“Will Your Majesty permit such an excursion?”
“I am of mixed mind on the subject. I hope every day to see the last of my ships arrived so that we may proceed to the Holy Land. Any delay once they are landed waiting for knights to be recalled would be insupportable. But at the same time, some of the men are finding distractions far more dangerous to their mortal souls than honest combat.”
Louis glances to see if I am paying attention. I take care to appear as if I am looking down at my trencher while watching him from the corner of my eye. Apparently convinced that my attention is fixed on my food, my husband mouths the word “prostitutes.”
“Reprehensible to be sure, Your Majesty. Men serving their God and their king ought not to debase themselves so. But perhaps it is also understandable. Not every man has the comfort of a wife upon this journey.”
When Jean departs for the evening, I retreat to my rooms. Though it is early, I have my ladies undress me and then dismiss them. Their chatter will only distract me from the one entertainment that can satisfy me—thinking of Jean. Of course, remembering the moments of our travels together is no substitution for having him with me, and I have no expectation of seeing him in my bed this evening. Now that we are returned to court, other arrangements must be made. So, knowing I will see Jean again in the morning at Mass, I say my prayers and climb into bed, eager for sleep.
Then Louis arrives. He has not touched me since we boarded our ships at Aigues-Mortes; yet tonight he comes. I feel nauseated at the sight of him, not out of guilt or fear that he will discover what I have done, but at the thought of his touching what Jean has touched.
“Wife,” he says, nodding curtly to acknowledge me where I lie trembling as if I were a new bride beneath the covers. He puts out his candle, slides in beside me, and immediately presses his frantic mouth against mine.
I am glad that it is dark and he cannot see my face; glad too that he has not sought or required any sort of reciprocation from me in many years. With his tongue still pushing invasively into my mouth, he thrusts himself between my legs. Over and over he stabs himself into me, pinioning me against the mattress. I feel as if I am being violated. Hot angry tears flow down my cheeks. Louis grunts like an animal, “Uh, uh, uh,” in time with his thrusts.
I want to cry out, to pound on Louis’s back with my fists and make him stop, but there is nothing to be done. He is my husband and has rights over my body. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for it to stop. Yet on and on it goes, and with it my mortification. At last Louis experiences release. After a few moments, he withdraws from me, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and, adjusting his shift, rises to leave.
“Good night, Wife, and God save you,” he says from the threshold with ludicrous formality. As the door falls closed behind him, I begin to sob openly. How did I bear this for so long? And then I realize that before Jean touched me, I had come to expect nothing from the marital act but an opportunity to conceive a child—to make myself more indispensible to my husband and more secure in my position as queen.
CHAPTER 23
My dear sister,
Cyprus is the most wonderful kingdom in the world. The people, like the weather, are warm; the markets are full of goods from the east unlike any I have before seen. I find myself thankful for the storm that separated the king’s fleet and set us to overwinter here (though I would certainly never own as much to His Majesty).
I am recently returned from a journey to the south coast. Such a trip. I walked for hours upon the beaches near Limassol—some covered in the finest sand as white as the snow that falls in France in winter; others, closer to the city, covered with a coarse, gray mix of pebbles. I saw a lake filled with salt water as if it were the sea. It was frequented by birds of a shade of pink I have only ever seen in the rising or setting of the sun. I saw the great ruins at Curias. Everything delighted me, including the company, for my party was made up of my favorite ladies and the finest and most gallant of His Majesty’s knights. As each day drew to a close, I slept, wrapped in soft, salt-filled breezes. I have truly never been happier since we were children together.…
Your sister,
Marguerite
ELEANOR
JANUARY 1249
PALACE OF WESTMINSTER, ENGLAND
I pick Marguerite’s letter out of my lap and read it once more. She is a different woman, as if the air in Cyprus has blown away all the cares in her life. Perhaps we are merely light and shadow, the two of us. We cannot both tread an even path at the same time. For years while my marriage to Henry was as smooth as the undisturbed surface of a pond, I could tell that Marguerite, though restrained in her complaints, was unsatisfied with Louis. And now, I find my husband increasingly either distracted or argumentative and Marguerite—scanning the pages, I suddenly realize my sister has mentioned her husband but once. Singular. And who are these young men in whom she takes such a sudden interest? The half brothers of Uncle Peter’s wife? This might be reason enough to recommend them to Peter’s favor. But what can Geoffrey de Joinville, Simon de Joinville, and William Salines be to Marguerite? I remain puzzled, but my sister can twist my arm from a very long way when she wants to. They are family. Uncle Peter will surely help me place them and it will please my aunt as well as my sister, so why not?
A servant comes to put more wood on the fire. I stir and stretch contentedly like a cat safe in the warmth of the blaze from the reach of winter cold. I finger the front of my pelisse; it is made of the most beautiful siglatoun and lined in gris. What satisfaction it gives that I can have such luxury in a garment that few eyes will ever see—that, in fact, is intended solely to cover my chemise and keep me warm while I wait for Henry to come to me for the night.
A knock sounds, startling me. If it was Henry, he would simply enter. My ladies have gone for the evening, so I merely say, “Come,” rising as I do to greet the unexpected caller.
Uncle Peter strides in, looking exhausted. “Henry has just presented the living at Flamstead to his wardrobe clerk.”
“What?”
“To Artaud de St. Romain.” Peter flops down on a stool before the fire.
“But I gave that benefice to William of London a fortnight ago. I, not Henry, have wardship of those lands.”
“Is that what you plan to tell His Majesty if he comes this evening?”
“If?”
“The king is very angry, Eleanor. Angrier than simple misunderstanding over authority warrants.”
“There is no misunderstanding,” I reply, pacing away from my uncle. “The authority is mine.”
“All right,” Peter says, shrugging. “We can take that position, and we can likely defend it successfully. But what I want to know, Eleanor, is why Henry challenges your gift so fiercely.”
“How should I know, Uncle?”
“You have not quarreled?”
“Not about Flamstead.”
“What then?”
“A dozen little things and nothing at all.” It is my turn to shrug. I recall in a rush a disagreement of the evening before over some behavior of my cousin, Gaston de Béarn, in Gascony. As if I could control all my relations however far-flung! “Believe me, Uncle—I am as mystified as you, both by this particular action of the king and by his general mood of late. It used to be that I was perfection in his eyes and excepted from his reproachful tongue. But now he questions my expenses and inquires into every mundane household decision I make. The other day, without warning, he accused me of thinking more of your opinions than his.”
“Then he had best not find me here.” Peter rises wearily. “What shall I write to William of London?”
“That he must stay where he is. He is the rector of Flamstead, and he should pay no mind to whosoever says otherwise.”
Uncle Peter goes and I resume my seat, but I no longer feel comfortable or content. I now dread Henry’s arrival; yet at the same time I would have it over, for nothing else will give me such a clear idea of how things stand between my husband and me
at present. My suffering is not long. Scarce have I tucked my slippered feet up beneath me when the door swings open and Henry walks in.
As is my custom, I rise to pour him a goblet of wine. When I am halfway to the decanter, his voice stops me.
“I am not staying.”
“No?” I work hard to keep my face open, as if I have no reason to suspect he is angry.
“I saw your uncle on my way here.”
I do not take the bait, merely remaining mute.
“Is it true you conferred the living at Flamstead on your chaplain?”
“Yes,” I say with a deliberate lightness, “I am surprised that you only hear of it now, for it was done more than two weeks ago. He is already in possession.”
“Well then, you can dispossess him!” The color rises in Henry’s face, leaving it blotched and red. His normal eye narrows until it nearly matches his drooping one.
“Does Your Majesty have some objection to the conduct or reputation of William of London? For if not, why would you wish me to withdraw my favor?”
“By nails and by blood, Eleanor, it is not the man who offends me but the favor itself. Flamstead was not yours to give, any more than is the money in my purse.” He grasps the bag at his waist to emphasize his point.
“How so, Husband, when you yourself gave me the wardship of Roger de Tony’s lands until he reaches majority? Does not the rectory at Flamstead sit upon those lands?”
“Call your lawyers, lady—a grant of wardship does not convey the power over advowsons.”
“So we have the need of lawyers between us! Here is a pretty pass.” Henry’s flare of temper ignites mine. If he thinks to humble me by his behavior and force my capitulation, then he needs to be reminded that I am not so easily thwarted. “I do not believe I was outside my rights, but if I was mistaken, why, sir, do you seek to embarrass me and undo what has already been done?”
“Will you recall your man?” Henry’s mouth is tight as he speaks, and his words come out in a growl. Ought I to be afraid? Perhaps, but I am too angry that he attempts to bully me to properly fear.
“I am not of a nature to be intimidated by glowering,” I reply, lifting my chin. For a dreadful moment I fear Henry is going to slap me. In fact, I see his hand rise slightly before he drops it again. In all the years of our marriage he has never struck me. That he considered doing so now only redoubles my resistance.
“How high does the arrogance of woman rise if it is not checked!” He virtually spits the words.
“However elevated, sir, it cannot approach the height of your own.”
Henry spins on his heels and storms from my room, calling for his chamberlain as he goes.
The next morning, John Mansel slips into my antechamber more like a mouse than a former Lord Chancellor and a man covered in the favor of both his king and queen.
I shoo my ladies to the other end of the room and motion for Mansel to take the seat beside my own.
“Your Majesty, I thought you would wish to be apprised that His Majesty has sent the sheriff of Buckinghamshire to compel the bishop of Lincoln to evict William of London from Flamstead.”
“The bishop would not dare.”
“He may be sorely tempted, Your Majesty, when his alternative is to appear in court to explain why he does not.”
“Thank you for coming to me. This is news I must have even if it saddens me.”
“There is more. The king this morning dismissed William of London from your household. He is your chaplain no more.”
I see red. How dare Henry! I am not a child whose household needs to be managed for her. The time for lawyers may have come indeed. Struggling to control my rage or at least to keep it from making itself obvious by my voice, I say, “My Lord Mansel, William of London is a worthy soul. I thought to reward him for his faithful service by this benefice, but it seems I may have ruined him instead. You know the laws of this land, both church and civil, better than I. How can I best mend my friend’s fortunes?”
“Write to the bishop of Lincoln and urge him to follow his conscience in the matter. He is a man who is possessed of one where many are not, and by granting him leeway to use his own judgment where the king orders him, you will likely obtain an ally.”
“THIS IS YOUR DOING!” HENRY yells, not caring that my ladies are present.
“What is my doing?” I ask meekly. If we are going to have witnesses to our conversation, I will use that fact to my advantage.
“The blasted bishop of Lincoln has excommunicated Artaud and placed the church of Flamstead under an interdict.”
I had not heard this, and, being blindsided, must struggle mightily to keep my delight from showing. Writing to the bishop of Lincoln has proved more effective than I dared imagine. “What has this to do with me?”
“Did you not write to the bishop? Come on woman, do not dissemble. Admit it!”
“I do not deny it.” Turning, I address my sister. “Lady Cornwall”—Sanchia starts at the sound of her name, no doubt unwilling to have the king’s attention drawn to her—“run to my clerk and ask for the copy of the letter I sent last month to the lord bishop of Lincoln.”
While Sanchia is gone, Henry taps his foot triumphantly. But he will soon discover I have been too clever for him. Taking the letter from my returning sister, I say, “Your Majesty, when I learned you had ordered William of London turned out from the parish to which I sent him, it became clear to me just how deeply my innocent actions had offended you. Knowing myself to be far less knowledgeable than Your Majesty in the laws of this land, I took the first opportunity to write to the bishop and assure him, whatever his decision in the matter, he was in no danger of making an enemy of me. That, in fact, I relied on his good judgment in an area where my own could not be trusted to be sound.” My voice could not be sweeter. I extend the letter to Henry, who snatches it from me.
He reads it through, then thrusts it back in my direction. He must know there is nothing in it that, to anyone else’s eyes, would justify his laying the bishop’s actions at my door. But this only makes him more angry. “I shall take the matter to court.”
“Be assured, Your Majesty, that no one will be more pleased than I to see it settled, for the estrangement it causes between us is a source of great unhappiness to me.”
Henry is not moved. He merely grunts and departs without taking any leave. But my ladies are much affected, especially when I loose a torrent of tears as the door closes behind the king. By this evening there will be no one at court who has not heard of Henry’s reprehensible behavior. My husband thought to embarrass me, but it is he who shall be shamed instead.
Standing at the foot of my bed that evening as my ladies undress me for the night, I am surprised I do not feel more triumphant. As I anticipated, I was the object of much solicitude during dinner. The whole assembly seemed to pity me. Henry himself avoided me as best he could. Whatever the legal decision in the case, I am the winner. If they find in favor of William of London, it shall appear to be through no effort of mine, and if they find against him, my show of dismay and contrition this day assures that none may suggest that I acted in open defiance of the king. All are placated except the king. Henry is fuming. And I am, quite inexplicably really, feeling a bit low.
As I slide beneath my covers and the tapers are put out, I realize that Henry has not come to me in more than a month—not since the argument over Flamstead began. This is the longest that he has eschewed my bed since our marriage. Not that Henry would be good company in his present mood. Still, the absence of his familiar form is nearly as oppressive as his anger. Lying in the dark, I shiver. Henry’s square, familiar body usually quickly takes the chill off my sheets. This silliness has gone on for too long. I toy with the idea of seeking him in his chamber. But even should I manage to reach his rooms without being spotted by dozens of people, my pride rebels at going to him when he is at fault. I want reconciliation and am even willing to bend to get it, but not so far.
Perhaps I ought t
o withdraw to Windsor to be with my lambs, I think, rolling about in the vast empty bed, unable to get comfortable. The domestic tableau there would surely soften Henry’s heart when he grew lonely and followed me. I try to picture the castle, the nursery, my children—but all I can see is Henry’s face at dinner, cold without a single smile for me. It is not a comforting image. A man capable of such looks might well not follow me. The only time I had his attention all evening was when I danced with Geoffrey de Langley. There was no mistaking the black looks Henry threw our way. Well, Henry needs to be reminded that he loves me; perhaps I might use de Langley for that purpose. The thought surprises me. I turn it over in my mind, staring into the dark corners of my room. De Langley is younger than the king, well formed, and known for his shrewdness and ambition. If I draw him on to make Henry jealous, he will certainly play the courtly lover in return.
No! I thrust the thought away with vehemence. I am not capable of such cruelty. There is a special circle in hell for women who cuckold their husbands!
CHAPTER 24
Marguerite,
In my last letter I recounted how Henry and I were very nearly at war over the gift of a church living, and my disbelief that it should be so. I wish I could say that, with that argument at an end, our relations were improved, but they are not.
As vexing as it was when Henry ceased to be easily charmed by me, snapped at me, and disagreed with me over the smallest of matters, things are now even worse. I am overlooked. It is as if I am a stool or a tapestry. I am in the room, but I am not of interest. Last night, alone in the dark, I spent hours searching for some failing of mine that would justify this ill use, but I simply cannot understand what I do to displease Henry and turn him from me. I am very much as I ever was—and you must concede that one asset of a stubborn personality is that it seldom changes. I am older to be sure, and a little plumper. But if my waist has thickened these dozen years, ’twas the bearing of his four children that has worked the change, and he would do well to remember it.
The Sister Queens Page 23