I want to see to his dinner and to gather some fabric for clothing, but I am loath to leave him, fearing irrationally that he will disappear again for as many months as he has been gone. So I take a seat on the opposite end of the window ledge and watch my love slumber. The hall is clearing. Most of those who have returned have been claimed by wives, servants, or friends. A middle-aged servant approaches me where I sit, or rather, I realize as he draws closer, approaches my lord.
“Who are you?” I ask as the man quietly takes a seat on the ground beside Jean.
“Caym of Sainte-Menehould, Your Majesty. I am in the service of this seneschal.”
“Then serve him well,” I say, smiling.
The man nods.
I explain that the bishop has offered Joinville lodgings and bid the man go to the kitchens in my name and bring back something for his lord to eat. I know I must return to Louis soon; duty commands as much. When I see Jean’s servant returning through a door at the other side of the hall, I put my hand gently on Jean’s and call his name. His eyes flutter open.
“For once I do not dream.”
“Did you dream of me often in your captivity?”
“Constantly.”
“Listen, love, your man is coming with something for you to eat, and after this he must take you to the priest’s house in the parish of Saint Michael.”
“When will I see you again? It may be some days before I am ready to present myself before His Majesty.”
A few days would be an unbearable separation when I have just had Jean restored to me. Nor would a public meeting where I must share him with Louis satisfy. I have a thousand things large and small to say to Jean. I would examine every inch of his body until I am satisfied that he is whole and sound, and I would hear the story of every moment since he left me.
“Do you trust your new man?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will find your house after nightfall.”
“Ought you to be abroad after dark?” The thought that Jean worries for me in his present pitiful condition is unutterably touching.
“‘Ought’ has never entered into things where you are concerned.”
“MY DECISIONS WERE FAULTY FROM first to last. So much blood and death, and it is all on my head. Can even God forgive such failure?”
This is not my husband. That is my first thought as I sit near Louis listening to his confession, as it were. He has always been a man plagued by guilt—but a man who doubted God? Never.
“Your Majesty, you have oft said yourself that God can forgive the truly penitent heart anything. And, if you will allow me to be the judge, whatever faults were yours in this campaign, you do not shy away from shouldering them. In fact, you accept the blame for everything; yet surely, as you are only one man, not all that went wrong can be laid at your door or at any one person’s. Luck and fate must also have played their parts.”
“But I am not just one man—I am a king. I must be held to a higher standard. I wish I had died in the desert.”
Rising, I go to Louis, crouch before him, and take both his hands in my own. “Louis, you must not say such things. You are perfectly right, you are a king and therefore you have a duty to live and reign. The security and prosperity of France depends upon that, as does the well-being of such persons who remain with you here.” Louis does not respond. He will not even meet my eye.
I return to my seat, searching for something to talk about that will at least distract my husband from his misery. It is far too early to relate to him all that passed at Damietta or to tell him that I have written to the dragon asking her to gather the remaining monies necessary to discharge the terms of Louis’s surrender. “The Seneschal of Champagne will dine with you tonight.”
“Joinville? Where has he been?”
“In the care of the bishop of Acre.”
“I must chastise the seneschal for keeping away so long. He is a fine companion, and loyal. Madam, if only you knew.”
“Your Majesty, it is less than a week since your ship landed. Think how many of the hours since then you have passed in sleep. No doubt it was the same for the seneschal.” I find oddly humorous this shared devotion that Louis and I have to Jean. But it is providential for me as well. The fact that Jean is a known favorite of the king makes the items I have sent him in Louis’s name—camelin, fine soap, ointment, meat—seem entirely unremarkable. Even my personal visits, should they become known, might plausibly be explained. But they will not become known, I tell myself, shaking off the idea. Jean’s man, Caym, has proven as trustworthy as Marie. Last night he came for me, waiting in an alley near the castle gate, so that I would not have to walk to Jean’s alone.
“Yes, you are right. Have we any word how Joinville fares? He was very ill on our sea voyage, very ill indeed. Yet never did he complain. He thought only of my comfort, trying to find me a bit of food, seeing a bed was made up for me as my people were useless and had not done as much. He was mortified when his illness forced him to leave me to go to the rail.”
Hearing such a tale of Jean pleases me abundantly. Louis has told me several grim stories in which other knights failed to behave as their duty and their nobility demanded, but apparently Jean was true to his nature even in extremis.
“I understand the seneschal is weak like Your Majesty, but is expected to recover,” I reply. Jean is frail—nearly as frail in body as Louis, but not as weakened in spirit. When I kiss him now, I do so gently, as if the force of my lips alone could break him. “He was delighted to hear of the birth of a new prince.”
“He must see Tristan when he comes. What a fine child. Really marvelous.” Though Louis spent little time with our children in France, he is greatly attached to this new one. The baby is the sole thing sure to rouse him when he sits in a sullen, fitful stupor. And even when Jean Tristan cries, Louis will not let me send him away.
Reminded of the prince, Louis rises and walks to the cradle at the other side of my chair, staring down with obvious pleasure at the swaddled form sleeping there. “What a fine man he will be.”
“A fine man,” I echo, “like his father.”
I AM BEING READIED FOR dinner when the knock sounds. Marie alone attends me as of late. Those among my ladies whose husbands returned I have granted leave to be with them as they convalesce. Those whose husbands will never return I have granted leave to grieve as they see fit, instructing them to attend me only when they feel that they would not be alone.
“My Lord of Joinville!” I am as surprised as Marie sounds. Jean has always been the soul of caution about visiting me when and where others might come to know of it. He slips in, beautifully dressed in garments made from fabric I had sent to him.
“I had to come,” he says, looking sheepish. “How could I bear to meet him first before fourscore pairs of eyes? To see him but not hold him?”
And then I understand. Jean has come not to see me but his son.
“Of course,” I say gently.
Rising, I go to the cradle and lift Jean Tristan from it. Though he is sleeping, I lay him on the bed and unwind his swaddlings. The activity awakens him and, apparently satisfied with his freedom, he kicks his small legs and grunts with pleasure.
Unlike poor Louis who always must be asked or urged, Jean sweeps the baby up into his arms, burying his face in the child’s round pink stomach. Then, raising his head again, he cradles the babe in one arm, touching the various parts that make up his son—tiny toes, hands, ears, dark curls of hair. “By God, he is the most beautiful thing my eyes have ever beheld. And so big!”
I laugh. “He never stops eating.” And hearing my voice, our son makes my point for me by rooting against Jean’s chest, making a smacking noise with his mouth. Jean hands him back to me, and seating myself on the bed, I unlace my gown, and the drawstring at the neck of my shift in turn, then put the babe to my breast. Jean sits beside me and places his arm about my shoulder.
Catching a glimpse of us thus in the mirror of my dressing table just o
pposite, he says, “We are a handsome family.” And I own that he is right—or we would be had the Fates permitted my hand and my heart to be bestowed upon the same man. Would that it could always be like this! Then I remind myself that only a handful of days ago I promised God I would never again ask for anything for myself.
I lean and give Jean a quick kiss. “You had better go. Louis will be waiting for you. He is eager to see you.”
“He is much changed,” Jean says, his face growing suddenly solemn. “When I was captured, I was held first with those other knights taken with me upon the river. The king, however, was held with those captured upon land. When my party was brought to that dreadful camp outside of Mansurah to join His Majesty and his fellow prisoners, I almost did not recognize the king.”
“He is not the same man,” I agree, “and it is too early to say whether he will become himself again.” I do not add that I would not have the old Louis back completely; that this Louis, sad as he is, has a touch of humanity about him that his former incarnation as God’s fearless and unbending warrior lacked.
Jean slips away, and I see him next in a far more formal mien and setting when he presents himself to Louis and me before dinner. My husband is genuinely delighted to see the Seneschal. When Jean finishes bowing, Louis reaches out a hand to him.
“It is good to see the signs of recovery already upon you.” Louis takes Jean’s hand in his own and squeezes it. Then looking about him at his brothers and the surviving preudommes who are well enough to join us at table, he continues. “Here at least is some proof of God’s mercy. I did not leave all my best knights dead in the desert.”
At the end of the meal, Louis takes Jean away with him for what I presume will be a long discussion of politics and theology. No matter, I think as Marie tucks me into bed, for while Jean risked a visit to my chamber to see his son earlier, he is not fool enough to return to my apartments by night.
Someone does come to me, however—Louis. It is a strange thing that he should recover his desire as a broken man, when at the height of his powers he often lacked it completely. Stranger still that, because I have resisted Jean on the grounds of his health when he tries to begin such activities, Louis will be the first man to enter me in more than half a year.
The king is so unsure of himself, so tentative, as his lips seek mine that I find myself helping him. Stroking his hair, his face. Kissing him when he is hesitant. And then the most extraordinary thing happens. Louis whispers, “Thank you” as I help to guide him between my legs. I find that I am crying—for Louis, for myself, and for this glimpse of the tenderness we might have known had things been different.
“I love you,” I whisper fiercely in his ear. And I mean it, though I surprise myself. I would heal him with this act of love if I could. I can tell he is tiring, his weakened body unable to follow through on his sexual need. Gently I roll him to his back. He weighs so little that it is easily done. His eyes open wide as I climb on top of him and continue what he began. If he wonders at my boldness or at my knowledge of such a position, he says nothing. Instead, I watch with satisfaction as he relaxes into the pillows, allowing me to stroke his gaunt chest where the ribs show. Slowly, tenderly, I rock up and down on him as if I would soothe him by the action. As his excitement grows, his arms rise and his hands clasp my waist. When he experiences release, the pleasure on his face harkens back to the first days of our marriage. He is asleep before he can remember to leave, and I do not wake him.
I DRIFTED TO SLEEP LAST night contented and awoke this morning refreshed, but my day is souring rapidly. Jean is in agony. “You withheld yourself from me, but gave yourself to him?” The expression on his face is both despondent and accusatory.
My face warms as if mine were an act of betrayal, then colors further still as I realize that it was. Why, I think to myself, why did I find it necessary to tell him? And I cannot answer the question. I am used to being honest and open with Jean, yes, but when I arose this morning, I felt, instinctively, that what had passed between Louis and me was something secret. I woke my husband with a kiss and saw him off to his own rooms to dress with a smile. I reveled in his smell even as I washed it from myself. And I had no intention of telling Jean. None. But as I stood watching Jean eat the meal I brought for him, the confession slipped from me unbidden. Perhaps I knew I needed forgiveness.
“I am sorry,” I say.
Jean puts his hands over his face. “Go,” he mutters.
“He is my husband, Jean.” My voice pleads for understanding, but I do not understand myself. Why do I find myself thinking of Louis in tender terms?
He looks up. “I know, and I hate him for it.”
“You do not hate him any more than I do,” I protest. I try to kiss Jean, but he holds me away.
“What. Will you let me have you now? How can I with his traces still wet inside you?”
“Please,” I whisper.
“Go away, Marguerite. Leave me alone.”
Turning, I run from the house as if it were on fire, barely able to keep my composure in the street.
I GO TO LOUIS’S ROOMS to see him take his meal. His physician tells me when the king dines alone, sometimes he entirely forgets to eat. He holds out his hand to me as I enter; when I offer mine in return, he kisses it.
“I thought you told me that when you called upon him two days ago, the Seneschal of Champagne was well.”
“So he was.” I have not been to see Jean since he ordered me out of his lodgings on the occasion of that visit, thinking that his wounded pride might better be salved in solitude.
“Well, we have not seen him.”
“If Your Majesty desires his company, send for him. I am certain he will come. After all, he is such a friend.”
“He is indeed.”
Louis falls into staring ahead. I gesture to his bowl and he takes a spoonful of broth. Then he stops again.
“On the day my brother the Count d’Artois passed from this world into paradise, I and the knights under my command faced furious battle. We were between the river and a brook of goodly size. One party of infidels was at us from the direction of the river and a second thought to strike us from behind. But Joinville, seeing the little bridge they would use, understood its importance and set himself to defend it with a small party. All afternoon they held that bridge, though Joinville himself took five arrows.”
I do not know what to say to this. Jean has never related the story of the bridge to me. More often than not, when I ask about his scars, most still angry and red, he brushes off my questions. “It does not matter how I got the wounds,” he tells me. “I am content that none was so grievous as to prevent my coming back to you.”
Shaking his head in wonder, Louis continues. “At nightfall when my crossbowman reached his party to offer relief, they found him joking with the Count of Soissons about how useful tales of their exploits might be in charming the ladies, as if the situation were not grave and their service not important. But I tell you, Wife, had the bridge been lost, I would very likely have been lost as well.”
Louis finishes his soup as I watch in silence. Then, placing his spoon down upon the table, he says, “Perhaps you should go have a word with Joinville for me, and take some of this consommé. The Sieur told me when he dined with us that Lord Peter of Courtenay was refusing to pay four hundred livres the seneschal is owed. Joinville may be in difficulty without the monies. Tell him that I will pay him and deduct it from some money I myself owe de Courtenay. Let Lord Peter complain to me if he will.”
With the story of Jean’s bravery fresh in my heart, and the prospect of bearing such news to him as he will be glad to have, I make up my mind to go. If he is still vexed with me, I will remind him how many months he longed to see me and could not and how silly it is to hold a grudge now over something that neither of us can prevent nor control.
When Marie and I reach the little house leaning against the ancient and venerable Church of Saint Michael, no one answers our knock. I try the d
oor, but it is locked. It seems odd that Jean should be out and about in the city when he is not yet strong and stranger still that if he felt up to going out, he did not come to sit with us at court.
“If Caym is with the Seneschal,” I say to Marie, “surely that creature Guillemin is at home.” I do not like Jean’s other new servant. He has a shiftiness about him that puts me on my guard.
“And no doubt he is napping when he should be working, Your Majesty,” replies Marie, no more impressed with the man than I am. “Pray knock again.”
I pound for several minutes but to no avail. Having come this far, I would not go away again without leaving the broth Marie carries or a note. Besides, I feel a strange unease, an instinct really, that something is not as it should be. Then I remember something Jean told me on one of my early visits—that he took great solace in the ease with which he could pray day or night in his new lodgings thanks to their communication directly with the church by way of a small vestry.
Rounding to the front of the church, I push open the heavy door. As it is time for neither a service for one of the hours nor a Mass, the place is deserted. The mosaic scenes from the life of Saint Michael that cover the walls glint in the light from a series of small high windows. Behind the altar there is a door that surely must connect to the living space. Opening it, I am surrounded by the vestments and accoutrements of the Mass. I am greeted by the smell of aging fabrics and incense, but underlying this there is another smell—one of sickness and decay.
Throwing open the next door in frantic haste, I am confronted by a fearful sight. I stand just at the head of Jean’s bed. He is in it, eyes closed, lids translucent, face as white as death. Beside the door on which I knocked so futilely and at the foot of the bed lie Jean’s servants, looking no better than their master.
For a moment I am frozen where I stand. Surely, oh Lord, Jean did not survive so much in the last months to die at Acre? The door drops shut beside Marie and, taking in what horrified me before her, she lets out a little cry. At the sound of it, Jean moans and shifts fitfully beneath his covers.
The Sister Queens Page 30