Their joy is short-lived. “Saracens!” the Duke of Burgundy screams. “Everyone into the palace at once. Hurry to the palace; we are under attack!”
As the men draw nearer, Marguerite can see that, although their armor and shields bear the fleur-de-lis and coats of arms of France and its neighbors, their skin is the color of almonds. Saracens, wearing French armor! Not victory, then, but utter defeat. Her knees wobble. She longs to sit. But she is queen, and must set an example. “Inside, hurry!” she says to Beatrice and Matilda, whose faces droop with disappointment. They make their way inside, to her chambers—where the Lord John of Beaumont awaits, looking at the floor as if searching for something lost there.
He falls to one knee before her. “My lady, I bring tidings most grave.”
Had she hoped, only a moment before, for some news to break the silence? Now she wants only to cover her ears with her hands. “Please rise, Sir John. Have you had repast? Let me send for some bread and wine, and then we may talk.”
“No, my lady.” The growl for which he is known—and feared—returns to his voice. “I must deliver my message. Time is of the essence.”
“The king! Is he injured?”
“He is captured, my lady. Taken prisoner by the Turks, and delivered to the Egyptian queen.”
Marguerite presses her hands to her chest. If Louis dies, they will all die here. “Who else?”
“His brother the Count of Anjou, my lady. His brother the Count of Poitou. The Count of Brittany. The Lord Geoffrey of Sargines. The Lord Walter of Châtillon.”
“The Lord Robert, the king’s brother?” Matilda stands in the doorway, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “What of him?”
Lord John drops his gaze again. “Killed, my lady. I am sorry.”
Matilda shrieks; her head drops back. Marguerite catches her as she slumps in a faint. Her ladies flutter around. They lay her on the bed, and Marguerite kneels beside her, placing herself lower than Lord Beaumont and not caring. The rules are different—she does not know, anymore, what they are.
“Sir Robert died with honor, my lady,” Lord Beaumont says. “He almost took Mansoura. But the Turks came, thousands of them, and there was a most brutal slaughter.”
“Thank you, Lord Beaumont,” she says, cutting him off lest Matilda hear.
Thinking that he has been dismissed, he steps toward the door. Marguerite’s head jerks up.
“Lord Beaumont,” she says, more loudly than she intends. He stops and turns to her.
“What of Sir Jean de Joinville? You did not mention him.”
At the mournful dip of his head, she thanks God that she is already on the floor. Jean, killed too? But no. “He is imprisoned, my lady,” Beaumont says. “With the king.”
WITH LOUIS CAPTURED, she takes command. Lord Beaumont offers to advise her but she waves him away. She knows what must be done. She sends knights and foot soldiers to delay the Saracens’ approach, and learns that the Queen of Egypt, anticipating an easy victory, has sent only a small force. Ha! She will show these Saracens a thing or two about French spirit. She sends galleys to procure more food from the ships offshore. The Genoese and Venetian merchants will brave even a Turkish siege if they stand to profit. She confers with the military leaders on how to defend the city, for if they lose Damietta, they will have nothing with which to ransom the French prisoners. Louis will be lost, and so will they all. She sends Lord Beamont on a ship to Paris, to request money from Blanche for their men’s ransom, and she sends the Countess Matilda with him. She sends a messenger to the Templars requesting funds, as well, plus knights to help with the city’s defense.
And then, as the few men remaining to them build stone throwers and stockpile arrows, the first dull cramp squeezes her womb. An hour later, there is another.
She writes a letter to the Queen of Egypt. She knows the pains of labor, that sometimes they are false. She prays that this is so now. She cannot cease her duties, for who then would rule? Every man of authority is dead or taken captive, leaving only her. We pray that you will keep our men in safety while we negotiate their release. We remain securely in possession of Damietta, and offer it in trade for our king Louis and all his nobles, knights, and foot soldiers in your captivity.
Shouts ring from outside. Marguerite runs to the balcony. The Turks are building a tower and siege engine, and have already begun firing flaming arrows over the city walls. She sees a man fall, and another. From inside, she hears Gisele calling for her.
“Sir John de Voré wishes to speak with you, my lady Queen,” she says, breathless.
He bows slowly, as if old age had rusted his hinges. His eyes, draped above and below in folds of skin, look directly into hers. These, Marguerite realizes, are all who remain to fight for France: aged knights and peasant boys.
“The Turks have begun their siege, my lady,” he says.
The tide crests, then crashes over her thighs. She cries out in alarm. A dark pool spreads across the front of her gown. She looks back up at the knight, as if he could save her. He holds out a hand to her.
“May I escort you to your birthing chamber, my lady?” he says. “It appears that your time has come.”
Day blurs into night fades into day. The clatter of the Turkish engine. Acrid burning pitch. Rowdy laughter and a heathen chant. The old knight’s large hand around her own, and the soft scent of Gisele. Beatrice’s commanding tone and her palm on Marguerite’s brow. Then another squeeze of pain, the Latin prayers of the papal legate, the cloy of incense, the stink of shit. A shriek from outside—a man in Saracen robes waving a scimitar and shouting in Arabic, lunging for her. Marguerite screams.
“Sir John, protect me!” she cries.
Women’s arms pulling her up, Beatrice on one side of her and the knight on the other, walking her around the room in circles, in spirals, and then, when she becomes dizzy and nauseated, in a straight line, to and fro.
“Let her rest,” the knight says.
“No,” Beatrice says. “The baby must come now, or perish.”
Men rush into her chamber, armed with crossbows. Marguerite protests: she is in labor, and needs peace. “The Turks are tearing down the walls,” the old knight says. “These men are here to protect us.”
She clutches his arm. “Promise me, sir knight,” she says. “You must not let the Turks take my baby and me alive.” They would rape her, then sell her into slavery—and her child, if it lived, would grow up a heathen, destined for hell. Death would be a far kinder fate.
“The moment the Saracens enter this palace, you must kill us both. Please, sir knight, swear that you will!”
“We are of like minds, madame,” he says. “I had already determined to do so.”
Back in her bed, perspiration and tears soak the coverings. Hail Mary full of grace blessed are you among women. A flash of light—a splintering, as if the heavens were splitting in two; the howl of the wind blowing into the room, knocking over an empty drinking gourd and rolling it across the floor. Rain pours from the sky, pelts the roof like stones, sprays across her, quenching her skin. Push, sister! Push harder! You can do it. She gulps the sweet air—the breath of God—fills with strength, and pushes the baby out. Her fourth living child, her sixth altogether, Jean Tristan, she has already named him, for the time of sorrow in which he enters this world.
IN THE MORNING, sun. And, miraculously, quiet. The squonk of a gull is the only sound. At the window, Gisele admires the blue day. The Turks, she says, have ceased their attack, and sit in their tents, waiting for God knows what. Everyone is taking credit: the legate, citing his prayers; the crossbowmen, bragging about the thick hail of arrows they fired; Marguerite, privately, crediting the letter she penned to Shajar al-Durr, the Sultaness of Egypt.
The sultaness’s messenger waits in the great hall. Marguerite summons him. Before he arrives, though, three soldiers gather at the foot of her bed. “We have come to say good-bye,” one of them tells her in broken French.
Marguerite pushes her
self to sit straighter, the night’s travails forgotten. “Where are you going? You can’t leave me now. What will happen to me—to all of us?”
“If we stay, my lady, then we will die,” he says. “You would do the same.”
“I would not. Not when other lives are at stake.”
“Yet you would have us lose our lives to save yours?”
“The life of your queen.” Then she remembers: She is not their queen. These men are from Genoa and Pisa, mercenaries hired from the merchant ships off shore. “The life of the King of France,” she says.
“The king who promised to pay us, and now is in the Saracen jail, being tortured to death, or starved,” he says. “Forgive me, my lady, but we must eat.”
“We have food here,” she says. “From your ships.”
“Like you, my lady, we must pay for our meals. But the king has not paid us, and our purses are empty. So we must go.”
She casts about for a solution. “My purse is not empty. Perhaps I can pay you all now.”
He names a sum, and she gasps. “We have been here for nearly six months, my lady. With the sultan dead, King Louis expected immediate victory.”
Sweat breaks out on her brow. The silver at her behest could pay only a small portion of the debt to these men. Yet if they abandon Damietta, the city is lost—and she will never be able to ransom Louis, Joinville, and the rest. And with only a handful of knights left to protect them, how will the women, children, and clergymen here survive the Turkish raids?
“Give me a moment, monsieur.” She closes her eyes to think. It feels good to close her eyes. She has not slept enough; weariness weights her bones, slows her mind. Think. They want to be paid; she cannot pay them. She must save her silver to pay the Egyptian queen. The sultaness will certainly demand a high sum for the men’s release, in addition to Damietta—if Marguerite can even hold Damietta.
She opens her eyes. “I do not have enough to pay the salaries for you all.”
“Then we will say good-bye, and good luck.” He folds his arms. Her head begins to throb.
“If I paid those of you in this room, would that be enough?”
“We could not in good conscience accept such an offer. We have come on behalf of all our men, not just ourselves.”
“And so you will leave us to be slaughtered?” Her voice rises. “May God forgive you!”
He unfolds his arms, opening to her. “Look at me, my lady. I was once a rotund man. Now I am only bones covered with skin. My stomach complains day and night. I have not had a meal in nearly a week. We are all in this same position.”
“You are hungry. Gisele! Gisele!” Her handmaid appears; the men eye her, their appetites sharpened for more than just food. “Tell the cooks we will be serving six more at dinner this afternoon.”
The spokesman clears his throat. “We could not accept. It would not be fair to the rest of our men. There are a hundred others as hungry as we.”
She is thinking aloud, grasping ideas from the air. “Why don’t you dine here, in the palace? All of you, at my expense. Every meal.” She runs a calculation in her head—one hundred men, and she has several hundred thousand livres still in her coffers.
The men look at one another. Two of them, including the spokesman, are smiling, but the third stands with folded arms. They murmur among themselves, and the spokesman turns to her. “This proposal is unexpected. We would like to discuss it with the others.”
Her heart sinks. Once the men have filled their bellies, they are much less likely to agree to her terms.
“I am in negotiation at this very moment with the Queen of Egypt for my husband’s release.” It may be a lie or, very soon, it might be true. “She expects an immediate response to her terms. I need your answer now.”
He bows. “Our men are waiting in the hall to learn the outcome of our talk. I shall return to you within the hour.”
As they file out, Marguerite gestures to Gisele. “Tell the cooks I want to dine now,” she murmurs. “Tell them not to come the usual way, through the back. Have them come around front and through the hall, with uncovered plates.” The sights and smells of the food may entice the mercenaries to remain here, where they have been promised food, instead of returning to their ships, where, without their pay, they may not be able to feed themselves.
Gisele runs out. Marguerite’s eyes close. She sees the blade of a knife; hears her baby screaming. She opens her eyes. The wet nurse has brought Jean Tristan to amuse her with his red face and waving fists. She tucks him in the crook of her arm, against her bare skin. “Do not be so sad,” she murmurs. He looks up at her and stops crying. “There, there, no need to fret. Mama will take care of you.”
In a few moments, the Egyptian messenger arrives and, in perfect French, offers greetings from the sultaness Shajar al-Durr. She has sent her response to Marguerite’s missive, written in her own hand—in French.
Louis is safe, she has written, as are his brothers. They are being kept in comfort in the home of a prominent judge. She will release them for a ransom of five hundred thousand livres. Marguerite has one month in which to gather the money, during which time she must also return Damietta to the Egyptians. Meanwhile, the sultaness has commanded her general to halt the siege—for now.
Five hundred thousand livres is more than twice the amount Marguerite has on hand. She must convince the Egyptian queen to reduce the ransom—but how? Before she can begin to fashion a reply, the mercenaries’ spokesman returns, his gaze dropping lovingly on her plates of food: roasted lamb, rice with saffron, peas with cardamom, fish from the sea.
“My lady, the aromas of your meal have enticed us to accept your offer,” he says. “Unfortunately, we can only remain here for one more month, or miss our ships’ departures for home. We trust that we will be paid our wages at that time—in full.”
“Of course,” Marguerite says, smiling with relief while her mind works, calculating, adding, multiplying. Five hundred thousand livres. And then there is the food she has just purchased, and the mercenaries’ salaries to pay. Something must give way, and soon.
When the Genoese spokesman has gone, she calls for Gisele again.
“I need three galleys,” she says. “I need horses, and the clothing of a Saracen man. I need enough food and water for several days’ journey.”
“But where are you going, my lady? Surely you cannot travel—”
“Please summon Sir John, the physician, and the pope’s legate, as well.” She also needs a sorcerer, but she does not say it.
Gisele frowns at her. “But you cannot get on a boat, or ride a horse. You must heal.”
“There is no time for healing,” Marguerite says. She pulls herself slowly to standing, wincing at her body’s soreness. “We have only one month in which to achieve the impossible. Procure some man’s clothes for yourself, too, and for the Countess Beatrice.” It will do her sister good to leave her sickly baby for a few days.
“But where are we going, my lady?”
“Up the Nile to Mansoura. To meet the Egyptian queen.”
Sanchia
Bumps in the Night
Berkhamsted, 1250
Twenty-two years old
SHE CANNOT HELP comparing this journey to Berkhamsted Castle with her first, seven years ago, after her wedding. Richard rode with her in the carriage. His arm embraced her shoulders. His fingers touched her hair. His gaze never left her face for long. His smile crinkled his eyes, making him appear kind. He called her “my pet” and “pretty doll.” When they arrived, he laughed as she exclaimed over the grand château: “It is grand because you are here, my sweet.” And then he scooped her into his arms and carried her inside, all the way up the stairs to her gold-and-white chambers, like a fairyland, where he tenderly removed her clothes.
Today hers is a silent ride from Paris with Justine, who sleeps most of the way, and the wet nurse, Emma, who is always quiet, thanks be to God. Sanchia keeps her ever at hand and she cannot bear much chatter. Edmund is qui
et, too, which used to worry her, for baby Richard was a subdued infant and he did not live for long. When he died, he took the sparkle from his father’s eyes. Sanchia does not like to ponder what Richard might lose if this son died, too.
The carriage stops. A manservant, not Richard, waits for her with outstretched hand. She steps down and looks around for Richard. His horse stands riderless at the front of the procession and he is not among his knights. Ah, well. What did she expect? That he would carry her inside when he hardly speaks to her anymore?
She finds him in the great hall greeting the Jew Abraham, whose beard has turned a bit gray, and his wife Floria, who looks even prettier than before, more womanly in her face and figure. Richard thinks so, too, she can tell. Exclaiming over the baby, Floria reaches her arms out for him but Sanchia shrinks back.
“He’s very shy of strangers.”
Richard tells her in a sharp tone to stop worrying so much, that he has never seen a women so protective of a child, that she will smother him with love.
“Let Floria hold the child,” he says. “It will be good for him.”
She gives Edmund to the Jewess and watches her bounce him and kiss his nose, resisting the urge to snatch him back to herself. She hopes he does not catch any germs or illnesses. Abraham, she notices, has little interest in the child. His sharp bird’s eyes peer at Sanchia with that look which she had almost forgotten, as though she had sprouted an ear in the middle of her forehead.
“He resembles you, my lord,” Floria says to Richard, as indeed he does. He has the same long eyelashes, the flaxen hair, the same eyes with their mixture of colors, the same dimple in his chin. Richard steps around to the Jewess’s side and peers at the baby as though he has never seen him before. Floria sings a baby’s song, walking her fingers up Edmund’s belly to his chin and tickling him there, and he laughs for the very first time. Richard laughs, too, a sound Sanchia has not heard in months.
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