Four Sisters, All Queens

by Jones, Sherry

  “Welcome to France, my lady.” Robert bows. “We hope you will enjoy our brother’s company more than we do.”

  Alphonse sniggers. “Yes, please keep him amused. We are tired of hiding and running away from him.”

  The king creases his forehead. She turns to present her uncles. “I believe you are acquainted with Guillaume, the archbishop-elect of Valence, and Thomas, the Count of Piedmont.”

  “Who does not know the men of Savoy?” The king smiles as her uncles kneel before him. “The Holy Roman Emperor is said to keep your counsel these days,” he says to Guillaume.

  “I dined with him a fortnight ago, my lord,” Guillaume says, standing. “And the pope of Rome the week before that. It would please me greatly to share my insights with you—”

  “Yes, of course, you must speak to my mother.” Louis turns to Marguerite. “Shall we proceed to Sens, my lady? Mama waits to receive you there.”

  He takes her hand and, bowing, kisses the air above it. Marguerite’s skin tingles as if he had touched her with his lips. He turns and strides to his horse, his brothers behind him. Beside her, Uncle Thomas arches an eyebrow and Guillaume shrugs.

  “The king has no interest in policy making,” Guillaume says as the men escort her back to her carriage. “Can we blame him? Tomorrow is his wedding day.”

  “He is enchanted by his new bride.” Thomas winks. “As is every man in his entourage. Did you note how they stared at you, Margi?”

  “And you are not even wearing a gold suit,” Guillaume says.

  Marguerite’s legs ache from the long hours of sitting. She longs to walk, but of course she cannot, for the crowd that has gathered along the roadside would suck her into itself, consuming her. Outstretched hands make her want to shrink back, but smiles and shouts hold her in the window of her carriage. “Vive la reine!” Goosebumps tickle her arms. “Vive la reine Marguerite!”

  She ventures a wave, uncertain how to respond to these Franks and poor villeins, barefoot and dirty in their coarse clothing, fresh from work in the fields. A girl hands her a bundle of wildflowers; she crushes them against her nose as though they were fragrant roses. She blows a kiss to the girl; the people cheer. Standing so close, can they hear her thoughts? Pollen itches her nose, but she suppresses a sneeze for fear of spitting on them.

  The path to Sens grows more clotted as the procession nears the city. People swarm the bridge, leaving little room for the carriage. At times it stops altogether, allowing hands to reach her window. “They will tear you apart with their love,” Aimée says. Marguerite lifts her hands, touches fingers and palms in passing, accepts the prayers and good wishes of her people.

  “How pretty she is! She and the king will make handsome heirs.”

  “Shh! Do not talk so about our queen.”

  “And see? You are making her blush.”

  In the crush, the spires of the Sens cathedral disappear from view, but a blast of trumpets announces its imminence. Her pulse flutters in time to the rat-a-tat of drums. So much depends on her success here. If she fails to stop Toulouse, her family may be lost—and so may be Provence, lost to that greedy tyrant, her people and her lands torn apart like a hind overcome by hounds.

  The carriage passes under the jutting upper stories of tall houses which block the last light of the now-waning day, but no matter: Lighted candles ensconced on the outside walls illuminate the way and highlight the red, green, and blue banners and fragrant garlands of flowers draped over windows and doorways. “Vive la reine!” people continue to cry, but the shouts subside as the ragged and frayed tunics of the peasantry and the pale linens of the townspeople give way to colorful silks, velvet and fur, gold buttons, glittering jewels. These are the barons of France and their families, too refined to shout, too elegant to do more than smile and wave—if that. For at least one in their midst does neither, but watches her with contempt on his soft, almost womanly, face.

  Toulouse.

  She ducks behind the curtain. Why has he come to Paris? Not to congratulate her on her marriage, surely; not to bow before her tomorrow, when she takes the crown. Whatever his mission, it cannot bode well for Provence.

  The carriage halts at the cathedral grounds. Myriad candles and torches illuminate the festive scene: horses munching from oats poured onto the grass; silk-clad men and women drinking from under shelters of branches and leaves; the cathedral, its spires piercing the night sky, its enormous rose window overlooking the sculptured saints lining the path to its door. Perfumes scent the air, and horse dung and burning tallow. Laughter and music weave an intricate dance under the peeping stars; a baby cries; horses whinny and nicker. Uncle Guillaume opens the carriage door and beckons her forth. Aimée hands her a mantle; she pulls it close. The air is cool for May—but this is not Provence.

  The king’s smile makes her forget the chill. Her hand in the crook of his arm, they pass a mélange of faces—friendly, curious, bland, sullen—before stepping into a white palace beside the cathedral. These, the king tells her, are the archbishop’s apartments, given up for their use.

  Up a set of stairs, then into a lamplit room. On the walls: a tapestry of gold, red, and saffron hexagons from Outremer; another depicting the crucified Christ, tears like diamonds on his cheeks. Carpets pad the floor in red and blue. Green velvet curtains hang at the windows. Gold and sandalwood perfume the air. She detects a faint fragrance of rose as well. Sumptuousness stretches like a cat in her lap. Her father’s household was never so luxuriant.

  “Behold my mother.” Louis murmurs as if this were the cathedral. Marguerite blinks, adjusting her senses: the flickering light, the music of the vielle—and the woman with the snow-white face on the red velvet throne. When her sight returns, she moves across the room to kneel at the feet of Blanche de Castille, the legendary White Queen.

  She extends her hand, allowing Marguerite to kiss her heavy gold ring. “I am deeply honored, my lady.” Marguerite’s hand trembles as she touches the cool fingers. “You are much acclaimed in my home of Provence.”

  Blanche de Castille gives an indelicate snort and looks away, as if bored. Louis helps Marguerite to stand.

  “Your home is in France now.” The queen mother’s voice holds a chill, like the night air. “The people of France are your people.”

  Marguerite tries not to stare. This is the woman of whose beauty the troubadours sing? Her shaved hairline makes her forehead seem to bulge, ledge-like, over her eyes. The paste covering her face and throat renders her a White Queen, indeed.

  She clears her throat. “And as queen, I only hope I can serve the French people as well as you have done.”

  “M. de Flagy told me that you are a good girl.” The White Queen’s voice has softened. “I can see that he was correct. We are going to get along very well.”

  “It is my fervent wish.”

  Her blue-gray eyes, the “eyes of vair” praised in many a song, peruse Marguerite from head to feet and back up again, as did M. de Flagy’s, but without the leer.

  “The problem is, ma chère, you do not look French. Your skin is as brown as a peasant’s, exposed to the sun during your rambles in the southern fields, I presume. Your hairline encroaches most unattractively onto your forehead, and your gown looks thin and garishly dyed. You remind me of one of those vulgar flowers that grow in the South, or of a common servant prancing about in her mistress’s clothes.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Heat rises in her face.

  “But these superficial flaws are easily remedied. I will send someone over in the morning, before the wedding ceremony, to pluck your forehead and to help you with your makeup. I will also provide you with a wedding gown, for I am sure the one you have brought is inadequate.”

  From outside, shouts: Where is our new queen? We want the queen! The queen mother’s smile disappears.

  “That is all for now. Louis, my love”—her voice becomes a caress—“you are in demand. Go and present your little wife to the people, then send her to her room to rest. I wi
ll wait for you here, darling. We have matters of the kingdom to discuss.”

  “Yes, Mama.” The king kisses her hand, then offers Marguerite his arm. When they turn to leave, she remembers her uncles, standing in the doorway and waiting for their introductions.

  She turns back to the White Queen. “My lady, may I present my guardians, my uncles Guillaume and Thomas of Savoy? They have come to pay their respects.”

  The White Queen heaves a sigh, as if exhausted by the short meeting with Marguerite. “Not tonight. Tomorrow. I have had my fill of country bumpkins for one day.”

  Tears spring to her eyes. “Yes, my lady.” As they start to walk away, the queen speaks her name.

  “You may call me ‘Mama.’ I have only one daughter, and she is a silly child. It may please me to have a girl in the household with some sense in her head. As long as it has not gone to your head.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Marguerite says. And walks out of the room with her husband, the king, her emotions whirling like bees around a vulgar flower.

  OUTSIDE, WHEN THEY emerge: Cheers and a burst of music. Jongleurs hurl sticks of fire; a golden goblet, filled to the brim with wine, finds its way into her hand. The king leads her beneath a spreading oak, up onto a platform ringed with candles; their light, reflected in his gold mail, makes him look aflame. “Vive la nouvelle reine!” people shout. “Vive Marguerite!”

  The king gestures toward the goblet. She drinks the sour stuff—not Languedoc wine, to be certain. But she squelches her distaste and lifts her cup to toast her new countrymen and women, soon to be her subjects.

  “Vive la France!” she cries. The crowd’s response rolls like thunder over the lawn. The king’s eyes shine as he accepts the goblet from her.

  Two men ascend the steps, carrying a large trunk. From it they pull gifts, which the king presents to her: two new leather saddles; a golden bridle; a necklace dripping with diamonds and rubies; a bejeweled tiara, and, the pièce de résistance, a cloak of rich sable with fifteen gold buttons, each inscribed with the fleur-de-lis, the symbol of France, and sparkling with sapphires. Gasps and murmurs swirl as he drapes the soft fur over her shoulders, then fastens the buttons one by one.

  “How beautiful she is!”

  “See the roses in her cheeks—so delicate and feminine.”

  “Only the best for our King Louis, non?”

  The king hands the goblet to her; she drinks again, more deeply now, her blood warmed by the adoration, the cloak, or the wine—or all three. Then music begins anew, and the crowd begins to dance.

  Her husband leaps to the grass, then turns toward her with arms outstretched. Marguerite leans in; he grasps her at the waist and twirls her down, sets her before him, she laughing, knowing the stars do not twinkle more brightly in the sky than do her eyes, and he gazing at her as though she were a gift he cannot wait to unwrap.

  The music and the crowd sweep them along as if they were petals on a summer breeze, whirling them in a circle of dancers, his hand squeezing hers as they step and turn, his eyes never leaving her face even when his arm surrounds her waist and he swings her around. They laugh as the dance grows more frenzied, dizzy with the joy of being alive and young and together, until a small man with a balding head and shifting eyes taps on the king’s shoulder.

  “Pardon, my lady,” he says, bowing before turning to Louis. “Your Grace, the queen reminds you that she is waiting.” Marguerite’s gaze follows the king’s to see the queen mother silhouetted in an upstairs window, looking over the festivities. Beside her, a familiar paunch-bellied figure with overlong hair: Raimond of Toulouse. Louis drops her hand as though caught in an indecent act.

  “It is late.” He averts his eyes. His shoulders sag. “Let me show you to your room.”

  He strides away so briskly that she must trot to keep pace, back into the palace, up the stairs, past the royal quarters to another set of rooms. He leads her through the door where her uncles sit at a table by a fireplace and sup on fish and vegetables. They leap to their feet, Guillaume nearly knocking over his goblet of wine.

  “I have kept your niece too long. She must be tired and hungry.” Louis’s words tumble out. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. “Is everything to your liking? Are your rooms comfortable? Then I must leave you and attend to business. Good night, gentlemen.” He lifts her hand to his lips but he barely glances at her; his thoughts have already gone elsewhere, and then, just as abruptly, so has he.

  Aimée brings over a chair and sets it at the table, facing the fire. Marguerite plops down, feeling like a sail that has lost its wind. This apartment is smaller than the royal quarters, and filled with wall sconces of shimmering gold and statues: grotesque heads of saints lining the ceiling, and, in the corner, a statue of a nude man with private parts so lifelike she blushes and tries not to look. Uncle Guillaume offers her wine, but she declines. “Dreadful stuff, anyway,” Thomas mutters.

  “The king left hastily.” Guillaume peers at her from under his thick brows.

  “His mother called,” she says. She does not mention Toulouse, dreading their response. They might want to know why she did not join the meeting—why she did not at least try. How could she tell them of the White Queen’s cold demeanor, of her condescending remarks? Country bumpkin.

  “Have you heard the tales about the White Queen and her son?” Uncle Guillaume dips his bread in his wine. “I never believed them, but now I wonder . . .”

  “She said she needs to talk with him about matters concerning the kingdom.” Marguerite closes her eyes.

  “On the eve of his wedding? They must be urgent matters, indeed.”

  “Or maybe she is a mother who clings to her son. King Louis is the very image of his father,” Thomas says. “Blanche’s passion for her husband was widely known.”

  “Uncle!” She opens her eyes.

  Guillaume grins. “Perhaps the son fills certain . . . needs that the husband once did. He adores her, for one thing.”

  “And yet she would have sold him to gain a kingdom.” Thomas tells the tale: Blanche’s husband, Louis VIII—heir to the French throne—answered the English barons’ call to revolt against the English King John. They promised to award the crown to Prince Louis. Blanche urged him to go, although his father, King Philip Augustus, argued against it. The parochial English would never allow a Frenchman to rule, he insisted. Their tyrant vanquished, they will remember their hatred against France—and turn against you next. Prince Louis went anyway, but King John proved a cunning and brutal opponent. When Louis sent home for more funds, King Philip refused to pay. But Blanche, ambitious from the start, was determined to become England’s queen. If he would not send Louis the money he needed, she threatened, she would sell her children—his grandchildren—to raise the sum.

  “She would have done it,” Thomas said. “The White Queen will stop at nothing to obtain what she wants.”

  “She is passionate,” Marguerite says. “What is wrong with that?”

  Her uncles grin. “We shall ask you that question in a few weeks,” Guillaume says.

  After supper, the queen mother’s tailor, a fussy man whose wrists stick out from his too-short sleeves, measures her for her wedding gown. As Aimée prepares her later for bed, unlacing her tunic, helping her into her robe, and combing and plaiting her hair, she spills over with questions. Did the king please her? Does Marguerite like his mother? Which of her gifts did she treasure most? Is she excited about tomorrow’s wedding? Marguerite says nothing and, always sensitive to her moods, the handmaid grows quiet.

  Yet she ponders the questions, and her answers. What does she think of her husband? He seems kind, he appears handsome, and he dances well. He knows nothing of poetry, and his riposte is not as clever as she has hoped, but perhaps he was nervous today. His mother made a stronger impression—a number of them, in fact, and all contradictory.

  Every woman hopes to win her husband’s love, but you have an added task: charming his mother. Although King Louis is now ninete
en years of age, Blanche still rules France—and, from what Marguerite has seen, she rules her son, as well. She, not Louis, gives money and men to Toulouse for the raids on her father’s castles. She is the reason why Provence suffers—why Papa suffers. To help her family—and to save Provence—Marguerite must befriend the White Queen.

  Laughter floats upward from the lawn, and more music. Marguerite moves to the window for one last look at the festivities: the jongleurs doing handsprings and flips, rehearsing for tomorrow’s celebration; children chasing one another, darting in and out of the makeshift shelters; servants rushing about with filled goblets for their masters and mistresses; dancers whirling and spinning.

  Below her window, onlookers clap in time to the music as a couple turns before them, fleet-footed and lithe, gazing into each other’s faces with delight. She watches for a while, wishing she had a rose or a token to toss down to the dancing couple. After a while, the song ends and they fall apart, panting and laughing, the woman’s hand on the man’s arm in an intimate caress. How lovely to be in love! Marguerite smiles—but her smile freezes when she recognizes the pair. Louis, dressed now in a red tunic and mantle, and his mother exchange a kiss, then join hands for another dance.

  Marguerite

  A Perfect and Holy Union

  Sens, 1234

  WHITE-FACED WOMEN DISTURB her sleep, clamping fingers of bone around her throat, pressing her into her pillow—Hold still, you stupid bumpkin—flashing long, curved knives, scraping their blades across her eyebrows, her forehead, her scalp. She awakens with a start, her pulse thumping like the foot of a hare. She snatches her hand mirror from the table, sees herself looking back, unmolested. It was only a dream. Then she sees the statue in the corner and remembers why she is here, and her heart begins to race again.

  The lamps are already lit. Aimée, dressed in a tunic of pale rose, bustles about, bringing Marguerite’s gown in from the garderobe (“Today is your wedding day,” she purrs, as if Marguerite needed reminding), setting out a sop for her breakfast, pulling back the bedcovers and bidding her to rise for the prayer service, although the sun has not even begun to think about doing so.