The Sister Queens

by Sophie Perinot

  One is quickly brought. Placing it beside his son’s bed, Jean leads me to it.

  “Your Majesty,” he says, “I swear to Saint Nicholas that if he will but rescue you and your children from the danger in which we find ourselves at this moment, I will make a pilgrimage to his shrine at Varangéville.”

  “Would that I could do the same! But His Majesty…” My voice trails off for a moment. How can I say in front of these women what I am thinking, that Louis is so far gone in his mind, so contrary to any project of mine, that should I promise a pilgrimage without his permission, he would only make me recant my vow?

  It is fortunate that Jean knows the king as well as I do. He sees my difficulty and tries, God love him, to smooth it. “Perhaps Your Majesty can make a different type of pledge. Say to God that if he brings you and those you love through this fearful ordeal, you will build him a model of a ship worth five livres to remember this night by. And if you do, I will take it from Joinville on foot and shoeless to the shrine of Saint Nicholas and offer it for you.”

  “Yes, I will commission a ship, but of silver and worth a hundred times what you suggest, if we all live to see the dawn.”

  “And I will sit with Your Majesty until that dawn so that you might not count out the dreadful hours alone.”

  “MAMA?” SOMETHING TOUCHES MY FACE. I open my eyes and there is light, glorious, glorious light. Jean Tristan is sitting up in his bed, curls tousled, eyes still drowsy, one hand on my cheek. When at last I surrendered to sleep last night, I must have fallen forward onto his bed.

  “Good morning, my lamb,” I say, catching my four-year-old up in a hug and inhaling the smell of childish slumber that clings about him as if it were the finest perfume.

  The nurse on the pallet at the foot of little Jean’s bed stirs at the sound of my voice. So does my chevalier who has fallen asleep against the wall near the door, his head thrown back and his mouth slightly open.

  As if aware of my eyes upon him, Jean opens his own and says, “Dawn.”

  “Let us go on deck at once.”

  Jean is clearly as eager as I am to see our situation in clear, fogless day, but as he jumps to his feet and straightens his wrinkled tunic, an expression of doubt crosses his face. “Ought Your Majesty not change? What will the king think, seeing you this morning in the same garments you retired in last evening?”

  “If he thinks of me at all, he might well think that, like him, I have passed a largely sleepless night praying for our deliverance.” I raise my hands to my head, straightening my circlet and wimple as best I can; then, after giving Jean Tristan a kiss on the end of his nose and bestowing kisses on a still-sleeping Pierre and baby Blanche in her cradle, I join Jean by the door.

  The first thing I notice in coming upon deck is that while the fog has flown, the wind has not abated. It whips at my skirts and carries the end of my veil momentarily into my mouth.

  “By Christ’s passion!” Jean’s voice trembles, and I see why. Near the front of the ship on the leeward side a massive outcropping of rock is visible rising high above the rail. I can see Louis, his chamberlain, and the constable among the group of gentlemen and sailors assembled at the prow.

  “You see,” the king says triumphantly as soon as we reach him, “even the sandbar upon which we rest is the work of Our Lord, sent to protect us from greater ruin!”

  Jean nods vigorously in assent, then, turning aside, asks the archbishop of Nicosia who stands nearby, “How bad is the damage?”

  “The master mariner has four men in the water now. We should know when they are pulled aboard.”

  And sure enough, gazing down at the surface of the wind-whipped water, I can see heads bobbing, then disappearing, then surfacing again. A rope ladder hugs the side of the vessel, trailing in the water near the men who dive.

  Returning my gaze to the deck, I see that all of the men look haggard, but no man’s eyes are shadowed by circles as dark as the king’s. Making my way to Louis’s side, I say, “Will Your Majesty not come with me and have something warm?”

  Louis’s eyes flicker over my face. Is that surprise I see? Then they fall again to the men in the water. Finally, after a few moments’ silence, he says, “I believe I will. My night of prayer was fruitful to be sure but has left me depleted in strength if augmented in spirit. My Lord of Joinville,” he adds, “bring the master mariners and the members of my council to my cabin to give their report and offer their advice when the ship’s condition is better known.”

  I am pleased that Louis has condescended to go with me. Bustling ahead of him, I give orders for something hot to be brought at once to his cabin and, reaching that location, demand that his valet bring a change of clothes and warm water so the king may wash himself. Settling down on a stool, I find it strange that Louis struggles to screen himself from my view as he changes. Does he not realize we are married twenty years?

  Emerging from the corner behind his bed just as a bowl of broth with a hunk of bread in it is carried in, Louis seats himself at his table and waits for the bowl and ewer to be brought so he can cleanse his hands. That task complete, he looks at me and says, “And where did you pass the night, lady wife?”

  I am startled, not because I have anything to hide but at the very fact of Louis’s asking. “With Your Majesty’s children that they might not be roused by all the noise and confusion.”

  “And the Seneschal of Champagne?”

  “With me to assuage my fear.”

  “Very thoughtful of him.”

  Try as I might, I cannot tell if Louis compliments Jean in earnest or means his comment in an ironic vein. The king eats steadily and calmly without another word. If I am less calm, I hope he does not know it. Finally, sopping the last bit of his soup with the remnants of his bread, Louis says, “Are you glad to be going home?”

  “My feelings on the subject are mixed, Your Majesty. I greatly long to see France and our children there again and feel it is in the best interest of both that you should return to an active reign. And yet—”

  “Yes?” Louis eyes are scrutinizing me in a way they have not for many a moon. Are they seeking truth? Or are they seeking empathy with his own regrets at departing from the Holy Land? I cannot tell him the truth, but I can offer him understanding of his own truth. This I owe him as a wife and, moreover, I wish to give him, for when he is like this, a normal man with needs, wants, and fears, there is a little love left in me for him still.

  “And yet, there are things about the Holy Land that one must regret leaving behind, unless one has a heart made of stone.”

  “So there are.” Louis’s eyes burn.

  A knock sounds on the cabin door. A procession of Louis’s advisers, with Jean bringing up the rear, enters in the company of the master mariners and a sailor who was doubtless among the divers—rubbed dry but still ruddy from the cool of the water.

  Louis gestures for the gentlemen to sit, and they take the remaining stools around his table, shifting me by increments closer to the king’s side. This, I cannot help thinking, is how I always imagined sitting—among those closest to the king, ready to be of service.

  “Sirs,” Louis says, addressing the mariners who were left standing, “what say you? What have waves, water, and sand done to this great ship of mine?”

  “Your Majesty,” says one of the master mariners, a man with fine hair of no particular color touched with gray at his temples, whose age could be forty or four hundred, so weathered is his skin, “I will tell you plainly—the keel is in a bad way. I fear, without repair, she will not stand the high seas but will break apart.”

  There is a general groan from the men around me. But Louis remains unperturbed. “Can the repairs be made?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, but might I be so bold as to suggest that before they are attempted, Your Majesty, the queen, and all attached to the royal household be ferried by boat to one of the other ships? Already they are gathering within hailing distance.”

  “And what say you gentl
emen? Le Brun? Joinville? Shall I abandon this ship and seek another?”

  “Your Majesty, we are not sailors, but these men are, and sailors of the highest skills.” The constable inclines his head in a show of respect to the mariner who has just finished speaking. “If they advise that you are safest on another vessel, I will not gainsay them.”

  “Nor I,” adds the chamberlain.

  “The destiny of all of France lies with Your Majesty.” Jean speaks to Louis, but his eyes are, at least momentarily, on me. “Pray make yourself safe as these good men suggest.”

  “And what of the rest of you?” Louis asks, looking round. “What of the hundreds of other souls aboard this ship? Shall they not be more frightened if I leave it? Shall they not wonder that I think so little of them and so much of myself?”

  “Surely not!” urges Joinville. “For at least with respect to the last point, every soul on board knows that you are king, and all came on this voyage with you prepared to die for you.”

  “And I am humbled by that commitment. But I have lost enough men already, Joinville. And at least in battle and in captivity I partook of the same danger as they, though it pleased God to spare me. No, gentlemen, I cannot leave this ship.”

  “At least send Her Majesty the Queen and Your Majesty’s children. They are not bound by the honor of fighting men which you insist in standing upon.”

  I think Jean very brave for saying this. Surely he can see that in his present mood Louis will think such a plea nonsense. Le Brun sees as much; when Jean turns a pleading eye upon him seeking support, the constable merely says halfheartedly, “It would not delay repairs a moment to transport Her Majesty to the nearest ship.”

  “My Lord of Joinville,” Louis begins—is there malice in Louis’s look or do I merely imagine it?—“I was saying to Her Majesty only this morning that you take prodigious care for her and I am thankful for it. But I have more faith in God than in the machinations of man. I am content to place my life in his hands, and so too the lives of my wife and children.” Then turning to the mariners, he says, “It is settled. Begin what repairs you think prudent. All who are on board now will rest there.”

  “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, HE knows something.”

  “No,” I say, pushing aside the fact that I myself felt the same the morning after the grounding. “And you must not really believe so yourself, or you would not be here.”

  Jean is in my cabin. Having come to the conclusion that there is no safer place for us to be alone together, we have fallen back on the cover that may be given by good and loyal servants. So Caym will tell anyone seeking Jean this evening that he sleeps within his cabin while Marie sits placid in the smaller forward chamber of my own to insist that I likewise have retired if called upon to do so. Still, the arrangement is fraught with risk, and we both know that. The closer the shores of France draw, the more willing we are to defy common sense and ignore what used to be for us inviolate rules of conduct in order to be together.

  “Listen to me, Marguerite,” Jean replies, sitting down heavily on the edge of my bed. “When the repairs were finished this morning, and even as the anchors were being drawn up and sail raised, Louis called me to sit with him upon a ship’s bench and told me that, according to the saints, such trials and near escapes are sent by God to remind us that he has the power to take our lives whensoever he wishes.”

  “That sounds like Louis.” I stand before Jean, looking down on his disconsolate face. “But what has a religious lesson to do with your suspicions, or the king’s?”

  “I am getting there.” Jean looks up, his eyes fairly pleading for me to be patient. “I told the king it was doubtless true that God could have drowned us had he wished. And he replied, ‘Yes, Seneschal, but are we all properly chastened by this reminder of our mortality? For make no mistake, God intends us to examine our conduct for anything displeasing to him that we may purge ourselves of it. Elsewise his warning has not accomplished its purpose.’”

  I draw breath audibly.

  “You see, we are discovered.”

  Louis’s little speech is harder to dismiss than I would like, but still, I can drive down the sudden surge of bile that rises from my stomach upon hearing it, and hope I can quiet Jean’s doubts as well. “He could have meant a more general lesson. No man not a priest loves to preach as much as Louis does. Or he could refer to your obstinate pressure upon him during our grounding to do other than pray for our relief.”

  Jean shakes his head, clearly unwilling to believe me.

  “If Louis knows about us, why not be more explicit? Why not move to separate us?”

  “I do not know.”

  “No, you do not. Nor do I. All this is supposition and conjecture. Would you give me up over that?”

  “I ought to,” Jean responds. “It would be safer for you.” I put a hand gently on his shoulder, and he dips his head gracefully to kiss it. “But, heaven help me, I am not that strong. I will cleave to you until I have no choice, and I pray daily that moment never comes.”

  CHAPTER 34

  My dearest Marguerite,

  …It seems wrong to complain to you who want and wait to sail, but I do not like ocean voyages. Yet the business that Henry and I must conclude, that of marrying our Edward, cannot be settled from England. And so, tomorrow morning, with Edward, Edmund, and Beatrice beside me, I will watch my English coast slip away and make sail for Bordeaux. If I am sick at sea, I shall attempt to bear it with your patience, for my voyage is nothing compared with that which you will, with any luck, soon set forth upon.

  Your devoted sister,

  Eleanor

  ELEANOR

  MAY 1254

  DOVER, ENGLAND

  I can see the ships from my window, magnificently fitted out and ready to go. And the wind, as if knowing I desire to be gone, is strong and favorable. I glance once more at the letter I hold telling me that the house in Bordeaux where I bore my daughter Beatrice a dozen years ago is ready to receive me again. Then Henry was losing in Poitou. Now we are winning in Gascony. Winning. Edward’s birthright is secured just as we intended. I am not much familiar with the sensation of things going precisely as we planned them, Henry and I, and the fact my husband has not been thwarted or made a fool of in Gascony causes me to feel giddy with delight.

  The door swings open and I expect to see Edward, back with another of his many questions. We sail in the morning, and the excitement of the event overwhelms my eldest. Instead, it is Uncle Boniface.

  “This came for you. The messenger looked as if he would have swum the channel if he had been called upon to.” He holds out a letter bearing my husband’s seal.

  “Come,” I say, reaching for it. “Surely it cannot be more than His Majesty’s fervent wishes that I should have a safe journey.” But my fingers shake as I try to undo the seal. Henry’s hand is as familiar to me as my own, and generally it brings me comfort when he is away. This time, however, it brings word I would rather not have. “Alfonso is mustering troops.”

  “By the nails!” My uncle’s exclamation, so at odds with his standing as archbishop of Canterbury, expresses all the astonishment and frustration that overwhelm me at the moment. “Is Henry certain?”

  “His spies say men-at-arms are gathering in large numbers. It seems Gascony is not yet safe from Castilian aggression and Edward may remain unmarried a while longer.” Though it hardly seems important under the circumstances, I feel a sudden twinge at the thought of my son’s disappointment. In this one thing, and not much else, he is exactly like his father—he has allowed his fancy to fix on his prospective bride and swears himself desperately in love with her though they have never met.

  Reading farther, my eyes are stopped dead by the words, “As I value your safety and that of my sons more even than my own life or the success of this venture, do not set out from England until you hear from me.”

  “We are enjoined from sailing!”

  “What?”

  “For our safety we are to remain in
England until the battle is past.” I feel like letting off a good oath myself, but instead, crush the letter in my hand into a tight ball. “How? How is it possible that we are perched on the edge of complete victory and yet may be thwarted?”

  “Such a thing is always possible.” My uncle shrugs maddeningly. “Eleanor, you know the way of politics—allies of yesterday will tear each other to pieces today, and the opposite is equally true.” Boniface rubs his chin for a moment, then asks, “Does His Majesty command you not to come?”

  I find it a strange question. Then I realize what Boniface is really asking—whether I will obey Henry’s admonition.

  “You think I ought to go?”

  “The decision is not mine, Eleanor. I merely suggest it calls for reflection, not blind obedience.”

  I would laugh were the situation not so serious. When in all my years have I been known as blindly obedient? I drop the ball that is Henry’s letter on a nearby table and go once more to my window. The sun is setting, giving the furled sails of my fine ships a rosy hue. These sheets are ready to open and catch the morning breeze. Everything we have worked so hard to achieve in Gascony hinges on Edward’s arrival there and on his marriage. Beneath the ships, the water of the harbor offers a more glaring red, the red of blood. If I take my sons to Gascony against their father’s wishes, will the blood spilt there include theirs?

  I reclaim the letter and tease it into a flattened state once more, sorry for my impulsive action. Here is a missive that definitely bears rereading. When I have reviewed it, I look up at my uncle. “Henry says nothing of word from Alfonso himself. Whatever manner of man the King of Castile is, would he not feel constrained to issue a letter breaking off negotiations before attacking a man he promised to call family?”

  “He may yet, once his troops are ready.”

  “And what of Mansel? Henry makes no mention of him. Yet who should know the King of Castile’s mind better, at least among the English, than Mansel when he has all but lived with Alfonso for months while negotiating the terms of this marriage?”