Free White Heart by Sherry Jones Page A

are strong, monsieur. And their bite is sharp.”
    Papa grins, but Mama is not laughing. Her eyes snap: All I have taught you, for naught ! Marguerite’s skin dampens; the room is suddenly too warm.
    “She is but twelve years old,” Mama says. “Her tongue is not yet tamed.” The countess places a gloved hand on M. de Flagy’s arm, dazzles him with her practiced smile. Monsieur bares his own stained and crooked teeth.
    “Your daughter has spirit, non ? Très formidable. If she marries King Louis, she will need it to contend with his mother.” He winks at Marguerite. “ Ma belle, you may need those sharp teeth, as well.”
    Music rises from the floor: rebec, guitarra morisca, pipes, small drums. A minstrel in bright clothing and a red beard sings the Kalenda Maya, meant to please the countess with its words of love for a different Beatrice—but, as she whispers to the visitor now, his grating voice only reminds her of another, more memorable, performance, when the composer Raimbaut de Vaqueiras sang it in this very hall. That was years ago, she does not add, before attacks and sieges depleted the treasury, when troubadours and trobairitz flocked to Provence for endless merrymaking, the wine flowed too abundantly to need mixing with water, and the hall glowed with the light of the finest beeswax candles.
    When the song has screeched to its end, Mama hastens her to the nursery, giving her arm excited squeezes. “You have charmed him! Well done, Margi. As queen, you can save Provence.”
    The nurse, Madeleine, tuts over the hole in Marguerite’s gown as she undresses her. Mama shrugs: Surely M. de Flagy did not notice such a tiny flaw. Yet her forehead wrinkles as her other daughters pile into a chair with her. She wants queenship for her daughter more than Marguerite wants it for herself.
    “Was he looking at Margi’s gown, or what was inside it?” Eléonore says. Too big for Mama’s lap, she sprawls there, anyway, forcing Sanchia to the floor, at their mother’s feet. Little Beatrice careens about on plump legs, snatching rushes from the floor and throwing them down, laughing each time as if she had done something clever.
    Madeleine plaits Marguerite’s hair while the countess tells her tales. “Your sister was as calm as the spring mist and as bold as Lancelot.” Absently she caresses Sanchia’s golden hair. “King Louis and his mother will hear only praise for Marguerite of Provence.” Why, oh why didn’t Marguerite bite the monsieur ?
    “I would make a better queen,” Eléonore says. “I am stronger than Margi, and a faster runner. And I am a better huntsman.”
    And Eléonore wants to leave Provence. And she doesn’t despise the French, as Marguerite does.
    “Be patient, Elli!” Mama says. “You are only ten years old—too young for marriage.”
    Marguerite laughs. “Telling Elli to be patient is like commanding an ass to gallop.”
    “Mama! Did you hear her call me an ass?”
    “You’re as stubborn as one,” Marguerite says.
    “Why wouldn’t I be stubborn, when I know I am right?”
    “If you want to be a queen, Elli, you must learn to control yourself,” Mama says. “In that regard, your sister is far ahead of you.” She does not mention Marguerite’s rude remark to M. de Flagy.
    “Mama,” Sanchia says, turning on the floor to tug at their mother’s gown.
    “Except when a tart riposte lands on her tongue. Then she cannot wait to spit it out,” Eléonore says.
    “How would you know the flavor of riposte?” Marguerite says. “Nothing but boasts ever land on your tongue. Apparently, you find them every bit as difficult to swallow.”
    “Mama.” Sanchia tugs at the countess’s gown again. “Is Elli going to be a queen, too?”
    “Boys!” Mama’s admonishment rankles Marguerite. Why must she refer to them as boys? Does she wish they were sons instead of daughters? “The time for arguing—and for competing, Elli—has come to an end. Margi is poised to become a queen.