night.”
Marguerite closes her eyes, imagines a bed, imagines herself lying down in it, sinking in softness, burrowing in quilts. Today she became the bride of the King of France. She had a royal wedding and a magnificent feast with course upon course heralded bytrumpets: a pie from which songbirds flew; a gold-beaked swan roasted and refitted in its feathered coat; a pudding of cherries sprinkled with rose petals, and an endless stream of sycophants filling her time with gratuities and expecting inanities in return. Afterward, minstrels and jongleurs performed under the arbor. And, through it all, the appraising eye of Blanche, whose frown deepened with every compliment paid to Marguerite. When troubadours from her father’s court performed a sequence of songs in her honor, Blanche’s face turned bright red under her white makeup.
“The White Queen covets all the praise in her court,” Uncle Guillaume said. “Have you noted the paucity of women? She employs only a few female servants, and all are either old or plain.”
Thomas laughed. “I do not envy Margi.”
At this moment, she does not envy herself. If the queen mother resents compliments given on her wedding day, how will she react when Marguerite dons the crown of France? All of France will honor her then. Without adequate sleep, how will she forbear her mother-in-law’s acerbic comments, her droll sarcasms? How will she make a good impression, and gain her respect? Yet she must do as Louis wishes. He is her husband, after all—and he is the king.
Yet not even the king can stop her thoughts from roaming as she prays.
Was that a smirk on Blanche’s mouth today when her young son Charles snatched a piece of meat from Marguerite’s fingers? And then the little beast stuck out his tongue and declared that she was too petite to be a queen. “You look like my sister’s queen-doll, only not as pretty,” he said for all to hear. Blanche never uttered a word of reprimand, but hid a smile behind her hand.
Marguerite would have used her hand for a different purpose—but instead she ignored him. Reacting would only increase his enjoyment, as she knows from experience with Beatrice. Of course, no child of the Count and Countess of Provence, even one as spoiled as Beatrice, would behave so rudely.
The manners are despicable here. During silent contemplation, she composes a letter to Eléonore. I saw a nobleman blow his nosein the tablecloth. I heard the queen mother’s ladies-in-waiting tell bawdy jokes about my husband and the washerwoman. Their own king! Even the troubadours lack refinement. While ours in Provence sing the chansons de gestes of knights and chivalric deeds, these poets fawn over the queen mother—while she dimples like a girl and pretends to blush.
A slow ache spreads through her knees, then a tingling, then numbness. Her head slumps forward; she jerks awake and resumes her prayers. Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum. Blanche indulged the impudent Charles, yet snapped irritably at the nine-year-old Isabelle. “I am going to marry Jesus,” the child said to Marguerite, her face as earnest as a martyr’s.
“The nunneries are filled with wives for our savior,” Blanche said. “You are my only daughter, and you will marry to benefit France.”
Isabelle’s smile held the secret of a child determined to have her way. “I have heard that you love the poets,” she said to Marguerite. “Do you know this song? ‘ Amongst others I feign the status quo, while the day seems tedium congealed .’”
Quoting Arnaut! Were Isabelle older, this alone would bind them in friendship. And yet—who else in this court would suffice? For all the love poured upon her during her wedding ceremony, the nobles’ wives held themselves aloof during the feast. Is it because she hails from the south—a country bumpkin—or because she is going to be queen? Perhaps, after all these years of Blanche’s rule, the French are unaccustomed
Marguerite closes her eyes, imagines a bed, imagines herself lying down in it, sinking in softness, burrowing in quilts. Today she became the bride of the King of France. She had a royal wedding and a magnificent feast with course upon course heralded bytrumpets: a pie from which songbirds flew; a gold-beaked swan roasted and refitted in its feathered coat; a pudding of cherries sprinkled with rose petals, and an endless stream of sycophants filling her time with gratuities and expecting inanities in return. Afterward, minstrels and jongleurs performed under the arbor. And, through it all, the appraising eye of Blanche, whose frown deepened with every compliment paid to Marguerite. When troubadours from her father’s court performed a sequence of songs in her honor, Blanche’s face turned bright red under her white makeup.
“The White Queen covets all the praise in her court,” Uncle Guillaume said. “Have you noted the paucity of women? She employs only a few female servants, and all are either old or plain.”
Thomas laughed. “I do not envy Margi.”
At this moment, she does not envy herself. If the queen mother resents compliments given on her wedding day, how will she react when Marguerite dons the crown of France? All of France will honor her then. Without adequate sleep, how will she forbear her mother-in-law’s acerbic comments, her droll sarcasms? How will she make a good impression, and gain her respect? Yet she must do as Louis wishes. He is her husband, after all—and he is the king.
Yet not even the king can stop her thoughts from roaming as she prays.
Was that a smirk on Blanche’s mouth today when her young son Charles snatched a piece of meat from Marguerite’s fingers? And then the little beast stuck out his tongue and declared that she was too petite to be a queen. “You look like my sister’s queen-doll, only not as pretty,” he said for all to hear. Blanche never uttered a word of reprimand, but hid a smile behind her hand.
Marguerite would have used her hand for a different purpose—but instead she ignored him. Reacting would only increase his enjoyment, as she knows from experience with Beatrice. Of course, no child of the Count and Countess of Provence, even one as spoiled as Beatrice, would behave so rudely.
The manners are despicable here. During silent contemplation, she composes a letter to Eléonore. I saw a nobleman blow his nosein the tablecloth. I heard the queen mother’s ladies-in-waiting tell bawdy jokes about my husband and the washerwoman. Their own king! Even the troubadours lack refinement. While ours in Provence sing the chansons de gestes of knights and chivalric deeds, these poets fawn over the queen mother—while she dimples like a girl and pretends to blush.
A slow ache spreads through her knees, then a tingling, then numbness. Her head slumps forward; she jerks awake and resumes her prayers. Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum. Blanche indulged the impudent Charles, yet snapped irritably at the nine-year-old Isabelle. “I am going to marry Jesus,” the child said to Marguerite, her face as earnest as a martyr’s.
“The nunneries are filled with wives for our savior,” Blanche said. “You are my only daughter, and you will marry to benefit France.”
Isabelle’s smile held the secret of a child determined to have her way. “I have heard that you love the poets,” she said to Marguerite. “Do you know this song? ‘ Amongst others I feign the status quo, while the day seems tedium congealed .’”
Quoting Arnaut! Were Isabelle older, this alone would bind them in friendship. And yet—who else in this court would suffice? For all the love poured upon her during her wedding ceremony, the nobles’ wives held themselves aloof during the feast. Is it because she hails from the south—a country bumpkin—or because she is going to be queen? Perhaps, after all these years of Blanche’s rule, the French are unaccustomed
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