The Sister Queens (5 page)

“I make no complaint of it, Your Majesty, for it brings me to you.”

“And are you prepared to be a good wife and obedient daughter?”

“I have been an obedient daughter to my own mother lo these thirteen years, and I offer Your Majesty all the same respect and duty. The role of wife is new to me, but I am prepared, with the grace of Our Lord, to subject myself always to my husband’s will and to be attentive to his every need.”

Blanche smiles, but the gesture is brittle, and I cannot shake the feeling that a certain superior air, a subtle irony, underpins her look
of approbation. “Beatrice of Savoy has my compliments. She clearly knows how to raise daughters.”

And suddenly I know that I am being dismissed, even before the archbishop steps forward to lead me away. The king looks as if he will say something; take some leave of me, but his mother’s voice interrupts the impulse.

“Louis,” the Queen Mother asks sweetly, “do you not greet your mother?” And like that I am forgotten as the king moves past me to kiss his mother. The lady’s actions seem deliberate, but surely I am only overtired from the road and overexcited by my arrival and the prospect of my wedding tomorrow, for why in the world would Blanche, who arranged this match, be deliberately unpleasant to me?

BEFORE MY MOTHER TOOK HER
leave of me at Lyon, she gave me the most rudimentary idea of what would happen on my wedding night. “There will be pain,” she said earnestly, holding my two hands in hers as we sat side by side, turned slightly together so that our knees just touched, “just as there will be when you bring forth the heirs of your husband’s body. This is the price for the sinful pride of Eve. But in it also lies a lesson: almost everything that you will take joy from in this life starts first with sacrifice. Happiness must be paid for.”

I am a married woman. Our vows were exchanged this morning on the steps of the Cathédrale Saint-Étienne while the carved figures of the ten virgins watched from above the central door. And now I stand, virgin myself, trembling at the center of a bedchamber in the archbishop’s palace. It is richly hung with silks and strewn with flowers, just as the whole city is bedecked for the
occasion of my marriage; yet I barely noticed. Word has come from the king that I am not to be undressed. My ladies think this strange.

“Perhaps,” I hear Alix de Lorgues murmur to the others as they open the door to depart, “he wants the pleasure of unwrapping her himself.” The thick oak door falling shut behind them barely muffles the laughter this comment evokes.

I have nothing to do but wait in terror, and that will not do. “The women of Savoy are prized for their serenity.” I can hear my mother’s voice in my head admonishing Eleanor on the subject—a frequent occurrence. Would that my mother were here now, to hold me in her arms and soothe me. I have missed her daily since we said our good-byes, but never more than at this moment. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, I am determined to busy my mind with a closer examination of the room. It is in most respects ordinary, lavishly furnished to be sure, but ordinary. It does, however, contain the most elaborate prie-dieu I have ever seen. The prayer stool seems to be made for two as it is very long. It is heavily carved with extraordinary tracery and biblical scenes. The carvings on the left side portray scenes from the life of the Virgin. In the largest, a gilded Holy Spirit dips low over a swooning Mary. Her hands are clasped and her eyes are closed, whether in joy or fear I cannot say. At the moment the two emotions seem perilously close. The right side has carvings of an altogether different nature. They offer scenes of the apocalypse and, as they provide no help for my nerves, I quickly turn my eyes elsewhere. The cushion on the portion meant for kneeling is precisely the same blue that I have seen in Louis’s standard, but it covers only half the length of oak supporting it. It is patterned with Louis’s fleur-de-lis. At either end of the rail where one might rest one’s arms, magnificent candleholders rise, each with a half-dozen wax tapers in place. The prie-dieu
faces a miniature altar, above which, on the wall, a large crucifix has been hung.

The door creaks. My heart is in my throat. Yet even so, I am aware of a strange sensation in a more private region, as if my blood is rushing there as well. Louis smiles at me from the doorway. He is so handsome. I feel as if I know a secret or as if I have drunk too much of Father’s good wine, as Eleanor and I did once hiding beneath a table in the great hall at Aix.

Rising quickly from my seat, I drop low to a curtsy. The effect of these rapid movements in combination with the wine I took at my nuptial dinner is enough to make me dizzy. My unsteadiness must be noticeable, for Louis comes forward quickly with gentle concern in his eyes and takes both my hands. He touches the gold band that he placed on my third finger this morning. “My lady wife, you are unwell?”

“No, Your Majesty, only tired. There has been so much excitement.” Then, worrying that I might be mistook, and my comment taken as complaint, I quickly add, “In all my life, I have never beheld such wondrous things as in the last hours.”

“Your life, Marguerite, has not been very long yet,” replies Louis with an indulgent smile. “I trust that today will be but the beginning of many ‘wondrous’ occasions.”

“With God’s grace, Your Majesty, I pray that I shall indeed have many years to prove myself a faithful wife to you and a worthy queen to your kingdom.”

The earnestness of my tone is not lost upon Louis and serves to light up his face in a manner I have never yet seen. He literally glows. Pulling me to him, he whispers in my ear, “You must call me Louis when we are alone.” Then his mouth finds mine. Fear is driven back by the pressure of his lips. As his tongue suddenly enters my mouth, I find that I want him to touch me, even if there
will be pain. But as I press myself closer to him, his mouth leaves mine and a groan like that of a man in agony issues from him. What have I done?

Louis pushes me to arm’s length with great effort. Gone is the radiant look. Instead, his eyes have a hungry and beseeching quality. “Will you pray with me?”

“Of course, Louis, if you wish.”

Turning from me, my husband lights one of the tapers from the prie-dieu at a wall sconce, then uses it to ignite the others. Taking my hand again, this time touching only the tips of my fingers, Louis leads me to the kneeler. I realize at a glance that only one of us will fit on the portion covered by the cushion.

Perhaps seeing my look of confusion, Louis says, “I had the pillow made for you. I myself prefer to eschew such comfort, but surely Our Lord will not expect you as a woman to subject yourself to such rigors.”

Together we kneel down, and my husband leads me in prayer.

Hours later, I hear the bells of the cathedral where we were married chime thrice. Louis, who, like myself has been praying in silence for some time, crosses himself and says aloud, “O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you.…”

It is the prayer for Matins; we are halfway to dawn. When he is finished, he rises stiffly. “I would be in my rooms for Lauds,” he says by way of leave-taking. It is not clear whether he offers this information as explanation or excuse.

When he is gone, I get off my knees with great difficulty. Despite my cushion, my legs are stiff and my feet nearly without feeling. I stagger rather than walk to the great bed and fall upon it face-first, fully clothed. I am asleep before I can call for someone to undress me. Asleep before I can even roll over.

TWO MORE NIGHTS ARE SPENT
in hours of solitary prayer in accordance with my husband’s wishes. Louis assures me that he is likewise praying in his own chamber.

It is a strange way for a bride to pass her time, and I am exhausted each morning when Lisette comes to wake me with worry in her eyes. But my pains are rewarded by Louis’s smile as he greets me with obvious delight at High Mass, and also in the sweet hours we spend watching jousters and jongleurs, dancing, and feasting side by side. Sometimes, under the table, Louis places his hand on my leg. I can feel the warmth of his flesh, even through my
surcote
, tunic, and chemise. Or perhaps I only imagine the sensation, but it is, nonetheless, both delightful and confusing.

Then, on the evening of the third day following my marriage ceremony, the sumptuous festivities are at an end. Tomorrow we begin our journey to Paris.

I do not even think of Louis as my ladies undress me for bed. I am comfortable now in the archbishop’s rooms and eager for sleep, a whole night’s worth as Louis gave no orders for prayer before we parted. Tucked between the feather bed and a coverlet of silk lined luxuriously in softest miniver, I am naked. This is how I slept in Provence. I am already drifting off, thinking of the gorgeous crimson
surcote
trimmed in ermine that I will wear tomorrow, when I hear the door open.

I sit bolt upright, clutching the covers, and see Louis in his shirt standing with a candle at the foot of the bed. Rounding the bed and setting his light down on the table without putting it out, he wordlessly draws the covers off me. Self-conscious but mindful of what my mother told me, I fight the urge to pull the blanket back again and instead force myself to lie down stiffly, perfectly still,
averting my eyes from my husband. I feel the bed beside me sink beneath his weight, and I cannot resist glancing. He is lying next to me. I begin to shake, just slightly, but visibly. My modesty and trepidation seem to please Louis.

Rolling toward me, he puts his lips to my ear and whispers, “‘Marriage
is
honorable among all, and the bed undefiled.’” It is strange to hear the Bible quoted in such a situation.

He kisses me, and the Holy Book is forgotten. There is no pulling back this time, no call to prayer. Then he is on me, and I am a maid no longer.

THE NEXT MORNING EARLY
I am awakened by someone I do not know. “Where is Lisette?” I ask. “And Alix de Lorgues and the others?”

“I do not know, Your Majesty, but I am Marie de Vertus, and I will be Your Majesty’s
chambrière
. I have been sent to help you rise and dress.”

This seems strange and makes me obstinate. Especially on a morning such as this, I want Lisette. “I am not inclined to rise yet. I will get up when Lisette is found.”

“Your Majesty, Her Majesty Queen Blanche and the bishop-elect of Valence wait just outside to inspect your linens. Surely you will not greet them in the nude?”

It costs me much dignity to hear this. But mine are not the only cheeks that burn, and Marie’s pleading tone and obvious embarrassment make me like her more and not less. I spring out of bed and find that it is painful to walk. The insides of my thighs are tender as is that place that before last night man had never touched. Holy Mary, if it hurts to walk, how will I sit in the saddle all day?

A handful of other ladies I do not recognize join us, and my
toilet is quickly complete. Marie opens the door to admit Blanche, an elderly gentleman of officious mien whom I do not recognize, my uncle Guillaume, and one of his attendants. The unknown gentleman walks to my bed and with a single swift motion turns back the cover. There on the sheet below is a darkened splotch—my maidenhead. I am mortified. I do not know where to look, but the others seem singularly unmoved by my embarrassment.

“That is that, then,” Queen Blanche remarks dryly. She nods to the gentleman who pulls the sheet from the bed, folds it, and hands it to Uncle Guillaume. I cannot imagine why, but my uncle does not appear the least surprised. He merely hands the cause of my shame to his attendant, who places it in a bag apparently brought specially for the purpose.

The queen turns to my uncle. “Your Excellency, I again wish you the safest of returns south. You will want a moment of private leave-taking with Her Majesty.”

Blanche stops before me just long enough for us to exchange curtsies and then, with her official in her wake, swiftly passes from the room. Uncle Guillaume sends his man out. I nod at Marie with a curtness I did not know I possessed, and she goes likewise, leading the other ladies.

“Niece,” my uncle says, and I am relieved to hear him address me as he always has, for so many other things seem altered, “we have not much time. Already the train that will bear you north, no doubt to glory, gathers in the courtyard. The Count of Piedmont and all who accompanied you here are
not
with it.”

“What?” I am both confused and discomforted. “Surely I mistake you! You told me that you and Uncle Thomas would go with me to Paris and would remain there to be my counsel in all things.”

“And so I intended. So had the whole family intended. But His Majesty the King of France, or more precisely His Majesty’s
mother, has other plans. Last evening after you retired, the Queen Mother called Thomas and me to her. The most elaborate compliments were paid us and also you. Generous gifts were bestowed. I alone received a draft for two hundred thirty-six livres, and even Lisette was not forgotten. Then we were dismissed.”

“Dismissed?”

“All of us. From myself to your minstrel.”