The Sister Queens

by Sophie Perinot

  I cannot defend Henry in this. The grant of Gascony to Earl Richard robs our son. “How? When Henry feels that Richard saved him from capture.”

  “Richard did save him. And for this very reason we must bide our time. Richard returns from the campaign stronger than he left, both in Henry’s affections and in the imagination of the average Englishman. Sting him now and his cries will raise the sympathy of too many. Let us make as much of him for a while as the king does.”

  My uncle moves away and takes a seat by my fire. For some moments both of us are silent. And then it comes to me. “No, we shall make more of him,” I say. “I will urge Henry to finalize the marriage contract with my father immediately and to be generous in the financial terms. If we must pay Louis from the royal accounts, why not Richard? Then we will use the preparations for a lavish wedding to wipe away the traces of disgrace that dog the king. Give the English a spectacle and they will forget much else. The troubadours will have a new song to sing—a song of the women of Provence and their beauty.”

  “YOU LOOK LOVELY; IT IS foolish to fuss,” my mother says, entering my cabin and passing behind me. Willelma holds a small polished bronze mirror a few feet away while I attempt to see myself in difficult circumstances. We are in the waters off Dover, and the November winds toss the ship most unpleasantly. It has taken me a long time to make my return from Gascony to English shores, and I intend to arrive looking my best.

  “It is foolish not because I look beautiful, but because no matter what I do, I cannot measure up to Sanchia’s loveliness,” I reply. When my mother and sister arrived in Bordeaux to join Henry and me, I was completely taken aback by my sister’s exquisite looks. True, she was always a beauty, but seven years ago when I saw her last she was but a child. Now she is a woman of seventeen with all the assets and attractions womanhood brings. She is so stunning that in my darker moments I wonder if it is wise to have her at my court. Surely every man will ignore me once she is in England. If I catch Henry glancing in her direction with any eyes other than those of a brother, heaven help her!

  “Your sister will need more than beauty to make a success of this marriage.” Mother takes the mirror from Willelma and gestures for her to leave.

  It is amazing, I think, how quickly my mother and I resumed our familiar roles. All my worry that our prolonged separation might have left us awkward strangers disappeared within an hour after I greeted her in Bordeaux, but so too did my firm intentions to be treated as an equal. I will always be daughter to my mother, even if I am a queen, a grown woman, and a mother myself three times over.

  “I see clearly how it lies between His Majesty and the Earl Richard. Your uncle, of course, instructed me on the topic while the match was being made, but I always understand better what I have seen with my own eyes.” Apparently satisfied with my appearance and assuming that will be enough for me, mother flips the mirror over and looks at herself. She bites her upper and lower lip to bring the color, then smiles at her reflection.

  “Then you understand the importance of reining Richard in. He thinks himself the more able of the brothers.” I go to the window of my cabin and gaze out at the white cliffs that welcome me home. They are drawing close. It will soon be time to disembark. I turn back to my mother. “Richard is not alone in his assessment. Too many of Henry’s barons underestimate my husband in favor of his brother. If he cannot be checked, he is a danger to us.”

  “Sanchia knows she is tasked with bending Richard to the royal will.”

  “But is she equal to the undertaking? She is so reticent!” I find my sister boring. She is entirely pleasant, respectful, and attentive to me, but there is no spark in her.

  “Not everyone can have your boldness, Eleanor. She may be timid, but she is loyal and, more important, she is dutiful. This is the one characteristic I managed to impart to all my daughters, however different their temperaments. So we may count on Sanchia to try.”

  “That is not entirely comforting, madam. My husband has spent three thousand marks and four manor houses to secure this marriage, and to try is not always to succeed.”

  “No, that holds true for all of us,” Mother replies gently.

  I feel my face growing hot. How dare she remind me of Henry’s recent failure? But perhaps she does not; perhaps she only remembers and refers to some less than successful endeavors of my own. She is right, of course; if effort were the measure of success, my husband and not Marguerite’s would be heralded as the greatest king in Europe. But even with all of my uncle’s coaching and all my prompting and encouragement, Henry missteps again and again in governing.

  “For a few weeks at least, we can guide her,” my mother continues, ignoring my discomfort.

  I feel vaguely cross with my sister for being as she is. Unfair? Perhaps. I have no other sister of marriageable age, so Sanchia provided the most direct and obvious way to tie Richard to my family, whatever her faults. And besides, he talked of her with such ardor after seeing her. But Savoyards are many. Another bride, less close in degree of relation but more apt for the purpose, might have been found had I known to look. Standing opposite my mother, I realize her interests and my own were not entirely the same in this matter. She wanted a wealthier and more prestigious husband for Sanchia than the Count of Toulouse, and she may well have thought it best not to apprise me of my sister’s shortcomings before the marriage contract was executed. This thought fans the embers of my annoyance into white-hot anger.

  “Let us hope Richard finds the coinage with which Sanchia pays her marriage debt as irresistible as he finds gold from my husband’s purse,” I snap.

  My mother winces. “Eleanor!”

  “A man will do much for a woman who pleases him in bed,” I say petulantly. “If my sister has not the sort of personality to push her husband in the direction we need him to go, nor the cleverness to trick him, she may still manage him effectively through his lust.”

  My mother regards me for a moment or two without speaking. But if she thinks to cow me, she will be disappointed. A cry from on deck breaks our standoff. The sailors are making preparations to land.

  “I will go and make certain of your sister. She will be nervous about being seen on English soil for the first time.” My mother’s eyes smolder, but her voice is even. She glides across my small cabin as if the ship were not even moving. Such an appearance of serenity despite the circumstances! At the door she turns briefly. “I think, Daughter,” she says in the same mild tone, “you would do well to leave off preening and perfecting your outside appearance, and lavish more attention on matters of your character.”

  By the time the plank is dropped for us to disembark, I am thoroughly miserable. I wish I had not spoken as I did to my mother. Gazing down at the enormous party of noblemen assembled for our arrival, each splendidly dressed and beautifully mounted, I should feel proud. Only a few months ago, Henry’s barons made him the subject of ribald jests, and now, here they are, looking grave and respectful and entirely appropriate to welcome me and my relations home. But I feel maudlin. I am disappointed that Henry is not among them, even though I knew he would remain at Westminster. Henry would make me feel better and tell me I have done nothing wrong—even if I have. Instead, Richard is at the head of the welcoming party, looking tall, grave, and stately. His height always offends me, though his being taller than Henry is no more his fault than my being taller than my husband is mine. Whatever lingering anger Richard feels over Henry’s revocation of the grant of Gascony, it is certainly not on display at the moment. With any luck, the gift of my sister to this man will wipe away all his resentment over lands lost.

  Richard saw Sanchia last more than three years ago in my father’s house. My figure blocks hers at the top of the plank, but as soon as I begin to descend, accompanied by the sound of trumpets, I see his eyes widen. The fool, he is practically salivating! When my mother, sister, and I are all assembled on dry land, I make the introductions.

  “Lady Cynthia.”

  From t
he way Richard says her name—or what she must become accustomed to answering to on this strange English soil—before he kisses her hand, you would think he was a boy of nineteen who had never been wed before. As he helps her to her horse, I notice his hand lingers at her waist far longer than necessary. I may be sorry for my coarse language with my mother, but it is abundantly clear to me, and doubtless to all the gentlemen standing close by, that Earl Richard is already imagining his bride naked. Perhaps this is not so surprising because his last wife, though he loved her exceedingly, came to him at thirty and as a widow. He has never had a young woman and a virgin. Well, other than his mistresses, some of whom have been young. I will not speculate on their virginity.

  I roll my eyes slightly at my mother, but she studiously ignores me.

  With my sister mounted, we move off. There is no time to waste; Sanchia is to be married before month’s end. There are thousands of dishes and details to be seen to as everything will be done with utmost style. Henry promised me in his last letter that my tailor works from sunup to sunset to make certain that my every garment for the celebrations will be talked about for weeks by the English gentlewomen. Riding at the head of the party along a road lined with my subjects, I see their eyes pass from me to admire my sister, who rides at Richard’s side just behind me, and I wonder if expensive gowns will be enough.

  HOW A MONTH MAY CHANGE everything! My sister is a sweet thing, willing to oblige me in everything. She has my looks bested, but is so shy that despite her loveliness she often seems to fade into the background when in company. I like her better for the fact that she never tries to outshine me.

  As for Richard, thus far his pleasure in her, and in being a member of my family, has made his relations with Henry the easiest I have ever seen them. At the rate he is bedding Sanchia—who is as open to my suggestions for this activity as she is to my suggestions on mode of dress or English customs—I am hopeful there will be a full cradle within a year to seal the marriage in the most satisfactory way possible.

  And my mother! The lady has a head for politics I aspire to match. She knows exactly whom to flatter and whom to ignore. Looking down the table to where she listens to Simon de Montfort, her hand on his arm, her easy smile encouraging his confidences, I forget for a moment my apprehension that this Christmas banquet hosted by my brother-in-law and sister comes uncomfortably close to rivaling the lavish nature of the wedding banquet in their honor that I presided over. Indeed, let Richard spend his money to feed Henry and our court for once. He has certainly had his share of our treasury.

  Sitting beside me, Henry spreads his fingers contentedly over his stomach. “I am completely satiated.”

  “Completely?” I place a hand on his thigh beneath the table. With our little Beatrice eighteen months old, Sanchia’s is not the only belly I mean to see filled in the next months. As Uncle Peter reminded me recently, one son, even if he be a very sturdy boy, is not sufficient hedge against an uncertain future.

  Henry’s sleepy eye widens a little at my insinuation. “Eleanor, have I told you how lovely you look?”

  I am wearing a new gown made from the lengths of glimmering ruby fabric that Uncle Thomas brought for me when he came for Sanchia’s wedding. He brought the same for my mother and sister, and all three of us are clad in his offering for this banquet. While I approved of the idea as a show of family unity, a part of me chafes at the very direct comparison that dressing so similarly is bound to inspire. “As lovely as my sister?”

  “Pshaw,” Henry replies, “she cannot compare to you. She is too skinny. Clearly, I do not remind you often enough of your beauty.”

  I laugh at my husband’s gallantry. It is an endearing gesture. He need not compliment me extravagantly to be in either my good graces or my bed, but the habit of pleasing me begun in the early days of our marriage has never left him. “You tell me often, sir, but I never tire of hearing it.”

  Henry is in as fine a mood as I have seen since our return from the miserable mess in Poitou. Amenable, I judge, to nearly anything. I look again in the direction of my mother and give an audible sigh.

  “What troubles you, Eleanor?” Henry is all concern.

  “I am not troubled, only a little saddened that the countess must leave us soon. Of course, I understand that my father cannot bear to be without her longer when he is ill, but she is a good companion to me and, I think, an asset to our court.”

  “You can have no doubt of my esteem for the Countess of Provence. In fact, I was thinking of making her a gift. Would four hundred pounds per annum please you?”

  “Henry!” I lean to kiss his cheek, and he beams.

  “I shall have the endowment drawn. Shall we say half a dozen years?”

  “More than generous.” And I do think it generous. But such a gift was not the topic I had in mind when I raised my mother’s departure. That lady has impressed upon me, with Peter and Thomas at either elbow, the importance of securing a loan for my father from my husband. Ill though he is, the count is engaged in a military matter and short on funds. It would hardly seem grateful to raise that issue now, but I will find the moment for it.

  “WALLINGFORD CERTAINLY IS A FINE castle.” Henry stretches out on his back in my bed, hands clasped behind his head. With the firelight glinting in his beard and hair, I think he looks much younger than his thirty-six years.

  “I am sure he remembers that he had it by your hand,” I reply, rolling on my side to see him better.

  “He is a good brother.”

  “Yes.” I can agree without dissembling at present. There is no purpose in reminding Henry of past instances of less than perfect behavior on Richard’s part. And with the help of God and Sanchia, there will be fewer such instances in future. “A fine and loyal family is a prize beyond measure.”

  “True.” Henry rolls to face me and cups my cheek in his hand. “And you are the great architect of my family and thereby my happiness. By your relations, I have gained loyal advisers, a caring mother, and now a new sister; and by your body I have been blessed with three healthy children.”

  I feel a lump in my throat. Leaning forward, I give Henry a gentle kiss. “You must not forget, Henry, that you are in part the author of your own contentment as well as the source of all my own. Did you not marry me, love me, and take to your bosom all my kith and kin as if they were your own? These were none of them preordained things. My own sister Marguerite has not a single soul at her court who shares with her bonds of blood and kinship.” I think to myself that, did not the duty of sisterly loyalty forbid it, I might say more—I might say that it does not seem to me that my sister’s husband loves her very much.

  A heat born of our moment of tenderness is rising between us. Already I know that a second coupling this evening is inevitable, and I welcome it. But before I surrender to my passions and to those of my husband, I cannot let this moment pass. After all, there has been so much talk of family. “Henry, I am worried about my father.”

  “He is ill, I know.” Henry’s voice is sympathetic, but his attention, like his hand, is already wandering to my breast.

  “Yes, but he is also in need of better defenses. Have you given thought to my mother’s request for a loan?”

  “I want to give her the money, Eleanor”—Henry dips his head to kiss the hollow between my breasts—“but my council is worried about the security for such a loan.”

  “Mother said today that we might have castles for that and might select them ourselves.”

  “I have a castle in Provence. Why do I need more?”

  “Because”—I kiss the side of his neck just below his earlobe—“you are married to an heiress of Provence.” It pains me to speak of my father’s death, and I pray it will not be for many years, but every man is mortal. “And when that day comes, we may need to defend our claim.”

  “You mean from Louis?” Henry is clearly interested in this new line of conversation. He pulls back far enough to look me squarely in the eyes again.

 
“The French king will want Provence; that is certain. It is greatly to his advantage to expand his territories in the south.” I stroke Henry’s chest soothingly. I want to press my point, but I do not want my husband to become so agitated over Louis that I cannot conclude it, or that his present mood is spoiled. After all, I am nearly as eager as he to be done with politics and on to matters of love.

  “Can we take possession of the castles your father will give us as surety?”

  I wrack my brain to remember what Uncle Peter said upon this point during the light of day. Henry does not help the situation as, during the pause, he begins to rub his hand between my thighs.

  “Of course.” If that was not the case, I think, my uncles will now have to make it so. “But let us leave those details to my uncles and to another time.”

  “Agreed.” Henry begins to lower his head to my breast once again.

  But I cannot be easy until I clarify the point. I arrest his head in both my hands. “You will make the loan?”

  “Four thousand marks, just as your mother asked.” It is amazing to me that he can remember the amount. But so it always is; his moments of political lucidity come and go at the most unpredictable of times.

  As for my own head, with Henry’s promise secured, I have not another moment to spare for politics—English or Provençal. I desire nothing more this night than satisfaction of my desire at the hands of my husband.

  CHAPTER 12

  My dearest Marguerite,

  Each day I hope to hear that you are safely delivered of your child. I have paid for masses that the babe might be the son you have prayed for these ten years. Surely between your petitions and my own, God and his saints must tire of hearing the subject of a French prince sounded, and they will be glad to put an end to our entreaties by giving your husband an heir.…

  I remain your devoted sister,