The Sister Queens (48 page)

Reliable reports are overrated, particularly when they bring word that my husband has made a fool of himself. The examination of Simon de Montfort before the parliament, which dragged on for more than a month, has just ended. My Franciscan, Adam Marsh, wrote me pages describing the trial itself—the accusations by the Gascon lords and my brother-in-law’s able and restrained defense of himself. It was left to family to bring the news of Henry’s ill-thought-out and awkward conduct.

I am in my hall at Windsor with all the windows full open to
allow in the June sunshine and air, but I am not enjoying the fine weather. No, my pleasure in the day was spoiled the moment my uncle began his report.

“It is just as well that you were not there to witness Henry’s outburst,” Uncle Peter says, pacing before me. “He ranted at the barons like a disappointed child.”

My uncle knows I cannot bear to see Henry embarrass himself. I can never reconcile the errors of judgment in governing and the stubborn stupidity of the king’s public actions with the good-natured, attentive behaviors of the father and husband whom I love deeply.
Oh Henry,
I think,
what can you have hoped to gain, either in dignity or in authority, by denouncing and defaming Simon de Montfort in front of your parliament after a collection of those same magnates exonerated him of all charges?

“So that is that. Simon is exonerated, but he is also finished in Gascony. Yet the job he attempted there is not completed. What can be done?” I pick up a bird’s nest that Edmund brought me from the garden off the small table beside me and turn it over in my hands. My eyes are drawn to the bits of down meant to line it, evidence that, like myself, the mother bird was interested in the comfort and security of her young.

“His Majesty is resolved to go to Gascony himself and attempt its pacification.”

I suck air in through my teeth and shake my head. I have as much call as any to know Henry is not possessed of overwhelming military skills. Still, he has a personal interest in holding Gascony that goes beyond any other man’s. It is his legacy to his son. “When?”

“He cannot go at once,” Peter replies. “Funds must be raised. And while His Majesty is gathering silver and troops, we can use the time to author a diplomatic strategy. If money is to be spent and men are to die, let us be as certain as possible of success.”

“Can we not work on Gaston de Béarn?” It is most inconvenient to be related to one of the chief rebels in Gascony and even more so because I mistakenly intervened with the king to get him released when Simon de Montfort had him captive.

“We can try, of course.” Peter shrugs. “But it is a foolish master who trusts a dog that has bitten him once already. Gaston may plead shared blood to save his own skin, but he has never shown any inclination to obey calls for family loyalty in support of our interests. He likes Gascony in a state of relative lawlessness, for then he and the other barons may take for themselves the power and revenues that should belong to the Crown.” Peter pauses for a moment, stroking his beardless chin. His eyes lose their focus; then with a snap they are back on my face.

“I think,” he says, “we would do better to send envoys to the King of Castile.”

“But Alfonso of Castile accepted homage from the rebel barons not three months ago; he suborns their rebellion against English territorial claims and English rule of law, and seeks to claim Gascony for himself.”

“Yes, but he is chary and knows that neither his attenuated claim to dominion over Gascony nor any military victory there are things certain. He will talk and he will
listen
.”

“Then we must send someone who speaks well. Will you go yourself, Uncle?”

“If the king sends me. But, with humility, I might be better by the king’s side as he steps off his ships.”

“He will certainly make sounder steps by your presence. What about Mansel then?”

“I can think of none better. But before we, or more precisely His Majesty, sends anyone, we must have something to propose. We must offer Alfonso of Castile something to persuade him that
an alliance with England will be more profitable to him than marching his troops around Gascony in the hopes that he might be its next duke.”

My uncle takes a seat. I put down Edmund’s nest and, as I do, my eyes wander over the collection of other trinkets presented me by my children—a stanza of poetry beautifully copied out by Beatrice; a small withered nosegay gathered for me by Edward. Edward is thirteen now and taller than I am. I look up. “It comes to my mind that Alfonso of Castile has a half sister approaching marriageable age.”

“By the auspicious name of Eleanor,” my uncle replies with a smile.

M
ARGUERITE
J
UNE 1252
J
AFFA,
K
INGDOM OF
J
ERUSALEM

W
aking in the dark, I cannot remember where I am.
Caesarea? No,
I think, sitting up in bed,
we left there weeks ago. Jaffa—we are in Jaffa.

I feel sticky and my bedcovers cling to me in the hot, humid air.
Rising, I pad naked to the nearest window and throw it full open. In the dim predawn light, I can see the garden wall but not the sea beyond. Turning back, I seek my basin. Pouring out cool water, I begin to sponge myself clean of the night’s sweat. Then I seat myself at my dressing table and apply lavender water to my shoulders, neck, and beneath my breasts. One of the best things about being in Jaffa is the fact that the Count and Countess have provided me with the trappings of a civilized life and accommodations that would seem luxurious even had I not slept for weeks in a tent. Yet it is not France. There are times I cannot even remember France.

It has been three years since I first saw the coast of Egypt from my ship, two years since the majority of our party departed from Acre, more than a year since my son Pierre was born, and nearly as long since the troops Louis expected his brothers to send to his aid should have arrived. Lighting a taper, I regard myself in the mirror. Sometimes I do not remember the old Marguerite either. I am very brown now, and my hair is as light as it was when I was a girl roaming the fields of Provence. Jean loves it this way, golden and glinting. Louis has not noticed. All he thinks about is fortifying Christian cities. It was for this reason that we went to Caesarea and to so many smaller places. The Holy Father grants indulgences to those who refortify settlements in the Holy Land. By building walls and towers, often with his own hands, my husband hopes to buy back the grace he feels he lost in his disastrous military failure.

Marie, bustling into the room, starts at seeing me already awake. “Your Majesty should have called,” she chides.

“Why? What have we to do today that would demand your early attendance? Watch His Majesty’s knights build walls?”

“Perhaps the Mamlu¯k troops will come today and our knights will leave off their ditch digging and march together with these infidels against the Sultan of Aleppo.”

“That is one sight I
never
expect to see,” I say, rising and allowing Marie to slide a clean chemise over my head. “The Mamlu¯ks may have been willing to forgo the balance of the ransom, free their remaining prisoners, and send back the mangled heads of our dead in order to prevent His Majesty from joining with the sultan of Aleppo against them, but they will never fight side by side with the French. They hate Christians too much.”

“Is that what my Lord of Joinville says?”

Marie is right; I do parrot Jean. He has no faith in or stomach for alliances with infidels. But I do not blame my husband for his treaty promising to fight beside the infidel Mamlu¯ks against the Sultan of Aleppo. After the sinking of the first ship that Blanche sent—the ship that had been carrying the balance of the monies owed to his former captors—Louis needed a way to recover the Frenchmen still in Mamlu¯k hands without paying for them.

“Speaking of my Lord of Joinville, we will take the children into the garden after Mass to meet him.” This is one of the worst aspects of our arrival in Jaffa. When we were camped in tents, Jean and I were constantly in company, whether with the king or outside his presence. It was easy to pass an hour or even an afternoon together, for my only companions were Marie and my
béguines
. Now that I am installed in the residence of the Count and Countess of Jaffa, with the countess and the others in her circle for company, Jean and I must be careful once again. To make matters worse, Jean, like Louis, who refuses to enjoy better conditions than his knights, lives in the armed camp erected in fields surrounding the city.

“I TELL YOU I SAW
the plans this morning,” Jean says, his voice low and urgent. “Twenty-four towers. Such work will take a year or more.”

I begin to cry. We are in the Countess of Jaffa’s lovely garden, but I am no longer enjoying our outing. Little Jean, standing at my knee as I sit beside his father on a bench, tilts his head and regards me pensively. Then, climbing silently into my lap, he reaches up his little hand to wipe my tears away. His gesture releases my words. “I cannot stay here another year! Nor can Louis, whatever he may think. Has he forgotten his brothers are ambitious men and his mother is aging? If she dies while we are here, who will protect Prince Louis?” At the thought of my son, now eight years old, my eyes fill again. He will be a stranger to me when I return. Will he be the dragon’s creature by such long association with her? Has she turned my golden prince into his father?

“He
has
forgotten everything of this world. You know that. He thinks only of making a place for himself at God’s knee in the next world through charitable acts.” Jean lifts our son from my lap into his own and plays with his curls absentmindedly.

Marie clears her throat. The nurse walking with Pierre on her hip draws close, completing her first circle of the garden. Jean sets our son down and changes his tone. “If Your Majesty would like to see the oranges in their groves, I am sure I would be happy to arrange it.”

“I think the baby has had enough air,” I say, nodding to the nurse. “Pray take him in to the wet nurse. Marie and I will bring Jean Tristan in when we come.” As soon as she is out of earshot, I ask Jean, “Should I write to Blanche of Castile?”

“Why? When, if ever, has the Queen Mother taken your part against her son?”

“A fair point. But this time our interests must surely be identical. She wanted Louis home two years ago. And pleaded with him again, and even more desperately, in letters accompanying the second ship that she sent, carrying the money that finally reached us.”

“Then write to her by all means.”

Jean Tristan wanders away and, crouching by the base of a bush, earnestly examines a bug of some sort.

“I will not speak of my fears that Louis will be usurped. She knows her sons, especially Charles, better than anyone. Rather I will say that I fear for her grandsons born here. This is no place to raise princes of France.” It is the truth; both Jean and I know it. Without the company of other children, privy to conversations that ought to be held outside his presence, and alone for hours at a time, Jean Tristan is the most solemn two-year-old I have ever encountered. Louis continues to take an interest in him, though he ignores Pierre and me as much as he can. With Louis, an interest means religious education, so little Jean has been subjected to stern lectures on the glory of God and man’s unworthiness—lectures better left for an older child.