Four Sisters, All Queens by Sherry Jones Page A

mean—I have long wanted to visit your kingdom.”
    Canterbury, he says, is one of England’s most popular destinations. His voice sounds slightly gruff, an old man’s voice. “You are aware of the pilgrims who journey here year-round?” Knights serving King Henry’s grandfather, Henry II, assassinated the saint Thomas à Becket in this very chapel, he says as they walk toward the magnificent cathedral. A line of barons, ladies, priests, monks, merchants and peasants, bearing candlesticks, jewels, goblets, robes, and other precious gifts as well as donkeys, horses, several goats, chickens, and a gaggle of honking, screeching children snakes its way across the plaza and through the chapel doors. “A mere visit to his shrine, it is said, will cure any illness.”
    Eléonore wonders why the king has never sought a cure there for his drooping eye. And does he always talk so much? Perhaps he is nervous, too. She smiles, reminding herself of her goal—capturing the king’s fancy and holding it until she is queen—and changes the subject to one that she knows they both enjoy.
    “Have you been to Glastonbury, my lord?”
    His smile broadens. “King Arthur is a hero of mine. Even if he is only a myth.”
    “A myth? My lord, no! He was as real as you or I.” Her eyes shine with the fires of Camelot. “Monmouth’s History is a bit fanciful, I admit.”
    “And what of Lancelot? Is he Chrétien de Troyes’s invention, or did Monmouth omit him from his account?”
    “I have not read it, my lord, but have heard parts of it recited in my father’s court.” Toulouse’s attacks have increased, not diminished, since Marguerite’s wedding to King Louis. The count can barely afford to feed his court, let alone buy books.
    “We have Chrétien’s book at Westminster. Fully illuminated. It shall be my wedding gift to you.”
    “My lord!” She wants to squeal and jump about, but he is twenty-eight, a grown man. You must act his age, not your own . “But—I have nothing for you.”
    “Heirs to the throne will be gift enough.” She stiffens. “Forgive me for frightening you. I forget the difference in our ages.” His eye seems to droop more than ever now that his smile has gone. “I can imagine how I must appear to you.”
    Eléonore stops and lays her palm against his cheek, touching the place where it sags. She searches for some kind thing to say that would bring his smile back.
    “A youth of such unparalleled courage and generosity, joined with that sweetness of temper and innate goodness, as granted him universal love.”
    “That is from Monmouth, isn’t it?” He scowls. “Are we back to Arthur now?”
    “No, my lord, I am answering your question. That is how you appear to me. As generous and courageous as King Arthur.”
    “Do you think so?”
    “Indeed I do.”
    The corners of his mouth twitch.
    “And as sweet-tempered,” she adds.
    “Sweet-tempered! My dear, you must tell my sister,” he says, then throws back his head and lets out a mighty roar—of laughter.
    In the next moment they are stepping into the cathedral. The making of heirs is forgotten amid the fanfare of trumpets, the servants bowing—to her!—the appraising stares of some nobles, the shouts and cheers from others, the lofty choir with its series of pointed arches ascending like stairs to heaven, and the glimmer of a starry sky’s worth of candles flickering on the walls and on every surface. The cathedral shimmers as if bathed in fairy dust.
    Uncle approaches and Eléonore introduces him. “A most illustrious house, Savoy,” King Henry says.
    “More so than ever, now that our Eléonore joins her sister in marrying a powerful king,” Uncle says. “My sincere compliments, Your Grace. I attended King Louis IX’s wedding to our Margi, and it was a lackluster affair compared to this.” He makes a sweeping gesture. “Canterbury Cathedral is transformed!”
    Pleasure writes itself on the king’s face. “Could I have arrayed the