Four Sisters, All Queens by Sherry Jones

signed a verba de praesenti. Why didn’t he tell her? Under Eléonore’s accusing glare, he seems to crumple. His eye droops so sadly, it might slide off his face completely. He has never looked so old—or so pitiful.
    “I only wanted a family,” he murmurs, so low that no one else hears. “With you, Eléonore.”
    Tears spring to her eyes. In seven days with Henry, she has seen only kindness, generosity, and passion. My lion, she called him. But even a lion has weaknesses: Henry’s is a yearning for the family he never had.
    She reaches over and slips her hand into his. Her thumb slides over the hair on his fingers, hair like the silk on a baby’s head. Standing with him, she looks out at the people who would call her queen. What kind of queen would she be, to shrink from this small test? She narrows her eyes at the Count of Ponthieu, still and subdued but his eyes defiant. She thinks of Margi, who, as the Queen of France, may help her to defeat him. A frisson of excitement shivers through her. Eléonore always did love a contest.

     
    A FTER THE CEREMONY , Gilbert Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke, waves a wand to clear a path for Henry and Eléonore from the chapel to the banquet hall, while nobles of the Cinque Ports carry silken cloths lined with silver bells on their lance tips to shelter the royal heads. The nobles vied for this privilege, as have others serving the royal couple during the feast—including Simon de Montfort.
    “Will the Count of Ponthieu feast with us today?” he asks Henry, a twinkle in his eyes. “Shall I add a drop or two of something to his hand-washing water? A tincture of spiderwort to hasten his digestion of the meal?”
    Uncle, awarded a seat at the king’s table for his help with Ponthieu, gestures toward the young man.
    “See how skillfully Leicester comports himself?” he says to Eléonore. “Take note, as well, of your husband’s delighted response. Simon de Montfort is a shrewd and ambitious man. You should befriend him.”
    She smiles broadly as Montfort offers her the basin. “To what do I owe the honor of being served by you today, monsieur ? This has been the Earl of Norfolk’s task.”
    His intimate gaze sends a ripple down Eléonore’s spine. “The English nobles do love money, my lady.”
    She plunges her hands into the water, then dries them on the towel he provides. “You paid Norfolk? How much?”
    “Not nearly enough for the privilege of serving the world’s most beautiful queen.”
    She reaches into the pouch on her girdle and pulls out several coins. “Would this be adequate recompense?”
    His gaze flickers over the silver. Ah! He, too, loves money. “Please take this, monsieur, as my gift.”
    “Thank you, my lady, but I cannot—”
    “Shh! Do not let the king hear you refuse his queen’s gift, monsieur . He has a terrible temper.”
    He accepts the coins, kisses them, and tucks them into his pouch. “I will sew them into my chemise, to wear next to my heart.”
    “If he does sew them in, they won’t remain there for long,” Uncle says when he is gone. “The Earl of Leicester is in dire need of an income.”
    Simon, being a younger son of the Count of Montfort, seemed destined for the clergy, Uncle tells her. But he had other ambitions. He talked his eldest brother into signing over the rights to theearldom of Leicester, then traveled to England and petitioned Ranulf, the Earl of Chester—Leicester’s custodian—to turn the title and lands over to him. Soon he had won Ranulf’s affection, and Leicester, too.
    “Simon arrived at the court five years ago under Ranulf’s sponsorship, and has remained here ever since,” Uncle says. “He continually gains influence over the king and the court.”
    “He must be glib-tongued, indeed,” Eléonore said.
    “See how easily he extracted coins from you.”
    Eléonore grins. “You advised me to befriend him, didn’t you?”
    “And you used a most expedient method. Leicester’s castle was