Free Four Sisters, All Queens by Sherry Jones

abound: He could not perform the consummation act; her brother, the King of Denmark, broke his promise to renounce his claims to the throne of England; he discovered a penis under Isambour’s clothes. Whatever the reason, when the pope refused to annul, Philip locked Isambour away.
    “Like a caged bird,” she says, “singing was all I had.”
    “Music is the language of angels, they say.”
    “A love for music will avail you little in King Louis’s court, unless you sing the psalms. When his mother dies, I wager, he’llprohibit all entertainment except those gloomy monks’ chants. Blanche might have done so herself, if not for the trouvères’ flattery.”
    A growl startles them both. They turn to see Louis, slumped in his seat, snoring as if there were a contest for it in the tournament. A smile twitches his lips.
    “Of whom does he dream?” Queen Isambour said. “His bride or his mother?”
    “Neither, is my guess. After a night on his knees in the chapel, I think he dreams of his bed.”
    “Do not be so certain. Blanche has a strong hold on her eldest son. I do not envy any woman Louis would marry, for his mother will not easily let him go.” She prods Marguerite’s arm with her fingernail again. “Pray to your name-saint that you will produce an heir soon. The White Queen won’t relinquish her son—or her power, which she loves more—until that day.”
    Trumpets sound, startling Louis awake. At the tables next to theirs, servants lift the covers from platters of food and twenty peasants fall upon the roast meats, bread, and fruit that Louis has provided for them.
    “Pearls before swine,” Isambour says with a sniff. “A complete waste of France’s money. Do you know how much beggars earn in a day?”
    “They seem to have very little,” Marguerite says.
    “That’s because they squander it on wine and gamble the rest away.” She squints at Blanche, who is making her way toward them, having spent the last hour conferring with the Count of Toulouse. “Is that the White Bitch now? Suddenly, I feel in need of a nap.”
    A manservant helps her to untangle herself from the bench. Marguerite kisses her ring. “Remember what I said, dear. Have a son and your troubles will be over.”
    As soon as she is gone, Blanche slips into her empty seat. “How awful for you to be seated beside that feeble-brained crone for so long,” she says to Marguerite. “Isambour talks more quickly thanher mind can think. And yet you are still awake! I thought she might put you to sleep, especially after your long night of prayer.”
    “If only I could boast of that feat.” Marguerite giggles. “I was so tired from my travels and the long day that I fell asleep on the chapel floor last night.”
    “And you find that amusing? I had been told that you were a pious girl.” She sinks her teeth into a chicken leg and tears the meat away.
    “ Sans doute, I would have preferred to pray all night with Louis.” Marguerite lifts the tablecloth to wipe her lips. “But, as Ventadorn wrote, ‘I’ has no power over ‘I’ .”
    “Yes, and did he not also write, ‘A fool fears not till he is in distress?’ Our Lord’s displeasure is no occasion for laughter.” She arises and, with a final, cold glance at Marguerite, bends to greet her newly wakened son with a kiss and the soft, delighted voice of a mother cooing to her infant.

     
    A FTER TWO MORE days of revelry and two more nights of prayer—dread, not of God’s wrath but of white-faced queens, keeps her from falling asleep on the chapel floor again—she slumbers in spite of the jostle and shift of her carriage, sinking into the fur-covered cushions, pressing her cheek against Aimée’s lap as though they were the swaying arms of a nurse rocking her to oblivion.
    Not long after she awakens, the carriage halts outside a large, plain château. “Fontainebleau,” Uncle Guillaume announces as he escorts her forth. “The White Queen prefers to rest here