“At the cathedral?”
“It appears he intends to be married today.”
In my surprise, my ice-cold hands drop my reins. Thankfully I am not the type to swoon, or I might well be lying on the cold January ground beside my palfrey this very minute.
Still, my countenance must be pale, for the king’s proctor, Sir Robert de Mucegros, says bracingly, “I am sure His Majesty will be postponed until tomorrow in deference to his lady’s fatigue. It is only His Majesty’s naturally enthusiastic temperament running ahead of him.”
I sit up straight, gathering both my reins and my wits. I am here to marry Henry of England whether the man or the thought be palatable or no. What must be done is best to be done quickly. “Sir Robert, I am at His Majesty’s disposal. If he likes, he may wed me straight from the saddle, though I would beg an hour to warm myself and change my gown.”
When we reach them, we find the cathedral’s grounds enormous, though not large enough for my party, so only a score or so of the most important ride on with me. Even so, we spill off the frozen path and overhang the square beside the church where we pull up to dismount.
Another large party is already there. All of them are male. All are noblemen sumptuously dressed and wearing heavy fur-lined cloaks, though I doubt there is enough fur on this island to make the weather bearable. None are young. I do not allow myself to hope for much, and it is just as well. As my uncle helps me from my horse, a man outstrips his companions and clasps Robert Mucegros in an embrace. The gentleman is short and square. Dear Lord, I know that my husband is old, but must he be short as well? Sure enough, it is Henry of England. Releasing Sir Robert, he turns in my direction. He is not at all handsome. His face is ruddy from the cold and one eyelid droops alarmingly, giving him a sleepy look. But his smile is merry, and his curly hair and beard give him a comfortable look. He is also beautifully and meticulously dressed. If he is a man of fashion, we shall at least have something in common.
“Lady Eleanor,” he says in a voice as deep and as warm as his smile, “Our Lord and Saint Edward be praised for your safe arrival! We have gathered the first among our magnates to greet you and pay their respects. We have also brought gifts meant to honor you. But we see now that all our efforts pale to insignificance in the shadow of your beauty.”
He executes a bow as easily as a younger man would. And I find myself, all in all, rather more satisfied than not. It could certainly be worse. And as Uncle Guillaume promised me, he appears to have good teeth. “Your Majesty does me great honor by his compliments and even greater distinction by giving me his hand.” I curtsy and then, knowing already the king’s inclination, I add, “When, sir, shall we wed?”
“Where is Edmund Rich?” the king asks of those surrounding him. The group parts slightly to make way for an ancient-looking cleric in a miter. This then must be the influential archbishop of Canterbury. “Your Grace, we would be married as soon as practicable.”
“But the feast,” says a man standing near to the king. I cannot know his name, but I am sure I soon will, for his manner of address suggests great familiarity with my future husband. “All the preparations.”
“We will save the celebration for the Lady Eleanor’s coronation. If she does not object, surely no one else can.” Henry looks again, rather meaningfully I think, at the archbishop.
“If Your Majesty wishes, I can be ready in an hour,” the prelate replies.
“His Majesty does wish.”
MY NUPTIAL MASS DRAWS TO a close. Like the ceremony of betrothal at the cathedral door preceding it, I felt strangely absent from the service. Still, I do believe I smiled and spoke as the situation required, and everyone around me looks abundantly pleased with me.
As we leave the altar, the king turns to Edmund Rich and says, “You had best come at once and bless the marriage bed.”
“At once?” The venerable archbishop forgets his manners in his amazement.
“I have waited many years for a wife,” Henry replies, his eyes sparkling. “I will not wait an hour longer.”
I am bustled without ceremony to an apartment in the castle where I made ready for my wedding. While Agnes and my ladies undress me, a host of servants stoke the enormous fire in the grate, bring in wine, and warm the sheets on a large, carved bed, which they garland with swags of costly fabrics in rich colors. I am redressed in a chemise of finest chainsil so delicate that I can see every curve of my own body as I sit before the mirror of polished steel to have my hair combed. Before Agnes can finish, a knock sounds at the door. She pulls me to my feet and covers me with a fur-lined pelisse even as the door swings open to reveal the archbishop of Canterbury, still magnificently clad in the vestments in which he celebrated my nuptial Mass. With him are several priests swinging censers of incense, and behind them a half-dozen noblemen whom I saw in church, escorting my husband. Like the others, he is still in his court finery.
My ladies lead me to the foot of the bed, and the archbishop makes the sign of the cross over me as his attendant priests circle me and nearly choke me with their incense. After praying over me, the archbishop turns to the bed and, after his priests administer a goodly dose of incense there as well, sprinkles it with holy water, praying all the while. I am too nervous to pay much attention, but I hear mentions of Sarah, Rachel, and Rebecca, matrons of the House of David, and numerous allusions to the Blessed Virgin.
Then, quick as they came, they are all departing, Agnes with a quick peck on my cheek as she goes. Henry of England and I are alone.
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 ki
ss 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.
CHAPTER 4
My dearest Marguerite,
Thank you for the ring you sent for my natal day. Henry gave me one as well, along with many pretty presents, but I assure you that I like yours best. I have much to celebrate. To be fourteen, a queen, and well loved is no mean thing. Only one happiness is lacking, I would give my Henry a son. He insists that there is no hurry, although we are more than a year married, and that a daughter would do as well (for he is a man most desirous of a large and varied family), but I know my duty, and as he loves me so very well, would do it. We attend to the task of conceiving a child with much frequency and enthusiasm. I confess that, despite my prodigious love for fine gowns, shoes, and the like, I am not at all sorry to spend so much of my time without my clothing. Have I shocked you, my darling sister? Surely not, for you have a fair husband of your own.
Yours,
E
MARGUERITE
JUNE 1237
PALAIS DU ROI, PARIS
“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.”
“So it seems.” Louis looks down again and turns another page. Then, as if struck by something, looks up at me again. “If you want your rooms painted and your incomes and allowance do not permit it, I shall be happy to advance you the money. I sincerely hope, however, you will select a more exalted theme. Perhaps the parables.”
I feel as though Louis has slapped me. Mild-mannered Louis, who shows the most exquisite kindness to the sick in our city’s hospitals; who cleans their filth and changes their dressings. Can he not see that I do not envy Eleanor her freshly painted rooms, but the solicitude of her husband—a man who, from what my sister’s letters tell, rises each morning intent on finding some novel manner of delighting or pampering his wife? My eyes sting. But even if a loss of composure might recall my husband’s attention, I cannot bear to expose my feelings to someone so clearly indifferent to them. Turning on my heels, I retreat as quickly as I can without appearing to run. I lose control of my temper for only a single moment before reaching my rooms. Rushing past Agnes d’Harcourt, who never seems to be absent when Louis and I are in the gardens together, I do not allow her sufficient time to make way, and the clumsy little spy tumbles off the path and headlong into a bed of butterbur.
The Sister Queens Page 6