Four Sisters, All Queens

by Jones, Sherry

  HENRY OF ALMAIN has grown. How long has it been since Marguerite saw him last? Richard and Sanchia brought him to the first Christmas feast eleven years ago. He was a skinny youth with a reckless edge, a swagger belied by the roses in his cheeks. Now he is a man of thirty with broad shoulders and a somber mouth who stands with his legs planted just so, at ease in his body. As much as he has changed, no one needs to announce him to Marguerite. He is the very image of his father at his age, except that he wears a scrap of a beard and his sand-colored hair falls to his shoulders.

  He bows deeply to her and Eléonore upon entering the great hall. The pope’s legate, Guy, accompanies him, wearing a brown tunic and broad-brimmed hat that captures Eléonore’s eye.

  “We have come from England. The situation is very bad,” the legate says. “King Henry and the Prince Edward are prisoners, captured in battle against the rebels at Lewes. The Earl of Leicester has placed himself in Westminster Palace and called the Parliament into session. I hear that he sits on the throne.”

  “On the throne!” Louis’s voice rings through the palace as he strides into the hall. “On the seat where generations of God’s anointed have reigned? Simon de Montfort has gone too far.”

  “His Grace Pope Clement agrees with you,” Guy says as, kneeling, he kisses Louis’s ring.

  “Simon has presumed upon the king’s position.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “This is mutiny! And blasphemy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then Pope Clement will censure him?”

  “He has issued a writ of excommunication.”

  “A wise decision. But—you have not announced it in England?”

  The legate pauses. He lowers his eyes. “England is in a shambles. I lifted my voice, but it was not heeded. And now there are other crimes. More serious—”

  “My Henry?” Eléonore presses her hand to her chest. Richard’s son bows to her.

  “Safe, my lady,” he says.

  “Edward?”

  “Safe, thank God.”

  Eléonore narrows her eyes. “Yet you are Simon’s man now.”

  “I am his hostage.” His glance, Marguerite notices, brushes her sister’s cheek. Eléonore, the queen of captivation, even at forty. “Had you not heard? I, too, was captured at Lewes—fighting alongside Edward.” Richard’s pleas to King Louis, accompanied by the clink of coins, resulted in his son’s release from prison in France.

  “The prince has come to present the Earl Simon’s terms,” the legate says.

  “I will not negotiate with Simon de Montfort,” Eléonore says. “I am Queen of England. He is barely an earl, and a traitorous one.”

  “He holds the king and Prince Edward hostage,” Henry says.

  “I have an army of men from Flanders, Poitiers, Ireland, and France preparing to sail for England,” Eléonore says. “If Simon desires a fight, we will give him one.”

  “The king begs you to refrain.” Guy hands Eléonore a letter. She reads it quickly, then passes it to Marguerite.

  “By God’s head, we will rescue them,” she says as Marguerite reads. They will kill us if you send foreign troops. “Simon will not intimidate me.”

  “I have a plan.” Henry’s expression is eager. “I think we can free Edward without a fight—and he can liberate the king.”

  “Simon de Montfort is your friend,” Eléonore says. “Why would I listen to you?”

  “He was my friend,” Henry of Almain says. “But Uncle Henry and Edward are family. As are you, my aunt.” He blushes sweetly. Eléonore’s mouth twitches upward. How long has it been since a man looked at Marguerite with desire? But she has turned gray and grown to plumpness, an old woman. Unable to watch their tête-à-tête any longer, she slips out to her chambers, needing rest.

  On the way, she mutters to herself, a habit of late. Now that she finally has a voice, she doesn’t seem to be able to stop using it. “Envy of a young man’s attention, at your age? Of what use is beauty to a woman, anyway?” Her good looks only incited jealousy from Blanche de Castille, causing Marguerite much misery. Sanchia’s perfection gained her a husband more than twenty years her senior who quickly grew bored with her. Eléonore’s charms have won her many admirers, but where are her supporters now? Scurried like vermin to their dark corners, too afraid of Simon de Montfort to defend her against stones, mud, or charges of adultery.

  Their hostility is misplaced. Eléonore brought her relations to England, yes, as any queen consort from another land would do. A woman, having so little power on her own, must rely on the support of powerful men. Uncle Boniface, Pierre d’Aigueblanche, and Uncle Peter are not why England suffers. The barons of England and Wales are to blame—their ruthless squeezing of money and work from their tenants and serfs. They point the finger at Eléonore because she is a woman, an easy target made more contemptible, perhaps, because of her beauty.

  You are sisters. You must help one another. In this struggle to navigate a world made by men, for men, are not all women sisters? But they do not all help one another. Women—Blanche and Beatrice—have presented the greatest obstacles to Marguerite’s success. And now, she is doing the same to Beatrice, but that cannot be helped. Beatrice has brought her troubles on herself.

  And it is Beatrice who waits in her room, who slumps for one unguarded moment in Marguerite’s purple chair, looking as if she might cry. When she sees her sister enter, she stands and smiles, but melancholy clouds her eyes.

  “Sister,” she says. “I know you said once that we are not sisters, but we are.”

  “In name. Not in spirit.”

  “I hope that’s not true!” She takes a deep breath. “Margi, I need your help.”

  Marguerite laughs. “What, a jester now, too? Good, then—I have been craving amusement.” She steps to her chair, edging Beatrice aside, and seats herself with slow regality, her maids spreading her gown and mantles about her. She gestures to a lower chair and Beatrice sits with her hands in her lap.

  “Charles needs troops to fight with us in Sicily. Louis has given his assent—”

  “Quelle surprise!” Marguerite gives an indelicate snort.

  “But only with your approval.” Her voice softens. “I did not realize that you had attained such power.”

  “Only because Louis has ceased to pay attention. He would rather persecute blasphemers than count his coins, so I administer the treasury. I hold the key in a very tight fist.”

  “We hope you will loosen it for us. For me.”

  “What, I wonder, inspires this hope?”

  “Your empathetic heart.”

  “Your sarcasm is touching. As always.”

  “Surely you can understand my desire to be a queen. It is a prize that all my sisters have gained, except for me.”

  “I never wanted to be a queen. I wanted to be Countess of Provence.”

  “I would trade places with you, if I could.”

  Marguerite scrutinizes her sister for signs of disingenuousness, sees a face as open as a book. “Perhaps you can.”

  She sighs. “That would require Charles’s cooperation. And I do not think he would loosen his hold on even a single Provençal castle.”

  “Then I will not loosen my hold on the treasury key. Eléonore is more in need of France’s help, at any rate.”

  “You would waste your men and money on that futile cause? Henry has lost the kingdom. Simon de Montfort has won the battle and made himself king. And he has promised aid to Charles.”

  “Has Charles pledged fealty to Simon? My God, Beatrice! Have you no sense of loyalty?”

  “I spoke against it, but he wouldn’t listen. Charles and Simon are longtime friends.” Of course. Simon spent many months in the French court, following Louis around as if he were a toddler who lives only for his papa’s pat on the head. Although he enjoyed the attention, Louis was often occupied with his prayers and self-immolations, leaving Simon to exercise his charms on others in the court. Marguerite was not deceived desp
ite his ardent flatteries. Charles, however, succumbed instantly to his charm.

  “If Simon is such a close ally, let him supply your troops.”

  “You know he cannot. He has given money, but he needs all his men at present.”

  “To overthrow our sister.”

  Beatrice colors. “Yes.”

  Marguerite’s raucous laugh—the laugh of an old woman, ha!—grows even louder at the sight of her sister’s worried frown. “I might coax troops from my cousin Alfonso of Castille for you, in exchange for my fourth of Provence. Including Tarascon.”

  “You know I cannot promise that.”

  “Then why are you wasting my time?” She leaps up from her chair. Beatrice cringes as if afraid she might attack. “You dare to come to me for help, yet you can offer nothing in return.”

  “When Charles and I are King and Queen of Sicily, we will be valuable allies.”

  She laughs again. “You have shown already how valuable you are to me.” She turns toward her bed. “Leave me. I need to rest.”

  “Sister, please! Do not be so cold. I would help you if I could.” Beatrice’s voice snags.

  “False tears and false tales. I have had more than my share of them from you.”

  “They are not false!” She clutches Marguerite’s sleeve, tearing the silk. “Sister.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Sister. Sister, sister, sister! You cannot deny it. You cannot deny me.”

  “Please, Beatrice! These histrionics are unbearable.”

  “I have spoken for you many times to Charles. You have no idea how many quarrels we have had over your rights to Provence.”

  “That is correct. I have no idea, because you have told me many times that you support his wishes over mine.”

  “I have never said that! But he is my husband, Margi.”

  “You would bend to a man’s will even when it conflicts with your own—and even when it harms your sister?” She slaps Beatrice’s insistent hand from her arm. “You were not reared by our mother, then.”

  “No, our mother was occupied with the queens in the family.” Her voice quavers. “It was Papa who raised me.”

  “How unfortunate for you.” She intends sarcasm, but Beatrice is nodding.

  “I learned from Papa that men control everything. All the power that women have, men have given to us.”

  “Except for the White Queen.”

  Now Beatrice is the one who laughs. “Do you think that Blanche controlled France? Do you imagine that she was powerful? She had a council of barons to appease. Had she not done so, they would have forced her from her throne and appointed a man to rule until Louis came of age. As the barons did in England for King Henry.”

  “But she had her way. She did as she pleased.”

  “Do you think she wanted her son to marry the daughter of a poor Southern count?” You remind me of one of those vulgar flowers that grow in the South. Marguerite has wondered many times why Blanche approved Louis’s marriage to a “country bumpkin.”

  “The Count of Toulouse was her cousin. He wanted Provence.”

  “But he never gained it, did he? Blanche could not even help him with that task. The French barons wanted our salt mines and they wanted the port of Marseille. They thought to have them once Papa died—once Provence went to you. But Papa outsmarted them, and left it to me, instead.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Papa’s meetings, remember? Meetings with Romeo, with the White Queen, with the French barons. I sat in them all.”

  Marguerite sits on her bed, feeling as if someone had punched her in the stomach. The high-and-mighty Blanche was not as powerful as she seemed. If Marguerite had known, she would have defied her more, would have asserted her own authority.

  “As Mama said, we women need to help one another,” Beatrice says. “Won’t you help me, Margi?”

  Marguerite’s eyes fill with tears. She stands and opens her arms to Beatrice, and the two of them embrace. She notes the thickening of Beatrice’s waist, the result of an inordinate fondness for honey, as Marguerite knows all too well. Mama was right: Beatrice and she are very much alike.

  “I cannot help you.” To help Beatrice is to help her enemy. “I would rather cut off all of my fingers than to lift one for Charles’s sake.”

  Beatrice stiffens. “Then you spoke correctly before. We may be born of the same parents, but we are most definitely not sisters.”

  “Don’t leave on this note.”

  “Will there be another note on which to leave? Because I am hearing only the same tune playing over and over again.” She pulls on her gloves. “When next you see me, I shall be a queen.”

  “And I shall bow before you, honoring you as you have honored me.”

  Beatrice sweeps out of the room blinking back tears, her head high.

  “But I shall never bend my knee to Charles,” Marguerite says softly. She sits at her desk to write a letter, in her own hand, to the new pope of Rome, requesting the dowry that is rightfully hers.

  Eléonore

  A Lost Cause

  Paris, 1265

  Forty-two years old

  SHE PEERS INTO the dark, searching, her fingers knotted, her insides gnarled. In the melee of horses and armored men, shouts and grunts, the clashing of swords, Edward sits tall in his saddle. Constrict yourself, like her heart, make yourself small, my son, become a target a man might miss. He slashes and thrusts, cutting down greed, cutting through lies, cutting away the treason spreading like a tumor across the land. A knight’s horse plunges into the roil, stirring dust, scattering blood, skidding around her son. His lifted shield flashes a roaring lion with a forked tail, the Montfort coat of arms. His lance is aimed for Edward’s back. He charges. Eléonore cries out, but it is too late. Edward has been pierced through, and lies in a boody slump over his horse’s neck.

  “My lady, are you well?” Eléonore turns, her heart racing, to see her handmaid Agnes watching her with frightened eyes.

  “Yes, I am fine.” She presses a hand to her breast. Breathe.

  “You gave a shout.”

  She glances out the window, sees only moonlight gilding the pear trees, gives a little laugh. “I must have fallen asleep on my feet,” she says. She has not slept since yesterday, when messengers brought news of a battle brewing at Evesham. The rebels have vowed to kill Henry, but it is Edward they want. Simon aims to place his own son on the throne.

  She turns away from the window and sits at her table, peering into her hand mirror as if it could show the future. If only she could conjure the battle, and forgo the agony of waiting. We will prevail. For all its bravado, Henry’s last message gives her little confidence.

  Simon’s force has thinned, yes. He has lost many of the nobles who backed him at first, most notably Gilbert de Clare, the powerful red-haired Earl of Gloucester. Montfort speaks of sharing power, then hoards lands and castles for himself and his sons, he wrote to Eléonore. At last, the barons realize his true ambitions.

  The bishops, however, support Simon still, as do the common people, whom he has won by blaming Eléonore and her “alien” relations for poverty and abuse. Greedy lords and corrupt sheriffs are apparently her fault, as well as famine, pestilence, leprosy, adultery, and anything else adding to the people’s misery.

  This battle is Simon’s last resort. It is Edward’s, too, who, angered over her injuries and humiliation at London Bridge, has relentlessly—and cleverly—plotted revenge. Gloucester is Edward’s man now, as are Roger Leybourne, Roger de Clifford, and Henry of Almain. Eléonore can resist his friends no longer, not even that dangerous Hamo Lestrange, for they have protected Edward since he escaped from Simon’s clutches.

  She conceived the escape plan, she is proud to say. Working in Gascony, where she could command her own men and ships using France’s funds, she welcomed, of all people, William de Valence. How astonished she was to receive him! Despite his banishment from England, his loyalty to Henry has not wavered.
He strutted about, as always, bragging about his valor in battle, magnanimously “forgiving” Eléonore for “conspiring” against him—but none of it mattered in light of his outrage over Edward’s imprisonment.

  “Our Prince of England held captive by that preening little Frenchman?” he fumed, forgetting his own Poitou origins. He returned home to recruit an army, then sailed to Wales with one hundred twenty knights and her letter to Gilbert de Clare.

  Soon the earl had delivered her letter, with its plan for escape, to his brother Thomas de Clare, one of Edward’s guards. Her strategy made full use of Edward’s competitive nature: one day, as he and his guards sat idly about, he boasted that he was the best rider in England. Thomas scoffed, as planned. Others joined in the argument, and soon wagers were involved.

  To raise the stakes, Edward proposed to switch horses frequently as proof of his skill. “I can best any man, no matter what horse I ride,” he bragged. Being men, they took his bait. One after another they raced, and Edward won each time. Then, when he was down to his last competitor—Thomas de Clare—he changed horses once more, making sure to choose the fastest and strongest. Off they went on their fresh horses, tearing at top speed into the woods, never to reappear. The captors gave chase on their tired horses and could not catch up.

  “He is my son,” Eléonore said when she heard. “Ever eager to test himself against others, ever certain of winning.” He is more like her than anyone alive.

  Dinnertime. The morning has passed with excruciating slowness. She heads to the great hall, where she and Margi will dine with Uncle Boniface, Edmund, King Louis, Prince Philip, and, sure to make the meal most interesting, Sir Jean de Joinville, visiting for the first time since Eléonore’s arrival in Paris. Rising to kiss her, Margi positively glows in her new gown of purple with its draping gold silk sleeves, as though she were made for purple, or it for her. Never mind that her figure has grown stout or that the tendrils of hair springing from her headdress are a dull gray: Her eyes are as bright as a bird’s. Her complexion is smooth and, today, blushingly pink, and her wit is as sharp as a rapier.