White Heart by Sherry Jones

throne.”
    “Cleopatra.” Eléonore snorts. “She used her woman’s charms to get what she wanted. We wouldn’t need to do that. We have the ‘minds of men.’” It’s the phrase that Mama uses to brag about their rigorous schooling. Marguerite thinks of M. de Flagy staring with hungry eyes at her bosom, then disappearing as she discussed Aristotle.
    “You’re no Cleopatra, not with that flat chest,” she says to Eléonore. “But you could be Artemisia. The warrior queen, remember? She had a ‘brave spirit and manly daring.’”
    “That is our Eléonore, full of manly daring,” Mama says.
    Eléonore struts about like a proud knight, wielding an imaginary sword.
    “Which queen would I be?” Sanchia says, caught up in the game.
    “That’s easy: Helena of Constantinople,” Eléonore says. “She became a saint.”
    “I say Elen Luyddog,” Marguerite says. “A Welsh princess who became empress of Rome. She went home after her husband died and converted everyone to the Christian faith.”
    “I would not mind being a queen if I could use my powers for the Lord,” Sanchia says in her soft voice.
    “I’d use my powers to help my family.” Eléonore looks at Mama with shining eyes, having caught the beam of her approval for a moment, at least.
    “I would hope to rule wisely,” Marguerite says. “That is all that one can ask, I think.”
    “You are like the Queen of Sheba, then,” Mama says. “She told her people, ‘I am smitten with the love of wisdom . . . for wisdom is far better than treasure of gold and silver.’”
    Marguerite feels herself blush. If Mama knew her true feelings, would she still consider her wise?
    “‘I am only wise insofar as what I don’t know, I don’t think I know,’” she says, quoting Socrates.
    “Wisdom is a noble goal,” Mama says. “The pursuit of a lifetime.”
    “Margi will need a lifetime to attain it,” Eléonore teases.
    “What about Beatrice, Mama?” Sanchia says. “What queen is she most like?”
    “A queen bee, always buzzing about,” Mama says. Beatrice careens toward the doorway, as she does every night. Madeleine snatches her up, exclaiming—as she does every night—and Beatrice begins, predictably, to whine for Papa.
    “Bedtime must be at hand.” Papa walks in; Beatrice wriggles free from the nurse’s grip and runs to him. He scoops her up and kisses her cheeks as she protests. She does not want to go to bed. She wants, she says, to stay up with Papa.
    “I am going to play chess with Sordel. He likes to cheat, and I like to win. That is too much excitement for a little girl.”
    “I don’t care. I want to come.” She nestles her curly head against his shoulder.
    “Do you promise to be good, and sit in my lap and not move?” She nods. “Then you may come with me.” Madeleine plants her hands on her hips as he walks out with her; she has told her lord—how many times?—that baby Beatrice needs her sleep, that she will be tired tomorrow, and ornery. But there is no telling him anything when it comes to Beatrice.
    “Beatrice uses her charms to get what she wants,” Eléonore whispers later, as she and Marguerite lie in bed with the sleeping Sanchia. “ She is like Cleopatra.”
    “I hope you are wrong,” Marguerite says. “Remember what happened to Cleopatra’s sisters.”
    Eléonore bares her teeth. Looking like a gargoyle in the moonlight, she lifts her index finger and draws it slowly across her throat.

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