The Sister Queens

by Sophie Perinot

  “You must take this, Marguerite, and make sure when you wear it that one of my letters is always inside with your coins and other things.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Entirely, for I love no one so much as you.”

  But I notice as I take the bag from her hands that she holds on to the strings until the last possible moment.

  CHAPTER 2

  Eleanor, my dear sister,

  I do not know when I shall have the opportunity of sending this. I am carried onward, like one of my trunks, without any effort on my part. This is just as well as my will to go forward falters since Lyon where I bid a tearful good-bye to Mother and Father. How can a crown take the place of seeing you and our dear parents every day as I am used to? Uncle Guillaume assures me that this aching for home will pass once I see my handsome husband. I pray he is right, for at the moment I think myself as likely to cry as curtsy when we are introduced.

  Yours,

  M

  MARGUERITE

  MAY 1234

  OUTSIDE SENS, FRANCE

  I cannot breathe. My nurse, squatting beside me where I sit, squeezes my hand. She has spotted him too. The little party is very close now. A handful of young gallants and their attendants riding toward our larger party, magnificently dressed like the knights in the poems and songs of my great-grandfather Alfonso of Aragon, a “troubadour among Kings” (though he would always have it a “King among troubadours”).

  Most beautiful of all those riding toward us is Louis. My Louis. I know who he is by his armor. It is gold—all gold. The chain mail, even his spurs. But I must confess, though his magnificent attire draws my eyes, it is his more personal attributes that hold them. At twenty years old, he is so tall and so well favored. He has tawny golden hair blunt cut at his shoulders, a long straight nose, and lips that while unsmiling presently are appealingly full. And his eyes are blue. Not the crisp, sometimes harsh blue of a summer sky over Aix, nor the gray, weeping blue of a woad-dyed dress, but an altogether softer, warmer blue than I have ever seen.

  Those clustered about me, where I take my rest underneath the shade of my tent, part like the biblical seas as my soon-to-be husband dismounts and moves forward to greet me. He is followed by two other richly dressed gentlemen and half a dozen attendants bearing a variety of objects. I rise from my seat and fall again immediately into the deepest curtsy I have ever made, keeping my eyes modestly downward. When I rise again, Uncle Guillaume, who has also finished making his reverence, provides the introductions.

  “Your Majesty, may I present my niece, the Lady Marguerite of Provence, by God’s grace your affianced wife.”

  “Marguerite, may I present His Majesty, Louis, by God’s grace King of France; His Highness, Robert, Count of Artois; and His Highness, Alphonse, Count of Poitiers.” I know these are Louis’s brothers, and I notice that neither has his poise or good looks. Alphonse seems very near to my own age, and I struggle to remember just how old he is, as I am sure I have been told.

  “My lady.” Louis’s voice is warm. He reaches out to take my hand, bowing over it solemnly. “All of France welcomes you. We convey particular greetings from our dear mother, Blanche, by the grace of God Queen of France, our sister Isabelle, and our brother Charles, each of whom is overjoyed at your safe arrival. We bring also some little tribute as testament to your beauty and value to us.” With this, Louis beckons forward his attendants, ticking off the gifts they carry: “Two ceremonial saddles and a bridle of gold for a lady we know by report to be a most excellent horsewoman; a collection of jewels, the greatest of which is made to seem insignificant in comparison with your beauty; a cloak of sable as soft as your eyes; and, most important, a golden chalice for our nuptial Mass that we may share the blood of Our Lord and be made one with fitting dignity.”

  Acknowledging the gifts with another curtsy, I find that my training is happily sufficient to overcome even my awe. “Your Majesty, we thank you humbly for these gifts. They are of great value in themselves but even more so in our eyes as tokens of your love and respect for us.” Then, remembering my uncle Guillaume’s constant admonition that Louis prizes piety above all, I add, “We give thanks daily to God and to his Blessed Mother for sending us such a husband.”

  Uncle Guillaume smiles at me. The king smiles at me. Those gathered on every side smile at the sight of the king and me standing together. I have done well. And like that, the formality in Louis’s manner drops away.

  “My lady, shall I ride beside you on the way into Sens?” he asks, holding out his arm.

  “Your Majesty,” I reply, laying my hand upon it and feeling a sudden thrill as I do so, “I would be beside you from this moment on whenever you will have me there.”

  When we reach the palace of the archbishop of Sens, my uncles and I discover we are to be parted. I must take my leave of them as attendants carry in my chests and Louis disperses his men. Lisette and several of my ladies are shepherded inside by an imposing-looking woman of advanced age. The archbishop himself stands prepared to lead me in once my good-byes are completed.

  “I apologize, Thomas,” he remarks, “but thanks to the events of the morrow, the city strains at the seams and so too my palace.” The archbishop’s contrition appears genuine; no doubt he was hoping to impress my uncles with the lavish nature of his dwelling and is sorry to be deprived of the opportunity. “We thought it most fitting to install the Lady Marguerite here with the rest of the royal family, as tomorrow she will join it. It seemed also pressing to find room for some of her attendants so that they might prepare the bride, a task where gentlemen will not be wanted.”

  I nearly laugh out loud. How little His Grace knows my uncles! They might not dress me themselves, but no two persons, once my parents were left behind at Lyons, have been more instrumental in preparing this bride!

  “I have secured lodgings for you at the chapter house,” the archbishop continues, oblivious both to my suppressed mirth and to the displeasure of my uncles, which I can read clearly in their pinched lips and flared nostrils.

  “Are we not to be received by Her Majesty Queen Blanche?” Uncle Guillaume’s tone is more insistent than inquiring.

  “Certainly.” Louis has returned to my side. “Our mother is eager to show you every gratitude for your good offices in delivering the Lady Marguerite, but would allow you time to retire and refresh yourselves. We shall all dine together this evening, and she will greet you then.”

  There is no answer for this, and clearly there will be no moment of privacy offered to me and my Savoyard kin. I want to embrace both my uncles, but such a show of open affection with so many eyes upon us seems sadly out of place.

  “Until tonight then,” I say, trying to project cool confidence. Then on Louis’s arm and preceded by the archbishop, I am whisked through the stone entrance. I assume I will find my women just inside, but apparently I am not to be given any time to rest or recover before facing my new family.

  “Here she is, Mother.” Louis’s words are directed to a trim figure at the bottom of a great staircase. The woman is surprisingly imperious for a lady of such small stature, and surprisingly dour for a woman still of an age to be beautiful. She remains silent and expressionless for a moment, content to look me up and down as if appraising a horse for purchase. Then one side of her mouth rises slightly, giving not so much the impression of a smile as of a wry smirk.

  “Pretty. We have not been misled in that. Come here, child.” I glide forward and, stopping directly before the Dowager Queen—for who else would dare speak to me so boldly?—slowly sink in reverence. I stay down. “You may rise.” Her voice holds a note of grudging, cautious approval. “How was your journey?”

  “I make no complaint of it, Your Majesty, for it brings me to you.”

  “And are you prepared to be a good wife and obedient daughter?”

  “I have been an obedient daughter to my own mother lo these thirteen years, and I offer Your Majesty all the same respect and duty. The role of wif
e is new to me, but I am prepared, with the grace of Our Lord, to subject myself always to my husband’s will and to be attentive to his every need.”

  Blanche smiles, but the gesture is brittle, and I cannot shake the feeling that a certain superior air, a subtle irony, underpins her look of approbation. “Beatrice of Savoy has my compliments. She clearly knows how to raise daughters.”

  And suddenly I know that I am being dismissed, even before the archbishop steps forward to lead me away. The king looks as if he will say something; take some leave of me, but his mother’s voice interrupts the impulse.

  “Louis,” the Queen Mother asks sweetly, “do you not greet your mother?” And like that I am forgotten as the king moves past me to kiss his mother. The lady’s actions seem deliberate, but surely I am only overtired from the road and overexcited by my arrival and the prospect of my wedding tomorrow, for why in the world would Blanche, who arranged this match, be deliberately unpleasant to me?

  BEFORE MY MOTHER TOOK HER leave of me at Lyon, she gave me the most rudimentary idea of what would happen on my wedding night. “There will be pain,” she said earnestly, holding my two hands in hers as we sat side by side, turned slightly together so that our knees just touched, “just as there will be when you bring forth the heirs of your husband’s body. This is the price for the sinful pride of Eve. But in it also lies a lesson: almost everything that you will take joy from in this life starts first with sacrifice. Happiness must be paid for.”

  I am a married woman. Our vows were exchanged this morning on the steps of the Cathédrale Saint-Étienne while the carved figures of the ten virgins watched from above the central door. And now I stand, virgin myself, trembling at the center of a bedchamber in the archbishop’s palace. It is richly hung with silks and strewn with flowers, just as the whole city is bedecked for the occasion of my marriage; yet I barely noticed. Word has come from the king that I am not to be undressed. My ladies think this strange.

  “Perhaps,” I hear Alix de Lorgues murmur to the others as they open the door to depart, “he wants the pleasure of unwrapping her himself.” The thick oak door falling shut behind them barely muffles the laughter this comment evokes.

  I have nothing to do but wait in terror, and that will not do. “The women of Savoy are prized for their serenity.” I can hear my mother’s voice in my head admonishing Eleanor on the subject—a frequent occurrence. Would that my mother were here now, to hold me in her arms and soothe me. I have missed her daily since we said our good-byes, but never more than at this moment. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, I am determined to busy my mind with a closer examination of the room. It is in most respects ordinary, lavishly furnished to be sure, but ordinary. It does, however, contain the most elaborate prie-dieu I have ever seen. The prayer stool seems to be made for two as it is very long. It is heavily carved with extraordinary tracery and biblical scenes. The carvings on the left side portray scenes from the life of the Virgin. In the largest, a gilded Holy Spirit dips low over a swooning Mary. Her hands are clasped and her eyes are closed, whether in joy or fear I cannot say. At the moment the two emotions seem perilously close. The right side has carvings of an altogether different nature. They offer scenes of the apocalypse and, as they provide no help for my nerves, I quickly turn my eyes elsewhere. The cushion on the portion meant for kneeling is precisely the same blue that I have seen in Louis’s standard, but it covers only half the length of oak supporting it. It is patterned with Louis’s fleur-de-lis. At either end of the rail where one might rest one’s arms, magnificent candleholders rise, each with a half-dozen wax tapers in place. The prie-dieu faces a miniature altar, above which, on the wall, a large crucifix has been hung.

  The door creaks. My heart is in my throat. Yet even so, I am aware of a strange sensation in a more private region, as if my blood is rushing there as well. Louis smiles at me from the doorway. He is so handsome. I feel as if I know a secret or as if I have drunk too much of Father’s good wine, as Eleanor and I did once hiding beneath a table in the great hall at Aix.

  Rising quickly from my seat, I drop low to a curtsy. The effect of these rapid movements in combination with the wine I took at my nuptial dinner is enough to make me dizzy. My unsteadiness must be noticeable, for Louis comes forward quickly with gentle concern in his eyes and takes both my hands. He touches the gold band that he placed on my third finger this morning. “My lady wife, you are unwell?”

  “No, Your Majesty, only tired. There has been so much excitement.” Then, worrying that I might be mistook, and my comment taken as complaint, I quickly add, “In all my life, I have never beheld such wondrous things as in the last hours.”

  “Your life, Marguerite, has not been very long yet,” replies Louis with an indulgent smile. “I trust that today will be but the beginning of many ‘wondrous’ occasions.”

  “With God’s grace, Your Majesty, I pray that I shall indeed have many years to prove myself a faithful wife to you and a worthy queen to your kingdom.”

  The earnestness of my tone is not lost upon Louis and serves to light up his face in a manner I have never yet seen. He literally glows. Pulling me to him, he whispers in my ear, “You must call me Louis when we are alone.” Then his mouth finds mine. Fear is driven back by the pressure of his lips. As his tongue suddenly enters my mouth, I find that I want him to touch me, even if there will be pain. But as I press myself closer to him, his mouth leaves mine and a groan like that of a man in agony issues from him. What have I done?

  Louis pushes me to arm’s length with great effort. Gone is the radiant look. Instead, his eyes have a hungry and beseeching quality. “Will you pray with me?”

  “Of course, Louis, if you wish.”

  Turning from me, my husband lights one of the tapers from the prie-dieu at a wall sconce, then uses it to ignite the others. Taking my hand again, this time touching only the tips of my fingers, Louis leads me to the kneeler. I realize at a glance that only one of us will fit on the portion covered by the cushion.

  Perhaps seeing my look of confusion, Louis says, “I had the pillow made for you. I myself prefer to eschew such comfort, but surely Our Lord will not expect you as a woman to subject yourself to such rigors.”

  Together we kneel down, and my husband leads me in prayer.

  Hours later, I hear the bells of the cathedral where we were married chime thrice. Louis, who, like myself has been praying in silence for some time, crosses himself and says aloud, “O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you.…”

  It is the prayer for Matins; we are halfway to dawn. When he is finished, he rises stiffly. “I would be in my rooms for Lauds,” he says by way of leave-taking. It is not clear whether he offers this information as explanation or excuse.

  When he is gone, I get off my knees with great difficulty. Despite my cushion, my legs are stiff and my feet nearly without feeling. I stagger rather than walk to the great bed and fall upon it face-first, fully clothed. I am asleep before I can call for someone to undress me. Asleep before I can even roll over.

  TWO MORE NIGHTS ARE SPENT in hours of solitary prayer in accordance with my husband’s wishes. Louis assures me that he is likewise praying in his own chamber.

  It is a strange way for a bride to pass her time, and I am exhausted each morning when Lisette comes to wake me with worry in her eyes. But my pains are rewarded by Louis’s smile as he greets me with obvious delight at High Mass, and also in the sweet hours we spend watching jousters and jongleurs, dancing, and feasting side by side. Sometimes, under the table, Louis places his hand on my leg. I can feel the warmth of his flesh, even through my surcote, tunic, and chemise. Or perhaps I only imagine the sensation, but it is, nonetheless, both delightful and confusing.

  Then, on the evening of the third day following my marriage ceremony, the sumptuous festivities are at an end. Tomorrow we begin our journey to Paris.

  I do not even think of Louis as my ladies undress me for bed. I am comfortable now in t
he archbishop’s rooms and eager for sleep, a whole night’s worth as Louis gave no orders for prayer before we parted. Tucked between the feather bed and a coverlet of silk lined luxuriously in softest miniver, I am naked. This is how I slept in Provence. I am already drifting off, thinking of the gorgeous crimson surcote trimmed in ermine that I will wear tomorrow, when I hear the door open.

  I sit bolt upright, clutching the covers, and see Louis in his shirt standing with a candle at the foot of the bed. Rounding the bed and setting his light down on the table without putting it out, he wordlessly draws the covers off me. Self-conscious but mindful of what my mother told me, I fight the urge to pull the blanket back again and instead force myself to lie down stiffly, perfectly still, averting my eyes from my husband. I feel the bed beside me sink beneath his weight, and I cannot resist glancing. He is lying next to me. I begin to shake, just slightly, but visibly. My modesty and trepidation seem to please Louis.

  Rolling toward me, he puts his lips to my ear and whispers, “‘Marriage is honorable among all, and the bed undefiled.’” It is strange to hear the Bible quoted in such a situation.

  He kisses me, and the Holy Book is forgotten. There is no pulling back this time, no call to prayer. Then he is on me, and I am a maid no longer.

  THE NEXT MORNING EARLY I am awakened by someone I do not know. “Where is Lisette?” I ask. “And Alix de Lorgues and the others?”

  “I do not know, Your Majesty, but I am Marie de Vertus, and I will be Your Majesty’s chambrière. I have been sent to help you rise and dress.”

  This seems strange and makes me obstinate. Especially on a morning such as this, I want Lisette. “I am not inclined to rise yet. I will get up when Lisette is found.”