Four Sisters, All Queens by Sherry Jones

White Queen will say no. Toulouse has her affection, but she will not help him. For one thing, the pope of Rome is indebted to my father for supporting him during the Albigensian raids. France does not want to fight the Church.”
    It was the one policy of her father’s with which she disagreed. How could he allow the Church to attack his people? Why would he aid the pope of Rome by granting his troops safe passage to Languedoc? “We know the Cathars,” she argued, “and they are not heretics.”
    “We know nothing,” her father had responded, “except that the pope is winning his war against the Holy Roman Emperor. His power grows daily. If we refuse him now, he may refuse ussomeday when we need his help.” Now, however, when they do need his help, Papa will not request it. Favors from the Church, he fears, might come at too high a price.
    “Also,” she tells her uncles, “the Holy Roman Emperor now supports Toulouse. Blanche would not want to join that alliance.” In the bitter fight between the pope and the emperor, France has managed to remain neutral.
    “Well spoken, Margi,” Uncle Thomas says. “Do you see, brother? We will leave France in very good hands.”
    “But you’ve only just arrived,” she says with a little laugh. “You’re to become advisers to the crown, remember?”
    “Your mother-in-law is not interested in our advice,” Thomas says. “She is sending us home.”
    “Home! But that is impossible. There must be a mistake.” Her head begins to ache.
    “There is no mistake.” Uncle Guillaume places his hands on her shoulders. “All who accompanied you from Provence must return in the morning. Blanche commanded it today.”
    “All?” Marguerite’s voice falters. “Even Aimée?”
    “Blanche has appointed new ladies-in-waiting for you, probably daughters of the barons who are friendly to her,” Thomas says. “They will certainly spy for her.”
    “Try not to cry, my dear.” Guillaume kisses her tears. “It is most unqueenly, and your subjects are watching.”
    “I do not care,” she says as she dries her eyes. “I can’t lose you. Uncles! You, at least, must stay with me. My parents would want it.”
    “There is nothing we can do,” Thomas says. “The White Queen has spoken, and the king has concurred. None of us, not even Guillaume or I, will be allowed to enter Paris with you. It is why we stopped in Fontainebleau for the night. We leave for Provence tomorrow.”

 

Eléonore
    A Fickle King
    Canterbury, 1236
    Thirteen years old
     
     
    B Y G OD’S HEAD , he is an old man.
    His eyes crinkle as he smiles at her—not just crinkles but lines, deeply etched, eroded by time. Old. If his face were a rock, she could use those lines for climbing, and those in his forehead, too, to boost herself to the top of his head. Up and over his crown, holding onto the emeralds and rubies. He extends a hand to help her from the carriage. Russet hair curls along the backs of his fingers. Old. A shudder runs through her.
    “You are shivering.” He removes his outer mantle, green velvet lined with fur, and places it on her shoulders. “January is our most inclement month. And February.”
    “It is never this cold in Provence,” she says as he fastens the clasp at her throat. “Not in Aix, or Marseille.” The skin around his left eye slumps like marzipan left in the sun to melt. He appears sad. She wishes she hadn’t shuddered.
    “You’ll think the climate here atrocious,” he says. “Complaining about the weather is a favorite English pastime, and with good reason. There.” He smoothes the fur, crushing her new gown, a gift from Margi. “Is that better? Good. Welcome to England.”
    She remembers her uncle’s instructions, and drops into a bow. “I am delighted, Your Grace,” she says. “I have looked forward to this day all my life.”
    Uncle Guillaume’s advice prods her. Do not appear too eager, lest he lose interest in you. King Henry is notoriously fickle.
    “I