Marguerite of Provence.” Why, oh why didn’t Marguerite bite the monsieur ?
“I would make a better queen,” Eléonore says. “I am stronger than Margi, and a faster runner. And I am a better huntsman.”
And Eléonore wants to leave Provence. And she doesn’t despise the French, as Marguerite does.
“Be patient, Elli!” Mama says. “You are only ten years old—too young for marriage.”
Marguerite laughs. “Telling Elli to be patient is like commanding an ass to gallop.”
“Mama! Did you hear her call me an ass?”
“You’re as stubborn as one,” Marguerite says.
“Why wouldn’t I be stubborn, when I know I am right?”
“If you want to be a queen, Elli, you must learn to control yourself,” Mama says. “In that regard, your sister is far ahead of you.” She does not mention Marguerite’s rude remark to M. de Flagy.
“Mama,” Sanchia says, turning on the floor to tug at their mother’s gown.
“Except when a tart riposte lands on her tongue. Then she cannot wait to spit it out,” Eléonore says.
“How would you know the flavor of riposte?” Marguerite says. “Nothing but boasts ever land on your tongue. Apparently, you find them every bit as difficult to swallow.”
“Mama.” Sanchia tugs at the countess’s gown again. “Is Elli going to be a queen, too?”
“Boys!” Mama’s admonishment rankles Marguerite. Why mustshe refer to them as boys? Does she wish they were sons instead of daughters? “The time for arguing—and for competing, Elli—has come to an end. Margi is poised to become a queen. And not just any queen, but Queen of France, the richest and most powerful of kingdoms. We must help her, not fight with her.” The smile she sends to Marguerite is like a sunbeam. “And she will help us, in turn.”
“But I like to fight with Margi,” Eléonore says. “I always win.”
“You wish that were so,” Marguerite says.
“Your uncles and I used to fight, too,” Mama says. “Since I married your paire and became Countess of Provence, we have worked together. That is the Savoy way. Now, with Margi’s marriage to King Louis, the house of Savoy will rise like a shining star to the highest spot in the heavens. We shall rise with it, and all our family, and your children and grandchildren, if God is willing. If we help one another.”
“Is Elli going to be a queen, too?” Sanchia says again.
“I shall be queen of the world!” Eléonore wriggles out of Mama’s lap and lands on her feet. “I won’t be content with a kingdom as small as France. I’ll have an empire.” She folds her arms across her chest. “And, don’t worry, Mama, I’ll give castles and lordships to all my family.”
Marguerite laughs. “And who will be your emperor? Will you join the harem of Stupor Mundi?” Astonishment of the World: It is a fitting title for Frederick II, whose blasphemous remarks—calling Christ a deceiver!—and worldly lifestyle have made the pope of Rome’s jaw drop in not only astonishment, but outrage.
“Whichever king I marry will become great. I will make sure of it.”
“Are you going to make Elli a queen, too, Mama?” Sanchia says.
“Not I, but your uncle Guillaume,” Mama says. Eléonore gasps. Mama smiles. “He and Romeo foresee crowns on all your heads. They have sworn to make it so.”
“Four sisters, all queens!” Eléonore dances about. “Who has ever heard of such a thing?”
“ Three sisters,” says Sanchia. Worry wizens her eight-year-old face. “I’m going to take my vows at Ganagobie.” Eléonore rolls her eyes: Sanchia has talked of nothing else since last month, when Mama’s cousin Garsende joined the Ganagobie cloister in a ceremony so moving, it made even Mama cry.
“My pious little peapod, as gentle as a newborn lamb,” Mama says to Sanchia. “You would make a splendid nun, were you plain or deformed.” Sanchia has hair the color of spun starlight, eyes as black as the night sky, a dimple in her chin, and a mouth
“I would make a better queen,” Eléonore says. “I am stronger than Margi, and a faster runner. And I am a better huntsman.”
And Eléonore wants to leave Provence. And she doesn’t despise the French, as Marguerite does.
“Be patient, Elli!” Mama says. “You are only ten years old—too young for marriage.”
Marguerite laughs. “Telling Elli to be patient is like commanding an ass to gallop.”
“Mama! Did you hear her call me an ass?”
“You’re as stubborn as one,” Marguerite says.
“Why wouldn’t I be stubborn, when I know I am right?”
“If you want to be a queen, Elli, you must learn to control yourself,” Mama says. “In that regard, your sister is far ahead of you.” She does not mention Marguerite’s rude remark to M. de Flagy.
“Mama,” Sanchia says, turning on the floor to tug at their mother’s gown.
“Except when a tart riposte lands on her tongue. Then she cannot wait to spit it out,” Eléonore says.
“How would you know the flavor of riposte?” Marguerite says. “Nothing but boasts ever land on your tongue. Apparently, you find them every bit as difficult to swallow.”
“Mama.” Sanchia tugs at the countess’s gown again. “Is Elli going to be a queen, too?”
“Boys!” Mama’s admonishment rankles Marguerite. Why mustshe refer to them as boys? Does she wish they were sons instead of daughters? “The time for arguing—and for competing, Elli—has come to an end. Margi is poised to become a queen. And not just any queen, but Queen of France, the richest and most powerful of kingdoms. We must help her, not fight with her.” The smile she sends to Marguerite is like a sunbeam. “And she will help us, in turn.”
“But I like to fight with Margi,” Eléonore says. “I always win.”
“You wish that were so,” Marguerite says.
“Your uncles and I used to fight, too,” Mama says. “Since I married your paire and became Countess of Provence, we have worked together. That is the Savoy way. Now, with Margi’s marriage to King Louis, the house of Savoy will rise like a shining star to the highest spot in the heavens. We shall rise with it, and all our family, and your children and grandchildren, if God is willing. If we help one another.”
“Is Elli going to be a queen, too?” Sanchia says again.
“I shall be queen of the world!” Eléonore wriggles out of Mama’s lap and lands on her feet. “I won’t be content with a kingdom as small as France. I’ll have an empire.” She folds her arms across her chest. “And, don’t worry, Mama, I’ll give castles and lordships to all my family.”
Marguerite laughs. “And who will be your emperor? Will you join the harem of Stupor Mundi?” Astonishment of the World: It is a fitting title for Frederick II, whose blasphemous remarks—calling Christ a deceiver!—and worldly lifestyle have made the pope of Rome’s jaw drop in not only astonishment, but outrage.
“Whichever king I marry will become great. I will make sure of it.”
“Are you going to make Elli a queen, too, Mama?” Sanchia says.
“Not I, but your uncle Guillaume,” Mama says. Eléonore gasps. Mama smiles. “He and Romeo foresee crowns on all your heads. They have sworn to make it so.”
“Four sisters, all queens!” Eléonore dances about. “Who has ever heard of such a thing?”
“ Three sisters,” says Sanchia. Worry wizens her eight-year-old face. “I’m going to take my vows at Ganagobie.” Eléonore rolls her eyes: Sanchia has talked of nothing else since last month, when Mama’s cousin Garsende joined the Ganagobie cloister in a ceremony so moving, it made even Mama cry.
“My pious little peapod, as gentle as a newborn lamb,” Mama says to Sanchia. “You would make a splendid nun, were you plain or deformed.” Sanchia has hair the color of spun starlight, eyes as black as the night sky, a dimple in her chin, and a mouth