Sure enough my daughter’s breathing slows. I remove the cloth and lead her to a bench where we can sit side by side.
“Margaret, you cannot doubt that your father and I want the best for you. And though you do not believe it now, being the Queen of Scotland is a very good thing indeed. Nor do we send you alone. Did you know that when your aunt went to France these many years ago, she was left entirely alone—without a single blood relation, without her nurse, or even a lady-in-waiting from her own country?”
Margaret shakes her head solemnly. She has heard many stories of my sister before, but not this one. No, until now I have confined myself to the pleasant and diverting tales of my sister’s girlhood and my own. But as Margaret leaves her own childhood behind, she is ready for the sterner stuff of life.
“You, by contrast, will have Lady Cantilupe and Sir Geoffrey de Langley who have been appointed by your father especially to see that your rights and privileges are respected at all times in your new court.”
“Will you write to me every day?” Margaret asks, eyes welling again.
“If you like. But I imagine you will have more to tell than I. You go to see new places and make new acquaintances while I return to all the familiar scenes and people.” And with that single phrase I am transported back to a different chamber, a different leave-taking. “I know,” I say, “I will give you something of mine—something to take with you and to wear when you are feeling far from home.” I wonder, did my sister take my aumônière to the Holy Land with her? Does she still wear it as frequently at thirty as she did at thirteen?
Two large casks of my jewels and other finery sit on top of several of my larger trunks. The first cask does not yield what I seek, but in the second I find it—a fine gold belt patterned with shields made of pearls. I paid a fortune for this piece. It was intended to dazzle the eyes of visiting dignitaries when Henry knights the Scottish prince. I slip it around my daughter’s waist and fasten it. Then we both break out in peals of laughter as it slides down and over her hips. “It will need some adjusting,” I say, “but I am sure His Grace knows a good jeweler. He knows everyone in York.”
TWO EVENINGS LATER I PUT Margaret to bed, singing to her as if she were a tiny baby. As her eyes fall shut and she surrenders to sleep, I turn to her nurse. “Sit up beside her tonight. I would not have her wake alone.”
The good woman nods, and I notice a tear escape from her own aged eye, dropping onto the embroidery in her lap.
Returning to my own room I seek distraction. “Willelma,” I call, “Christina, let me see all my garments for the wedding.”
At once there is bustle; there is finery. I am holding a new mantle, fingering the heavy gold braid and ermine trim when Henry enters. I expect him to look pleased, for no one loves the display and pageantry of state occasions more than my husband, but he looks concerned.
“Yes,” I say, turning to Christina, “it is all perfect. Pray remove it now and cover it for the morrow.” She and Willelma scurry off with my other ladies in their train, each bearing an item to the room that has been designated my wardrobe for these festivities.
“Henry, will you take some wine?”
He nods, and I hurry to pour for him. After a deep gulp he says, “The streets are impassable. Already people take their places along the route to the Minster with more shoving than it pleases me to see. Can you imagine how they will behave after a night spent drinking to stay warm?”
“Can we get through safely?”
“Perhaps, but why attempt it? I have spoken to Walter de Gray, and he advises we marry them here at dawn.”
“Here?” I will be very sorry to miss the pomp of a larger ceremony; yet I suspect Margaret will not. And surely I will not enjoy myself at all if my child is terrified en route by obstreperous crowds in the streets. “Will the Scots agree to it?”
“The boy’s guardians are smart. They know the largest part of the crowd is English, so they have more need to worry for the safety of their charge than we do.” Suddenly Henry chuckles. “The boy is smart as well.” Having been a boy-king himself, my husband has an affinity for his soon-to-be son. “After you withdrew with Margaret this evening, I asked him whether, since he is here on English soil, now might not be an opportune time to pay homage to me for Scotland. And he avoided the question like the most polished diplomat. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘I came here in peace to become your son, not to answer difficult political questions.’ If he is this clever at ten, he should be as silver-tongued as de Montfort before he is twenty.” Henry laughs again; then he looks sober. “If he is not good to her, all his cleverness will be to no avail. I will march across his precious border and bring her home.”
I FINISH READING THE LAST line of my letter from my daughter the Queen of Scotland and lay it in my lap. Four months into her marriage, Margaret writes daily, as do I, in obedience to both my promise and my inclination. Though she is homesick, there is nothing in her letters that causes me to repent of her father’s decision to wed her where he did. The politics of the marriage appear sound, and, surely, as the couple is very young, affection will follow from being raised together side by side?
I am at Reading this fine spring evening with another marriage much on my mind. I have just dispatched Adam Marsh to Odiham with a message for the Earl and Countess of Leicester. Sometimes I do not know why we bothered, Uncle Guillaume and I, to work as we did to marry Henry’s sister Eleanor to Simon. The marriage was meant to secure a smooth relationship between Henry and Simon, but its efficacy was short-lived. And I fear much of the blame lies with my husband, though that is something I was careful not to say in my letter—not even between the lines.
A man can be tied to a family or to a king by matrimony, but if you would keep him loyal and content, you must treat him with constancy and justice—train him to your service as one trains a child. But Henry is not good at consistency. He sets those who would do his bidding in one direction and then lambastes them when he finds them where he set them! Ever since he sent Simon de Montfort to Gascony, he has done nothing but complain about the earl’s management of things there. To be sure, de Montfort has not been as effective as any of us would have wished, and his methods—well, they would not be mine. But to withdraw royal support from the earl would be disastrous for our son Edward. Edward must have Gascony. Yet at the time of Margaret’s marriage, there was a great danger that all the castles de Montfort had captured for my son would be lost again because Henry would not pay the cost of their defense, though he clearly promised to do so before de Montfort set out. I pressed as hard as I dared to get Henry to pay those monies. Though I was successful at last, I do not think Henry has forgiven me yet for taking the earl’s part.
So I am not sorry Henry is not with me here but is in London. My evening will be quiet without my husband’s company, but at least it will not be contentious. I will move to Windsor tomorrow. My ladies think this relocation a result of my desire to see my children. And so it is. Edmund’s last letter was accompanied by a tooth, the first he has lost, and he longs to “frighten” me with his smile, which he says resembles that of a beggar on the street. But I am also deliberately closing the distance between myself and London. Uncle Peter says that additional Gascon lords arrive in the capital daily, each complaining loudly of abuse at the hands of the Earl of Leicester, and there is talk that the next parliament will bring the earl to an accounting for his actions. If Simon de Montfort is to be tried, it behooves me to be close enough to receive reliable reports of the proceedings.
Reliable reports are overrated, particularly when they bring word that my husband has made a fool of himself. The examination of Simon de Montfort before the parliament, which dragged on for more than a month, has just ended. My Franciscan, Adam Marsh, wrote me pages describing the trial itself—the accusations by the Gascon lords and my brother-in-law’s able and restrained defense of himself. It was left to family to bring the news of Henry’s ill-thought-out and awkward conduct.
I am in my hall at Windsor with all the windows full open to allow in the June sunshine and air, but I am not enjoying the fine weather. No, my pleasure in the day was spoiled the moment my uncle began his report.
“It is just as well that you were not there to witness Henry’s outburst,” Uncle Peter says, pacing before me. “He ranted at the barons like a disappointed child.”
My uncle knows I cannot bear to see Henry embarrass himself. I can never reconcile the errors of judgment in governing and the stubborn stupidity of the king’s public actions with the good-natured, attentive behaviors of the father and husband whom I love deeply. Oh Henry, I think, what can you have hoped to gain, either in dignity or in authority, by denouncing and defaming Simon de Montfort in front of your parliament after a collection of those same magnates exonerated him of all charges?
“So that is that. Simon is exonerated, but he is also finished in Gascony. Yet the job he attempted there is not completed. What can be done?” I pick up a bird’s nest that Edmund brought me from the garden off the small table beside me and turn it over in my hands. My eyes are drawn to the bits of down meant to line it, evidence that, like myself, the mother bird was interested in the comfort and security of her young.
“His Majesty is resolved to go to Gascony himself and attempt its pacification.”
I suck air in through my teeth and shake my head. I have as much call as any to know Henry is not possessed of overwhelming military skills. Still, he has a personal interest in holding Gascony that goes beyond any other man’s. It is his legacy to his son. “When?”
“He cannot go at once,” Peter replies. “Funds must be raised. And while His Majesty is gathering silver and troops, we can use the time to author a diplomatic strategy. If money is to be spent and men are to die, let us be as certain as possible of success.”
“Can we not work on Gaston de Béarn?” It is most inconvenient to be related to one of the chief rebels in Gascony and even more so because I mistakenly intervened with the king to get him released when Simon de Montfort had him captive.
“We can try, of course.” Peter shrugs. “But it is a foolish master who trusts a dog that has bitten him once already. Gaston may plead shared blood to save his own skin, but he has never shown any inclination to obey calls for family loyalty in support of our interests. He likes Gascony in a state of relative lawlessness, for then he and the other barons may take for themselves the power and revenues that should belong to the Crown.” Peter pauses for a moment, stroking his beardless chin. His eyes lose their focus; then with a snap they are back on my face.
“I think,” he says, “we would do better to send envoys to the King of Castile.”
“But Alfonso of Castile accepted homage from the rebel barons not three months ago; he suborns their rebellion against English territorial claims and English rule of law, and seeks to claim Gascony for himself.”
“Yes, but he is chary and knows that neither his attenuated claim to dominion over Gascony nor any military victory there are things certain. He will talk and he will listen.”
“Then we must send someone who speaks well. Will you go yourself, Uncle?”
“If the king sends me. But, with humility, I might be better by the king’s side as he steps off his ships.”
“He will certainly make sounder steps by your presence. What about Mansel then?”
“I can think of none better. But before we, or more precisely His Majesty, sends anyone, we must have something to propose. We must offer Alfonso of Castile something to persuade him that an alliance with England will be more profitable to him than marching his troops around Gascony in the hopes that he might be its next duke.”
My uncle takes a seat. I put down Edmund’s nest and, as I do, my eyes wander over the collection of other trinkets presented me by my children—a stanza of poetry beautifully copied out by Beatrice; a small withered nosegay gathered for me by Edward. Edward is thirteen now and taller than I am. I look up. “It comes to my mind that Alfonso of Castile has a half sister approaching marriageable age.”
“By the auspicious name of Eleanor,” my uncle replies with a smile.
CHAPTER 31
My dear Eleanor,
…How long will I be kept from my home?
When His Majesty proposed staying in Egypt two years ago so that those lesser soldiers whom he lost into captivity might not be forsaken, I could not in good conscience fault him. But I feared then and I know with certainty now that his commitment to seeking their freedom was but the smallest part of what held him here. Louis cannot bear having lost. He hopes still, with feeble reason, that he may do something to turn defeat into victory. Can he not see his stubborn insistence on staying is rooted in the sin of pride? Were he humble enough to accept the drubbing he received at Saracen hands, we might be in France governing it as we should. Instead, we wander about in the desert like the Israelites.…
M
MARGUERITE
JUNE 1252
JAFFA, KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM
Waking in the dark, I cannot remember where I am. Caesarea? No, I think, sitting up in bed, we left there weeks ago. Jaffa—we are in Jaffa.
I feel sticky and my bedcovers cling to me in the hot, humid air. Rising, I pad naked to the nearest window and throw it full open. In the dim predawn light, I can see the garden wall but not the sea beyond. Turning back, I seek my basin. Pouring out cool water, I begin to sponge myself clean of the night’s sweat. Then I seat myself at my dressing table and apply lavender water to my shoulders, neck, and beneath my breasts. One of the best things about being in Jaffa is the fact that the Count and Countess have provided me with the trappings of a civilized life and accommodations that would seem luxurious even had I not slept for weeks in a tent. Yet it is not France. There are times I cannot even remember France.
It has been three years since I first saw the coast of Egypt from my ship, two years since the majority of our party departed from Acre, more than a year since my son Pierre was born, and nearly as long since the troops Louis expected his brothers to send to his aid should have arrived. Lighting a taper, I regard myself in the mirror. Sometimes I do not remember the old Marguerite either. I am very brown now, and my hair is as light as it was when I was a girl roaming the fields of Provence. Jean loves it this way, golden and glinting. Louis has not noticed. All he thinks about is fortifying Christian cities. It was for this reason that we went to Caesarea and to so many smaller places. The Holy Father grants indulgences to those who refortify settlements in the Holy Land. By building walls and towers, often with his own hands, my husband hopes to buy back the grace he feels he lost in his disastrous military failure.
Marie, bustling into the room, starts at seeing me already awake. “Your Majesty should have called,” she chides.
“Why? What have we to do today that would demand your early attendance? Watch His Majesty’s knights build walls?”
“Perhaps the Mamlu¯k troops will come today and our knights will leave off their ditch digging and march together with these infidels against the Sultan of Aleppo.”
“That is one sight I never expect to see,” I say, rising and allowing Marie to slide a clean chemise over my head. “The Mamlu¯ks may have been willing to forgo the balance of the ransom, free their remaining prisoners, and send back the mangled heads of our dead in order to prevent His Majesty from joining with the sultan of Aleppo against them, but they will never fight side by side with the French. They hate Christians too much.”
“Is that what my Lord of Joinville says?”
Marie is right; I do parrot Jean. He has no faith in or stomach for alliances with infidels. But I do not blame my husband for his treaty promising to fight beside the infidel Mamlu¯ks against the Sultan of Aleppo. After the sinking of the first ship that Blanche sent—the ship that had been carrying the balance of the monies owed to his former captors—Louis needed a way to recover the Frenchmen still in Mamlu¯k hands without paying for them.
“Speaking of my Lord of J
oinville, we will take the children into the garden after Mass to meet him.” This is one of the worst aspects of our arrival in Jaffa. When we were camped in tents, Jean and I were constantly in company, whether with the king or outside his presence. It was easy to pass an hour or even an afternoon together, for my only companions were Marie and my béguines. Now that I am installed in the residence of the Count and Countess of Jaffa, with the countess and the others in her circle for company, Jean and I must be careful once again. To make matters worse, Jean, like Louis, who refuses to enjoy better conditions than his knights, lives in the armed camp erected in fields surrounding the city.
“I TELL YOU I SAW the plans this morning,” Jean says, his voice low and urgent. “Twenty-four towers. Such work will take a year or more.”
I begin to cry. We are in the Countess of Jaffa’s lovely garden, but I am no longer enjoying our outing. Little Jean, standing at my knee as I sit beside his father on a bench, tilts his head and regards me pensively. Then, climbing silently into my lap, he reaches up his little hand to wipe my tears away. His gesture releases my words. “I cannot stay here another year! Nor can Louis, whatever he may think. Has he forgotten his brothers are ambitious men and his mother is aging? If she dies while we are here, who will protect Prince Louis?” At the thought of my son, now eight years old, my eyes fill again. He will be a stranger to me when I return. Will he be the dragon’s creature by such long association with her? Has she turned my golden prince into his father?
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