“His Majesty has given me permission to take a small party on such an expedition, so long as sufficient knights can be found to safeguard us, and so long as he is not required to go himself.” I had hoped Louis would be enthused for the journey, and proposed it for the purpose of having him more to myself for a few days than I do here in the city. When he showed no interest I dropped the idea, but at this moment I find myself quite as eager to go as I was initially. “I should think Curias would suit you as well as Politiko, for Saint Paul preached at both.”
It is Joinville’s turn to laugh—the same rich, warm sound I remember from the gardens at Saumur and at Pontoise. I believe I could listen to him laugh all day long. “Curias will suit me better, so my men and I will act as your guides and guardians if His Majesty can spare us.”
MY SEA IS EVEN MORE beautiful from here at Curias; stretched out to the horizon, bluer than the sky.
“Your Majesty, take care.” The Sieur de Joinville ascends the last few risers to where I stand at a run. “What will I tell the king if you fall?”
That I died happy, I think. I offer Joinville a smile. “I am in no danger, Sieur; I am very sure-footed.” We are in a massive theater of white stone, stone that shines in the sun to blinding effect. Our Greek guide insists that his ancestors built it, but the Lord of Coucy says that the Romans did. Portions of the magnificent structure have collapsed, but I have climbed to the very top of what remains so that I might look down on the Mediterranean. While Joinville may fear my falling, I fear nothing. My heart is so light that should I slip, I am convinced I would take flight as a bird and glide off over this splendid scene.
“Please, Your Majesty, let us go back down.” Joinville gestures to where the balance of our party wanders beneath the brilliant autumn sun. He reaches out his hand, and I cannot resist placing mine upon it.
In the fortnight since Louis retained Jean de Joinville, I have seen more of him than in all the years since Saumur put together. Each moment a delight, each moment more precious, whether we are dancing, exploring the markets of Nicosia, or conversing. We can talk of everything, and we do. Things I have not told my husband of fourteen years because he showed no interest I speak of easily with the Seneschal of Champagne—particularly things of my childhood and my family.
Leading me carefully downward, testing every step before I take it, Joinville says, “Our guide tells me that there are some very fine mosaics nearby. Shall we see them or have you had enough for the day?”
I tighten my grip to make a small jump, realizing with regret that in a few more steps we will be on level ground and I will have no further excuse for keeping hold of his hand. “Oh, I would see them, by all means.”
Only the Sieur de Joinville and I are interested in the mosaics. The others, tired of sights, choose to remain behind, seated on large blocks of stone at the amphitheater where they may partake of refreshments. I am not at all disappointed to leave them as I raise a hand to wave good-bye to my ladies.
We do not go far, and the house, when we reach it, is unlike any I have seen. One side has fallen, but the central portion looks sound. Having led us this far, our guide stops at the threshold, gesturing for us to go in.
The Sieur de Joinville exchanges a few words with the man and then tells me, “He insists it is safe, but I will go first to espy any rough places.”
Leaving the Greek behind, we pass down a short corridor and into a large room, graceful despite its decay. Four elegant columns form a square at its center, holding the edges of a crumbling tile roof where it opens to frame the sky. Beneath this aperture, the floor is sunken to form a pool.
“Beautiful,” I say.
My voice disturbs a pair of birds somewhere, and they flutter up, a flash of gray and white, through the open ceiling. The movement surprises me, and I instinctively move closer to Joinville. My eyes travel to the walls. They are not tiled but painted, and whatever scene they once showed is faded and missing in patches. Then I look down. Geometric patterns, fantastiques in their complexity and involving numberless tiles, give way in the near distance to spaces peopled with figures. Moving forward in silence, I find myself standing before two men in combat. These are not knights such as I am accustomed to seeing. They wear helmets and some sort of curved metal over their shins but are elsewise largely naked. A tight tunic, girdled at the waist and sleeveless, rides up on each man’s legs where he crouches, revealing the flesh of massive, tensed thighs. Bare arms, muscled in tiled detail, heft short swords and shields. One of the warriors has been stuck, and blood pools at his feet.
“Your Majesty,” Joinville says, his hand tugging slightly at my sleeve, “come away. This is not a scene fit for your eyes.”
“Why not?” I know Joinville is merely being chivalrous, but I am tired of being excluded and sheltered by Louis. I will not allow Joinville to treat me in the same manner. After all, I have been on campaign before. I put my hands on my hips and, tilting my head, look him boldly in the face. “Are my eyes fit only to gaze upon the flowers and animals that we saw portrayed in tile this morning? Sieur de Joinville, we are off to war. Surely in the Holy Land I will witness battles where the blood that is shed amounts to more than colored tile?”
“My God! You have a lion’s heart inside a lamb’s breast! Why His Majesty does not value you more I cannot say.”
I catch my breath at this strange, blunt exclamation. I have never thought of myself as a lion. Eleanor, yes; she is all fierceness and daring. Could there beat at the center of me a heart that is likewise brave, even reckless? Whether by this question or by Joinville’s candor and the frank admiration in his tone, I find myself emboldened.
“And you? Will you not admit how you value me?”
Joinville takes two steps away and when he turns back, his eyes are on fire. “I would admit more if I dared.”
“You are a banneret with men at your command. You are on your way to do battle against the Saracens. What should you fear?”
“Dishonor.”
“Mine or your own?”
“Yours. No, that is not true.” Joinville must see my hurt surprise for he hurries to continue. “I fear to bring evil upon your head, c’est sûr, but more than that, I fear your disdain. Your rejection might prove blow enough to fell me as surely as any Saracen sword.”
I ought to rebuff him, but there is no decision to be made. The moment for sensible action has passed, not in the present silence as Joinville’s eyes search my face, but the very first time we were alone when I sensed more was at stake than courtly love and playacting. “My heart has sought yours since the moment I first laid eyes upon you,” I reply.
And then I am in Jean’s arms and his lips are on my lips. Such a kiss I have never had—soft, searching, expressive. It is almost as if we are speaking to each other without words. I feel dizzy, but I also feel something else—the strongest desire I have ever experienced in my life. I close my eyes and see Jean in the short tunic of the tiled warriors—I see his muscled thighs and imagine them between my own. I need Jean to touch me, to take me as a man takes a woman, but how can I possibly say so? I have not that much boldness in me.
When Jean takes his mouth off mine he is gasping and wild-eyed, like a fish drawn up on shore. “Oh my sweet love,” he says. “We must be very careful.”
I reach up and put a hand into his dark curls, something I have dreamed of doing for so very long. “No one is here but the guide.”
Jean smiles down at me and gives a warm laugh. “I was thinking more broadly.”
“Of course.” I feel my cheeks warming slightly at my own eager abandon.
“I am not content merely to kiss you in this ruined place, though God knows I will do so again.” And keeping his promise, Jean lowers his head, thrusting his tongue once more between my hungry lips. I put my arms around his waist and lean into him with a fierceness that threatens to throw us both off balance, as if I would melt into him and be consumed.
“God’s coif,” he moans, withdrawin
g his mouth again. “We had better go, before I lose all control and strip you naked on this spot.”
I rest my cheek against his chest, knowing I will not have the courage to say anything if I must look him in the eye.
“Why not?”
I hear his breath catch against the background of his beating heart. His arms tighten around me. Then releasing me, he steps back and offers a devastating smile.
“Well, for one thing, we would not be very comfortable,” he says, gesturing to the surroundings, all tile and stone. “And for another, I meant what I said—if we choose this path, we will be in grave danger. It is treasonous—”
“No!” I say sharply. “Surely to love cannot be so serious a crime.” But of course I know he is right.
“I told you once that I would be known as a man who speaks truth. We must speak and hear it now, however painful. We stand at the precipice, and if we would plunge over it, let us do so with eyes open so that we may take all possible care, and so that never will we have cause to curse and say, ‘If only we had thought.’”
Again I feel the soundness of his words, even through the haze of my lust. If I am to take Jean as a lover, it ought to be because I choose to follow my desires, not because I am overwhelmed by them. But taking what I want is out of the ordinary for me. I have ever governed myself by reason and by a compulsion to do what was expected of me—to behave as a model daughter and then a model wife—a compulsion driven by my desire not to be called impetuous and headstrong as Eleanor was. Standing and watching Jean, his breath still irregular as if he has run a long way, I realize that my lifelong devotion to what is proper has not made me happy. Like my sister, I shall choose to have things my own way this once and see if that brings me joy.
“Treason then,” I answer. “I can accept that. I must accept that, because to turn from you now is something I cannot accept. I can love France and also you.”
“And I swear that I love France better because I love you.” Jean’s words come out slowly and softly, as if he is thinking them through even as he gives voice to them.
“Then let me give myself to you. Let us find a way. Not here, I concede, but soon. My heart is so full I cannot wait.” I do not mention that not only my heart but my entire body aches.
“Tonight. There is no one to disturb you once your ladies are dismissed.”
He does not mention Louis, but I know what he means. As my husband does not travel with us, there is no one to visit my bed; no one but Jean. “Yes, tonight. Come to me from the garden.”
OUR PARTY RETURNS TO LIMASSOL in the late afternoon. This is where we are lodging while we see the wonders of Curias and other sights along the Cyprian coast—staying in the same castle that Louis and I made our home immediately after arriving from France. It is a castle built by the Knights of Saint John. I cannot wait for the sun to go down.
“Your Majesty has seriously overexerted herself,” Marie chides at the table where my ladies and I take our evening meal.
“In truth I am too tired to eat.” I am amazed how easily the lie slips off my tongue. I who have always prided myself on veracity. “I was selfish today, keeping you all in the sun so long, but I am chastened. Tomorrow we will stay in and rest.”
Matilda looks at me with concern. I offer her a reassuring smile. It would be too terrible for her to worry that I am ill and insist on sleeping at the foot of my bed tonight. “Shall we have music or games to pass the evening?”
Finally night comes. I admonish Marie not to disturb me until I call for her. “I am certain,” I say, as she tucks me into bed, “that I will sleep as one dead.” Another lie, and just as easy as the last. When she is gone, I make myself count to one hundred before getting up. I creep to my door and, holding my breath lest I make a noise, fix the bolt. Then, I go to the other door, the one opening onto the garden. This door Marie has fastened for the night. As my hands fumble with the lock I wonder if Jean is already waiting.
I am not left long in suspense. The moment I ease the door open, Jean is inside and turning to fasten it behind himself. He catches me up in his arms and kisses me. Then moving his mouth to my ear, he asks, “Are you certain?”
By way of answer, I turn from him and, stepping before the fire, pull my shift over my head to reveal my nakedness.
“By all the stars in heaven, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
Even at the start of my marriage, when Louis indulged in me with regularity, he never gave voice to such admiration. I feel giddy with the delight of being thought lovely; yet at the same time I am aware that my body reflects the children I have borne. I wish Jean could have seen me when its contours were more girlishly perfect.
I recall the morning that I first paid myself my own marriage debt with images of Jean swimming before me, and all the times since that I have pleasured myself while imagining his nakedness. “I want to see you,” I say simply, surprised by the low, broken sound of my own voice.
Without a word Jean begins to disrobe, dropping his clothing carelessly to the floor. I find I am touching my own breasts as I watch—rubbing them, teasing the nipples into a state of alertness. And when he is as naked as I, I cannot believe the beauty—every limb well muscled; the dark curly hair on his head tousled and childlike from pulling his tunic over his head; and, nestled among the dark curls of his groin, his member fully engorged. Slowly he approaches me. Rather than kissing me, he buries his face between my breasts, replacing my fingers upon the nipples with his own. He takes one nipple between his lips, kissing and sucking by turns, and I nearly swoon. My hands, which in all my years as a married woman have never touched my husband’s bare member, find his swollen organ, stroking it. The skin is like velvet, fascinatingly soft beneath my fingers. All I want is to pull it to me and impale myself upon it. But Jean stops me. Sweeping me into his arms, he carries me to my bed and lays me upon it. I draw up my knees, knowing what comes next. But Jean appears to have no intention of mounting me.
Lying beside me, stroking my cheek, he whispers, “Marguerite—my God, how many times I have imagined saying your name, how many times I have heard myself speak it in my dreams—from this moment I live for you.” He begins to kiss me again, every part of me—lips, neck, shoulders, breasts—and as he does, his fingers move between my legs, searching tenderly for a place that will give me pleasure. When he finds it, I cry out softly.
“Jean,” I beg, “take me or I will die.”
“You will not die, I promise,” he replies with a slight laugh, “and I will take you. But I would not just receive pleasure from you; I would give it.”
I turn toward him, again trying to pull him into me, but he gently resists, dropping his mouth to my breast again and suddenly thrusting a finger inside me. I abandon all control and all thoughts of control. Waves of pleasure roll over me like the waters that break on the beaches of Limassol not far from where we lie. My hips move without effort to meet his finger and then, deep inside me, something begins to spasm. I bury my face against Jean’s shoulder to muffle my gasps of pleasure. Just as it begins to subside, Jean slips himself inside me and I thrill again. Rolling him on top of me, I wrap my legs about his buttocks and my arms about his neck, drawing myself up to him even as he plunges into me. He is groaning, and the sound gives me a feeling of delight and power. I long to make him lose control; to make him tremble as he has me. I feel my muscles begin to tense again and then, without warning, Jean withdraws from me and begins to thrust against my belly. Looking down along my own nakedness, I reach with both hands and desperately try to pull him back inside, but he will not be moved. And a moment later he spills milky white seed across my stomach. I begin to shake with sobs both of joy and frustration.
As if he understands perfectly, Jean cradles me in his arms, pushing the hair back from my face.
“Si non caste tamen caute,” he whispers.
And then I know, this is one of the prices I must pay. If I cannot be chaste, I must, at least, be cautious. Because Jean is n
ot my husband, he cannot let himself run inside me. He cannot risk quickening my womb.
LOUIS APPEARS HAPPIER TO SEE Jean than he is to see me upon our return. Far from being rankled, I take pride in the favor the king shows Jean. He is mine now, and I would have everyone recognize how glorious he is.
At dinner our first night back in Nicosia I am seated between the two. To be so close and not touch Jean is maddening. As the first course is carried away, I wonder if I might brush my hand across his knee beneath the table without anyone noticing.
“Was it exhilarating to stand where Saint Paul preached?” Louis asks Jean, taking a sip from a glass of such a strikingly dark red liquid that I wonder if he has stopped watering his wine.
“Your Majesty, there was much about the journey that was both exhilarating and humbling. I am beholden to Her Majesty for suggesting the trip, and to Your Majesty for honoring me with the commission of escorting the queen.”
I misswallow some of my own wine and am left coughing. The double entendre in Jean’s answer causes a small spasm inside me. He is toying with me.
“I am very pleased that you and Her Majesty have become friends,” Louis says, wiping his mouth.
I hope I do not color at this remark, and I pray if my cheeks are pink, those around us attribute the fact to my having just recovered from choking. I am remembering what Jean did to me among the sand ridges of the salt lake at Akrotiri—the flawless blue sky framing his head as he took me, and how the beautiful pink birds rose up in a cloud, disturbed by my cries of ecstasy. These were not the actions of a mere friend. I believe there is sand in my garments still.
“Come and hear Mass with me tomorrow morning. Afterward we will have a good talk. I want to show you an extraordinary tent that I received by way of a present from the King of Armenia. There is some fighting in that country, and the king sends word that any of my knights who are bored waiting to sail to the Holy Land may do service with him and earn a profit.”
The Sister Queens Page 22