Four Sisters, All Queens by Sherry Jones Page B

very stars throughout the chapel, they would pale against the beauty of my bride-to-be.” His eyes caress her face. Eléonore leans toward him, her heart unfurling like a slowly blooming rose.
    “You will find our Elli to be a woman of stout heart, loyal and bold, an excellent companion,” Uncle says. “And she can ride, shoot, and spar as well as any man.”
    “Do you enjoy the hunt, then?” King Henry looks as though he has shucked an oyster and found a pearl.
    “I enjoy winning,” she says, grinning at him.
    “A brilliant match,” the king says to Uncle. “Delightful.”
    “Yes, truly, Your Grace. And, as you may know, it was I who arranged this marriage. If you will grant me an audience for even a short while, I can provide many more ideas for increasing England’s stature.”
    “Henry, what are you doing?” A tall woman with hair the color of russet, like the king’s, rushes over and takes Eléonore’s hands into her own. “Your bride has traveled across the sea and, today, all the way from Dover. My dear, you look tired.”
    Eléonore yawns. “A drink of water would put me in the right.”
    “Nonsense!” The woman places an arm around her shoulders. “Oblivious as usual, Henry. Are you going to give your young bride some nourishment, or let her faint away here on the floor?”
    Uncle’s petition forgotten, the king and his sister Eleanor Marshal lead the party into the monastery, where a great banquet awaits. Servants bring washing cloths and bowls of water, gourds of Henry’s favorite wine from the Loire Valley, bread, and dishes of meat, fish, and cheese.
    “Ours must seem a bland diet compared to the fare in Provence,” Eleanor Marshal says. She eyes Eléonore’s gown. “Our fashions pale in comparison, as well, it appears.”
    Marguerite had this gown made for her, a confection of purple silk with silver lace, on Eléonore’s stop in Paris. You cannot greet the King of England in your clothes from Provence. They will think you a simple country bumpkin . Judging from the out-of-date gowns she is seeing here—trailing tippets! wimples!—Eléonore thinks her sister need not have gone to the expense.
    “I can make anything you own into something equally beautiful,” she offers, eyeing her sister-in-law’s austere gray tunic and surcoat. “After wearing my sister’s castoffs all my life, I became a proficient seamstress.”
    Eleanor Marshal shakes her head. “I took a vow of chastity when my husband died. Dressing to allure would gain me nothing.”
    “A vow of chastity? Why? You could marry any man you choose.”
    “A woman, choose? Things must be different in Provence.” Her laugh is wry. “I was given in marriage to an old man. For the sake of the kingdom, they said. May the Lord spare me from that fate a second time.”
    A striking man with wavy, jet-black hair and blue eyes refills the king’s water pitcher. Eléonore catches her breath at his smile.
    “Simon de Montfort, from France,” Eleanor Marshal whispers. “Have you ever seen a more handsome fellow? And he speaks so eloquently. Henry adores him.”
    A shout rings out, and the clatter of horses’ hooves. “More visitors?” Henry says. “My God. Interrupting our meal.”
    A servant appears. “The Count of Ponthieu, Your Grace, with his daughter, Joan.” Murmurs fill the hall.
    The king scowls. “Ponthieu? What? Impudence.”
    Through the windows Eléonore sees a man in armor pulling a woman to the door, where a row of knights stands on guard. She hears the clang of swords and the clatter of a blade to the stones. She cranes her neck to see the fight. “Let them enter,” King Henry grumbles.
    Moments later the Count of Ponthieu stands before them, his helmet under one arm, his daughter beside him, sullenness puckering her face. She is tall, with hair as sleek and shiny as sable—drawingHenry’s eye. Eléonore remembers Uncle’s warning: King Henry is notoriously fickle. You must captivate him now, or he may