Bursting past a collection of ladies in my hall, I gain my bedchamber before the tears come. My women know well who is welcome to follow me uninvited into the private parts of my apartment and who is not, so only Marie, Elisabeth, and Yolande trail behind. I crumple to the floor on my knees, sobbing. Taking up a handful of my voluminous skirt, I bury my face in it.
“Your Majesty”—Marie kneels beside me, and I can feel her hand on my shaking shoulders—“are you unwell?”
“Unhappy.” The voice that speaks the truth is not my own. I look up. Yolande stands directly in front of me.
“Louis no longer loves me.”
“Ridiculous,” Elisabeth chimes in. “You are Marguerite of France; your beauty and piety are widely celebrated. At this minute artists are busy carving your likeness at Saint Germain-en-Laye at the king’s request.”
Yolande glances at Elisabeth with a combination of indulgence and disbelief. Her Grace is two years younger than Lady Coucy but always behaves as if she is the mother hen to both Elisabeth and me. “The important point, Your Majesty, is that the king prefers no woman to you. Well, no woman of his own age.”
“What difference does that make?” I ask, allowing Marie to help me rise as I dry my eyes with the kerchief she offers. “He still favors the dragon, and she is quite as effective, if not more so, than any mistress in keeping my husband from me. And she has a powerful ally, God himself.”
“It is true that His Majesty’s increased piety is fomented by his mother and his confessor. But I would not suggest that Your Majesty try to reclaim the king from God. Moses’s wife was not successful and nor shall you be,” says Yolande grimly. “And if the king wishes to go about his palaces ill shod and poorly dressed, what can that matter to you so long as he urges no economies of dress upon you? You must turn your mind from bringing back the Louis of your wedding day and concentrate on securing your own position. And in this, the fact that you have no other young lady for competition will prove most helpful.”
Elisabeth standing nearby pats the bulge at the front of her surcote meaningfully. She is six months gone with child. Her husband, Raoul, brings her little offerings from the palace kitchens at odd times throughout the day. I wonder if Louis would be so agreeably attentive.
“A baby, I know,” I snap, striding to the window and staring out into those same gardens, where Louis remains staring fixedly at the papers in his lap, even though the roses are beginning to bloom. “But as His Majesty forgoes his favorite foods for Our Lord, he has given up other things as well.” The time is long gone when the slightest arching look from me was enough to inflame my husband’s desire.
“But surely he has the needs of a man?” Elisabeth counters.
“At present he appears content to be nearly as celibate as a monk.” My voice is bitter and I know it, but that is how I feel. I am sixteen years old; yet my husband forces me to live as if I were an elderly woman past the age of all desire. Yolande and Elisabeth cannot imagine what it is like to toss and turn night after night, longing for the touch of my husband’s hand, dreaming that his legs and arms are wrapped around me in a lover’s embrace, only to wake and find myself tangled in my covers, achingly alone. Then to receive letters from Eleanor hinting broadly that the King of England is not at all the grave, older man she expected and that his touch is her delight. It is nearly unbearable.
“Well, if he is not currently subject to a man’s passions, he is still subject to a king’s duties. Every king needs a prince. His counselors will remind him of this fact soon enough if they do not already,” says Yolande. “Then he will be back in your bed. And when you bear the king a son, the court will buzz about you as bees circle a hive. Blanche’s bullying of you and reign over the rest of us will be at an end.”
I nod dumbly, less convinced of Yolande’s words than she appears to be herself. And I feel tears sting my eyes again. How can I explain to my companions that even if Louis returns to me more frequently by night, and even if the birth of an heir makes me queen in verity, I will not be content? I miss the Louis who was my friend; the Louis who played chess with me and walked in the gardens; the Louis who held my cold hands as we examined the progress of the building at whichever monastery or religious house held his interest at the given moment. If I tell my ladies that I am lonely, they will be confused. The palace teems with courtiers and others, never more so than now with the preparation for two weddings under way. This very month both Robert and Alphonse will be married. I will have two new sisters to wait upon me and join in my entertainments. Besides, if I confess to my ladies that I am lonely, they will be hurt. And I would not cause them such pain even to unburden my own heart, for truly they do bear me good company.
CHAPTER 5
My dear Eleanor,
His Majesty’s brothers Robert and Alphonse are married now. My two new sisters, though very different from each other, are both excellent women. Yes, even Jeanne of Toulouse (and I feel no small amount of guilt over all the unkind things you and I imagined about her during our days together in Provence). Either is better company than my “dear sister” Isabelle. How I wish Louis would marry the princess off and relieve our court of her dreary, overbearing piety. But perhaps he does not notice it. He is seldom in her company, being much engaged with the business of governing. He has lately begun the practice, after his morning Mass, of opening himself to petitions from those with complaint either against his officials or any private gentleman. He does not do this every day, but when he does will sit for hours hearing matters and consulting with his lords Peter de Fontaine and Geoffrey de Villette on what is best to be done. I would not sound petty, but it vexes me sorely that he spends more time with lawyers than he does with me.…
Your loving sister,
M
ELEANOR
SEPTEMBER 1237
PALACE OF WOODSTOCK, ENGLAND
I cannot imagine that I ever thought Henry old! Riding ahead of me, his goshawk on his arm, he cuts a very fine figure. He maneuvers his horse with confidence and virile firmness. Simply watching him kindles a desire in me to be with him. I give my horse a sharp kick and thunder past my ladies, giving my beloved Willelma d’Attalens, who came from Provence with me, a look of apology in response to her glance of unspoken admonition.
“There you are, Wife,” Henry says with evident satisfaction as I reach his side. “I wondered at your lagging, you who so love to be first.”
“First in your heart.”
“That you are, madam, even when I ride out alone. No, I was speaking of your delightful thirst for life and adventure.”
A sudden stirring in the underbrush ahead and to the king’s right stops our pretty talk and draws our attention. Perhaps it is a rabbit or a quail? Henry, clearly thinking the same, prepares to throw his hawk. Then a man springs from the cover of the bushes. My horse rears in surprise and, as he does, I hear Willelma scream. I fight to bring my animal back under control. Henry, leaning precariously from his own mount, grabs hold of the beast’s bridle and helps to bring its head down and forelegs back to the ground.
All this time the strange man stands not two horse lengths before us, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and muttering. With my horse firmly beneath me again, I catch my breath and look more closely at the man. His clothing is of good quality but filthy, as is his lank hair. He appears to be having a conversation and holding up both sides of it without need or notice of us. Every few words he punctuates his utterances by rolling his eyes, rocking back on his heels, and moaning pitifully. Some in our party snigger, but not my husband.
“Poor fellow,” Henry says, speaking low, “I think he is mad.”
As if to confirm my husband’s surmise, the man begins to flap his arms as though fending off some sort of attack from above. My husband waits a moment longer until the wretch quiets himself and then, regarding the man with his customary half smile, says, “Good sir, you disturb our sport. We would ask you to stand aside.”
But rather than
removing himself from the path, the man rushes forward shouting, “Henry, scourge of England, poor pretender to the throne, resign your office and be gone like the pestilence you are!”
Every gentleman accompanying us is in motion at the same moment.
Uncle Guillaume and Imbert Pugeys reach the madman quickest. To my mind it is not coincidence that Savoyards are first to my husband’s defense. My uncle strikes a blow with the hilt of his sword, knocking the villain to the ground even as he continues to rail against my husband. Then a multitude of men is upon him.
“Hold!” Henry has some difficulty making himself heard, for Imbert Pugeys and Simon de Montfort are thrashing the fallen fellow soundly and noisily. “That is quite enough!” The king’s men straighten to their full heights, setting their clothing to rights as they do. My husband’s insulter is left prone on the ground, sniveling.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the man’s utterances are treasonous! He should be flogged, hanged, or both!” Simon says, breathing hard from his exertions.
I follow Henry’s gaze to the man on the ground. He is sitting now, rocking himself and singing some sort of childish song. Blood runs down his face from a gash where my uncle’s hilt met his pate.
“Treasonous coming from any other man here, but this man’s wits are out, de Montfort. Can he know what he says, let alone own it?” Henry shakes his head in the negative as if answering his own question. Turning to one of our attendants, he continues. “Take him back to the palace. See that his wound is tended and he is fed. We would do as much even for a beast, and surely he is little more.” Then addressing me, he says, “Madam, it is not too late to have some pleasure from this afternoon’s excursion. Are you in a mind and mood to ride on?”
I AM SUDDENLY AWAKE AND do not know why. Did I hear shouting or did I dream it? The room, my room, is dark. The last of the fire is gone, so it must well and truly be the middle of the night. I am about to close my eyes again, and then it comes, a cry, “Help! Oh someone, help!” Though the voice is terrified, I know it at once! It belongs to Lady Margaret Biset.
“Henry!” I sit bolt upright.
“What is it?” The voice is muffled and groggy from beneath my covers. The king is a heavy sleeper, but my voice never fails to rouse him.
Before I can answer, another shrill scream shatters the night, joined by hoarse cries and the sound of feet running on stone.
Henry, now fully awake, jumps from bed, stumbling in the dark. I can hear him pulling on his garments.
“Dear God, what can it be?” I know I sound hysterical. I feel hysterical and, at the same time, angry at myself for being so.
“Assassin! Assassin!” I do not recognize this new voice.
“To the queen!” This last shout is followed by a cry of pain.
“Stay here,” Henry commands.
The door to my bedchamber swings open, and I utter a scream of my own. But it is only Margaret Biset. I can see her ashen face by the light of the candle she holds. The same candle offers me a glimpse of Henry as he pushes past. My lady closes the door behind him, bars it, and then places her back against it, though why she should think she will stand if oak does not I cannot imagine. Her gown is torn, her eyes wide with terror. A Psalter dangles from the hand not holding her candle.
“Margaret, in the name of God, what is happening?”
“A man with a knife—”
“Where?”
“He charged into your hall, shouting and cursing.”
“Who is he?”
“I have never seen him before in my born days. Saints be praised that I was praying and not sleeping, or he might be here now!”
“The king, oh Holy Mary—he is not armed!” I jump from bed with no regard for my nakedness. “Help me dress.”
“Your Majesty cannot go out!”
“I can and will. Now be quick.” And to her credit Margaret is quick. After nearly two years in my household, she knows I cannot be gainsaid once I am determined. In a few moments, dressed but still barefoot, I crack open the door of my apartment. Not five yards away my doctor, Nicholas Farnham, squats over a prone figure. I can smell blood. I cannot see the figure’s face, but a glance at his apparel quickly convinces me he is not Henry. I draw a sharp, sweet, breath of relief.
In the distance I hear the sounds of men—raised voices, grunts of effort, and the relentless pounding of something upon oak. I follow the sounds at such a pace that poor Margaret pants with the effort of keeping up with me. Suddenly there is a cracking noise, and I pass into the next chamber just in time to see men, carrying torches and with swords drawn, scrambling through a breached door. Henry stands just to one side of the opening with his chamberlain, William de St. Ermine, and John Mansel. For no reason I can think of I begin to sob.
I run to Henry without any thought for my dignity and throw my arms about his neck. He says nothing but puts one arm protectively around me as if to guard me from the sounds of struggle in the room just beyond. Then the commotion stops. My husband’s men emerge. Two drag a man between them. His garments are torn and his face bloodied, but his expression is defiant. It is the man from the road this afternoon!
“What are Your Majesty’s orders?” one of those holding the prisoner asks.
“Let him suffer; then let him die.”
As soon as we are back in my bedchamber and alone, Henry pulls me into his arms. I am calm now, but he knows without asking that I will not be satisfied with merely being soothed. “You saw the villain,” he says. “I thought to do my Christian duty in sending him here this afternoon. And my servants likewise, for after feeding him, they offered him shelter for the night in the stables. Apparently he is not mad, but very clever. He climbed through my bedchamber window and sought to slay me as I slept.”
“God and Saint Edward be praised that he did not find you.” I bury my face against my husband’s chest and draw in the smell of him as a drowning man gasps for air.
“I am thankful, not only to God,” Henry says, turning my face up to his and pushing back my wild hair, “but to you, Eleanor. You are my talisman. My need to be always with you has saved my life.”
And I am surprised to find I can laugh just as easily as I cried earlier. “Perhaps now your brother will stop teasing you about your uncommon custom of passing the entire night with me.”
“I doubt so. You know Richard’s ambition. When he hears the news of this night, he may wish I conducted myself as other men do.”
I AM WAITING BENEATH THE canopy covering my bath when the curtains part and Margaret enters, a triumphant look on her face. “The wicked man has confessed everything!” Though she is usually mild-mannered, Lady Biset’s voice brims with loathing, and this suits me very well. In the two days since the attempt on Henry’s life, my hatred of his would-be assassin has only grown stronger.
“Why then?” I ask.
Henry and I have pondered this question at length. Or rather I have pondered, and Henry has sought to soothe me. “It does no good to brood so, Eleanor,” he said to me only last evening as I asked him for the hundredth time how any man could hate him so much, and more especially a man upon whom he had never laid eyes before.
“Not on his own accord,” Margaret replies. She empties a bowl of rose petals into my tub while Willelma tests the water with her elbow. “He was paid by William de Marisco.”
“The outlaw who preys on shipping in the Bristol Channel?” I find myself more, not less confused. True, the king is the source of all law, but a man sought for piracy can scarcely have hoped to escape execution by killing the king. I let my ladies pull off my shift and lower myself into the steaming water.
Picking up a sponge, Margaret begins to wipe my shoulders and arms. “The same. The de Mariscos are still angry that His Majesty’s grandfather gave their lands on Lundy Island to the Templars.”
Disinheritance—here doubtless is a motivation for many things. The loss of land leaves a long mark on a family, whether it be lost at war, by law, or by king’s
command. My own husband has been shaped by such a deprivation. His father lost so many territories across the channel—Normandy, Brittany, Maine, Anjou. All of my husband’s Angevin inheritance is gone, save Gascony and Poitou, with control of the latter much disputed. Henry dreams of regaining these lands. Not by assassination to be sure, for my husband is a man of great honor and piety, but he nonetheless brims with dislike for my sister’s husband, the French King, whose father and grandfather took this portion of his birthright.
With understanding of Henry’s attacker comes a surprising sense of relief. At last the questions plaguing me since that terrifying night are whisked away, and, closing my eyes, I relax fully into the warmth of my spice-scented water.
Later that afternoon, dressed once more and completely relaxed, I sit before my fire with my sister-in-law, Eleanor Marshal. It is another wet English day, precursor no doubt of another wet English winter. How I hate them.
“Eleanor, you must help me,” my sister-in-law begs, looking up from her embroidery.
I want to help Eleanor. I like her very much, and she deserves to be happy, poor thing. Her first marriage was so unpleasant that she took a vow of chastity when she at last was free of it. But more than this, I want to help her gain her heart’s desire, because the match she wants with Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, serves our interests—my uncle Guillaume’s and mine.
The Sister Queens Page 7