Four Sisters, All Queens by Sherry Jones Read Free Book Online

children—his grandchildren—to raise the sum.
    “She would have done it,” Thomas said. “The White Queen will stop at nothing to obtain what she wants.”
    “She is passionate,” Marguerite says. “What is wrong with that?”
    Her uncles grin. “We shall ask you that question in a few weeks,” Guillaume says.
    After supper, the queen mother’s tailor, a fussy man whose wrists stick out from his too-short sleeves, measures her for her wedding gown. As Aimée prepares her later for bed, unlacing her tunic, helping her into her robe, and combing and plaiting her hair, she spills over with questions. Did the king please her? Does Marguerite like his mother? Which of her gifts did she treasure most? Is she excited about tomorrow’s wedding? Marguerite says nothing and, always sensitive to her moods, the handmaid grows quiet.
    Yet she ponders the questions, and her answers. What does she think of her husband? He seems kind, he appears handsome, andhe dances well. He knows nothing of poetry, and his riposte is not as clever as she has hoped, but perhaps he was nervous today. His mother made a stronger impression—a number of them, in fact, and all contradictory.
    Every woman hopes to win her husband’s love, but you have an added task: charming his mother. Although King Louis is now nineteen years of age, Blanche still rules France—and, from what Marguerite has seen, she rules her son, as well. She, not Louis, gives money and men to Toulouse for the raids on her father’s castles. She is the reason why Provence suffers—why Papa suffers. To help her family—and to save Provence—Marguerite must befriend the White Queen.
    Laughter floats upward from the lawn, and more music. Marguerite moves to the window for one last look at the festivities: the jongleurs doing handsprings and flips, rehearsing for tomorrow’s celebration; children chasing one another, darting in and out of the makeshift shelters; servants rushing about with filled goblets for their masters and mistresses; dancers whirling and spinning.
    Below her window, onlookers clap in time to the music as a couple turns before them, fleet-footed and lithe, gazing into each other’s faces with delight. She watches for a while, wishing she had a rose or a token to toss down to the dancing couple. After a while, the song ends and they fall apart, panting and laughing, the woman’s hand on the man’s arm in an intimate caress. How lovely to be in love! Marguerite smiles—but her smile freezes when she recognizes the pair. Louis, dressed now in a red tunic and mantle, and his mother exchange a kiss, then join hands for another dance.

 

Marguerite
    A Perfect and Holy Union
    Sens, 1234
     
     
    W HITE-FACED WOMEN DISTURB her sleep, clamping fingers of bone around her throat, pressing her into her pillow— Hold still, you stupid bumpkin —flashing long, curved knives, scraping their blades across her eyebrows, her forehead, her scalp. She awakens with a start, her pulse thumping like the foot of a hare. She snatches her hand mirror from the table, sees herself looking back, unmolested. It was only a dream. Then she sees the statue in the corner and remembers why she is here, and her heart begins to race again.
    The lamps are already lit. Aimée, dressed in a tunic of pale rose, bustles about, bringing Marguerite’s gown in from the garderobe (“Today is your wedding day,” she purrs, as if Marguerite needed reminding), setting out a sop for her breakfast, pulling back the bedcovers and bidding her to rise for the prayer service, although the sun has not even begun to think about doing so.
    “Is God awake at this ungodly hour?” she wonders as her handmaid combs her hair.
    “I don’t know, my lady, but the French certainly are.” Outside,the chapel bells ring. A moment later, Uncle Guillaume is at the door, eyes puffy. It is time, he says, for prayer.
    “At this hour, one wonders what there is to say to God,” he grumbles.
    “Who ever did