Four Sisters, All Queens Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Pardon?”
    “By Bernard de Ventadour, my lord.” He knits his brow. “Do not mind me. I have recently awakened from dreams peopled by troubadours, and filled with song.”
    “Troubadours?” His face smoothes out, relieved. “Ask Mama. She knows all about them.” Does the White Queen share Marguerite’s love for song, then? If so, befriending her may not be so difficult.
    A young man and a boy approach. As they bow, the king introduces them: his brothers—Robert, tall and broad-shouldered, thequintessential courtly knight except for his smirk; and Alphonse, small and dark-haired, blinking with purpose.
    “Welcome to France, my lady.” Robert bows. “We hope you will enjoy our brother’s company more than we do.”
    Alphonse sniggers. “Yes, please keep him amused. We are tired of hiding and running away from him.”
    The king creases his forehead. She turns to present her uncles. “I believe you are acquainted with Guillaume, the archbishop-elect of Valence, and Thomas, the Count of Piedmont.”
    “Who does not know the men of Savoy?” The king smiles as her uncles kneel before him. “The Holy Roman Emperor is said to keep your counsel these days,” he says to Guillaume.
    “I dined with him a fortnight ago, my lord,” Guillaume says, standing. “And the pope of Rome the week before that. It would please me greatly to share my insights with you—”
    “Yes, of course, you must speak to my mother.” Louis turns to Marguerite. “Shall we proceed to Sens, my lady? Mama waits to receive you there.”
    He takes her hand and, bowing, kisses the air above it. Marguerite’s skin tingles as if he had touched her with his lips. He turns and strides to his horse, his brothers behind him. Beside her, Uncle Thomas arches an eyebrow and Guillaume shrugs.
    “The king has no interest in policy making,” Guillaume says as the men escort her back to her carriage. “Can we blame him? Tomorrow is his wedding day.”
    “He is enchanted by his new bride.” Thomas winks. “As is every man in his entourage. Did you note how they stared at you, Margi?”
    “And you are not even wearing a gold suit,” Guillaume says.
    Marguerite’s legs ache from the long hours of sitting. She longs to walk, but of course she cannot, for the crowd that has gathered along the roadside would suck her into itself, consuming her. Outstretched hands make her want to shrink back, but smiles and shouts hold her in the window of her carriage. “Vive la reine!” Goosebumps tickle her arms. “Vive la reine Marguerite!”
    She ventures a wave, uncertain how to respond to these Franks and poor villeins, barefoot and dirty in their coarse clothing, fresh from work in the fields. A girl hands her a bundle of wildflowers; she crushes them against her nose as though they were fragrant roses. She blows a kiss to the girl; the people cheer. Standing so close, can they hear her thoughts? Pollen itches her nose, but she suppresses a sneeze for fear of spitting on them.
    The path to Sens grows more clotted as the procession nears the city. People swarm the bridge, leaving little room for the carriage. At times it stops altogether, allowing hands to reach her window. “They will tear you apart with their love,” Aimée says. Marguerite lifts her hands, touches fingers and palms in passing, accepts the prayers and good wishes of her people.
    “How pretty she is! She and the king will make handsome heirs.”
    “Shh! Do not talk so about our queen.”
    “And see? You are making her blush.”
    In the crush, the spires of the Sens cathedral disappear from view, but a blast of trumpets announces its imminence. Her pulse flutters in time to the rat-a-tat of drums. So much depends on her success here. If she fails to stop Toulouse, her family may be lost—and so may be Provence, lost to that greedy tyrant, her people and her lands torn apart like a hind overcome by hounds.
    The carriage passes under the jutting upper stories of tall houses which block