“And you will return to that court to advise your king and to watch your other son grow to manhood.”
“We will never have the freedom we have enjoyed here.”
“That will not matter,” I reply fiercely. I know as I say it, it is not true. When we return to France, Jean will become someone I love but cannot have, oddly like the king himself was in our first days, distant even as he sits beside me at table. I begin to cry again, silently, but no longer in relief.
Jean senses the change. “I will never give you up, Marguerite, unless death separates us or you send me away.”
I put one hand into his curls, and, pulling his face down, kiss him with a passion very like when I kissed him the first time at Curias. “I will never send you.”
CHAPTER 32
Dearest Marguerite,
Henry will go into battle. Not in the Holy Land where you languish, though it is three years since His Majesty and I began planning and raising revenues for a crusade, but in Gascony.
I do not hunger for such a war, I who bitterly remember Henry’s campaign in Poitou ten years ago. But I have resigned myself to the necessity of his going. Edward must have this important part of his appanage. We cannot allow either the barons of the territory or the King of Castile to steal what is our son’s birthright. It seems there comes a time when the future of the son is even more important than the safety of the father. Yet at six-and-forty, Henry does not seem so old as to be expendable either to his kingdom or to me. I hold him as dear as ever I did, and my prayers for his safety will begin the moment he is out of my sight and end only once he is back in my arms. At least he has promised me that Edward will remain here in England, out of harm’s way.…
Eleanor
ELEANOR
SUMMER 1253
WINDSOR, ENGLAND
“Mother, why can I not go?”
Edward has interrupted my afternoon in the gardens to plead and protest his exclusion from the campaign in Gascony. My ladies, who were gathering flowers and braiding them into chaplets, drifted out of the reach of our voices at the prince’s appearance. They are the souls of discretion even if my son is not.
“Because your father says you may not.”
“He treats me like a child.”
“You are his child.”
“But I am also a man.”
“At fourteen?”
“You yourself were married a whole year at my age.”
I do not know quite how to argue with that. When I arrived in England, I certainly thought of myself as a woman grown. It was not until years later that I realized I was wrong. It cannot help the present argument to tell Edward he is mistaken. On the other hand, I have neither the power nor the inclination to permit him to travel to Gascony and fight. “When you are one year married we will talk more on the subject.”
“Mother! If I am married, then there will be no need to speak of it. If John Mansel is successful, I will have a bride and there will be no battle.”
“If there will be no battle, then why must you fuss and fume so about going to Gascony with the knights?”
“Because they are my lands that are threatened. I have been invested with them for more than a year. My honor demands I defend them.”
Edward looks so solemn when he speaks of honor. I am touched. I would never jest with such earnestness. I gently lay my hand on his arm and say, “Your honor and your duty demand that you obey your father and your king.”
“Saints preserve me from argumentative women!” Edward says, shaking off my hand and lifting his eyes as if he were ancient. His expression is so at odds with his youth and naïveté that I nearly laugh out loud. “You would not contend so with Father,” he complains.
I would, but there can be no benefit to myself in admitting as much. Let Edward learn when he has a wife of his own what wives can say to their husbands. “Which is why I will not press him to include you in his party.”
“I will sneak aboard the ships.”
“I believe I would notice were you not at my side to see them off.”
Edward kicks the path in front of him in frustration, sending up a little shower of gravel.
“Find your friends and go riding,” I urge. Edward is as good on horseback as he is with a sword. A few races with his friends, races he is sure to win, will blow away his present bad humor.
“Edmund will want to come.”
“It is natural that your younger brother should seek to emulate you. You should be flattered.”
“I am vexed.”
“Tell Edmund that I will come and read to him and the smaller Edmund.” Sanchia’s son trails my youngest about much as my son shadows his elder brother.
Edward is clearly prepared to complain further, but the crunch of a man’s stride on gravel prevents it. Uncle Peter rounds a hedge, his face flushed. He makes straight for me, not even pausing to greet Edward, which is most unusual.
“It is accomplished!” he says, taking me by both shoulders and pulling me to him.
“I will be co-regent?” I ask as he releases me.
“You will be sole regent.”
“But the Earl Richard—”
“None too pleased at present, and destined to be but one of the sworn council established to advise you.”
I twirl about as if I am a girl of fifteen instead of a woman of thirty.
“Mansel and I will be with the king, but be assured the men you are given will support Your Majesty. I am suggesting William of Kilkenny, Philip Lovel, and John Fitz Geoffrey.”
“What of Geoffrey de Langley?” My uncle casts me a perplexed look. He does not like Langley and cannot seem to fathom that Henry and I do.
“Have him if you like him. There is more.”
“What more could there be?”
For the first time my uncle seems fully aware that Edward is with us, silent but observing all.
“My Lord Edward,” he says, clapping my son’s shoulder affectionately.
“Uncle.” Edward is always familiar with Peter, a habit he picked up from me but one that also suits their cordial relationship.
“Edward,” I say, intervening, “did I not ask you to bear a message to your brother?”
The boy sighs. He is clearly interested in the conversation and knows he is being sent out of the way of hearing any more of it. “Fine. I will go, but first I would make a suggestion for the governance of England in Father’s absence.”
“Indeed?” I am curious how my son would manage the country that will one day be his.
“Lift the ban on tourneying. Such action would make you much beloved in some quarters.”
“I thought you loved me already.”
This comment, and the prospect that I might follow it with an embrace, is enough to set Edward’s feet in motion.
When the sound of his footfall has died away, my uncle continues. “His Majesty has made a testament.”
I cross myself and take a seat on a stone bench. I know that such things are important, particularly as Henry will be on the sea and then in battle, but I cannot bear to think of anything happening to him.
“Custody of all the children is given you.”
“Why here is a thing more important than the governance of England,” I exclaim. Though I do not believe anything under heaven save my imprisonment or the use of arms could keep me from seeing my children, to have that right legally and unquestionably bestowed upon me is gift indeed.
“The two are inseparable,” my uncle replies sensibly. “And so too you shall have custody of all His Majesty’s territories until the Lord Edward reaches his majority.”
“Would that Henry were here so that I could thank him properly!” As soon as the words are spoken I blush as if my uncle could imagine the type of scene that might well result from my pleasure. For the first time in eight years I am past the early, doubtful, months of a pregnancy, and the prospect of a new babe makes Henry and me feel young again.
“When you thank him,” my uncle says, ob
livious to my embarrassment and the direction of my thoughts, “do not fail to mention his generosity as to your dower rights. For these he has also increased, and greatly.”
My eyes begin to tear. Whatever disappointments I have experienced over Henry’s conduct as ruler, he is ever and always a generous husband to me. If he must brave death, he will not be easy about it until he knows that I will not be left in want should things end badly.
HENRY CRIED WHEN HE LEFT us on the sixth of August. Edward wept as well, though whether in response to his father’s sentimental tears or because he continued to lament being left behind, I cannot say. I kept a cheerful countenance then, but I feel like crying now.
“How can prices be so high?” I look up from the pages lying before me, setting forth the cost of grain, wine, and other commodities crucial to maintaining an army in the field.
“The bad fall harvest caused famine in Gascony, driving up the cost of everything.” Philip Lovel presses his palms together in that nervous way he has when contemplating something displeasing. I have become quite familiar with this gesture in the two months I have been regent. “And even as prices swell, the treasury does not.”
“And His Majesty must have money to pay bribes,” I say. “Full stomachs alone are not enough to guarantee his army satisfactory progress in Gascony.”
Lord Richard nods in approbation. He is of more use and less trouble to me than I ever expected, though I saw him swallow hard the first time I took Henry’s customary seat at this council table. “Your Majesty, we must raise more funds.”
“My Lord de Langley, you are a man handy at extracting silver from His Majesty’s Jews.” I pause for a moment and shift in my seat, trying to make myself more comfortable. Only weeks away from delivering my husband’s child, my belly is enormous, and my back, so much older than it was when I carried my Edward with ease, aches both day and night. “Pray see if you cannot find a way to wring some more money out of them. There must be something yet we do not tax or fine.”
De Langely smiles. “There is always something, Your Majesty. We might borrow from them.”
“No. The Queen of England does not borrow from Jews. My Lord Lovel, see which of the Florentines will lend to me and at what terms.”
“How much does Your Majesty have in mind?”
“I heard from the Count of Poitiers this morning. The King of France’s brother will be paid to stay out of this war. But, as he is a man of honor, he will not come cheap. It seems that three thousand pounds will be needed to make him easy in this matter.”
William of Kilkenny gives a low whistle and mutters, “Heaven forefend” under his breath.
“Your Majesty wishes to borrow three thousand pounds?” Lovel asks.
“No. I wish we could persuade His Majesty’s barons to offer more men and more money for the king’s use,” I say impatiently, “but we have not been particularly successful in that vein, so I must borrow what I cannot secure through less onerous means.”
I do not mean to snap at my treasurer. He, as well as each of the other men seated around the table, works as hard as I to do what is necessary to promote Henry’s success in Gascony. But my temper grows shorter as does the time betwixt myself and my confinement.
“And now gentlemen, what do I overlook? Is there some matter yet to attend to, or is our business for the moment at an end?” I pray no one raises any new issue, for I am desperate to stand and stretch my back and legs—perhaps even to lie down for a few minutes in a darkened room.
AND TO THINK I HAVE long been considered headstrong and stubborn! I am the mildest, the most persuadable of souls when compared with my husband’s noblemen. The Earl Richard and I have spent the afternoon at their parliament, trying to convince them to grant Henry additional moneys, and finding questions and excuses where we hoped for compliance. The January wind that howls outside is not colder than the reception we received from them.
“His Majesty has succeeded in bringing half a dozen castles back into the Crown’s possession in the five months since he left us. What more proof do those old women need that he makes progress?”
Richard takes a glass of wine from Sanchia and drains it before replying. “They are tightfisted to be sure but—with Your Majesty’s permission I would be plain—”
“Be plain then. You above all have a duty to be, as you are more than brother at the moment, you are counselor.”
“The barons know Henry is not, at heart, a military man. They believe he can purchase castles and even the loyalty of some men, but now he talks of laying siege to La Réole and they will want to see him win it, or at least not lose it, before they open their purses.”
I rise in exasperation, inadvertently jostling the cradle at my feet. Darling Katherine, my little princess, begins to cry.
“Let me take her,” Sanchia offers, scooping up the babe with practiced ease. Nothing calms this new child like walking. With all my others ’twas singing, but that has no effect whatsoever on Katherine.
“Pray counsel me, sir. What is to be done?”
“Henry ought to surround himself with men hardened in battle with reputations for fierceness.”
“He has your half bothers with him.” It is difficult to speak of these men in such moderate terms; when I consult with my uncle, they are always “those loathsome Lusignans.”
“They are able fighters indeed,” Richard replies, “when it is in their interest to fight. Perhaps Henry might offer them a better share in the spoils. A promise that they may keep whatever lands they take will spur them on.”
“You mean leave them in possession of the castles as Edward’s vassals?”
“Who would be more loyal to him than his family?”
I nod, keeping my skepticism to myself. This may be the one instance in which my need for the Lusignans outweighs my dislike for them. “But, my lord, the barons do not like your Lusignan relations overmuch. Why not draw someone into this campaign whom the barons respect and the noblemen in Gascony fear?”
“Simon de Montfort.”
“Exactly. He is in France but surely would answer if Henry called for him.”
“Providing that call is accompanied by payment of what the Earl of Leicester is still owed for his last service to the Crown in Gascony, I feel certain Your Majesty is right.”
“Why then, my lord, here is something on which to spend whatever money we can wring from the baronage and whatever is left of my loans too.”
Sanchia returns to my side and places a sleeping Katherine in the cradle. “You have such a gentle nature that you soothe her with great ease,” I say. My sister appears grateful for my kind words and the look that goes with them, and my heart saddens to see that her husband does not so much as glance at her, let alone smile. The ardor of Richard’s first desire for Sanchia long ago cooled beyond rekindling. Cooled though she gave him a goodly son and is as devoted a wife as I have ever seen. Henry says it is because, as does he himself, Richard likes a spirited woman—someone to argue with him and to give her opinion. His first wife was like this, and Sanchia cannot compare. So, after a decade of marriage, Richard treats her with respect but no interest and feeds his passions, whether for political discussion or for the comforts of the flesh, elsewhere. There is nothing I can do to remedy this, no matter how much I wish it were otherwise. Before I am carried away by that melancholy thought, I remind myself that at least marriage to my sister has kept Richard loyal to royal interests and that was its primary purpose from the beginning.
“Will Your Majesty write urging the king to recall de Montfort?” Richard, quite correctly, apprehends that any suggestion from me on the subject of de Montfort will be easier for my husband to accept than would one from himself.
“I will do so at once.”
Richard offers Sanchia his arm, and she takes it so lightly that her hand appears to be a skittish bird on a limb, ready to take flight at the slightest provocation.
I do not tell Richard ere he goes that I mean to put more in my lett
er than what pertains to the pursuit of victory in Gascony. I have had word from Albert of Parma, the papal nuncio. The Holy Father proposes commuting Henry’s crusading vow, which he has not yet fulfilled—raising money for an excursion to the Holy Land was no easier than raising money for this business in Gascony, and the money we did raise has been since diverted to the present campaign—and which, given the disastrous results of the French crusade, I would by all means see set aside. In return, Henry would accept the crown of Sicily in his own name or Edmund’s and help to secure that kingdom by military means using money that I am very happy I am not taxed with finding at this present moment.
This Sicily business is a proposition I embrace eagerly. Our first son will surely be a king, so why not our second? After all, Marguerite and I are both queens. Yet, though Richard seemed unwilling to be King of Sicily himself when he was made an offer of the crown by the Holy Father, I suspect he will not be happy to see my son have it and thus be of a greater rank than he. On this matter, therefore, I seek none of his counsel and keep my own.
“I HAVE GIVEN DIRECTION FOR the necessary transfer of lands and estates.”
Uncle Boniface has just arrived from Canterbury, come to assist in my preparations to sail for Gascony with Edward. With the arrival of March and a break in the weather, word has come from Henry that our son will be husband to Alfonso of Castile’s half sister—if that king keeps his word, and I have my doubts.
“What will Edward be given?” My uncle waves away my offer of wine.
“Gascony he has already, of course, but His Majesty transfers Ireland, the Channel Islands, castles in the Welsh March, Bristol, the county of Chester, and some lesser English lands.”
“The father makes much of the son.”
The Sister Queens Page 36