The woman plants her hands on her hips. “Do you think so?”
Eléonore touches the soft fur around the mantle’s edge. “I gave this to my husband. As a gift.”
The woman throws back her head and laughs. Eléonore glances around to see two of her knights approaching as well as a gathering group of onlookers.
“I doubt that, pet,” the prostitute says. “I got this from the King of England.”
“From one of his servants, you mean. I’m very sorry. It was not his to give.”
“I got it from the king himself.” She straightens her back. “He said the eyes remind him of me, and the golden mane.”
“Now you are the one making dubious claims.” Although she can imagine Henry’s saying such a thing. He once oozed with sentiment.
“‘But Henry,’ I said, ‘you are the lion.’ And do you know what he said?” A smile tugs at her lips. “He said, ‘Maisey, you are the coeur de lion.’”
“That is impossible!” Eléonore’s voice rises. She tugs at the mantle. “As your queen, I demand this mantle from you.”
“Not my queen.” The prostitute sneers. “Only an Englishwoman could claim that title.” She jerks out of Eléonore’s grasp and begins to walk away—but Eléonore seizes the mantle and jerks hard, yanking her backward.
“Give it to me now,” she grunts. The woman slaps at her with flapping hands, more like the attack of an injured bird than a lion, knocking Eléonore’s headdress to the dirt. Cheers arise from the crowd: “Give it to her, Maisey! Show her what we think of foreigners!” A ripping sound; the woman falls as the cloth tears free from the clasp. The crowd presses close; someone tries to seize the mantle from Eléonore’s hands but the knights are upon them, swords drawn, pushing everyone back and asking Eléonore if she wants the prostitute taken into custody. On the contrary, Eléonore says; this woman is to be banished from the royal court.
“Aren’t you going to pay me for that?” the prostitute says, struggling to her feet—but Sir Thomas knocks her down again.
“Show respect to the Queen of England,” he says.
“That robe was given to me for services rendered,” the woman says. “My lady.”
Eléonore opens her purse and pours its contents onto the street, a stream of silver, then turns and walks away, ignoring the shouts of the crowd.
“A few coins?” the woman cries after her. “Is this all you have to give?”
SHE CRADLES EDMUND in her lap, arms around him as if he were a doll, rocking and singing. Waiting for Henry to arrive. “The heart of the lion,” he called her—the endearment he uses—once used—for Eléonore. All that garish red hair, her bad teeth. That roll of flesh about her middle, the creases in her neck. The shouts from the people: Better an English whore than Eléonore! This is the doing of England’s barons. Angered by Henry’s awarding of lands, castles, and advantageous marriages to his “foreign” Lusignan brothers, the barons have taken their resentment to the streets, stirring discontent among those with the least reason to care about lands, castles, or aristocratic daughters. She fans her face with her hand, dabs at the perspiration on her upper lip.
Better a whore than Eléonore?
Really, Henry?
“What’s the matter, Mama?” Edmund, sick again, half asleep in her arms, pats her face. “Don’t cry, Mama. I will get better soon.”
She rocks him and remembers their wedding night, the poetry Henry murmured as he covered her young body with his hands and lips:
Lady, I’m yours, today, every day,/ In your service my self I’ll keep,/ Sworn, and pledged to you complete,/ As I have been always in everything.
“And as you are first of joys to me, so the last joy too you will be/ As long as I’m still living,” she whispers, finishing the song, heedless of the tears dropping now onto her sleeping son’s hair.
She remembers Richard’s words on the night of Sanchia’s churching, that love is the delicate oil and marriage the vinegar. He was wrong, she told her sister. Love can go hand in hand with marriage. Passion can be sustained for as long as both husband and wife desire. She was confident, then, in her power to hold Henry’s interest. But quarrels have taken a toll. Henry’s tendency to blame others for his errors has fallen hard on her: Simon’s troubles in Gascony and his dispute with Henry over Eleanor’s dowry are, according to him, partly her fault. She agrees that Henry should pay them what he has promised, and so he accuses her of fueling the argument. But when she declined to testify for the Montforts, did he appreciate her support? He seemed not even to notice. If anything, his esteem for her has diminished.
And yet, she is the same as she has ever been—and, in some areas, much improved. Her figure is more voluptuous, her face more beautiful, her dress more fashionable than when she first came to him. She excels in the hunt, which once brought him delight. She continues to write poems for him, which used to please him, but now he shows little interest in hearing them. He complains that she meddles too much in the affairs of the kingdom, while formerly he included her in every decision. Of course, that was before the Lusignans came to London.
A red-haired whore is the least of her concerns. At least Henry is not going to replace her with such a woman—although she wishes he would be more discreet. Yet to discuss the matter with him will do her no good. He will neither accept blame nor apologize. Instead, she will work harder to attract him, starting tonight. She will fill her chamber with candlelight, bathe and perfume her body and hair, perhaps sing for him as he used to enjoy. She will see the fires burning in his eyes tonight, perhaps to stoke the passion in his heart again.
When he enters the nursery that afternoon, she stands to greet him with a kiss—but he turns aside. “Your uncle Boniface has just arrived,” he says. “With a complaint, of course.”
Eléonore doesn’t know what this means. Her uncle has not complained to them before. She rises to don her crown and follow Henry into the great hall. They take their seats, and Boniface steps in, red-faced and sullen, looking much less handsome than usual, with Uncle Peter at his side.
“A most distressing incident has occurred,” he says. “A direct challenge to my authority as archbishop of Canterbury, and a serious breach of our laws.”
“You have authority in this matter,” Henry says. “Why must you come to me?” He does not like to be disturbed at Windsor.
“Because, Your Grace”—Uncle Boniface sends a warning look to Eléonore—“the offender is your brother, Aymer de Lusignan.”
While Boniface was in Rome last month, meeting with the pope, Aymer—still awaiting confirmation of his appointment as bishop of Winchester—appointed a new prior to the hospital of St. Thomas at Southwark.
“He exceeded his authority, as my official, Eustace, informed him, but he would not listen. So Eustace excommunicated your brother’s appointee and took him into custody until my return.”
Henry’s face flushes. “A dire action,” he says. “An overreaction, I should say.”
“How else to stop him from taking the hospital over?” Eléonore says. “Aymer should be grateful that he was not excommunicated.”
“As he would have been,” Boniface says, “if not for his relation to the king.”
Henry’s sister Alice and his brothers Guy and William compounded the offense by sending armed knights to Aymer’s aid. “One week after the prior’s arrest, these men beat the guards at Maidstone with clubs and axe handles and set the prisoner free.”
Henry chuckles. “My brothers and I all seem to have a bit of our mother in us.”
“They then rode to the chapel at Lambeth and seized poor Eustace and some of my servants. They treated them very badly, beat them until they were nearly unconscious and left them in the road.”
“In the road!” Eléonore says with a gasp. “At Lambeth!”
“Without horses or weapons.”
“They might have been killed!” The road at Lambeth teems with robbers and murderers.
“But they weren’t killed
, were they?” Henry asks.
“No, Your Grace.”
“So, no serious harm was done.”
“No serious harm?” Eléonore cries.
“Your Grace,” Peter says, “your brothers snubbed not only the archbishop’s authority but yours, as well, since you nominated Boniface to his position. If you do not censure them, you will lose respect from your barons as well as your lesser subjects.”
“So I am to sacrifice my own kin for the sake of the barons’ esteem?” Henry’s laugh is incredulous.
Is she hearing him correctly? “Henry, respectability is essential if you are to govern.”
“I don’t recall asking for your advice,” Henry says through gritted teeth. He stands and, to everyone’s surprise, turns his back on the Savoyard uncles as well as his wife and walks across the floor to his chambers.
Eléonore rushes after him. She finds him brooding at a window, silhouetted in the evening light.
“How dare you speak to me that way, Henry,” she says quietly.
“How dare you speak to me that way, Eléonore?”
“Henry, you know I’m in the right. Your brothers—”
“I know nothing of the sort! My brothers are tired of being treated like vassals to your uncles. They, the sons of a queen!”
“The bishop of Winchester is subservient to the archbishop of Canterbury,” Eléonore says. “No matter their parentage.”
“Boniface of Savoy thinks everyone subservient to him.”
“Among the English clergy, everyone is.”
“And he comes to me complaining of violence—after nearly killing that old man over his right to inspect a monastery! Do you remember that?”
“Your brothers were wrong to challenge him, and wrong to harm his men.”
“And you? Weren’t you wrong to challenge me over the Flamstead appointment?”
“Apparently not, since I prevailed in court today.”
His eyes veer as if, having lost the point, he is searching for it somewhere in the room.
“You hate my brothers.”
“No, I—”
“Yes!” His laugh is triumphant. “You have hated them since the day they arrived in London. Don’t bother protesting. I saw it in your eyes then, and I still see your hatred whenever William or Aymer comes around. But why, Eléonore? Why?”
“You might ask that question of your brothers. It is they who treat me as a competitor for your love.”
“There is no competition,” he growls.
“You have made that abundantly clear.” Tears spring to her eyes. She turns away so that he cannot see.
“At least they do not continually challenge me on every decision, humiliating me before my subjects.”
“What do you know about humiliation?” she snarls, turning on him. “You, who have debased me before all of England with your red-haired whore!”
His eyes bulge. His mouth opens and shuts, as if he were a fish yanked from the sea.
“I saw her walking the streets of Charing today in the mantle I gave to you. I thought one of the servants had stolen it! But when I approached her—”
“You approached her? By God, Eléonore!”
“Yes, and why not? I never imagined that you would betray me, let alone with that sad and tawdry tramp.”
His face whitens like a fish’s underbelly. “You are mistaken. The mantle was someone else’s. I hope you did not make a public scene.”
“Do not insult me.” She turns and runs from his room to her own, snatches up the torn mantle, runs back to him. He stares at her as if someone—or something—were dying. Or already dead.
“See for yourself.” She thrusts the mantle to him. He examines it as if looking for clues to exonerate him.
“How did this become torn?”
“I ripped it off her neck.”
“You did not.”
“I did. I would have started on her face next, the insolent chienne. She actually mocked me, Henry! I would have ripped her into shreds but for the knights you sent with me.”
“I cannot believe this of you. Is this any way for a queen to behave?”
“And what of a king’s behavior? Is it acceptable for you to roll in the gutter with the filth of this kingdom? By God’s head, if you’re going to be unfaithful, choose a noblewoman, or even one of our servants!”
“Any of them would be preferable to the man I’m married to now.”
“Someone must be the man.”
A vein in his neck begins to pulse. His eyes hold a crazed look. Eléonore knows she has gone too far. She waits for the explosion.
“How high does the arrogance of woman rise if it is not restrained!” he screams. “I want you out of London. Now!”
“Why, so you can see her?”
“Get out. Tonight.”
“You want me to leave? Truly?” She presses a hand to her fluttering chest. “Where am I to go?”
“As far away from me as possible.”
“I-I’ll stay here with the children, then. You can go back to Westminster.”
“You are banished. Get out tonight, out of London, and do not return until I say you may. If ever.”
She sits on the bed, gripping the coverings, reminding herself to breathe but not doing it. If he divorces her, she will lose the children. She will not be able to help them—for Henry will remarry, and his new queen will advance her own offspring. Edmund will lose the chance to become King of Sicily, for Henry will certainly squander it with his temperamental outbursts and impulsive decisions. Edward will lose Gascony to Richard of Cornwall. Her daughter Beatrice will marry a much lesser man than she would with Eléonore’s influence.
“Henry, do not do this.” She lifts pleading eyes to him. “The children need me. And I need you.”
“You should have thought of that before insulting me. Before usurping me. And do not think of absconding, by the way. I am confiscating your gold and your lands.”
“But where am I to go?”
“What do I care where you go? Go to Winchester.”
“There is nothing for me in Winchester, Henry.” She sounds far away, like a plaintive child, even to her own ears.
“Yes, yes. Winchester is where I’ll send you.” His grin looks eerie. “And while you’re there, do pay a visit to the bishop-elect. My brother Aymer will be exceedingly glad to welcome you.”
Beatrice
Pearls in the Same Oyster
Paris, 1254
Twenty-three years old
SHE AND CHARLES are the last to arrive at court, for Charles refused to leave Provence until every last Cathar had been burned and their ashes shipped to Rome, “to assure the pope that we are on his side.” Killing them wasn’t enough, however; Charles insisted she watch them burn with him so that no one could ever accuse them of heresy. The screams of those poor people and the gag-sweet smell of their burning flesh will never leave her—and neither, Charles promised, will the pope’s gratitude.
“He will repay us in full measure, my love,” Charles said.
How he can be so sanguine about taking lives is a mystery to Beatrice, whose father was a noted warrior but who was also kind and gentle with his people. Yes, he sent troops for the pope’s Albigensian campaign, but reluctantly, and he anguished the rest of his life over the brutal tortures and killings of the Cathars. Had they come to Ramon Berenger for help as they did to her and Charles, her parents would have fed them, listened to their plight, suggested they abandon their heretical beliefs and adopt the religion of the Church, and sent them home again. When she pointed this out to Charles, he laughed.
“Your father struggled in poverty until he died,” he said. “Do you desire a similar fate?”
If one is to achieve greatness, Charles says, one must embrace cruelty. One must be willing to kill, or be killed. One must be willing to betray others—even sisters or brothers, as she and Charles are doing now in their secret negotiations for the crown of Sicily. It has already been promised to her sister El
éonore’s son Edmund, “but he is a little boy, and the Church needs a man on the throne,” Charles pointed out.
Family comes first, Mama says. Beatrice has never questioned this fact, but she wonders: Which family? She has sisters on two thrones, cousins and aunts and uncles on others.
“I am your family,” Charles says. “I and our three children, and the many others you will bear to me.” This is his reply whenever she asks to give Tarascon to Margi.
But she does not ask him for that anymore. He made sure of it the day Louis’s chamberlain Bartolomeu le Roie came to him aquiver, tormented, he said, by a terrible sight on the journey home from Outremer: the queen Marguerite running naked from her chambers with a burning nightgown, and, lying in her bed, the seneschal of Champagne, Sir Jean de Joinville. To tell King Louis would break his heart, for he loves Sir Joinville as a brother, but keeping this secret to himself is surely treason.
“I told him he had done right in coming to me,” Charles said to Beatrice as he picked his teeth after supper that night. “It will be easier on Louis to hear it from a brother.”
“You’re not going to tell him!” But of course he would. Charles was a little boy when Marguerite came to court, his mother’s baby. He hated Marguerite because Blanche hated her, and he goaded and tormented her until she hated him, too.
“I can well imagine the Most Pious King’s shock upon learning that his wife is a whore.” He chuckled. “I hope he turns her out without delay. I used to fantasize about seeing Miss High and Mighty on her knees, begging.”
“He wouldn’t turn her out. She is the mother of his children.”
“An evil influence that ought to be eradicated. Did you know? She sent my mother out of the palace for reading a psalter to them. Why the glum expression, darling? Do you love her so much? She cares nothing for you.”
Beatrice thought of Marguerite’s cool hand on her hot brow, the moist cloths she placed on her cheeks and neck as she struggled to give birth in the sweltering Egyptian heat. The concern and—yes, love!—in her eyes. She thought of Marguerite bleeding on the boat that carried them to meet the Egyptian queen, pulling the blood-soaked linen from between her legs and rinsing it in the Nile, then stuffing the wet cloth into her trousers again. She thought of Marguerite standing proud before the queen Shajar al-Durr, bearing herself most regally even as the blood drained from her face and into her cloths again. She saved baby Blanche’s life and she saved Louis’s life, and she does not deserve to be dispossessed no matter what Charles thinks.
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