Free White Heart by Sherry Jones Page B

And not just any queen, but Queen of France, the richest and most powerful of kingdoms. We must help her, not fight with her.” The smile she sends to Marguerite is like a sunbeam. “And she will help us, in turn.”
    “But I like to fight with Margi,” Eléonore says. “I always win.”
    “You wish that were so,” Marguerite says.
    “Your uncles and I used to fight, too,” Mama says. “Since I married your paire and became Countess of Provence, we have worked together. That is the Savoy way. Now, with Margi’s marriage to King Louis, the house of Savoy will rise like a shining star to the highest spot in the heavens. We shall rise with it, and all our family, and your children and grandchildren, if God is willing. If we help one another.”
    “Is Elli going to be a queen, too?” Sanchia says again.
    “I shall be queen of the world!” Eléonore wriggles out of Mama’s lap and lands on her feet. “I won’t be content with a kingdom as small as France. I’ll have an empire.” She folds her arms across her chest. “And, don’t worry, Mama, I’ll give castles and lordships to all my family.”
    Marguerite laughs. “And who will be your emperor? Will you join the harem of Stupor Mundi?” Astonishment of the World: It is a fitting title for Frederick II, whose blasphemous remarks—calling Christ a deceiver!—and worldly lifestyle have made the pope of Rome’s jaw drop in not only astonishment, but outrage.
    “Whichever king I marry will become great. I will make sure of it.”
    “Are you going to make Elli a queen, too, Mama?” Sanchia says.
    “Not I, but your uncle Guillaume,” Mama says. Eléonore gasps. Mama smiles. “He and Romeo foresee crowns on all your heads. They have sworn to make it so.”
    “Four sisters, all queens!” Eléonore dances about. “Who has ever heard of such a thing?”
    “ Three sisters,” says Sanchia. Worry wizens her eight-year-old face. “I’m going to take my vows at Ganagobie.” Eléonore rolls her eyes: Sanchia has talked of nothing else since last month, when Mama’s cousin Garsende joined the Ganagobie cloister in a ceremony so moving, it made even Mama cry.
    “My pious little peapod, as gentle as a newborn lamb,” Mama says to Sanchia. “You would make a splendid nun, were you plain or deformed.” Sanchia has hair the color of spun starlight, eyes as black as the night sky, a dimple in her chin, and a mouth like ripe cherries. To hide such beauty would be a shame, Mama says, for it would certainly attract a fortuitous marriage.
    “Erase all selfish thoughts from your heads,” Mama says now. “Family comes first. As women—and as queens—your loyalties must lie with your sisters, your uncles, and your parents. We are your foundation. We are your strength.”
    She is speaking to Marguerite, who looks down at her hands. Does Mama know of the pain that stabs Marguerite’s chest when she thinks of leaving Provence? Most likely, she does not care. The Count of Toulouse lurks ever like a shadow over their door, ready to strike. He would take for himself the flowering fields, the shining mountains, the glittering shores of Provence—and the star of Savoy would drop lower in the sky than ever before.
    “In our world, fortunes are gained and lost in the blink of an eye.” Mama snaps her fingers. “As you’ve seen, to rule even a small county such as Provence brings peril. Think of the difficulties when you are a queen, and far from home! Danger lurks not only outside your domain, but also within, even in your own court. Women envy you, especially if you are beautiful. Men resent your power over them, especially if you come from a foreign land. This is why you need your family’s help.”
    “When I am queen, I won’t need anyone’s help,” Eléonore says.
    “Have you forgotten your lessons?” Lately, Mama has been teaching Marguerite and Eléonore about ancient queens. “Even Cleopatra needed help. Without Caesar, she would have lost the