Free The Sister Queens by Sophie Perinot Page B

that I can do it justice. That like Esther, whose compassionate example the archbishop extorts me to follow, I can intercede with my husband to the benefit of his kingdom,
our
kingdom. As I accept the virge and scepter, magnificent sound swells to fill the vaulted spaces surrounding me, voices singing,
“Christus vincit, Christus regnat, Christus imperat.”
Christ rules indeed, and so do I. I defy any to think me less than my sister Marguerite now.

CHAPTER 4

    My dearest Marguerite,
    Thank you for the ring you sent for my natal day. Henry gave me one as well, along with many pretty presents, but I assure you that I like yours best. I have much to celebrate. To be fourteen, a queen, and well loved is no mean thing. Only one happiness is lacking, I would give my Henry a son. He insists that there is no hurry, although we are more than a year married, and that a daughter would do as well (for he is a man most desirous of a large and varied family), but I know my duty, and as he loves me so very well, would do it. We attend to the task of conceiving a child with much frequency and enthusiasm. I confess that, despite my prodigious love for fine gowns, shoes, and the like, I am not at all sorry to spend so much of my time without my clothing. Have I shocked you, my darling sister? Surely not, for you have a fair husband of your own.
    Yours,
    E

    M ARGUERITE
J UNE 1237
P ALAIS DU R OI , P ARIS
    “I have heard from my sister the Queen of England.”
    “Hm.” Louis does not look up from the letter he is reading beneath the pear tree—the tree that used to be ours. “I truly believe this fellow is being abused by one of my barons. He sought help with his grievance at the local Franciscan monastery, and the abbot writes to me.” Unlike in former times, he no longer pats the spot on the carpet beside him and asks me to sit. And this fact makes me both sad and angry.
    “Her husband the king surprised her by hiring an artist to paint her bedchamber at the Tower of London while she and all the court were at Westminster.” I will not be distracted, certainly not by some barefoot mendicant from the countryside. I do not begrudge the time Louis spends sitting where once we studied my Latin, meting out justice to his subjects both high- and lowborn. But
surely
he should do me justice as well, and give me a modicum of his attention. “Louis, did you hear me?” I put my hands upon my hips. Have I become a shrew? My husband looks up, startled. He thinks of me, when his mind strays in my direction at all these days, as a mild woman, a woman of patience. And so I have been, but to what end?
    “Your sister is at Westminster.” He appears genuinely puzzled.
    “No, my sister has just returned from Westminster to find her rooms painted with hundreds upon hundreds of delicate roses at the King of England’s behest.”
    “How singular, and what a waste. Just think how many of the poor he might have fed with the same monies.”
    “That would indeed have been a noble enterprise, but surelygiving pleasure to his wife is also worthy? The two are not in opposition to each other. Henry of England may give to the poor and also to my sister Eleanor.”
    “So it seems.” Louis looks down again and turns another page. Then, as if struck by something, looks up at me again. “If you want your rooms painted and your incomes and allowance do not permit it, I shall be happy to advance you the money. I sincerely hope, however, you will select a more exalted theme. Perhaps the parables.”
    I feel as though Louis has slapped me. Mild-mannered Louis, who shows the most exquisite kindness to the sick in our city’s hospitals; who cleans their filth and changes their dressings. Can he not see that I do not envy Eleanor her freshly painted rooms, but the solicitude of her husband—a man who, from what my sister’s letters tell, rises each morning intent on finding some novel manner of delighting or pampering his wife? My eyes sting. But even if a