The Sister Queens

by Sophie Perinot

  My uncle has been in charge of His Majesty’s Council of Barons for more than a year now. He and Henry are on the firmest footing. I rejoice in this, for Henry will need help if he is to rise to the level of importance that he deserves, if he is to equal the reputation of Louis of France. But to make progress in that direction we must have the English barons in line, and too often Simon de Montfort and my husband’s brother Richard lead them astray in pursuit of their own interests. If only Simon were not so capable and so charming! Then again, the same characteristics that draw other gentlemen of rank to him have drawn Eleanor Marshal. She is in love with him, and if a marriage can be managed, Simon will be family, tied firmly to the king and to the king’s interests.

  Yet I am hesitant to raise the subject with my husband. My security and the pleasant nature of my daily life rest entirely on Henry’s good opinion of me as, after nearly two years of marriage, I remain stubbornly childless. So, I am learning the virtue of self-restraint, though I am sure my sister Marguerite would not believe me. If I am to risk a modicum of Henry’s goodwill, I must be sure that my arguments are winning.

  I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “Why not speak with your brother about the matter yourself?”

  Eleanor blushes, “How can I speak to him of what is in my heart? He is a man.”

  “He will be no less a man if I speak to him. And surely men love as fervently as women do. Does not the Earl of Leicester protest as much to you?”

  Apparently he does and very prettily, for Eleanor’s color deepens further still and she looks down at her lap. Then, finding my eyes, she says, “Henry does not run over you the way he does me.” I cannot argue with this. “Will you speak to him?”

  “Yes, but it is best to wait until Michaelmas day when Henry is full of goose. Then I can have no doubt of his mood.”

  Eleanor puts down her needle and leans close to me, hardly necessary as we are alone by design. “’Twould be better not to wait so long,” she whispers.

  “Do you mean …?” For a moment I feel both sick and angry. It would be too unfair for Eleanor to be with child when I pray to the Blessed Virgin day and night to be so.

  “No! I swear to you my courses come as regularly as yours. But”—and again she lowers her voice until I can barely hear her—“my vow is broken.”

  “You have let him have you?” I cannot believe what I am hearing. “Eleanor?”

  She nods dumbly.

  “I will speak to Henry as soon as I can. But until a wedding can be managed, you must not yield again. Not even I can help you if Simon puts you with child. You know Henry’s sense of honor and his temper too well to doubt the truth of this.”

  The rest of my day is haunted by my conversation with Eleanor. Now that I must act—my hand forced by my sister-in-law’s imprudent coupling with Simon—I am impatient to do so. But the marriage of a royal princess of England is hardly something I can bring up over dinner with the eyes of the court upon us. So I must bide my time.

  In the evening Henry arrives in my apartment in preparation for taking me to bed. It is the first time we have been entirely alone since he left me in that same bed this morning. In keeping with our habit, we each take a glass of spiced wine and talk of the many little events and subjects that filled our day. The subject of Eleanor and Simon hums in my head even as Henry speaks of the English harvest. But still I wait, watching my husband’s face as he talks, considering his posture. Then, when I am certain by these observations that Henry has had sufficient opportunity to shed the cares of his day and that his wine begins to relax him, I put the question of his sister’s marriage to my husband.

  As I finish, Henry’s brow furrows. “Eleanor,” he says, “de Montfort is a preudomme, but he is not English.”

  Standing with my back to my fire, looking at my husband seated comfortably before me, I feel my blood boil. I draw myself to my full height. How dare he make such a point! “I am not English, Your Majesty, and I was not aware you considered it a deficiency!”

  “Eleanor.” Henry’s voice is pleading. He holds out a hand and beckons me to him, but I am not yet ready to go.

  “Simon must wife. Would you not have him wife to your benefit? Already my uncles only narrowly prevented him from taking the Countess of Flanders for a bride by making sure Blanche of Castile heard of the proposed match. As it was no more in the interest of my sister’s husband than it was in yours, that marriage was prevented. But what if Simon takes a wife allying him with France?”

  “But my own sister? The barons will not like it. Already they complain that I favor Simon.”

  “And ‘foreigners’ generally,” I say defiantly. My feelings sting still over Henry’s earlier intemperate statement. The English are so provincial, so closed-minded. There has been just as much talk among the barons about my uncle Guillaume as there has about Simon. And all the talk is ridiculous since many of the complainers are of continental stock, and even those families who came with the Conqueror have been on this island only 150 years. “What have the barons to do with it?” I plant my hands on my hips and stare a challenge at my husband. “Are you not king?” I can never understand all the conciliation that Henry offers his vassals. My father would never have managed things thus, consulting with those who hold their land only by his gift or by the gift of his ancestors.

  Henry looks sullen. I am making no progress in this manner, so I must try another. Henry may love me well, but, like most men, he does not like to be pushed. I must be consciously and purposefully the sweet and obliging Marguerite rather than bold Eleanor. I have been mimicking my sister on occasion as of late, and to great effect. I see now how she managed my parents with such ease.

  Dropping my hands to my sides, I approach my husband and silently take a seat on the ground at his knee. I rest my cheek against Henry’s leg, giving him the chance to calm himself. If I inadvertently trigger a fit of pique, all is lost. Henry can be as obstinate and stupid as a child when he is taken by such a mood.

  When I feel Henry’s hand on my hair, I at last glance upward to his face. “I am sorry, my love,” I say softly. “I will never understand your English government. But I do understand a woman’s heart. Your sister loves Simon.”

  “She does?”

  “Yes.”

  “Loves him?”

  “As I love you. And should not such love be honored?” I take Henry’s hand in mine, offering him a soft look and a softer smile. “Besides, granting Simon this marriage will secure his loyalty in a way that aught else can.”

  “What does your uncle say?” Henry knows he is not the only one to consult with Guillaume on important matters.

  “He wishes there were such an easy manner of taming your brother Richard.” I can see that Henry’s mind is turning to match mine. But he is not quite ready to concede.

  “It will cost me money.”

  “Promise it now; pay it later.”

  “She made a vow of chastity, witnessed by Edmund Rich himself.”

  “She was led astray by Cecilia de Sanford. A girl’s instructress always holds sway over her mind, particularly when, as with your sister, her mother is far away. Mistress Sanford ought to have stopped your sister from removing herself from the marriage market at sixteen, rather than urging it! The lady did you harm, depriving you of a valuable gift that might be used as a diplomatic tool. You ought to have been consulted.”

  “No one ever consults me.” My husband’s voice takes on a slightly whining tone.

  “Eleanor does,” I reply quickly, before Henry is carried away into a listing of his grievances. “She seeks your permission, your aid, your blessing. She has no mind to act without your approbation. Can you say as much of your barons?”

  Henry is silent for a few minutes, unconsciously fingering my hair and staring into the fire. I neither move nor speak, marveling at how I have learned to patiently hold my tongue, a characteristic Marguerite urged upon me for so many years with no success. I must remember to tell her in my next letter,
though I doubt she will believe me.

  Finally Henry looks directly at me and smiles. Taking my hand, he pulls me up onto his lap. “Let my sister and Simon de Montfort come to see me,” he says.

  “Oh Henry! You will permit the marriage?” I throw my arms around his neck and give him a kiss on the cheek.

  “How can I do otherwise,” he asks, “when the happiness of my two favorite ladies appears to hinge upon it?”

  “SHHH!” I TRY TO SOUND stern but cannot help giggling. It is the sixth of January, the Feast of the Epiphany, and Eleanor Marshal and I are making our way to the king’s private chapel in the Palace of Westminster. We do so supposedly for no reason in particular beyond satisfying her urge to see her brother and mine to see my lord. But in truth, Simon de Montfort is waiting with Henry, and he and Eleanor are going to be married. This fact has been kept a secret even from my ladies. Well, not from Willelma, who shepherds us along from behind with a pained expression as if she were our nurse and we mere naughty children. The archbishop of Canterbury is expected to put up a fuss when he hears of the marriage because ’twas he who witnessed Eleanor’s vow, but she will look duly penitent, and what will she care for Edmund Rich’s words once she has Simon?

  When we reach Henry’s apartment, he is waiting to lead his bright-eyed sister through to his chapel and up to the altar. Having presented her to Simon, he takes his place at my side. As the ceremony begins, Henry’s hand finds mine. It is a far cry from our own nuptials, but, as I approach the second anniversary of my marriage, I cannot witness the binding of any two people without happy tears. I hope Eleanor will be as content in her marriage as I am.

  Henry absently fingers the wedding ring on my hand as Simon places one on his sister’s, and I give his hand a little squeeze in return. Only one thing could make our happiness more complete—a prince. I must give Henry a son. Only this week my physicians prescribed a new tonic to awaken my slumbering womb. It tastes dreadful, but I take it without complaint—anything to conceive a child. Willelma thinks the tonic a waste. She is adamant that my womb will be fertile when the time is right.

  “Women are like gardens,” she insists. “They have seasons. You are still in winter, but spring will come, perhaps with your next birthday, and then you will bloom and your belly will swell like a good melon on a vine.”

  The thought of myself as a melon nearly makes me laugh out loud. And why not? I think defiantly. Surely a wedding is a joyful occasion.

  ELEANOR AND SIMON HAVE LEFT us and gone off to their estates, but the rancor caused by their wedding more than a month ago lingers. There has been gossip among the court, talk among Henry’s advisers, and tonight it appears we will hear from my husband’s brother.

  “The devil!” Richard bursts into the great hall at the Palace of Westminster after dinner. Henry and I were dancing, but Richard now bars our path. “Is it true?”

  “Richard,” Henry says, trying to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, only to have it shoved away.

  “Is our sister married?”

  “With our blessing.” Henry’s voice is cold, but the skin on his neck begins to flush as he grows hot with anger.

  “To Simon de Montfort?”

  “A good and faithful servant to the Crown.”

  “A Frenchman of middling fortune.”

  All the dancing has stopped now, and the music too. My uncle Guillaume glides over, a smile on his face. “Your Majesty, Earl Richard, perhaps you would be better met more privately.”

  “We would be better met a month ago before this nonsense proceeded,” Richard growls, but he allows my uncle to turn him toward the outside aisle. Henry barks a command for the musicians to begin playing once more and then stalks after his brother. I trail behind, because who shall tell me I may not? Screened from the view of curious courtiers by one of the large pillars supporting the ceiling, the brothers face each other again.

  “You had no right to marry our sister without consulting me—without consulting your magnates!”

  “No right? Speak to me of rights, will you!”

  “Yes, I will. You know, even if you found it convenient to ignore such fact, that custom dictated consultation with and consent from your council over such an important marriage. And as for my rights, am I not also the lady’s kin? As near in relation as you? As concerned about her welfare?”

  “Her welfare? If that is all that worries you, be done. Lady Montfort is quite abundantly happy with her situation.” For the first time Henry glances in my direction. “Is that not so, Eleanor? Our sister writes to the queen glowingly of her new husband.”

  “This is not a fanciful troubadour’s romance! It is a royal marriage! It ought not to be managed by women.”

  My uncle, silent himself, gives me a meaningful look, warning me to hold my tongue. He need not worry. Angered as I am by Richard’s intimation, I am even more afraid to be drawn into this nasty quarrel. I move closer to Henry’s side, between him and a large stone pillar.

  “Get out of my sight.” My husband spits his words at his brother with vehemence.

  “I shall do better than that. I will away from London, to see the Marshals and hear what they will say that you marry the widow of their august brother to Simon de Montfort.”

  And with that, Richard turns on his heels and storms from the hall. For a moment or two Henry and I stand quietly. I can hear the music and the footfall of the dancers one aisle over, and also the beating of my heart.

  “Pompous fool,” Henry mutters under his breath. But I can see he is shaken. Then, in a falsely bright voice, he says, “Eleanor, come and dance with me.”

  I take his hand, but, as he leads me back to the assembled court, my eyes linger on my uncle, who remains unmoving in the shadows, lost in thought.

  THE TOWER IS SO OBVIOUSLY a fortress, I think as we approach it this pale February day. I hope my husband and my uncle know what they are about. Will not the rabble of rebellious barons think we make more of them than they deserve by our change of residence?

  Once I am inside my chambers, my mood lifts. How could it not, surrounded by hundreds of pink and white roses?

  Uncle Guillaume enters late in the afternoon while my ladies are still unpacking. “Niece.” He nods, and by his manner of doing so I know that he would speak with me privately, so we withdraw to my chapel where only God can hear us.

  “This thing multiplies all out of proportion,” he says as soon as we are alone.

  “The number of earls and barons who have risen up in support of Lord Richard scares Henry even if he will not say it.” I wonder, as I speak the words, if it is a betrayal of my husband to admit this. But no, how can it be when my uncle is the head of His Majesty’s council? He seeks always to aid Henry in governing.

  “These English are so fastidious about their rights and precedence. The points they choose to stand on, and perhaps to fight over…” Guillaume shakes his head again, this time in dismay.

  “If this marriage makes the king stronger, what matter that they were not asked in advance?” I ask. “That was the union’s purpose, to strengthen Henry.”

  “Yes, Eleanor, but against whom? Against the possibility of too much baronial power. You cannot expect Earl Richard, his cohort the Earl of Pembroke, or the other barons to appreciate that effect as we do. A letter has come, demanding that His Majesty dissolve the council that currently advises him, and submit matters of state to a new council of barons selected from among those who oppose him.”

  “Ridiculous! Why should any man, let alone a king, allow himself to be governed by his enemies?”

  “Yet His Majesty considers it.”

  “What—?”

  “You yourself said he was frightened.”

  And now I am frightened. This is not at all how I imagined it would be. My father has such power in his domains, and he only a count. My husband is a king, but his rule seems less absolute. I look up at the brightly colored saints in a window.

  “What can be done?” I ask.
/>
  “Richard wants to go on crusade. Crusades cost money.”

  “You think the Earl of Cornwall can be paid to stop his protest against my husband?”

  “In my experience, men can be paid to do or cease doing nearly anything so long as it does not trespass upon their principles, if they have them. Let us hope this is only a matter of wounded pride with the Earl Richard—pride that can be salved with silver.”

  THE EARL RICHARD IS ALL smiles as he pushes back from my husband’s table with a satisfied expression. “Brother,” he says, “my compliments to your cooks.”

  And Henry, who appears to have forgotten that it took a flurry of negotiation and more than six thousand marks to make Richard so jovial, slaps him on the back and says, “I hear that while you were out of the city you acquired a fine new horse to take on crusade.”

  Out of the city indeed! Oh Henry, how can you be so cavalier when he was out of London to raise mischief against you? I cannot take any more. Pushing back my own chair, I make for the door. Before I reach it, my uncle reaches me.

  “Niece, why the sour look when everything is as it should be?”

  “You do not find this playacting of brotherly love a little cloying for your taste?”

  “Any show of fraternal harmony suits me admirably and ought to suit you.”

  “I know, considering how things stood only a month ago. But to pay for loyalty that ought to flow naturally from bonds of blood and family—”

  “There are worse uses of money. And we have learned something important. The Earl Richard can be bought. A man who can be bought is never a serious threat. Remember that, Eleanor. It is a lesson that may serve you well while I am gone from these shores in answer to the emperor’s call.”

  CHAPTER 6

  My dear Eleanor, greetings and felicitations,