to friendly queens.
Without Aimée, she would be bereft. Her handmaid is her only tie, now, to Provence. Memories rise: The music her family made together. Marguerite playing the vielle. Her father striking his dulcimer. Eléonore on drums. Mama’s riddles at table, the slant of her eyes as she offered clues, her mysterious smile as Marguerite and Eléonore shouted their answers while Sanchia cringed in the corner, afraid she would be called upon—and then, more often than not, solved the riddle. And the hunts, grand affairs with thirty or forty men and women and nearly as many dogs. The fragranceof lavender wafting up from the trampling hooves; the apricots, peaches, cherries and tangerines dangling ripe from the trees; the jump and wriggle and strain of the dogs at their leashes. And always Eléonore’s shout as she raced ahead with her bow, eager to be the one to fell the deer. The troubadours and trobairitz, new ones arriving at court every day, it seemed, bringing new songs.
I see scarlet, green, blue, white, yellow
Garden, close, hill, valley and field,
And songs of birds echo and ring
In sweet accord, at evening and dawn.
She can hear their song, the song of Provence. The harp and vielle rise up in accompaniment, and the voices of Papa and Mama singing along while she and Elli link arms to dance, spinning faster and faster until, exhausted, they fall to the floor, laughing, dizzy with music and happiness…
Marguerite. Marguerite!
She opens her eyes. Louis’s frowning face hovers above. “Are the prayers finished?”
“You fell asleep.” He averts his gaze, as though embarrassed to look at her. “You must confess this sin tomorrow.”
“I was afraid that might happen.” She gives a little laugh. “Forgive me.” She shakes her head, but the music that lulled her to sleep continues to play.
“It is not my forgiveness that you must seek, but that of our Lord.”
Is sleeping now a sin, also? “I will. But for tonight, I must go to bed. My journey from Provence was very long.” Louis’s mouth droops. “Yet—I do not want to disappoint you.”
“I do not lament for myself, but for you.” He helps her to her feet. “To be unable to sustain your prayers for even two hours . . . but you will become stronger, in time.”
“And you? Will you come and sleep?”
“I do not desire sleep. I have spent many nights with our Lord in prayer, and he protects me against that temptation.”
Later, in bed, Marguerite ponders again the strange notions of God in her new kingdom. Sleep, a temptation? Is it another of God’s tests, like the fruit tree in the Garden, to give us bodies in need of rest and then to punish us for sleeping? She snuggles into the mattress Louis and Blanche have provided for her, down deep under their tempting gifts of furs, linen sheets, and an embroidered quilt. Forgive me, Father, she prays, but she forgets what she is supposed to have done as she plucks a peach from the tree and takes a bite of Provence.
S HE BECOMES Q UEEN of France in a gown of silk spun with gold—another gift from Blanche, who apparently nurtures a fondness for shiny clothes—and a face and neck covered in white makeup, and lips so darkly ochred they appear bruised. Her second day in Paris, and already she is transformed. Yet the capitulation is not complete: she declined the razor’s edge.
“You do not look like yourself, my lady.” Aimée’s voice holds a tinge of disapproval. Marguerite, looking in her mirror, can only agree. From inside the glass, Blanche de Castille stares back at her. When she accepts the crown today, she will be another White Queen. No matter: she came to Louis as her true self for their wedding, but as Queen of France she will wear whatever mask is required. She only hopes her mother-in-law will welcome the change.
She enters the cathedral through the back, avoiding the onlookers already crowding the floor, and finds Louis kneeling before the altar in his gold
Without Aimée, she would be bereft. Her handmaid is her only tie, now, to Provence. Memories rise: The music her family made together. Marguerite playing the vielle. Her father striking his dulcimer. Eléonore on drums. Mama’s riddles at table, the slant of her eyes as she offered clues, her mysterious smile as Marguerite and Eléonore shouted their answers while Sanchia cringed in the corner, afraid she would be called upon—and then, more often than not, solved the riddle. And the hunts, grand affairs with thirty or forty men and women and nearly as many dogs. The fragranceof lavender wafting up from the trampling hooves; the apricots, peaches, cherries and tangerines dangling ripe from the trees; the jump and wriggle and strain of the dogs at their leashes. And always Eléonore’s shout as she raced ahead with her bow, eager to be the one to fell the deer. The troubadours and trobairitz, new ones arriving at court every day, it seemed, bringing new songs.
I see scarlet, green, blue, white, yellow
Garden, close, hill, valley and field,
And songs of birds echo and ring
In sweet accord, at evening and dawn.
She can hear their song, the song of Provence. The harp and vielle rise up in accompaniment, and the voices of Papa and Mama singing along while she and Elli link arms to dance, spinning faster and faster until, exhausted, they fall to the floor, laughing, dizzy with music and happiness…
Marguerite. Marguerite!
She opens her eyes. Louis’s frowning face hovers above. “Are the prayers finished?”
“You fell asleep.” He averts his gaze, as though embarrassed to look at her. “You must confess this sin tomorrow.”
“I was afraid that might happen.” She gives a little laugh. “Forgive me.” She shakes her head, but the music that lulled her to sleep continues to play.
“It is not my forgiveness that you must seek, but that of our Lord.”
Is sleeping now a sin, also? “I will. But for tonight, I must go to bed. My journey from Provence was very long.” Louis’s mouth droops. “Yet—I do not want to disappoint you.”
“I do not lament for myself, but for you.” He helps her to her feet. “To be unable to sustain your prayers for even two hours . . . but you will become stronger, in time.”
“And you? Will you come and sleep?”
“I do not desire sleep. I have spent many nights with our Lord in prayer, and he protects me against that temptation.”
Later, in bed, Marguerite ponders again the strange notions of God in her new kingdom. Sleep, a temptation? Is it another of God’s tests, like the fruit tree in the Garden, to give us bodies in need of rest and then to punish us for sleeping? She snuggles into the mattress Louis and Blanche have provided for her, down deep under their tempting gifts of furs, linen sheets, and an embroidered quilt. Forgive me, Father, she prays, but she forgets what she is supposed to have done as she plucks a peach from the tree and takes a bite of Provence.
S HE BECOMES Q UEEN of France in a gown of silk spun with gold—another gift from Blanche, who apparently nurtures a fondness for shiny clothes—and a face and neck covered in white makeup, and lips so darkly ochred they appear bruised. Her second day in Paris, and already she is transformed. Yet the capitulation is not complete: she declined the razor’s edge.
“You do not look like yourself, my lady.” Aimée’s voice holds a tinge of disapproval. Marguerite, looking in her mirror, can only agree. From inside the glass, Blanche de Castille stares back at her. When she accepts the crown today, she will be another White Queen. No matter: she came to Louis as her true self for their wedding, but as Queen of France she will wear whatever mask is required. She only hopes her mother-in-law will welcome the change.
She enters the cathedral through the back, avoiding the onlookers already crowding the floor, and finds Louis kneeling before the altar in his gold
Similar Books
