The Sister Queens

by Sophie Perinot

  Nearing Louis’s apartment, I hear voices. Perhaps he and Henry of England have returned. I quicken my steps and turn a corner. Not a dozen feet in front of me Simon of Nesle and Philip of Nanteuil stand with Jean between them. Fortunately, they do not see me. I am able to turn back and round the corner before my knees give way and I sink to ground. I cannot say if I want to sob or laugh, to run back to them, or to run away and hide myself. Jean is here. When he left us at Beaucaire to see to his own affairs and put the distance between us that we both felt prudent, he swore to me that he would not return to court before spring showed herself and the roses in my garden greened and budded. But he is here nonetheless.

  I sit where I am, quite unable to move.

  “So,” my Lord of Nesle says, his voice infused with jovial enthusiasm, “life in Champagne was not entertaining enough to detain you.”

  “That is not what I hear,” the Lord of Nanteuil chimes in. “My friends at the court of Thibaut the Second say you have been busy. You may not have stayed at home long enough to plow your fields but you had plenty of time to plant your wife.”

  “Listen to him,” Nesle says. “Were you not such an old fellow, de Nanteuil, you too would be eager for the company of your lady after a six-year absence.”

  I hear the sound of a hand slapping someone on the back or shoulder and a great burst of laughter.

  A tear runs down my cheek, and I catch it with the tip of my finger. Of course, I knew Jean must lie with Alix when he arrived home. It is his duty, and not to do so would generate talk, but I wonder if it was also his pleasure. For the first time I have a glimpse of how Jean must have felt all those years as he thought of Louis touching me. I was spoiled by his faithful devotion, by knowing he was mine alone in the desert. In France he is not.

  “What will you do now?” Nesle asks. “Come! Have a drink with us while you wait for the king to return. Once he has seen you, he will not soon be parted from you. Why, only yesterday in council His Majesty mentioned the hardship of your absence.”

  I would not wonder if this was true. As the want of Jean has gnawed at me over the past months, it has likely also pained my husband. I am almost willing to cede that Louis loves the gentleman as much as I do.

  “You exaggerate.” The sound of Jean’s voice—oh dear God, it is as if I were thirsty these five months and did not know it. Having taken the first sip, I would gulp greedily. My breath catches in my throat, and the skin on my arms prickles. Only speak again, I will him. And he does. “His Majesty has too much to occupy his mind to think of one poor servant who is far away.”

  “No,” Nesle replies, his voice serious, “His Majesty forgets none who serve him well, least of all you. Your place in his favor was not filled in your absence.”

  There is a moment of silence. Slowly, and as quietly as I can, I get to my feet. If they should proceed this way, it would not do for them to find me thus.

  “So, will you drink?” the Lord of Nanteuil asks.

  “With your gentlemen’s pardon, I will pay my respects to Her Majesty the Queen.”

  “Well done, Sieur. Doubtless we will see you at this evening’s banquet.”

  I pull myself to my full height and pray that I look composed. I hear steps. Someone comes, but whether it be Jean, his companions, or both I cannot say. Steeling myself, I begin to move so that it will not appear as if I have been secreted here listening, though I have. I round the corner and nearly run into Jean.

  “Your Majesty,” he says; then, glancing back over his shoulder and perceiving that his companions have disappeared in the other direction, “Marguerite.”

  “Sieur de Joinville.” Why do I say this? Is his Christian name too painful to speak, or do I fear that once past my lips they will not be stilled and I will speak a thousand words of love and longing? “You are returned to court.”

  “Yes.” Jean pulls back his shoulders trying to recover himself. His face wears an expression of confusion and pain. I understand both all too well. My pain at this moment is so sharp that I cannot understand why I do not fall dead on this spot.

  “I am happy to see you.” My voice continues to sound oddly hollow, as if I have not breath enough to infuse it with life or longing.

  “Are you?” He lowers his voice. “I was coming to wait upon you. Can we not remove to your rooms? I feel as if I am naked here.”

  Naked. Yes, that is the right word. I also feel stripped bare, and should anyone come upon us, I would cower from view though my activities of the moment are entirely blameless. “My sister the Queen of England and my mother are in my rooms. Oh Jean—”

  “I know.” He reaches out a hand tentatively as if he will touch me, then draws it back. “The pain is overwhelming. I ought to have stayed away longer as I promised. And I would have for your sake, though my thoughts every day turned in your direction, did not the circumstances of my family compel me hence.”

  “My lord, what is the matter?”

  “I arrived home to find my finances in ruins.”

  In all our time together I never gave a thought to how Jean lived. Like every other gentleman on crusade he scrambled for money to keep himself and his men, but I supposed this to be but a function of extended warfare.

  “With my mother yet alive—and God knows I love her too well to wish her in her grave—and in possession of her dower rights, I must support me and mine on scarcely one thousand livres a year in rents. Alix received but half her dowry, and even to secure that before I left for the Holy Land we were forced to sign away claims to the balance. I pledged substantial portions of my land when I took up the cross to equip myself and my men.…” Jean’s voice trails off.

  “Love,”—it feels good to address him so and good to take charge of the situation, for I can be queen and friend just as I promised and make things right—“if these are your worries, put them aside. You are beloved of a generous king and his queen. Make a list of those who are indebted to you and give it over to me. His Majesty and I will see it collected forthwith. Beyond that, can you have any doubt that Louis will wish to recompense you for your service now you are returned to court?”

  Jean regards me with an intensity that carries me back over years to the first time we were alone in the gardens at Saumur. “You were ever my angel.”

  “And you were ever a man who could be counted upon.” Does he remember the words as I do? Perhaps, for he smiles.

  “France agrees with you. You bloom with vigor in native air.”

  “It is not France but the effect of Eleanor you see upon me. Verily I believe she can cure me of anything, save you.”

  “I can hardly wait to meet her then.”

  “You shall tonight. Only pray, sir, remember that once, many years ago, you assured me that if ever you knew the Queen of England, you should still prefer the Queen of France.”

  “To any woman on earth. My heart needs no reminding of that. It is for you that it breaks anew every morning.”

  CHAPTER 38

  ELEANOR

  DECEMBER 1254

  PALAIS DU ROI, PARIS

  “What a marvelous banquet!” I smile at Marguerite and take her arm. We are retreating to her apartment to pass an hour reliving the glory of the evening, while Henry and some of the French king’s favorites have been invited to Louis’s apartment for discourse.

  “Yes, it was, though I say it myself.” She squeezes my elbow, her eyes on fire. The vestiges of care and exhaustion that hung about her as a pall when I first saw her in Chartres seem to have fallen away at last. “How gallant your husband was.”

  Now it is my turn to glow. Henry behaved magnificently. He showed not a moment of pique or peevishness, but complimented everything and was munificent to all. The high point of my evening came as we were being seated. A place of honor had been prepared for my husband, marked by the most gorgeous saltcellar of carved rock crystal, gold, and jewels, and he stood aside, insisting that Louis take it instead. It was nobly done and all remarked favorably upon it. “Your
entertainments were superb. Such voices! And the leopard, clad all in silver and black, lying down to slumber pleasantly among a field of gilded lilies while the azure cloth that was the ground billowed around them—breathtaking and, I hope, prophetic.”

  We have reached my sister’s hall. Bowing before me, she offers her hand and together, without need of musical accompaniment, we mince through the opening steps of an estampie, much to the delight of her ladies and my own.

  “You dance better than you did when we were younger,” Marguerite says.

  “I always danced better than you.” I lower my eyebrows and mimic the sort of fierce glare I might have given her in verity when we were girls and I was subject to a challenge or unfavorable comparison.

  She laughs, throwing her head back in delightful abandon. “Marie,” she says, “my sisters and I will take wine together in my withdrawing room. Ladies, you may make a party here with the Queen of England’s companions or away to your lovers or your sweet dreams as you like. I will see you in the morning.”

  We leave our collected retinues clustered in a swirl of giddy conversation and color and proceed into the next room. Our mother has retired for the evening, so we are four sisters, together as in our nursery days. Marguerite pours out the wine, dancing her way to each of us in turn as if she wished the evening with its festivities were only beginning.

  “You did not dance with His Majesty this evening,” I remark.

  “The king does not dance since we are returned from crusade. He generally eschews such entertainments as we have enjoyed, but supported them in honor of your visit.” My sister’s voice is neither judgmental nor weary as it was this morning when speaking of her husband; rather it is matter-of-fact. I wonder at this and then recollect that Beatrice sits nearby listening.

  “You were well partnered though by another gentleman, Marguerite. Who was he?” I ask just to see her reply, for I recognized the gentleman.

  “The Sieur de Joinville.”

  “Ah,” I say, “this then is Geoffrey de Joinville’s half brother. He was in Egypt with you.”

  A smile softens the edges of my sister’s mouth. “Yes. He remained with us when others departed.” She casts a dour look in the direction of our youngest sister.

  Apparently this is enough for Beatrice. She is already sullen and vexed for she did not at all like where she was seated for the evening. Such little things, Marguerite assures me, are ever giving her offense. Rising, Beatrice says, “I am greatly fatigued, Your Majesty, and with your permission would retire.”

  “Of course, Sister.”—the word that when applied to me or Sanchia seems to encompass boundless warmth, sounds more like a taunt when addressed to Beatrice—“I would not detain you.” When the door closes behind the Countess of Provence, Marguerite stands silent for a moment as if she has forgotten what we talked about.

  “You were speaking of the Sieur de Joinville,” I prompt.

  “Yes.” Her tone is breezy once more. “He never abandoned Louis and is the king’s most loyal servant and closest friend.”

  “Your friend as well?”

  Do I imagine it, or do my sister’s eyes dart away momentarily from my face?

  “Yes. The Seneschal of Champagne has been a faithful friend to both Louis and me.” Marguerite lays particular emphasis on her husband’s name, and I wonder what she is trying to intimate about the knight’s connection to the king. “The Sieur de Joinville was oft trusted with accompanying the children and me as we moved from place to place when the king could not do it himself. But generally he and Louis are inseparable.”

  “How is it then I have not seen him before this evening?”

  “He left us at Beaucaire on our journey home. He had his own lands and his own family to attend to.”

  “Does he have children?”

  “Indeed, two sons. I cannot recall their names. Why do you ask?” There is a sudden hesitance in my sister’s voice that I cannot account for.

  “He seems fond of children,” I say, shrugging. “I saw him in the garden this afternoon with yours.”

  For one unguarded moment my sister’s face shows a tenderness akin to that I saw on the Seneschal’s face this morning. Her expression could be the very like, and then it is gone. “The Sieur de Joinville is kind to every living thing.”

  IN THE MIDDLE OF THE night I wake disturbed. At first I think my stomach roused me, filled as it was when I retired with an overabundance of rich food and good wine. But shifting around in bed I realize that it does not ache.

  “Eleanor?” Henry murmurs inquisitively. “You are indisposed?” Sated as my husband was at the banquet, he dozed off immediately after we coupled and I let him sleep, heedless of what gossip might be occasioned in this French court when the servants find his room vacant in the morning.

  “No, I am fine. Go back to sleep.” I need not tell him twice. Almost at once his breathing is slow and steady again.

  We are staying the night at the palace. The king and my sister had rooms made up for us and for our closest companions, so how could we refuse? Not wishing to wake Henry again, I slide out of bed. The fire is low, but I can see well enough to avoid running upon any furniture. Pulling on my fur-lined pelisse, I move to the window. The glass is frosted over, and I draw my finger across it, tracing a pattern of I know not what. The moon is very large and shines brightly through those spaces I clear, enhancing the effect.

  Looking down through one of the transparent patches, I realize the view is nearly the same as from my sister’s rooms. This is hardly surprising, as I am honored with a room very close to her own. The vision of a boy and a man come to me—the Seneschal of Champagne and the little prince, Jean Tristan. They are in my mind’s eye as they were this morning. The man has the boy on his back; their curls touch. Their curls are just exactly the same. Then I see my sister at dinner, eyes bright, high color in her cheeks. I see Jean de Joinville coming forward so that Louis can present him to my husband. His eyes are not on the king; they are on my sister. Everything he says is the very essence of politesse. Introduced to me, he remarks on my gown, my beauty. It is all smooth, courtly language; nothing more. But when he pays the nearly identical compliments to my sister, spurred on by Louis who insists his wife will be jealous if she does not have her due, they have a different sound—his voice is low and halting, as if he feels awkward saying such things, or as if he feels them too deeply to speak them aloud in company.

  I shake my head to free myself of these images and thoughts. I turn my back to the window and its suggestive moonlight, and try to focus my attention on the embers of the fire, but another image comes to me. Jean de Joinville and my sister are dancing. His hand is on her waist, and they are the best dancers on the floor. Why? True they are both abundantly skilled in the art and handsome of face and form. But it is not that. I realize with a suddenness that causes me to gasp aloud, it is because they fit together. They are a pair as if they were made for each other.

  My feet begin to move unbidden. Lighting a candle at the fire, I am out of my bedchamber and into my sister’s before I know what I am doing. Like my own room, Marguerite’s is very nearly in darkness. I consider for a moment the seriousness of my intrusion. What if the King of France is here? How will I explain myself? Shading my light with my hand, I approach the bed. Marguerite is there, Marguerite alone. The force of my relief causes me to realize it was not the king I feared to find.

  “Marguerite,” I say, my voice soft but urgent.

  “Eleanor?” Like my husband’s a short while earlier, my sister’s voice is thick with sleep and confusion. She sits up, rubs her eyes, and swings her feet out of her bed. “What is the matter?”

  Without thinking I say, “The Seneschal of Champagne is Jean Tristan’s father.” And though the truth of the words hits me forcibly as they come out, part of me hopes that Marguerite will voice a denial. Instead, she sits perfectly still and silent on the edge of her bed, her head tilted as she regards me. She does not so much as lower her ey
es. I am crushed. My sister, whose equal I have striven to be since childhood, a woman I always thought above reproach, is an adulteress. “How could you?” I gasp. “You have a husband—God help you!”

  “No! You have a husband,” Marguerite snaps, jumping to her feet and nearly knocking my candle from my hands. “I have a lord who cares so little for me and for our children that he would have let us drown at sea rather than distinguish us above his other subjects; a man who does not notice me for weeks at a time despite the fact that by my efforts alone he was saved from finishing his life as a miserable prisoner of the sultan.”

  My heart pounds. Never have I seen my sister like this. Although I am taller, she towers over me in her fury. In response to her anger I feel an anger of my own. I am not the guilty party here. “Even if all you say is true,” I respond, raising my chin, “‘what God has joined let no man put asunder.’ On Judgment Day what will you answer to God?”

  Marguerite grabs me by both shoulders and gives a great shove, pinning me against the wall. The flame in my hand wavers as if it would go out but flares again. “You are not God, Eleanor. And I am not interested in your judgments! Only in your promise. You have guessed what Louis has not. Swear to me, by the bond of blood we share and on the lives of your children, that you will never tell a soul.”

  Her face, illuminated by the angry, flickering light of my candle, is fierce. She takes several quick breaths, then continues, her lowered voice urgent. “If the secret had only the power to destroy me, I would not care. Dishonor, death—they mean nothing to me. I have given up the man I love to secure the safety of the son I love more. I walk through life as one half-dead already.” I can feel her arms shaking with the emotion of the moment, but her grip does not loosen. “Surely you understand that if you repeat what you have said, your words would cost the happiness and possibly the life of my child.”