The Sister Queens

by Sophie Perinot

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  “We were too late.” He hangs his head as if the shame of the thing were brand-new. “The sack of the city was complete before we arrived and the infidels gone. We have been burying the dead every day since our arrival, and we are still not done.”

  “Dear God.”

  “The king carries the bodies in his own arms. No task is too loathsome for him. He blames himself.” It is clear that Jean is moved by Louis’s behavior. I am not.

  “Another failure for which he will wish to do penance,” I say with a sigh. “But surely you could not have come more quickly than you did.”

  “No. But when those who perished are interred, we will refortify this city in their memories.”

  We begin to walk toward camp in silence. All I can think about is the prospect of a prolonged stay at Sidon while Louis builds walls and towers to salve his conscience.

  After a few moments, Jean says, “You look well.”

  “I am better for being here.” And I realize as I say it, this is true. Being with Jean ameliorates every other circumstance.

  He offers me a broad, open smile. “I missed you too.”

  “My Lord of Joinville,” I tease, “you are very presumptuous. I merely missed living in tents, and having everything I wear and own always full of sand and dust.”

  I am rewarded with the laugh I love. “I will help you shake the dust from your clothing one of these evenings to be sure. I have placed your tents on the seaward side of the camp. Just there.” Following the direction of his finger I can see my standard. “If threat comes, it is unlikely to come by water, and the sea castle is the fortress we would hold in last resort in any event.”

  “And I thought you wanted to give me a lovely view.” I lay a hand on his arm just long enough that he can feel its weight but not so long that I might attract attention of any onlooker.

  “A view and a little distance from the tents of the preudommes and His Majesty.”

  “I do like the air to stir around my tents.”

  The small cart with my chests on it rumbles by. We are nearly upon the camp. Our time can be measured in steps.

  “I must return to the king. Shall I come tonight and take you for a walk by the sea?”

  “Come tonight.”

  “If you need anything in the meantime, send Marie and I will secure it for you. I am lodged not far from His Majesty, across from the Count of Eu. The count’s tent can be easily spotted as some fool has given him a bear.” He laughs again. “The noise the thing makes is criminal, and if my people do not keep their eyes out, it will eat all my capons.” Then, serious, he adds, “You must tell the children to stay away from it. They will be curious, but the thing is not tame.”

  “Never fear, Sieur.” Allowing Jean to hold back the flap of my tent for me, I can see Marie and my béguines shaking out sheets in preparation for making up my bed. “I did not come all this way by sea alone to let my children be eaten by bears.”

  “SO YOU ARRIVED THIS MORNING with the princes and our new daughter.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” I sit at dinner beside Louis on the dais under one of his pavilions. A collection of his favorite knights, Jean among them, eat at tables below us.

  “Would you like to see the Lady Blanche?” Again I have named a daughter after the dragon—in irritation that her delivery delayed me in Jaffa but also in hope that her grandmother will force Louis’s hand and bring us home. “I can send for her.”

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough.” Louis’s expression makes me doubtful he wishes to see our daughter at all.

  “Just as Your Majesty wishes.” Looking at my husband’s profile, I can see that he loses weight once more. Burying the dead is dangerous work; every sort of pestilence attends them. It has long been my fear that Louis will die in the Holy Land; that, in fact, he intends to. “Will Your Majesty not take some more figs?” I lift the platter from between us and hold it in his direction. “I understand from the Seneschal of Champagne that you all work strenuously in this heat. Your Majesty must take care to keep up his strength.”

  Louis turns in my direction, his eyes for a moment unguarded. I see his weariness, his guilt, and his feelings of unworthiness. “We do not suffer at all compared with those we were too late to aid.”

  I nod my head. “Yet you offer them Christian burial, and that is a worthy task that cannot be completed without your strength.”

  Louis stretches out his long, thin fingers tentatively and takes a fig as if it might bite him. “I see the Seneschal of Champagne keeps you well-informed.”

  There is an edge to Louis’s tone, as if he resents the fact. I am immediately cautious. “It was kind of Your Majesty to send him to see my ladies and me safely ashore.”

  “I did not, madam, but I knew where he was going when he took his leave. And as he is a gentleman of the first sort who always knows what is fitting to be done, I thought it best to let him go, even though it meant delaying my priest’s sermon against his return.”

  The king looks at me expectantly, as if I ought to be pleased by his information; ought to thank him for his magnanimity. I am only thankful that the meal will soon be concluded and I will be away from him. It is without question easier for me to talk with and understand nearly anyone other than my husband of nineteen years.

  IT DOES NOT TAKE LONG for me to feel settled at Sidon. A great part of me longs to go home, but if I must continue to live like a Bedouin, I am, for the moment, comfortable and happy. In this latest crowded camp, Jean and I live even more freely than we did in its predecessors. Louis, tired from his ceaseless manual labor in the heat, retires early to scourge himself, pray, and finally to sleep, leaving Jean and his other gentlemen to their own devices. Those men who would drink, gamble, or participate in other noisy amusements are as careful to stay away from my tents as they are to stay away from His Majesty’s, so my edge of the camp is largely deserted as dusk falls. Jean comes and goes freely to pass time with me, his visits given a veneer of respectability by his position with the king and by the presence of my women, my children, or both. We play chess, talk of France, read to each other, and dine together as if we were a married couple. And when we would do the other things that married couples do, Marie admits Jean to the tent where I sleep, deserts her pallet at my feet, and crouches outside in the darkness until we are done.

  Today is laundry day. My béguines laugh as the wind blows the wet things they are hanging into their faces. Marie has all the sides of my main tent raised. Jean Tristan and Pierre play queek, using my chessboard on a blanket on the ground. Pierre is really too little to understand the game but enjoys casting the pebbles nonetheless, and little Jean is unfailingly patient with him. The sea sparkles in the distance with a light so dazzling, it is nearly painful to look at.

  Jean is not at Sidon. He left more than a week ago on a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Tortosa. He departed in the highest of humors and left me likewise, despite his impending absence, because the king ordered him to purchase lengths of cloth to pre-sent to the Franciscans when we go back to France. Neither of us can remember Louis’s mentioning his return to our country since before he left Jaffa.

  I am trying to write to Eleanor. I have not received a letter from her in more than half a year, and I cannot say that she gets mine. At first I blamed the winter seas, and now I presume the fact that the king moves us so frequently from one city to the next explains this matter. I certainly know I am not the only one who no longer dependably receives correspondence. Still, writing to my sister is a habit formed over many years and so I continue, or would do if the strong wind from the sea did not try to take my page every moment.

  “Your Majesty.” Looking up from my efforts, I see one of my Lord of Joinville’s knights. He carries a flat parcel wrapped in white cloth. Darling Jean! He must have sent me a relic, something from the shrine built by Saint Peter to the Holy Mother. I told him how jealous I was that he should see the place and I should not!

 
; Rising, I go forward to the knight and kneel before him.

  Giving me a look of utter confusion, he sinks to his knees as well.

  “Pray, sir, rise. The bearer of holy relics need kneel to no one.”

  “Your Majesty,” the knight says, blushing scarlet, which I think very odd for a man hardened in battle, “these are not relics, but rather a fine piece of camel hair cloth my Lord of Joinville sends for your pleasant use.”

  Now it is my turn to color. Scrambling to my feet, I try to look dignified, then abandon the attempt, collapsing in laughter into Marie’s arms. Both of us shake until we weep; then, wiping my eyes, I turn back to the knight, who smiles merrily.

  “Tell the Seneschal of Champagne he had best be wary of me when he returns from the north. He is out of my graces for making me kneel to a bolt of cloth, however lovely.”

  “Your Majesty, you may tell him yourself, for he is not more than a day behind me.”

  “Be assured, good sir, I shall.”

  Jean does indeed arrive late in the afternoon of the following day. I only hear of the event; I do not see it or him. Jean’s first duty is to call upon the king, and Louis, it seems, is not inclined to release him. As the afternoon draws to a close, Marie gets surreptitious word from Caym that Jean has been dismissed, but his respite will be brief as he is expected to return to His Majesty’s tents to dine with the king.

  When Louis has the tables set in his large pavilion, there is always a place for me should I choose to have it. I go when there is something interesting to be seen, as when the Greek Lord of Trebizond arrived bearing gifts and begging for a French bride. This evening, as the sun begins to slip toward the horizon and the night winds cool the air, I go because I cannot bear to spend Jean’s first evening back apart from him.

  Louis is in an excellent mood. In addition to the cloth he commanded, Jean brought him a strange stone that can be split into slices. When opened, it reveals a tiny stone fish, perfect in every bone and detail. Louis’s enthusiasm for the marvel extends even to me. “Look, lady wife. Is it not a wonder? Stone, yet just as if it were alive and could swim away this moment.”

  “Wonderful!” I reach out one finger and gently touch the rock creature. “It is as if an artist painted it.”

  “It is better, for it is painted by Our Lord. The Sieur de Joinville is a man who knows what pleases.”

  He is indeed, I think to myself, and give a little shiver. After nearly two weeks without Jean’s touch, I look forward to him pleasing me this evening. The stars are spread like jewels in the darkening sky, and I hope to tempt him down to the shore so that we may lie beneath them. The look he gives me when he arrives at dinner and bows to Louis suggests he will be agreeable to my suggestion.

  The bowls are brought to begin the meal. As I hand over the linen with which I have dried my hands, I hear the hooves of a horse riding hard. The king’s guards stiffen at their posts, peering into the oddly shaped bits of darkness that separate the light cast by the torches at the corners of the king’s tent from that cast by the torches of tents nearby.

  A man wearing the arms of the Count of Jaffa comes into view. Jumping down from his horse, he strides into the pavilion and stops before the king. “Your Majesty, I apologize for intruding, but my master bid me find you when I reached your camp, be it day or night.”

  “What is the matter?”

  “This letter arrived for you from France.” He holds out a most official-looking missive tattered at its edges but heavily sealed. “The man who brought it to the count had been looking for you for many months, and seemed always to arrive where you were not. He told the count the matter was urgent, and, hearing this, my master took it upon himself to see it safely to your hands.”

  “We thank you.” Louis’s voice trembles slightly. He takes the letter. Nodding to the nearest servant, he orders, “See that this man is fed.” Then turning to Giles le Brun who, along with some of the other preudommes and councilors, has crowded to the dais, he says, “It bears the seals of both my brothers.”

  Jean, standing just behind le Brun’s shoulder, gives me a pointed look. We have not heard from the court of France for so long that we had begun to think they had forgotten their king.

  In a single deft motion Louis breaks both seals. The letter appears long, but my husband’s eyes cannot have moved beyond the opening lines before he rises from his seat. “No,” he keens, “no, no, no.” His hands, still clutching the letter, beat his breast, then claw for the neck of his tunic. In a violent gesture he rips it open, revealing his customary hair shirt underneath. And all the time he continues to wail, “No, no,” as if denial could make whatever he has read less so.

  “Your Majesty, what is it?” Le Brun’s eyes bulge like those of a man being hanged from a noose.

  Louis stops wailing, but looks at him as if uncomprehending.

  Hesitantly, I put out a hand and touch Louis’s arm. His eyes turn to me, and for the first time in a long while Louis sees me rather than looking past or through me. And I see Louis the man, not the oh-so-holy king. Then his hand jerks strangely in my direction and drops the crumpled letter into my lap.

  Heart beating as if I were a rabbit cornered by hounds, I pick it up. Not the children, I think, please, Holy Mary, not the children. The writing is Alphonse’s, and the first words that catch my eye are “The bishop of Paris was with our mother at the end, and true to her pious nature, she put aside her crown and took the veil.” Raising my face to my husband’s once more, I say, “Our lady mother, Blanche of Castile, is dead.”

  Louis nods. Then, as if this admission by gesture reminds him of his grief, he begins to keen again and, turning, runs from the pavilion. The eerie sound he makes fades but continues, leaving those of us who remain frozen in our places.

  “Go to him.” My own voice breaks the horrified silence. Yet it is not my voice. For, hearing it as from a distance, I cannot imagine why it is so calm.

  Jean nods. As he goes in pursuit of the king, I rise and flee as if from a scene of violence, with Marie chasing after me.

  By the time I reach my tent I am shaking. Marie puts her arm about me from behind and guides me inside. Without this precaution I would surely collapse. As it is, I fall onto my bed and am immediately gripped by convulsing sobs. They roll through my body, tossing me like a galley in a storm. Gasping for air, I clutch the coverlet, balling my hands into fists and twisting the blanket.

  “Your Majesty!” Marie sits down beside me, a look of wild concern on her face. “You will do yourself harm.” She tries to smooth my hair, but I push her hand away and, covering my face with my hands, curl up like an animal in a hole, sobbing through my fingers. “I am going to get the physician,” she says, standing up.

  I lose all sense of time and cannot say, when the voice comes, if it has been moments or hours since Marie left me.

  “I have heard that some women are foolish, fickle, and untrustworthy. But never would I have believed you among their number.” Jean’s tone is both incredulous and tender.

  Taking my hands from my face, I look up to see him standing just inside the tent.

  He shakes his head and continues. “What can I think but that you have lost your mind and forgotten your own interests? The woman who hated you most and whose loathing you returned measure for measure is dead; yet you weep for her as if you loved her like a true mother. It is unaccountable!”

  Sitting up, I swing my feet to the floor. Jean closes the distance between us in a few strides and takes a seat beside me.

  “I cry for joy because I am free of her,” I explain, turning to face him. “But also in sorrow for His Majesty.”

  I know I can say this without hurting Jean. He understands me. He knows that some small part of me still cares for Louis, and will always care. Jean loves Louis as well—even if he no longer blindly reveres Louis as he once did. What we feel for the man who is our king is separate and apart from what we feel for each other. Our love is that of one deeply flawed person for ano
ther. When we lie together wrapped in each other’s limbs and secure in each other’s affections, we are two ordinary people seeking the companionship and love that ordinary people require to face the world. We love Louis as we love God, knowing that he is above us in many ways, and that he does not need our love. Without our affection he would be as whole as he is with it. In part, it is this knowledge that holds Jean and me together with such force. We find the value in each other that appears completely lost upon Louis. “Did you see him?”

  “He lies cruciform in his chapel, tearing at his hair. I tried to calm him, but he sent me away. I left him crying out his mother’s name,” Jean says, wiping my tears away gently with his thumbs. “It is terrible how he grieves. But it is foolish for us to dwell on it. Only God can help him in his sadness; we cannot.”

  “Yes.” I lay my head against Jean’s chest as he slips his arm behind me. The fine wool of his tunic is soft against my damp cheek. “But God will help him; he always does. And perhaps this time he helps us as well. We can go home. Surely with Blanche dead, Louis’s thoughts and footsteps will turn to home?”

  “I cannot imagine but that we will set off for Acre and our ships at once. Then you will see little Louis, Philippe, and Isabella, and you will be happy.”

  I look up into his face and notice for the first time that it is tracked with tears as well. I want to kiss them away but worry where that would lead. Surely some of the camp must know that he has come to comfort me. “They will meet their new brothers and sister,” I say gently, reaching for his hand. “They will meet Jean, and they will love his solemn little ways. Never has such an old soul lived in such a young body, except perhaps in his father.”

  “We will be parted.” Another tear escapes the corner of Jean’s eye, and I touch it with my fingertip. Can it be that Jean, who is never selfish, cries not for Louis but for us?

  “Never.”

  “Yes. I must go home to see my sons, my wife.” He stumbles over the last word. Not because it will bother me, but because it bothers him. I have always been able to accept the existence of Alix with equanimity, perhaps because Jean never loved her. He told me once he even tried to extricate himself from his betrothal to her. “You will reign at last in your court,” he continues, holding my hand so tightly that it is painful.