Read Online Four Sisters, All Queens by Sherry Jones - Free Book Online
Authors: Sherry Jones
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chain mail suit. His knees must be made of plate armor. His eyes widen at the sight of her so altered—but, already an expert in the art of diplomacy, he tucks his startled expression behind a smile.
He pushes himself to standing in increments, weighted by the suit. “I was just praying for you, and voilà,” he says, “you appear.”
“What did you request for me, my lord? Courage, I hope—and makeup that doesn’t smear when I cry.”
He clears his throat. “I prayed for your forgiveness. For falling asleep last night.”
“Oh, that!” She laughs. “I had forgotten all about it.”
“And I asked that God might strengthen you for tonight’s prayers.”
“I hope he doesn’t wait until then to provide me with strength. Otherwise, I may collapse of fright during the ceremony.”
“Fright? Of whom, the Count of Champagne? Old Queen Isambour?” Dare she mention Raimond of Toulouse? But no—the music has begun. “Grab hold of me if you feel yourself falling,” Louis says. “I’ll hold you steady.”
She takes his arm and he leads her to a platform on one side of the choir. He bows, then takes his place opposite her. Golden thrones encrusted with jewels and cushioned with silk glimmer between them, on the choir stage. Ribbons and banners streaming from the rafters lend a festive and colorful air, even more so than at yesterday’s wedding—and the crowd is larger, too, filling every space with men and women and children who stare at her and yet, because of the paint, do not see her. Breathe, Mama always said. She does, and is calmed by the fragrance of incense mingling with the perfume of lilies filling the chapel, and the faint warm scent of fire from the thousands upon thousands of burning candles. The entire room shimmers, as though they were in a jewelry box.
Spectators continue to stream in: nobles in the front, townspeople in the middle, servants and villeins in the back, spilling out the doorway, standing on tiptoe, stretching their necks. Excited talk and laughter careen about the room. Then the archbishop ascends the platform and the room grows silent except for the clanging of a bell.
Her gaze drops to the front row, where her uncles grin proudly at her. If only her parents could be present—but they dared not leave Provence to the mercy of Toulouse’s marauding knights. When he has ceased his attacks, perhaps they might visit her in Paris. Papa would be impressed to see her on the French throne—and if he hadany qualms about her ability to govern Provence someday, they would surely disappear.
Papa. She imagines his proud gaze as the archbishop anoints her with blessed oil and presents her with a golden scepter—but then all else is forgotten, even her father, as the monks chant their ethereal song and the king’s nobles—Hugh, Count of Lusignan, Pierre, Count of Brittany, and Thibaut, Count of Champagne—struggle up the steps bearing an enormous gold crown. The archbishop utters a blessing and they lift the crown to Marguerite’s head, then hold it there, supporting it with their hands. His Grace turns and, waving incense, leads them to the center platform, where Louis stands before his throne. Noblewomen descend on her like a flock of solicitous birds, straightening her skirts as she sits beside her husband, barons holding up her crown and Louis’s, too—the weight of rule being too great, it seems, for anyone to bear alone.
The air thickens, warmed by the breath and blood of one thousand onlookers. Perspiration beads on Marguerite’s brow and upper lip but she dares not remove it with her handkerchief or even a gloved finger for fear of smudging the paste on her face. As queen, she must always maintain the appearance, at least, of dignity.
As the archbishop conducts the mass, she peruses the crowd. Soon she will be responsible for these, her subjects, and many more. Her uncles reminded her last night of the duties of a queen: to intercede for those accused of crimes, asking
He pushes himself to standing in increments, weighted by the suit. “I was just praying for you, and voilà,” he says, “you appear.”
“What did you request for me, my lord? Courage, I hope—and makeup that doesn’t smear when I cry.”
He clears his throat. “I prayed for your forgiveness. For falling asleep last night.”
“Oh, that!” She laughs. “I had forgotten all about it.”
“And I asked that God might strengthen you for tonight’s prayers.”
“I hope he doesn’t wait until then to provide me with strength. Otherwise, I may collapse of fright during the ceremony.”
“Fright? Of whom, the Count of Champagne? Old Queen Isambour?” Dare she mention Raimond of Toulouse? But no—the music has begun. “Grab hold of me if you feel yourself falling,” Louis says. “I’ll hold you steady.”
She takes his arm and he leads her to a platform on one side of the choir. He bows, then takes his place opposite her. Golden thrones encrusted with jewels and cushioned with silk glimmer between them, on the choir stage. Ribbons and banners streaming from the rafters lend a festive and colorful air, even more so than at yesterday’s wedding—and the crowd is larger, too, filling every space with men and women and children who stare at her and yet, because of the paint, do not see her. Breathe, Mama always said. She does, and is calmed by the fragrance of incense mingling with the perfume of lilies filling the chapel, and the faint warm scent of fire from the thousands upon thousands of burning candles. The entire room shimmers, as though they were in a jewelry box.
Spectators continue to stream in: nobles in the front, townspeople in the middle, servants and villeins in the back, spilling out the doorway, standing on tiptoe, stretching their necks. Excited talk and laughter careen about the room. Then the archbishop ascends the platform and the room grows silent except for the clanging of a bell.
Her gaze drops to the front row, where her uncles grin proudly at her. If only her parents could be present—but they dared not leave Provence to the mercy of Toulouse’s marauding knights. When he has ceased his attacks, perhaps they might visit her in Paris. Papa would be impressed to see her on the French throne—and if he hadany qualms about her ability to govern Provence someday, they would surely disappear.
Papa. She imagines his proud gaze as the archbishop anoints her with blessed oil and presents her with a golden scepter—but then all else is forgotten, even her father, as the monks chant their ethereal song and the king’s nobles—Hugh, Count of Lusignan, Pierre, Count of Brittany, and Thibaut, Count of Champagne—struggle up the steps bearing an enormous gold crown. The archbishop utters a blessing and they lift the crown to Marguerite’s head, then hold it there, supporting it with their hands. His Grace turns and, waving incense, leads them to the center platform, where Louis stands before his throne. Noblewomen descend on her like a flock of solicitous birds, straightening her skirts as she sits beside her husband, barons holding up her crown and Louis’s, too—the weight of rule being too great, it seems, for anyone to bear alone.
The air thickens, warmed by the breath and blood of one thousand onlookers. Perspiration beads on Marguerite’s brow and upper lip but she dares not remove it with her handkerchief or even a gloved finger for fear of smudging the paste on her face. As queen, she must always maintain the appearance, at least, of dignity.
As the archbishop conducts the mass, she peruses the crowd. Soon she will be responsible for these, her subjects, and many more. Her uncles reminded her last night of the duties of a queen: to intercede for those accused of crimes, asking
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