Chapter Five
The ladies were sitting and sewing one day in the solar when they heard about Marie. It was the summer season and they were talking of Richard’s first joust which was to take place that summer.
“He should do well,” Countess Isabel said. “What do you think I should use here, Ermengarde, green or red for the lady’s sleeves?” She held her embroidery frame at arm’s length, considering it.
“Oh green, definitely. Green and gold are my favorite colors. Red is so vulgar, except on cardinals. Yes, he has long arms and is strong for his age. How old is the boy now, anyway?”
“The young Count is thirteen. Well, I think I shall make them red. Green would not stand out from the background foliage.”
“They’ll let him win anyway,” one of the Châtellerault cousins said. “Can you imagine unhorsing your overlord at his first joust?”
“Of course they won’t. It’s against the rules,” Joanna said indignantly. “Anyway, he won’t need them to let him win.”
“Unless he comes up against William Marshal,” the Countess of Flanders put in. “He’s the champion. How many tournaments and undefeated? They say he’s making a fortune from the ransom money.”
“He’s making up for his poor start. You know what happened? It was his first battle, at Drincourt, and that night at dinner the Earl of Essex asked William for a small present out of his spoils. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘you won forty or sixty horses today? You can spare me just a crupper or an old horse collar!’ Poor William had to admit that not only had he failed to seize any booty, but he had lost his own horse into the bargain! And a few days later there was a tournament which he couldn’t enter without a horse. At the last moment, his tutor lent him one and he won three combats! That time, you may be sure, he took care to exact horses and arms and ransom money.”
“He won’t be here unless young William Marshal comes, too. Do you forget he is made master of Henry’s household now?”
“That Lusignan ambush was the making of him. A landless younger son and suddenly he’s guardian and companion of the heir to the throne. He’ll go far, that one.”
At this point Joanna’s aunt Emma of Anjou came hurrying in.
“News, ladies, news! What do you think?”
The ladies put down their sewing and gathered round her.
“The tournament is banned!” guessed one.
“Is it a marriage?”
“Or an excommunication?”
“You’re all wrong! Give way. Let me sit down. No, there’s a letter from King Louis. This concerns you, children, so listen. He is concerned for the moral welfare of his daughters the princesses Marguerite and Alice …”
She was interrupted by laughter.
“Well he may be! To a monk like that, a little singing and dancing must seem like the devil’s own work.”
“And of course we have all the handsome young knights here! Why would they want to go to that gloomy old Cité palace?”
“Surely he has not decided to withdraw his daughters? Marguerite is already married and Alice is promised.”
“No, on the contrary,” Emma said and she rocked back, laughing. “He is sending us yet another daughter!”
“Another?”
“What do you mean?”
“Has he betrothed little Agnes to John?”
“Quiet, ladies, listen. His most Christian Majesty of France, having in mind, as I say, the welfare of his young daughters and knowing the Queen of England to be so encumbered with cares of state that she cannot properly be held to manage his daughters, has taken it upon him to send a chaperone and mistress for them—his oldest daughter the Countess Marie of Champagne. And she’s on her way here now.”
A torrent of questions and comments broke out.
“The Countess of Champagne. Why, she’s Queen Eleanor’s daughter!”
“What’s she like?”
“That will give the Count some freedom!”
“And the Countess, too, if she cares to use it!”
Nurse hustled Joanna out of the room to her own apartments.
“Well, you’ll have to behave yourself! The Countess was brought up in the French court and they’re very strict and religious there, from what I hear.”
“Is Marie Mother’s daughter, too?” Joanna asked.
Nurse folded her lips primly. She did not approve of the way nobles allowed themselves divorces. Then she relented.
“Yes, she is. She’s the oldest daughter of King Louis and Queen Eleanor. Very strictly raised. She’s been the wife of Count Henry of Champagne for six years.”
“Six years? She’s young then.”
“No, she was married late,” Nurse said. ‘‘She must be twenty-four or twenty-five by now.”
“Does she have any children?”
“Two sons and a daughter, I believe.”
“Will they come here with her?”
“That I don’t know. She’ll be here soon and you must mend your ways, that’s all I know.”
Alone, Eleanor and Joanna speculated on Marie. They envisaged her as a grim-faced dragon of a woman, a strict disciplinarian, pious, humorless, and harsh. When Nurse finally told them that she was there and that they were to go down and be presented to her, they were quite nervous. Nurse had to push them over the threshold of the Great Hall.
The woman who sat next to their mother was young, radiant and beautiful. Joanna noticed that first and then immediately afterward her fashionable clothes. Her veil was so fine as to be almost transparent and under it her hair was artfully waved. Her gown was of blue silk embroidered in silver and she wore no surcoat over it, only a belt of silver links round her hips fastened with a sapphire-studded clasp.
“So you are my little sisters? Come and give me a kiss.”
She held out her arms to them. Nurse gave them a push and, dazed, they went forward. Marie smelled of roses and lilies of the valley. She kissed them on both cheeks.
“Now let me look at you. Yes, you are pretty. This is delightful. So many new sisters all at once. Let me see if I remember your names. Marguerite, Alice, Eleanor, Joanna. You see? And best of all, my lady mother.” She bowed her head to the Queen.
Around them, the knights in the Hall stood transfixed, as they did. Marie’s movements were so graceful, her head held so high on her long slender neck that Joanna was reminded of someone striking poses for an artist. Joanna was startled to realize that Marie was speaking directly to her.
“… your niece Scholastique. She is the same age as you, I think.” Marie was pushing forward the girl at her side who scowled and hung back.
Joanna took pity on her and, darting forward, grasped her hand.
“Scholastique? That’s a pretty name. I’m your aunt. You will have to mind what I tell you,” Joanna teased her but the girl only stared round-eyed. “Shall I take her to show her where’s she to sleep?”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. Run along now, children.”
Scholastique took a step back. “I don’t want to,” she said.
Marie’s gracious smile disappeared. “Scholastique, you will go with Joanna at once.”
Outside the Great Hall, Eleanor and Joanna plied Scholastique with questions.
“How old are you?”
“Do you have any brothers?”
“What’s your Nurse’s name?”
“How many days did it take you to get here?”
“What’s it like in the Île-de-France?”
They were hurtling her up the circular staircase, each one pulling a hand. In the women’s solar, she stopped and looked from one to the other.
“You talk funny,” she said.
“What do you mean, funny?” Joanna asked indignantly.
“We have a Norman accent, that’s what she means,” Eleanor explained.
“Oh. I thought perhaps you were speaking the langue d’oc.”
“Langue d’oc, silly? That doesn’t sound the same at all. Why, don’t you speak it?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, you won’t get on well with Master Hubert. He’s the pastry cook, you know.”
Scholastique’s eyes widened. “A cook? I’m not allowed in the kitchens.”
“Nor am I,” said Joanna, “but I go anyway.”