Read Online Four Sisters, All Queens by Sherry Jones - Free Book Online Page A

the king for mercy; to administer the kingdom’s finances, furnish the royal palaces, and arrange advantageous marriages for the sons and daughters of the barons; and to advise the king in matters of war and peace—including, she vows, a peace treaty with Provence. She may rule from time to time, when Louis leaves the kingdom. And she will, if God please, provide heirs to the throne—which, in France, means sons.
    At ceremony’s end, the barons remove the heavy crowns from hers and Louis’s heads and the archbishop replaces them with smaller ones. She stands, and the entire room seems to shift as thepeople sink to their knees and bow their heads to her. Tears track the pale landscape of her face but Marguerite no longer cares. These are her people. Dear God, help me to rule wisely. She thinks of the Queen of Sheba, craving wisdom, seeking it like light.
    Beside her, Louis raises his scepter. “Vive la reine!” he calls.
    “Vive la reine!” The crowd chants in unison, rising to its feet. All the nobles—her uncles, Raimond of Toulouse, the Count of Champagne, Louis’s brothers, and hundreds more—all have bowed to her except two: Isambour of Denmark, Philip Augustus’s first queen, pinching her wrinkled mouth into a dour smile; and, beside her, Blanche, who watches the ceremony with dull eyes, but does not bend her knee. No matter. Her mother-in-law might not bow to her—yet—but she must defer. Marguerite is now the Queen of France.
    The ceremony ended, the barons shepherd the crowd outdoors for the royal almsgiving. Blanche approaches. Louis hastens down the choir steps to her, leaving Marguerite to trail after him. His mother kisses him on the mouth more fervently than his wife has been able to do—and then graces Marguerite with a limp handshake.
    “I see that you have adopted the French fashion,” she says.
    “The makeup feels strange, but the gown is glorious,” she says. “Do you approve, Queen Mother?”
    Blanche sweeps her appraising glance from Marguerite’s crown to her shoes, and back again. Her eyes glint like glass, though her smile is broad. “The saying is true, apparently,” she says. “One cannot fashion a silk purse from a sow’s ear. You will always be a country girl to me.”
    Heat floods Marguerite’s face, but the White Queen cannot tell. Or so she hopes. “And to me, you will always be the dowager queen,” she says. “Although your rule is ending, I hope that Louis and I will be able to rely on your advice.”
    The White Queen’s gaze pierces, ruthless. “Do not fret, child. I don’t plan to leave you, or the throne.”
    “Will a single chair accommodate us both, then?” Marguerite forces a laugh.
    “Didn’t Louis tell you? He has had a new throne fashioned for you. The three of us shall sit together. And”—she flashes a triumphant smile—“he vowed to regard my counsel above all others’.”
    She sends Louis a querulous look. “Is this so, my lord?”
    “Today the Lord has blessed our kingdom with two queens,” he says. “One to enrich our heart with affection and heirs”—he squeezes her hand—“and one”—he takes his mother’s hand, as well—“to conduct our business with wisdom and experience.”
    The blast of trumpets interrupts their talk. Excitement leaps from Louis’s face like light from a flame. “And now, my new queen, comes the best part of our work,” he says as he leads Marguerite outdoors.
    On the lawn, it seems as if they have stepped into another world—out of the light and into shadow. Peasants crowd the square, their tunics theadbare, their feet unshod, their hands outstretched. Again she feels thankful for the mask upon her face, the feel of the thick paste reminding her to hold her expression still against the smells of rotting teeth and unwashed bodies. She wills herself not to shrink back from the grasping hands that might tear her dress or snatch her golden crown away. Yet when she presses a silver coin into an old