The Sister Queens (45 page)

E
LEANOR
J
UNE 1250
W
INDSOR
, E
NGLAND

“G
od preserve us, can this be true?” Henry sits in his customary chair at his council table, but only Uncle Peter and I are with him. He is speaking of what, doubtless, all of Europe talks of—the stunning report that Louis of France left most of his magnificent army dead in the desert.

“Disbelief was Blanche of Castile’s response, Your Majesty,” Peter says. “I have heard she hanged the first messengers to bring her the news as liars and blasphemers. Poor souls.”

“And Marguerite?” My body trembles all over as I ask the question. Does my sister’s lovely head decorate the walls of an infidel city somewhere? My vivid imagining of such a thing threatens to deprive me of consciousness, and I must reach out and clutch the back of the chair before me.

“I have precious little news of Marguerite, but we know she lives, for it
is
reported ’twas she who gathered and meted out payment of the mighty ransom necessary to see her husband freed.”

“The sum promised”—Henry looks down at the letter from one of my uncle’s contacts in the French court that Peter has laid before him—“is so large that to speak it aloud would seem an obscenity. The King of France will return much weakened by this.” Then, glancing in my direction, Henry shifts uncomfortably and says, “Sorry, my dear.”

I leave the council chamber at a run and go straight to the chapel—not to my gallery, but to the aisle before the great altar. Prostrating myself, I begin both to cry and to pray.
Holy Mary,
Mother of God, watch over my sister.
How mortified I am that I envied Marguerite her travels. I imagined it all so clearly—as a story—forgetting that tales of honor and glory are just that, tales. And now the illuminated pictures from the
Chanson d’Antioche
are wiped from my mind by the thought of my beloved sister surrounded by blood, by death, and by danger.
Dear God, forgive my sin of envy and guard me from it better in the future
. I know, even as I think the words, that this would be miracle indeed. I am an envious creature by nature, at least where it comes to Marguerite. And if I am so fortunate as to be granted a miracle, I would not waste it on improving myself, which ought to be my own toil. The miracle I want now is my sister home safe to France, even if she be the only survivor of her husband’s ill-fated endeavor.

Slowly my fevered thoughts, tears, and murmurings are quieted by the stillness of my surroundings. The cold of the stone floor rises up through me and, far from being uncomfortable, eases my distress. As I lie, facedown, I hear footsteps upon stone. Oddly, I am not curious enough about who approaches to even lift my head.

“Mother?” It is the voice of my Edward. “Father is looking for you.”

I draw myself to a seated position, arms around bent knees, and gaze up at my son. He is a tall boy for eleven and even taller from my current vantage point. “Goodness,” I say, rubbing my eyes on my sleeve as if I were the child, “I pray he has not alarmed the entire palace on my account.”

“No. He looks very quietly. He came to the nursery first and was going on to your gardens. I came here because it seemed the next most likely place.” He puts out his hand to assist me in rising, and then, seeing I am not inclined to do so, sits down beside me drawing his own long legs up so that he is sitting as I am.

“The King of France was defeated in Egypt and taken prisoner.” The starkness of my statement nearly brings me to tears again.

“You worry for Aunt Marguerite.”

I nod dumbly.

“I wish I could rescue her for you. I am good with a sword; everyone says so.”

Edward has begun his training in arms and, though I say it myself, shows his Savoyard blood. “Did I ever tell you what they called your great-uncle Guillaume?” I ask my son. “A ‘second Alexander.’”

“Really?” Edward’s eyes blaze.

“Yes. When he went to fight with the emperor near Turin the spring before you were born, not one but two horses were killed beneath him in a single battle, but he never stopped fighting. You will be just like him.” I reach out and stroke my son’s hair. “Only not too soon. For my sake.”

“Mother!” Edward bristles slightly, but he moves closer and leans against me. He is still, thank heaven, more boy than man.

We sit quietly for a moment. I am pondering how fast the years have flown since I held Edward as a babe in my arms while he is doubtless envisioning himself in armor.

Then he says, “It is a good thing for a man to be brave.”

“Yes. And also a good thing for a woman.”

“But you have men to protect you.”

“I see. You would protect me from everything?”

Edward nods determinedly.

“And what about when I am in London and you are here? While your uncle Louis was in the hands of the Saracens with all his knights, did not your aunt Marguerite have need of bravery?” I have picked an example I think Edward can understand. I do not mention all the times in ordinary life—in the delivery of a child or
in the nursing of one when he is sick—that I have found bravery necessary.

“If Aunt Marguerite is brave, then why do you weep and worry for her?”

“Because she must also be lucky. The brave may die as well as the cowardly.”

M
ARGUERITE
J
ULY 1250
A
CRE
, K
INGDOM OF
J
ERUSALEM

“Y
ou were playing at dice again!”

Louis is so angry that he is shaking. I am angry too. The king’s brothers
know
how he feels about gambling; yet against his wishes and despite the fact that his recovery has been hard
fought and is by no means secure, Charles and Alphonse show no regard for His Majesty.

“We were not cheating,” Charles replies cheekily. “And none of the knights who took our money is complaining.”

Louis’s complexion, still pallid from captivity, grows whiter still. “We are on holy ground with a serious purpose—”

“We are waiting for Your Majesty to recover sufficiently to go home,” Charles interrupts. “Is there any good reason we should be bored while doing so?”

My husband appears too stunned or perhaps too pained to speak. I look to my sister, hoping, for the sake of my husband, that she will restrain hers. But Beatrice pays no attention to my pointed glance. Jeanne, on the other hand, nudges Alphonse with her foot under the table.

“Your Majesty,” the Count of Poitiers says, rising, “I apologize for any offense given and shall endeavor not to repeat it.”

“Meaning he will take more care where he plays and with whom to avoid being called out,” I whisper to Matilda.

We dine, as a family, in the king’s apartment. For his convenience, but also, I presume, so there will be no one to witness his dressing-down of his brothers. These reprimands have become increasingly frequent. The Counts of Anjou and Poitiers came back from captivity in relatively good health when compared to their fellows. They apparently expected the royal court to be just as it was before, with the same entertainments we all enjoyed in Cyprus. They seem completely without regard for the memories of so many, their own brother Robert included, who died, or a thought for the hundreds of common soldiers, some of them their own retainers, still held prisoner by the Saracens!

Alphonse reseats himself and we sit for a moment or two in
uncomfortable silence, except for Charles and Beatrice who carry on a low conversation between themselves. As the bowls have already come and gone after the meal, each of us expects the king to dismiss us. My sense is that all eagerly anticipate being free of Louis’s critical eye and going off to seek more pleasant company. I myself anticipate a stolen hour with Jean before he is expected with the king.

Sitting back in his chair, Louis looks us over and says, “I received a letter from our lady mother this morning.”

Suddenly the sullen brothers are all attention. Even at a distance Blanche commands in a way that Louis cannot.

“She has dispatched the monies that Her Majesty”—he nods appreciatively in my direction—“so presciently wrote to request on our behalf the moment the terms of my surrender were known to her.”

It was, I think, the one time in my sixteen-year marriage that I have ever written to Blanche with honest and bold language. I knew our chests here could not supply the balance of the ransom and knew as well that the dragon would do everything in her power to assist Louis.

“Our mother earnestly entreats me to return to France with haste on the grounds that my kingdom has need of me and that my truce with the English king soon expires. She is also particularly eager for you, Alphonse, to claim in person the county of Toulouse, which became yours upon the death of your good wife’s father.”

“I will go home most willingly the moment Your Majesty is ready!” Alphonse replies with real eagerness.

“Hm.”

The tone of Louis’s voice, not entirely approving, shocks me into wariness. Surely we are going home as soon as the last monies are paid? I’ve written to little Louis and told him as much.

“After receiving our mother’s letter, I summoned the noblemen
who live and hold possessions in this land. Unlike you, Brother, they show little zeal for my departure.”

“What?” Charles blurts the word out without thinking. Then, recalling to whom he speaks, he sits up straight in his chair and in a more careful tone says, “Pardon me, Your Majesty, but surely you do not think of staying in this forsaken place. With so few knights left, what would Your Majesty propose by it?”

“The barons here seem to think this land will be lost in its entirety if I withdraw. But”—Louis puts up a hand to stop Charles who shows every sign of interrupting—“I make no decision on the point at present. No, I will hear advice before deciding such an important matter.”

Charles looks momentarily relieved; then his face clouds again. “Whose advice?”

“Yours, Brother, to be sure, but also the advice of my councilors and of the
preudommes
who survived the desert with us and have ever given me excellent counsel even when I would not hear it. And, of course, I will hear the opinion of the Holy Father’s legate.”

I can guess what Charles and Alphonse are thinking. As soon as they leave this room, they will seek the very men whom Louis names and secure their opinions. I would do the same had I the purse or the political connections for such action. Next month it will be two years complete since we set sail from Aigues-Mortes. We have exhausted what supplies we did not abandon in Damietta, and our mighty army is largely dead or imprisoned in Egypt. There is nothing for it but to swallow our pride, accept our defeat, and go back to France. Why not do so at once so that Louis can continue to recover his health in his own kingdom?

“I ask you, Brothers, to join me tomorrow with those others whom I have enumerated. What better day than the Lord’s day to consider and discuss such a weighty business?”