The Sister Queens (29 page)

With the officious cellarer out of our way, it does not take long for us to prepare the herbs and steep the tea. I am soon back in Edward’s chamber, sitting on his bed. I pull my son onto my lap, supporting his head and shoulders against my breast. Willelma hands me a cup filled with our handiwork.

“Edward,” I say, dipping my head to whisper in his ear, “Mama has something for you. Something to make you feel better.” I put the cup to his lips and slowly tip some of the liquid into his mouth, praying that he will swallow. He does! Willelma and I smile at each other in a moment of intense satisfaction. When the cup is empty, I relax against the wall at the head of the bed, with Edward leaning
against me. Henry, sitting on my customary stool, takes my hand. We sit in silence. The sun is setting and I am bone tired.

“Lord Edward must have one cup every hour for the next three,” Willelma instructs the prince’s physician, though such instruction is entirely unnecessary for neither she nor I have any intention of leaving.

After the penultimate dose, I doze off. Even the rough stone wall behind me is pillow enough in my present state. I awake with a start, feeling unpleasantly damp. Looking down on Edward in the candlelight, I quickly see that his hair is moist and his skin glistens. He is sweating—sweating profusely. The back of the fever is breaking.

Willelma hands me the cup, and I administer the last dose carefully, concentrating on not spilling a drop with my shaking hands. My job accomplished, I begin to cry—to cry as I have not since I was a child, in huge gulping sobs.

Henry shoos the physicians and attendants from the room, then returns to join me on the narrow bed, lying on his side and curling around me as I in turn curl around Edward. Gradually my sobs subside, and I drift to sleep, bathed in Edward’s sweat and pressed tight between my two great loves.

M
ARGUERITE
J
UNE 1248
C
ORBEIL
, F
RANCE

I
t has been a season of good-byes. My good and faithful friends Elisabeth and Yolande, whom I thought to take to the Holy Land with me, left me in quick succession. Elisabeth was carried away by plague, and Yolande in the bearing of a child, a child delivered so many years after her last that nothing good could
reasonably be expected from his mother’s confinement. My grief over their deaths is profound.

And always the loss of Eleanor is there, waiting like an unreliable tooth to pain me just when I have forgotten it. I had not seen my sister for years before she turned from me; yet she never felt absent from my life. She was with me daily, in a phrase spoken by others that reminded me of her, in a thought of my own that was undeniably shaped by our growing up together, in a place or a person seen through the filter of her imagined opinion. Now, after such a long silence on her part, I cannot bear these once reassuring reminders. I train myself not to think of her, not to mention her. I am as a cloistered nun where it comes to memories of Eleanor. Yet rather than bringing me pleasant calm, my self-denial leaves a bitter feeling, and I fear becoming as one of those whose withdrawal from the world has not left her graceful, but rather withered and rigid.

I try to tell myself that time will bring me other friends and that by it all things are healed. I notice that a new Lady Coucy, Elisabeth’s replacement, is part of the party standing apart and a little to one side on this summer morning, more than three years after Louis and I took the cross, as the real leave-taking begins. I promise myself that I shall endeavor to be kind to her, but that will be difficult since her very existence reminds me that my darling friend is gone.

“Say your prayers without fail,” Louis instructs our small brood with a serious face. My little Louis regards him with solemn attention. The prince is lean and a goodly size for four, but still not as tall as three-year-old Philippe. Philippe, who is constantly in motion, pays the king no mind. Instead, he drops to his knees to examine something in the dust that has caught his eye. Princess Isabelle makes an attempt to hoist him up but fails, and his nurse
takes charge, swinging my second son to her hip with practiced ease.

Blanche stands waiting to be given charge of my babies. Her face is expressionless as I kiss each on the cheek. Little Louis throws his arms about my neck, even though I did all I could last evening to prepare him for this moment. His nurse scuttles forward to remove him from me, but I hold up a hand. Louis
is
the golden prince I mistook his father for at first sight. He is a warm, open, little soul, and, unlike his father, his affection for me equals mine for him.

I put my mouth to his ear and whisper, “Three months is not so long. Isabelle will help you count the days.”

Then I hug him fiercely before passing him to the nurse. My husband seems vaguely embarrassed by my show of affection. But I do not care. This is the moment I have dreaded most since we took the cross. I know that Blanche understands the sudden emptiness I feel, even as she refuses to offer me a look of reassurance or commiseration. She will be parted from her sons today too.

The children are whisked away. My eyes sting as I fight to keep from crying. Robert of Artois and Charles d’Anjou come forward in turn and take their leave of the dragon. Solemnly she offers them her blessing, but I notice that her left hand has seized a portion of her mantle, fingering it and twisting it in a most uncharacteristic manner.

Then Louis steps forward. He embraces his mother, then says, “Madam, I leave all that is of importance in your hands, my children and my kingdom, knowing that you will manage things as you always have—to my good and my glory.”

Blanche’s face collapses—an event without warning and without precedent. She looks old and frail. “I fear,” she begins, but her voice breaks, and in the silence that descends I sense weakness. She
begins again. “I fear, Your Majesty, that we will not meet again in this life.” Then gathering herself together, she is issuing orders once again. “I admonish Your Majesty, as the woman who gave you life and loves you like no other, to behave always in a manner that safeguards your immortal soul. Seek God’s glory in the Holy Land rather than your own, that I may see you in heaven if never again in France.”

Never again in France.
The excitement this possibility kindles in me is indecent, and I know as much. It is impossible, much as I hate her, that I could pray for another Christian’s death. Imprudent too, for I leave my children in her care. Yet, as we ride off in the direction of Beaucaire, some part of me hopes that I will return from battle with the infidels to find that my chief battle at home has been won in my absence.

AFTER BEAUCAIRE, I BEGIN TO
look for the Sieur de Joinville. This might seem a foolish waste of time as knights by the hundreds join us from every direction, but I feel certain that when he reaches the royal party, Joinville will find a way to make himself known to me.

We move slowly, as we must with so many men, but I am glad of it, for at every turn in the road I find the scenery of my childhood. The weather too, with a warmth that my husband’s northern kingdom is never able to match, puts me in high spirits. When Avignon comes into sight, I am struck by the thought that fourteen years ago I waited at its gate for the French to arrive. Today, at twenty-seven, I
am
the French.

Beatrice rides beside me. I wonder if she remembers that long-ago day. I doubt so. The hours I have passed with my sister in the two years since her marriage have convinced me that her mind is occupied nearly entirely with herself. In this she is perfectly
matched with her husband. Still, for the sake of the crowds, I treat Beatrice with marked cordiality these days. The public tableau of family must be preserved. I learned this at my mother’s knee, and the rule applies equally whether the family is Savoyard or Capetian. In truth, it is hard not to feel a little sorry for my sister, prideful though she is, because she is carrying her first child and is very ill. As if to punctuate my thought, she directs her horse to the roadside and, clutching the animal’s neck, leans over to vomit.

“Do you need to rest?” I ask.

Louis looks displeased. Unlike me, he finds our ever-slackening pace maddening.

“Surely the countess will recover better in the city than by the side of the road.”

The impatience in Louis’s voice needles me. I long to point out that we might have sailed already were it not for his insistence on stopping at every religious house along our route to solicit prayers and feed the inhabitants at royal expense. But I remain silent. My newfound empathy for Beatrice is not as strong as my desire to be on the best of terms with my husband during this trip. I give my sister an encouraging look as one of her ladies offers her a linen kerchief to wipe her mouth.

“Your Majesty is perfectly correct. The count and I”—she appeals to Charles by glance—“anticipate the greatest pleasure in having Your Majesty and the queen as our guests. And I will rest best in my own castle.” Beatrice gives a little triumphant smile, and I am reminded that though this may have been the land of my childhood, it is now my sister’s and hers alone.

Our arrivals at every city and village have been well attended, and Avignon is no exception. As we draw near, the road begins to be lined with people shoulder to shoulder and several bodies deep. But something feels different. Instead of jostling for position, the
people are still, almost sullen. I notice few women and even fewer children, though in other cities youngsters littered our path with summer flowers.

I glance at Louis, riding just in front of me between Robert and Charles. But he is either not aware of anything out of the ordinary or not concerned by it.

My sister Beatrice too seems oblivious. “How do I look?” she asks Matilda who rides between us. “Can you tell I have been ill?”

Matilda shakes her head.

As I am about to dismiss my unease as silly, Matilda pulls her horse closer to mine and says in a low voice, “These are not, I think, the faces of subjects joyfully welcoming their sovereign lord and his lady home.”

A sickening thud prevents me from replying. It takes a minute for me to realize what has happened. There is a second thud and Beatrice shrieks. A splatter of something dark red and thick stains the front of my sister’s
surcote
, as if her insides have come out. For a panicked moment I think she has been wounded, and then the smell reaches me. Dear God, someone in the crowd is pelting us with offal. The royal party draws together. All manner of waste showers upon us. I seem to have whatever was left of someone’s trencher scattered across my skirt. I twist this way and that, trying to see everything at once. The mob, for now it is clear that is what they are, presses in from both sides. Some of the men have staves; some are better armed. For the first time in my life I know what it is to be afraid for my safety at the hands of men. Then, as my throat tightens and my heart races, I hear a voice from the mob.

“Go back to France,” somebody yells, “and take your brother with you.”

“There he is,” another voice screams. “The Count of Provence took my land.”

I feel a sudden all-consuming rage, a rage strong enough to overcome my fear and force it down. Charles! This is all because of Charles. Because of his greed and his disrespect for my father’s people and for our Provençal ways!

Men have begun to fight where our party meets the one by the roadside. Some of Louis’s knights dismount, and at least one rides out into the crowd. I can see him striking blows with the butt of his sword. How long, I wonder, until he uses the blade? Giving my horse a vicious kick, I push my way to Louis, disregarding the startled face of Robert of Artois as I force his horse aside.