The Sister Queens (62 page)

“Yes,” my sister says kindly, putting her hand over mine where it flutters on the arm of my chair to quiet it, “I can see that he is a good man, and also a good husband.” She looks into my eyes so intensely that for a moment I wonder if I can bear her stare. “The two things are not the same—being a man and being a king.” I prepare to rise to my husband’s defense, surprised that my sister would intimate that my husband is an ineffectual king, even as I know it to be true myself. Defending Henry is my habit. It is my duty. And I am prepared to do it. Then Marguerite says, “Louis is considered a great king, but as a man …I so often find I do not like him very much.”

So it is as I suspected—the affinity between my sister and her husband that clearly existed while they were on foreign soil, as witnessed by her letters, did not survive their return to France. If she is willing to so frankly own her present disappointment, I will own mine.

“Henry is a kind and loving man,” I say with warmth, “but there are times when I think he would be better suited and happier too had he been born to follow, not to lead.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, Marguerite’s hand resting on mine as we each stare into her cheery fire.
We have each of us half the man we wanted,
I think. It is an epiphany. “Perhaps,” I say, “no man can be everything. Not even a king.”

“Perhaps.”

My mind wanders back to the political subjects that led us here. “If Henry were to abandon his claims in Normandy, what might Louis do in return?” In the back of my mind I can hear Uncle Peter suggesting that marks of silver would be far more useful to my husband than lands he cannot conquer or hold, especially with a crown for Edmund to pursue.

“It is always hard to know what Louis will do until he does it,” Marguerite replies. “But he talks favorably of Henry on such a short acquaintance. And I believe Louis may be amenable to drawing closer to my family connections, as he never was before. After all, with his mother gone, a brother dead in Egypt, and another enfeebled by a sudden seizure while we were yet in the Holy Land, the king’s own family is neither as strong nor as numerous as it once was. He feels this fact keenly. We may have the opportunity, you and I, to make one family of our two. As we have ever been the closest of sisters, let us each push our respective husbands to see each other as brothers. For our children’s good as well as our own.”

I nod. A knock sounds at the door. Servants bearing refreshment troop in, followed by our mother who passed the morning at the Old Temple with Sanchia, freshly arrived from England for our reunion.

“Do I interrupt?” she asks, seeing us drawn so close together.

“What, Mother? Never.” Marguerite rises to offer her seat as it is closest to the fire. “Where is Sanchia? How I long to see her.”

“She is exhausted from her travels and begs leave to postpone waiting upon you until before this evening’s banquet.”

“Of course I can wait, and I dare not even complain of the delay while I have the two of you for excellent company. But speaking of the banquet, I must make myself easy on a score of details before the tapers are lit and the first course served. If you will excuse me.”

Mother and I wave her out. My mother hunts about among the embroidery frames huddled like serving girls, silent but ready, in a corner, and pulls one out.

“Very elegant,” I remark as she draws it before her and prepares to work. “I fear I am no better with silk and wool than I was as a girl.”

“Never mind, Eleanor,” Mother says. “You excel at many other things. My brother tells me that you have a natural head for politics and that you are a most excellent mother.”

This praise catches me off my guard and moistens my eyes.

“The mothering I learned from you, madam, and the facility for politics comes with the Savoyard blood.”

“So it does.” Her smile is as it ever was, even though she looks undeniably older than when she came to England to see Sanchia married. Can ten years really have passed since then? They must have, for I am thirty-one now, a year older than my mother was when I married.

I rise to help myself to the cold meats and things the servants laid. “Would you like something?”

“Not at the moment.”

My sister’s table, like her wardrobe and her castles, is of the finest sort. I am glad that where my mother is seated she cannot see the quantity of sugarcoated aniseeds I am taking. I pour myself a measure of wine and water and am about to return to the fireside, when the sound of children laughing attracts me naturally to the window.

Below in the bleak winter garden I can see the younger princes, Philippe, Jean Tristan, and Pierre, with a nurse. After a few minutes of discussion that I cannot hear from this height, Jean Tristan puts his hands over his eyes and begins to count. They are clearly playing hide-and-seek. Philippe, a strapping boy of nine years, takes off at a run to secrete himself somewhere. Pierre, too young to hide alone, is dragged off by the nurse.

I am just about to turn away from the window, when a tall man, beautifully dressed, enters the garden, walking with purpose. At the sight of the boy he stops, his face alight with a combination of frank admiration and tenderness. I have seen this same look a thousand times before on my own husband’s face—this man adores my sister’s son. Creeping up behind the child who is still dutifully counting, he grabs him from behind. The prince laughs in delight and opens his eyes. After an exchange of words, the gentleman swings Jean Tristan up to his shoulders. The boy wraps his one arm about the man’s forehead and points with his other in the direction he wishes to go. As they begin to move off, the child leans down to say something. The dark curls on his head blend with those of the nobleman whom he rides like a pony.

“Mother,” I demand, “who is this gentleman in the garden with Jean Tristan?” My mother puts aside her embroidery, and with frustratingly unhurried steps makes her way to my side. I cannot say precisely why, but it seems a matter of utmost urgency to know who the man is. I am fearful that my mother will not arrive beside me before the man and the boy disappear behind a tall row of shrubbery, but she does.

“That,” my mother replies, “is the Lord of Joinville, Seneschal of Champagne, a great favorite of His Majesty’s. My goodness, Louis will be glad to have him back.”

M
ARGUERITE
D
ECEMBER 1254
P
ALAIS DU
R
OI
, P
ARIS

T
o have Eleanor here is a balm,
I think as I hurry to the hall to check the
mouvants
for this evening’s banquet. It is as if some piece of my heart long missing has been put back in its proper place. I am not whole to be sure, but I bustle and feel an energy I have lacked since returning to France.

On my way back to my rooms, I mean to stop at Louis’s apartment and speak with his chamberlain. I know that Louis will wear no fur, but surely between the two of us we can contrive for the king to look better than he has of late when he presides this evening. He may be used to dining with holy men and collections of the city’s elderly and infirm, a practice he has engaged in almost daily since our return, but this evening’s entertainments are in honor of a king who is also my brother. I would have nothing done that is not in the best style out of respect for Henry of England and for my sister. Thank goodness the fast of Saint Martin has ended or our feasting and entertainments would be so severely curtailed as to make honoring my English kin a hollow gesture.

Nearing Louis’s apartment, I hear voices. Perhaps he and Henry of England have returned. I quicken my steps and turn a corner. Not a dozen feet in front of me Simon of Nesle and Philip of Nanteuil stand with Jean between them. Fortunately, they do not see me. I am able to turn back and round the corner before my knees
give way and I sink to ground. I cannot say if I want to sob or laugh, to run back to them, or to run away and hide myself.
Jean is here.
When he left us at Beaucaire to see to his own affairs and put the distance between us that we both felt prudent, he swore to me that he would not return to court before spring showed herself and the roses in my garden greened and budded. But he is here nonetheless.

I sit where I am, quite unable to move.

“So,” my Lord of Nesle says, his voice infused with jovial enthusiasm, “life in Champagne was not entertaining enough to detain you.”

“That is not what I hear,” the Lord of Nanteuil chimes in. “My friends at the court of Thibaut the Second say you have been busy. You may not have stayed at home long enough to plow your fields but you had plenty of time to plant your wife.”

“Listen to him,” Nesle says. “Were you not such an old fellow, de Nanteuil, you too would be eager for the company of your lady after a six-year absence.”

I hear the sound of a hand slapping someone on the back or shoulder and a great burst of laughter.

A tear runs down my cheek, and I catch it with the tip of my finger. Of course, I knew Jean must lie with Alix when he arrived home. It is his duty, and not to do so would generate talk, but I wonder if it was also his pleasure. For the first time I have a glimpse of how Jean must have felt all those years as he thought of Louis touching me. I was spoiled by his faithful devotion, by knowing he was mine alone in the desert. In France he is not.

“What will you do now?” Nesle asks. “Come! Have a drink with us while you wait for the king to return. Once he has seen you, he will not soon be parted from you. Why, only yesterday in council His Majesty mentioned the hardship of your absence.”

I would not wonder if this was true. As the want of Jean has gnawed at me over the past months, it has likely also pained my husband. I am almost willing to cede that Louis loves the gentleman as much as I do.

“You exaggerate.” The sound of Jean’s voice—oh dear God, it is as if I were thirsty these five months and did not know it. Having taken the first sip, I would gulp greedily. My breath catches in my throat, and the skin on my arms prickles.
Only speak again,
I will him. And he does. “His Majesty has too much to occupy his mind to think of one poor servant who is far away.”

“No,” Nesle replies, his voice serious, “His Majesty forgets none who serve him well, least of all you. Your place in his favor was not filled in your absence.”

There is a moment of silence. Slowly, and as quietly as I can, I get to my feet. If they should proceed this way, it would not do for them to find me thus.

“So, will you drink?” the Lord of Nanteuil asks.

“With your gentlemen’s pardon, I will pay my respects to Her Majesty the Queen.”

“Well done, Sieur. Doubtless we will see you at this evening’s banquet.”

I pull myself to my full height and pray that I look composed. I hear steps. Someone comes, but whether it be Jean, his companions, or both I cannot say. Steeling myself, I begin to move so that it will not appear as if I have been secreted here listening, though I have. I round the corner and nearly run into Jean.

“Your Majesty,” he says; then, glancing back over his shoulder and perceiving that his companions have disappeared in the other direction, “Marguerite.”

“Sieur de Joinville.” Why do I say this? Is his Christian name too painful to speak, or do I fear that once past my lips they will
not be stilled and I will speak a thousand words of love and longing? “You are returned to court.”

“Yes.” Jean pulls back his shoulders trying to recover himself. His face wears an expression of confusion and pain. I understand both all too well. My pain at this moment is so sharp that I cannot understand why I do not fall dead on this spot.

“I am happy to see you.” My voice continues to sound oddly hollow, as if I have not breath enough to infuse it with life or longing.

“Are
you?” He lowers his voice. “I was coming to wait upon you. Can we not remove to your rooms? I feel as if I am naked here.”

Naked. Yes, that is the right word. I also feel stripped bare, and should anyone come upon us, I would cower from view though my activities of the moment are entirely blameless. “My sister the Queen of England and my mother are in my rooms. Oh Jean—”

“I know.” He reaches out a hand tentatively as if he will touch me, then draws it back. “The pain is overwhelming. I ought to have stayed away longer as I promised. And I would have for your sake, though my thoughts every day turned in your direction, did not the circumstances of my family compel me hence.”

“My lord, what is the matter?”

“I arrived home to find my finances in ruins.”

In all our time together I never gave a thought to how Jean lived. Like every other gentleman on crusade he scrambled for money to keep himself and his men, but I supposed this to be but a function of extended warfare.

“With my mother yet alive—and God knows I love her too well to wish her in her grave—and in possession of her dower rights, I must support me and mine on scarcely one thousand livres a year in rents. Alix received but half her dowry, and even to secure
that before I left for the Holy Land we were forced to sign away claims to the balance. I pledged substantial portions of my land when I took up the cross to equip myself and my men.…” Jean’s voice trails off.