swells to fill the vaulted spaces surrounding me, voices singing,
“Christus vincit, Christus regnat, Christus imperat.”
Christ rules indeed, and so do I. I defy any to think me less than my sister Marguerite now.

M
ARGUERITE
J
UNE 1237
P
ALAIS DU
R
OI
, P
ARIS

“I
have heard from my sister the Queen of England.”

“Hm.” Louis does not look up from the letter he is reading beneath the pear tree—the tree that used to be ours. “I truly believe this fellow is being abused by one of my barons. He sought help with his grievance at the local Franciscan monastery, and the abbot writes to me.” Unlike in former times, he no longer pats the spot on the carpet beside him and asks me to sit. And this fact makes me both sad and angry.

“Her husband the king surprised her by hiring an artist to paint her bedchamber at the Tower of London while she and all the court were at Westminster.” I will not be distracted, certainly not by some barefoot mendicant from the countryside. I do not begrudge the time Louis spends sitting where once we studied my Latin, meting out justice to his subjects both high- and lowborn. But
surely
he should do me justice as well, and give me a modicum of his attention. “Louis, did you hear me?” I put my hands upon my hips. Have I become a shrew? My husband looks up, startled. He thinks of me, when his mind strays in my direction at all these days, as a mild woman, a woman of patience. And so I have been, but to what end?

“Your sister is at Westminster.” He appears genuinely puzzled.

“No, my sister has just returned from Westminster to find her rooms painted with hundreds upon hundreds of delicate roses at the King of England’s behest.”

“How singular, and what a waste. Just think how many of the poor he might have fed with the same monies.”

“That would indeed have been a noble enterprise, but surely
giving pleasure to his wife is also worthy? The two are not in opposition to each other. Henry of England may give to the poor and also to my sister Eleanor.”