into the cathedral. She walks without feeling the ground, as if her feet were too light to touch the earth, catching her breath at the grandeur of God’s house: the high, narrow arches overhead, the statues of saints lining the walls, the light flooding the altar from the high windows, the splendid rose-shaped window over the entry whose stained glass sends colors floating down like petals.
Once everyone has wedged into the cathedral and quieted at last, the archbishop celebrates the mass, offering communion to the wedding couple, lighting candles, and saying prayers.
“Wife, be good to your husband,” he says. “Submit to him in all things, for that is the will of God.” What of submission to one’s mother-in-law? Is that God’s will, as well?
The archbishop kisses Louis on the mouth: the kiss of peace. Louis gives it, in turn, to Marguerite. His lips feel strange, but not unpleasant. When it ends, she wants another, as if his kisses were sweets; she imagines sliding her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. But of course she does not. Now is not the time for more kissing, but it will come soon enough.
The archbishop pronounces them husband and wife. Louis grasps her hand, his expression eager, and the room fills with shouts and cheers—but before they step down from the altar, the queen mother steps forward and whispers to the archbishop. He nods and lifts his hands, silencing the crowd.
“I had almost forgotten an important addition to this ceremony,” he says. The White Queen beams at Louis as if she has just given him a golden horse to match his shiny mail suit. “For a perfect and holy union, the Church exhorts the newly wedded couple to delay the consummation.”
Exclamations and chatter arise, prompting the archbishop to call for silence. Then he turns to Louis and Marguerite.
“Cleanse your souls with prayer for three nights before unitingyour bodies,” he says. “When you join together in holy matrimony, you also join with God. Your purified state may please our Lord, the better for you to produce an heir to the throne.”
Louis’s expression darkens—but then the queen mother cries out, “Praise be to the Lord,” and soon everyone is praising God, and Louis’s frown turns, again, to a shy grin. Marguerite’s smile feels like a fragile ribbon that has been pasted to her face. After all the blessings, anointings, and prayers, aren’t she and the king pure enough? How much sin can one soul hold? How much scrubbing does it need to be considered clean?
“Vive le roi!” the crowd cries. “Vive la reine!” Louis bows to her, and she to him, and he squeezes her hands affectionately, the way he did last night as they danced. They turn to face their cheering, adoring audience.
“Vive la reine!” Marguerite’s heart seems to leap about. She came to win the love of her husband and his mother, but behold the people— her people—embracing her so ardently. Perhaps she will enjoy being Queen of France, after all.
Marguerite
The Weight of Rule
Sens, 1234
A FTER THE DAY’S excitement, she feels content to rest on her knees in the chapel, by her husband’s side, and thank the Lord for his blessings. Then the archbishop gives his instructions: They are to begin with the Pater Noster, followed by the Ave Maria. Next come the Credo and the seven Penitential Psalms, then silent prayer and contemplation. The cycle begins anew every hour.
“And are we to sleep between the Pater Noster and the Ave Maria, or during the silent prayer?” she asks.
The archbishop regards her for a long moment—unused to questions from women, apparently, since he doesn’t answer hers. “Isn’t that what you wished, Your Grace?” he says to Louis. “A ritual of prayer to last until the morning?”
“Do not fret, my bride.” Louis’s voice sounds far away, as if he had already crossed into the shadowy world of credos and penances. “The Lord will sustain us through the
Once everyone has wedged into the cathedral and quieted at last, the archbishop celebrates the mass, offering communion to the wedding couple, lighting candles, and saying prayers.
“Wife, be good to your husband,” he says. “Submit to him in all things, for that is the will of God.” What of submission to one’s mother-in-law? Is that God’s will, as well?
The archbishop kisses Louis on the mouth: the kiss of peace. Louis gives it, in turn, to Marguerite. His lips feel strange, but not unpleasant. When it ends, she wants another, as if his kisses were sweets; she imagines sliding her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. But of course she does not. Now is not the time for more kissing, but it will come soon enough.
The archbishop pronounces them husband and wife. Louis grasps her hand, his expression eager, and the room fills with shouts and cheers—but before they step down from the altar, the queen mother steps forward and whispers to the archbishop. He nods and lifts his hands, silencing the crowd.
“I had almost forgotten an important addition to this ceremony,” he says. The White Queen beams at Louis as if she has just given him a golden horse to match his shiny mail suit. “For a perfect and holy union, the Church exhorts the newly wedded couple to delay the consummation.”
Exclamations and chatter arise, prompting the archbishop to call for silence. Then he turns to Louis and Marguerite.
“Cleanse your souls with prayer for three nights before unitingyour bodies,” he says. “When you join together in holy matrimony, you also join with God. Your purified state may please our Lord, the better for you to produce an heir to the throne.”
Louis’s expression darkens—but then the queen mother cries out, “Praise be to the Lord,” and soon everyone is praising God, and Louis’s frown turns, again, to a shy grin. Marguerite’s smile feels like a fragile ribbon that has been pasted to her face. After all the blessings, anointings, and prayers, aren’t she and the king pure enough? How much sin can one soul hold? How much scrubbing does it need to be considered clean?
“Vive le roi!” the crowd cries. “Vive la reine!” Louis bows to her, and she to him, and he squeezes her hands affectionately, the way he did last night as they danced. They turn to face their cheering, adoring audience.
“Vive la reine!” Marguerite’s heart seems to leap about. She came to win the love of her husband and his mother, but behold the people— her people—embracing her so ardently. Perhaps she will enjoy being Queen of France, after all.
Marguerite
The Weight of Rule
Sens, 1234
A FTER THE DAY’S excitement, she feels content to rest on her knees in the chapel, by her husband’s side, and thank the Lord for his blessings. Then the archbishop gives his instructions: They are to begin with the Pater Noster, followed by the Ave Maria. Next come the Credo and the seven Penitential Psalms, then silent prayer and contemplation. The cycle begins anew every hour.
“And are we to sleep between the Pater Noster and the Ave Maria, or during the silent prayer?” she asks.
The archbishop regards her for a long moment—unused to questions from women, apparently, since he doesn’t answer hers. “Isn’t that what you wished, Your Grace?” he says to Louis. “A ritual of prayer to last until the morning?”
“Do not fret, my bride.” Louis’s voice sounds far away, as if he had already crossed into the shadowy world of credos and penances. “The Lord will sustain us through the