The Sister Queens
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
The Sister Queens
“In her debut novel, The Sister Queens, Sophie Perinot breathes life into two of history’s most fascinating siblings. What Philippa Gregory did for Anne and Mary Boleyn, Perinot has done for Marguerite and Eleanor of Provence. This is without a doubt one of the best novels I’ve read all year!”
—Michelle Moran, author of Madame Tussaud
“Ms. Perinot, who seems like a very seasoned author, not someone presenting a debut work, has quite clearly put in the sort of exquisite attention to detail that resonates so deeply with true historical fiction lovers. I know it did that for me, swiftly drawing me back in time and placing me right there with her characters amid all of their conflicts and passions. Every page of The Sister Queens for me was like a morsel to savor. The Sister Queens is one of the most beautifully written books I have read in a very long time. Absolutely superb! I will certainly be adding it to my ‘keeper’ shelf.”
—Diane Haeger, author of The Queen’s Rival
“The Sister Queens is a rich and stately medieval tapestry of a novel, with two royal couples weaving intertwined patterns of history and private life. Marguerite and Eleanor are the queens of France and England, yes, but Sophie Perinot reveals the living women behind the glittering pageantry—two young Provençal sisters, fiercely competitive and just as fiercely devoted. Through coronations and childbirth, wars and sieges, triumphs and betrayals, Marguerite’s and Eleanor’s lives are stitched against the colorful and meticulously researched background of thirteenth-century Europe—golden queens and steadfast sisters.”
—Elizabeth Loupas, author of The Second Duchess
“Sophie Perinot’s debut tour de force, The Sister Queens, gives the reader a detailed and racy look into the very public and most intimate lives of English and French royalty. The sister queens have two very different personalities, yet Perinot’s skills allow a modern woman to see herself in them and root for them both. This sweeping, compelling novel is a medieval, double-decker lifestyles of the rich, famous, and fascinating.”
—Karen Harper, author of The Queen’s Governess
“Sibling rivalry with the highest possible stakes! Sophie Perinot awards two of the luminaries of medieval royalty their due in a colorful and densely woven tapestry.”
—Leslie Carroll, author of Notorious Royal Marriages and Royal Pains
“In her wonderful debut, The Sister Queens, Sophie Perinot breathes life into the world of the High Middle Ages, bringing us into the age of knights and chivalry, of courtly love and crusades. Caught in a web of politics, the young sisters Marguerite and Eleanor find themselves queens in foreign courts, where both women must learn to call on all their strength to become the queens they are destined to be. With lyrical prose, The Sister Queens tells a riveting story of sisterly rivalry and love, of war and betrayal. Marguerite and Eleanor remain united by bonds of love that cannot tarnish and that cannot break. A beautiful novel.”
—Christy English, author of To Be Queen
“Here is a glimpse into the private and public lives of two sisters, Eleanor and Marguerite of Provence, who were destined to become queens of England and France. I found it irresistible. In an engaging style that draws the reader in, Sophie Perinot allows us to enjoy the rivalry and compassion that exist between two young women of very different character. At the same time, she gives us insight into the political intrigues in England and France that governed their lives. If you enjoy a tale of passion, intrigue, and sisterly devotion that will keep you turning the pages, then The Sister Queens is a must for your reading list.”
—Anne O’Brien, author of The Virgin Widow and Queen Defiant
SISTER
QUEENS
SOPHIE PERINOT
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First published by New American Library,
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First Printing, March 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Jill Tuennerman, 2012
Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2012
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Perinot, Sophie.
The sister queens/Sophie Perinot.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-101-57728-8
1. Marguerite, Queen, consort of Louis IX, King of France, 1221–1295—Fiction.
2. Eleanor, of Provence, Queen, consort of Henry III, King of England, 1223 or -4–1291—Fiction. 3. Sisters—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3616.E7446S57 2012
813’.6—dc23 2011044576
Set in Bembo
Designed by Ginger Legato
Printed in the United States of America
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For my sister, Laura.
You were my first memory; you remain my best friend.
For my daughters, Erin and Katie.
Remember that sometimes you see yourself most clearly
through your sister’s eyes.
For Frances,
my sister-in-writing if not by blood.
And for Colin.
You are my golden prince. May you grow up to be a good man and a great leader.
PREFACE
The map of thirteenth-century Western Europe was a mosaic of regional kingdoms. Some—including France and England—still exist many centuries later; others—such as the Holy Roman Empire and the Kingdom of Castile—were even
tually subsumed into different political configurations. Each piece of this patchwork was made up of both lands held directly by the kingdoms’ rulers and lands held by vassals owing fealty to those rulers. As the High Middle Ages drew to a close, few of these realms resembled their images on maps today.
Early in the century, two young boys inherited the crowns of their fathers, ascending to the thrones of England and France. The boy who came to the English throne as Henry III was a Norman through his paternal great-grandmother, a descendant of Vikings who carved out a position of power on the peninsula of Normandy long before William the Conqueror set his eyes and ambitions on England. Henry was also a Plantagenet, and his grandfather, by his marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine, claimed lands in the kingdom of France, including Poitou and various provinces from the Loire River to the Pyrenees mountains. Clearly then, though Henry’s relations had ruled in England for 150 years, the new king and his kin remained thoroughly tied to continental Europe.
When nine-year-old Henry III inherited in 1216, his territories were both fewer and less secure than when his father, King John, inherited. John had managed to lose all of England’s continental holdings with the exception of Gascony. He also depleted the powers of the English kingship by signing the Magna Carta under duress, and managed to lose part of his own island. At the time of his coronation, young Henry did not hold the eastern portion of England proper, not even the great city of London. Those territories were in the hands of a Frenchman, Crown Prince Louis VIII, who seemed poised to become King of England. As a child, Henry III had every reason to both dislike and fear the French. Years later, with the French driven from his shores and the initial challenge to his authority suppressed, Henry the man sought to regain English dignity and English lands lost before he was crowned.
A decade after Henry inherited, the second boy, the son of the Frenchman who had threatened to steal England, became the King of France. The ancestors of the boy-king Louis IX were no invaders. Rather, the first Capetian king was a man selected by his fellow barons to take up the kingship of France. Encompassing a realm expanded over the two previous centuries, Louis’s territories included lands seized from the English, such as Normandy, Brittany, Maine, Anjou, and Poitou. Most of the former English holdings were fiefs of the King of France, but that never stopped the English from asserting otherwise, either while they were in possession of the territories or after they lost them. As ambitious as his predecessors, Louis IX worked to further consolidate Capetian power and expand the French realm. But in looking forward, Louis did not forget to keep one eye always on the English, wary of losing what his ancestors had gained.
As the first third of the century drew to a close, the boy-kings became men—men needing brides. Louis, guided by his mother, sought a connection that would give him more influence in the Midi, near the territory of Languedoc, which he already held. And what did Henry III want in a bride? On the surface, Henry sought a marriage that would strengthen his bid to regain English continental possessions. In the end, however, like most men who feel they are playing catch-up, Henry wanted whatever his rival had, so one family provided brides for both men. The queens of France and England were sisters, Marguerite and Eleanor, the two eldest daughters of Raymond Berenger, Count of Provence, and Beatrice of Savoy. And, while the Count of Provence was certainly neither a man nor a connection to be slighted, the girls’ appeal as “brides worthy of kings” stemmed in largest part from their relation through their mother to the House of Savoy.
While we tend to think of “celebrity” as a modern concept, the idea of a person or a family so successful, talented, and glamorous that everyone else wants to be them or at least to be near them is as old as history itself. The Savoyards were celebrities in the High Middle Ages. A family of considerable martial and political power, with members renowned for their personal attractiveness, much of what was said and thought about individuals of the House of Savoy stretched to hyperbole. One of the girls’ uncles was called “the second Alexander” by his contemporaries, while another was labeled “the second Charlemagne,” and their mother’s beauty was sounded in terms straight out of a troubadour’s poem. People wanted to be like the Savoyards, and people, even kings and popes, wanted to be seen with them.
Louis and Henry, along with the ambassadors they sent south, were quickly beguiled by the Savoyard myth as displayed in all its shining, lavish glory at the court of Provence. Oh yes, there was glamour to be had in proximity, but would there also be love?
THE SISTER QUEENS
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilouge
Author’s Note
CHAPTER 1
M,
The sun is out and so should we be. Pray ask Mother to release us from our studies. She is sure to agree if you ask. You will be her “little queen,” so she indulges your every whim. I wish you yourself were a little less satisfied with the title that will soon be yours. When I wanted to write you this note, I had a difficult time finding a scrap of parchment in our room not covered with “Marguerite, by the grace of God illustrious Queen of the French” in your handwriting.
E
MARGUERITE
APRIL 1234
AVIGNON, PROVENCE
The sun is on my face and I can smell the spring squill as its blue blossoms, too numerous for the counting, brush against my gown as I walk. I do not stoop to pick them. My left hand already holds a bouquet of elder-flowered orchids, their orange throats glowing from within purple petals, their brown and orange speckles a happy reminder that spring has come to Provence.
We wintered here at Avignon this year. Not my favorite of my father’s castles, nor my sister Eleanor’s. We would have preferred to pass the colder months snug at Aix. But Avignon was more convenient for Giles de Flagy, representative of Louis IX of France, who was tasked with paying a “surprise” visit to my father’s court for the express purpose of inspecting me.
Of course, we all knew he was coming. My father’s great friend and adviser, the Catalonian Romeo de Villeneuve, has been negotiating with de Flagy for some time to see if I might not become Queen of France. So my father, a better host even than he is a diplomat, made certain that our lively court, always full of feast and fest, took on an even greater grandeur. Such dresses I wore! Such extravagant gifts were presented to the Frenchman! Such lavish banquets, each comprised of more than a dozen courses, were given in his honor!
And always the eyes of the French envoy were upon me. I was not the least shy at having such attention. Have I not been trained for this? Tutored in posture and dancing to improve my natural grace; instructed in chess, my native language of Lenga d’òc, and even Latin, so that I might be erudite in my discourse? Placed in the saddle hundreds of times to ride to the chase and given a falcon for my seventh birthday so that I might master that most noble of all sports? Have I not been given hour upon hour of religious instruction at Mother’s knee?
Yes, I feel
well prepared to be a great lady like my mother, Beatrice of Savoy, whose beauty, piety, tenderness, and wit are known far outside the borders of my father’s territory. I am thirteen and well content to be looked at for a bride. But my darling sister Eleanor is less content. She has not my patience and could sorely use it, for she is second born, and, though she loves me dearly, Eleanor chafes to wait always behind me.
As if to confirm my thoughts, she bursts past me at a run—a blur of green and gold, skirts held nearly as high as her spirits.
“Ele-an-nor! Wait!”
The whining call is as inevitable as it is irritating. Mother insists that we take Beatrice with us on our rambles. But Beatrice is so very young—only three—that she is more of an annoyance than a companion.
Eleanor stops hard, turns with hands on hips, and regards Beatrice, who passes me with tears streaming down her face, with a saucy and somewhat malevolent air. “You had best stop your crying, Beatrice, before the Count of Toulouse hears you and comes to eat you.”
“Eleanor!” My exasperation is evident in my tone. For now not only is Beatrice sobbing in earnest, but Sanchia, so quiet that I had momentarily forgotten she walked beside me, has silent tears rolling down her face despite being nearly nine years old.
“Elle me rend folle!” Eleanor responds defiantly, throwing up her hands.
It takes me a moment to realize what she is saying. We are not native French speakers, and both of us have just begun to learn. Or, rather, I have begun to learn so that I may converse easily in the court of my future husband, and Eleanor, quicker at languages than I, is helping me. Always a talkative bedfellow, she now ex-hausts me once the candles are out by initiating conversations solely in French.
“I do not care,” I reply in Lenga d’òc, unwilling to struggle with my French even as I struggle with my sisters. I have reached Beatrice where she sits disconsolate on the ground. Squatting, I pull her into my arms and stroke her golden hair. “Bea,” I say softly, “the Count of Toulouse is many leagues away. He and Fa-ther are not at war presently and even if they were, as dreadful as the Count of Toulouse may be, he does not eat little girls.” I look up imperiously. “Eleanor.”