The musicians play a nota, a dance suited to conversation, but for the first moments we are silent. Then as we make a pass, Jean says quietly, “When can I see you?”
“You are seeing me now.”
“To talk.”
“Mercy, I had the impression that was what we are doing.”
He gives me an exasperated look as the pattern parts us. Then I see his glance wander to the empress. Even now he cannot keep his eyes off her.
When we draw back together he begins again. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why that surcote?”
“You admire it and you admire her. Is it not fitting then that she should wear it?”
I watch the play of emotions on Jean’s face. “This is about the empress?” His voice sounds oddly relieved, and his relief irritates me. “Then it is nothing.”
Nothing! The cruelty of his words stings me. Here is another man who considers my feelings nothing—or rather something to be dismissed out of hand. I am grateful the dance is over. Louis comes to retrieve me, giving his partner’s hand to Jean in the process. The next dance is an estampie, too complicated and quick for conversation, which is just as well for while I can feign a smile, I doubt I could manage a word. At every turn I seem to be confronted by the image of Jean and his pretty partner. I feel as if a great weight presses upon my chest. Is this what Eleanor feels when, in the heat of summer, she finds herself unable to breathe? When the music stops I say, “Your Majesty, I have a sudden headache. Do you think I might slip away to nurse it in solitude without giving offense to our guest?”
“Alone?” Louis seems genuinely concerned, and my conscience pricks at this lie though it has lain quiet through so many others.
“I would not have an indisposition of mine spoil the festivities in honor of the empress.”
“Your consideration is laudable.” Louis unexpectedly draws my hand to his lips. Only a few months ago I would have been thrilled at such a gesture, but now I only hope it makes Jean jealous. “Go and find relief. I will offer your excuses when your absence is remarked.”
The music begins again. With so many bodies in motion I feel certain I can steal away without being noticed. But at the door of the hall, I glance back and find Jean’s eyes upon me. In the corridor, I pick up my skirts and run toward the staircase. Surely, if I am quick I can reach my rooms.
I am not quick enough. At the bottom of the steps he catches me, pulling me out of the circle of illumination created by the nearest cresset and into the shadow of the steps.
“My Lord of Joinville, I must ask you to let me pass.”
“You are being ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous?” I twist, trying to free myself from his grasp.
“Yes, ridiculous.” Jean pins me against the wall, effectively thwarting my attempt to escape.
“I am not the one making a fool of myself over the Empress of Constantinople.”
“The empress is here to gather knights—”
“And you were her first acquisition!”
“I gave her a letter pledging to go to Constantinople should Louis choose to send a force. Nothing more than she will get from many of the others.”
“And did the others send her vair and cendal? I think not! Did you send her a fine linen shift as well?”
“Stop, please. The empress is nothing to me. Do I need to swear it?”
“The empress is nothing you say, but it is I who feel like nothing. Four days without word. You left me to think the worst.”
“And did I not also think it?” Suddenly I see the pain behind Jean’s exasperation. His eyes are nearly hollow with it. “When I waited in vain for Marie to bring a summons from you once you knew of my return? Tonight at dinner when your glances and smiles were only for Louis, a man who deserves them better than I? As for being nothing, you are everything—light, breath, food, drink—I am starving without you.”
“But with me you are ruined. You said so yourself. You betray your king and your better nature.”
“My king, yes, but myself, no. I am the man who loves you, body and soul. I can be no other. If I have learned anything during these last agonizing days, it is that. You need be jealous of no woman, not now, not ever.”
I know he is not lying. I know it from the fierceness of his look, from the tone of his voice. I raise one hand up to the side of his face, and he turns to kiss my palm. Then a noise from above reminds us where we are. The shadow suddenly seems too shallow to safely contain us.
“Go,” he whispers hoarsely. “I will follow.”
And I want to run, to scamper to our garden, to seal our new understanding with a meeting of bodies, but suddenly I remember the look in Louis’s eyes as I left him and I feel his lips upon my hand.
“The king,” I say, “I cannot say why, but I know he will come to me tonight.”
Jean moans. “I cannot bear to think of it.”
“No”—again I reach up, this time to stroke his cheek—“not for that. He thinks I am ill. He will come to see how I fare.” I feel Jean’s muscles relax with relief. And then I am gone, my feet given wings by my happiness.
CHAPTER 25
My dear Eleanor,
It saddens me deeply to learn that you and your lord are no longer in accord. Your marriage seemed, like our parents’ before it, a union of minds, hearts, and purposes. There were prickles and stings to be sure, and you were not shy in complaining of them, but always they seemed kept in check by a deeper affinity.
Oh Eleanor, who can say what causes a husband’s regard to fade or what precisely will bring it back again? Perhaps constancy of affection is beyond some men. The renewed attention and affection that Louis showed me when we were gathering knights for crusade waned considerably once we were surrounded by those same knights and on our way to the Holy Land.
So I offer no advice. I will, however, remind you of the proverb “A bad peace is better than a good quarrel.” This wisdom has oft helped me to moderate my own marital expectations.
M
MARGUERITE
JUNE 1249
OFF THE COAST OF EGYPT
Praise God we have come to Egypt at last, though there are not as many of us as there should be. While we were still within sight of the Point of Limassol, a great wind, like the breath of a fierce beast, came up, driving many vessels from our fleet to whence God alone knows and we do not. It is hard to understand why the Lord should see fit to blow so many of Louis’s good knights off course for a second time. Everyone on the royal nef wonders at it.
Looking at the remaining ships, perhaps half of those that departed from Cyprus with us, I myself wonder but one thing—not what God meant by this second storm, nor whether we have enough knights left to meet the infidels, but is Jean’s party among them? It is the question that has been dogging me for nearly three weeks—keeping me from resting as the rough waves have kept others. The image of him cast up on some strange shore discomforts me, but strangely, I do not fear him lost at sea. Surely, if he were gone from this world, my heart would know it instinctively.
And now in a short time I will know if he is among the missing. Louis has sent word to the other ships anchored around us in the open water calling those of rank and status to the royal nef so that the first battle of this campaign can be discussed. While I wait for the arrival of this august group of knights, and for the one among them the sight of whom will banish all worries in an instant, there is something to distract me.
The land mass that this morning was merely an indistinct sliver has grown to a distinguishable shore. The outline of a city is clear as are the figures of men on the beach. Such men! They glisten more golden than the sun that sets them on fire. And rising from their number, a constant beating of drums and sounding of horns render the air alive with the anticipation of battle. I feel it as keenly as the knot of men surrounding the king. Beatrice and I are the lone ladies on deck. The same drums that excite the men terrify the rest of my companions. We sisters from Pr
ovence, it seems—much as we are dissimilar in other ways—are made of sterner stuff than the Frenchwomen.
“So few!” Beatrice says. “If this is all the mighty Ayyüb can muster, we will be in the Holy Land less time than we were in Cyprus.”
“I hope so,” I say, thinking of my son Louis still counting the days at home, and Beatrice’s little Louis left behind with a nurse at Limassol. Besides, an army conquered with ease would mean fewer dead and fewer injured.
Then a sailor in the riggings calls out, “Le barche,” and Beatrice and I join the rush to the opposite side of the deck. The water is littered with an assortment of ships’ boats approaching from every direction. Just below, so close that he must step aside as the rope ladder is dropped, is Jean.
He smiles up at me mischievously, as if he enjoyed worrying me all these weeks. He is up the ladder in an instant. How I wish I could clasp him to me when he reaches the deck, but instead Louis does. Jean’s greeting to me is limited to a slight bow as he moves away to make space for other knights scrambling aboard.
He and his cousin are quickly drawn into a group including Louis’s brothers. Though everyone talks at once, Jean remains silent, gazing in my direction. I know he pays no more attention to what they are saying than I am paying to Beatrice who continues to comment on each new arrival. He looks wonderful. His skin has a warm glow imparted by many hours in the sun. I cannot detect any loss of weight, which would suggest that he avoided seasickness on this journey despite his fears.
There are too many men to fit comfortably in Louis’s cabin, so when the last of the small boats is moored, the knights merely stand near the forecastle to begin their discussions. I wonder if the sultan’s warriors on the shore can see them, but as most do not have their armor on, I doubt they glitter despite the brilliant sun.
“I would attack at once,” says Louis, “using every boat available with hull shallow enough to approach the shore.”
“Your Majesty,” rejoinders Philip of Nanteuil, “would it not be more prudent to wait for your men and arms that were blown off course?”
“You urged me to wait at Cyprus, and I did wait,” Louis replies, “but this is the second time God has seen fit to scatter some of my forces asunder. There is a message in this. God wishes my troops to be as they are—not one man more, not one man less. Besides, we greatly outnumber them as we are. What honor could there be in waiting for more overwhelming numbers?”
“None, Your Majesty.” I thrill at the sound of Jean’s voice. “But what of those of us who have no galley available to go ashore?”
“Here is a man after my own heart, eager to be slaying infidels,” says Louis, his face flushing with pleasure. “My Lord of Beaumont, see that the Seneschal of Champagne has a galley at his disposal.” Erard of Brienne slaps Jean on the shoulder in delight. The two have been inseparable since they traveled to Paphos, and no doubt he thinks to row to shore with Jean. “What do you say, Beaujeu?” the king asks, turning to his constable expectantly.
Beaujeu did not rise to his office by fighting losing battles. “Your Majesty speaks with reason. In addition, unsheltered as we are in this place, it would only take another surge of strong winds to scatter the rest of our ships.”
“Tomorrow then, at dawn, we will teach the Sultan of Cairo what Christian men may do with the blessing and in the name of their God.”
Dawn. Must I then send Jean into battle uncaressed and uncried over? So it would seem. The leave we took of each other in Cyprus will have to see us through this greater separation.
He lingers till the last, till only half a dozen men remain to retreat to their boats, then gives me a peculiar look over Louis’s shoulder as they embrace in parting. Even as I have profound confidence in him, I wonder, when I see him next, will he be alive or dead?
IT IS THE PROVINCE OF women to wait. I feel as though I have been waiting my whole life—waiting to bear a son, waiting for the dragon to surrender her hold on the king, waiting for Louis to realize he can love God and love me. I excelled once at patience and acceptance, swallowing my disappointments; counting on perseverance and time to change what I could not. But, having finally been granted the heart of a good man, time and fate now have the power to take away as well as give. So, as the boat bearing my husband and his standard makes for shore, my heart beats faster than the rowers’ oars. I pace back and forth along the ship’s rail, heedless of the stares of my ladies.
I can have no hope of spotting Jean and his men among those heading to battle. Other than Louis’s boat, the only vessel distinguishable belongs to the Count of Jaffa. This boat is so thoroughly covered with his coat of arms that no man on shore or at sea can doubt whom it carries. Then, as the landing party nears the shore, a vessel crammed with men and horses passes the boat carrying the king and his royal standard. I know with a certainty of the heart if not the eyes that the boat that has taken the lead is Jean’s. It draws up to the shore and men begin to pour from it like ants.
“The king!” Matilda cries, and my eyes snap back to Louis’s boat. It is not yet to the beach, but someone is in the water, waves lapping at his breast, arms over his head. When I see the royal standard in those upstretched arms, I know my sister-in-law is right. Louis has jumped from his boat.
“Eager fool!” I clutch Marie, thinking of the weight of Louis’s armor. “He will drown himself.”
But as I watch, Louis struggles to the shore, standard still in hand. Boats are falling thick upon the beach. Frenchmen set their shields into the sand and their lances as well, creating a deadly and pointed wall between themselves and the sultan’s men who ride forward. And like that, the battle begins—we can see horses in motion, lines of French bowmen making easy shots across the sandy expanse, men falling—yet at this distance it all seems strangely unreal, down to the muted cacophony of drums and horns, cries, and grunts.
I cannot say if the time is long or short, so fascinated am I by the constant motion of the fighting. I am trying to find Louis among the fray when my sister’s voice sounds.
“The cowards run!” she shouts.
Deo gratias, I believe Beatrice is right! The forces of the sultan have turned, and with our knights in pursuit, they move at breakneck speed toward the outlines of Damietta. As quickly as it began the skirmish is over. The beach so full only moments before is largely empty. Only boats and the bodies of the fallen mar the golden tan expanse. I wonder how many we have lost and, more important, if any I knew or loved are among them.
“SOMETIMES IT IS A BLESSING that Louis neglects you.”
This is the first moment I have had alone with Jean since I sighted him on the deck of a galley rowing out to the royal ship. Louis, it seems, cannot waste his time bringing me ashore, and delegates the task, even though it means another has the pleasure of announcing the victory.
Throwing my arms around Jean’s neck, I give him a long kiss by way of reply. We are in my cabin, alone save for Marie who is packing my things. My other ladies are readying their own belongings. It is three days since Louis’s boat rowed to the beach. The city of Damietta is his, and soon we will be escorted to it.
“Don’t you want to hear about the taking of the city?” Jean asks.
“No,” I reply, reaching up to put both my hands in his curls, headless of the sweat and dust that cover him. “All that I needed to know of the battle I knew when I saw you alive and whole.”
“And I was counting on an opportunity to spin tales of my bravery.”
“I promise to hear every word of your stories, only save them for a time when I am better able to attend. Marie, get me some water and a clean cloth, so the Seneschal of Champagne can wash.”
“Ought we to be so publicly alone?” Jean asks as the door falls shut behind my retreating companion.
“No one will notice. Everyone runs back and forth preparing to disembark. Besides,” I add longingly, “what can we do in a few moments anyway?”
“Not what I want to do, that is sure.” Jean smiles. “Eve
ry moment of the three weeks since I held you last I have thought of nothing else.” Then, perhaps seeing my skeptical look, he adds, “Well, every moment except when I was in battle.”
Marie returns bearing a basin and a length of linen.
“Food and wine,” I say. “Surely, even with all the tumult of packing, a man fresh from battle can be fed.”
Then, walking Marie to my cabin door, I add under my breath, “Do not hurry.”
I help Jean remove his tunic, then the coat of mail and the padded pourpoint underneath. Seating him before my mirror, I dampen the cloth and begin to wipe the dust from his face and his neck. He sits completely still and silent. There is something oddly reverential and deliberate about my washing of him, and at the same time something painfully erotic. I kneel to remove his chausses and then, when he sits in nothing but his silk gamboised cuisses, I begin to wipe his chest. He moans with pleasure, watching my every move in the mirror. Dropping the cloth, I unlace the front of his cuisses. In a single fluid movement I lift my skirts and lower myself onto his engorged member. We sit face-to-face and, as I raise and lower myself rhythmically upon him, Jean devours me, kissing my face, my neck, my ears.
“Oh God, how I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, his arms entwined around me, pulling me against his damp chest.
The abstinence imposed upon us by the voyage to Egypt assures that all my sensations are exaggerated. Each time I settle upon him, the feel of his flesh sliding against mine nearly overwhelms me. I cannot pull him in deep enough, nor hold him there long enough. Yet, even as I experience this pleasure, I dread the moment he will break it off and pull himself, unsatisfied, from me. I stop moving.
“What is the matter?” Jean asks, his eyes wild.
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