Four Sisters, All Queens by Sherry Jones

change his mind before the wedding.
    “I came to discern whether the rumors are true,” the count says, fingering a mole on the side of his nose. “Now, Your Grace, I must ask: How can you marry this one”—he gestures toward Eléonore—“when you are already married to this one?”
    Gasps fill the hall. Joan of Ponthieu shoots a defiant gaze at Eléonore, as though she would challenge her to a duel. Eléonore’s blood quickens. The skinny waif would not stand a chance.
    “But Sir Simon, you know the betrothal has been contested,” Henry says. Eléonore’s pulse thuds in her ears. Her King Henry, already promised to another? Why has no one told her? She turns accusing eyes to Uncle.
    “Until the matter is settled, Your Grace, you are still bound to my daughter,” the count says.
    “We are too closely related.” Henry’s voice rises. “I expressed this concern from the beginning, Lord Ponthieu, but you pressed me to move forward. You said you held influence with the pope.”
    “And I do,” the count said. “But not as great an influence, it seems, as Queen Blanche.”
    “To hell with that woman!” Henry cries. “Does she think she rules the world?” Eléonore frowns. Would King Henry prefer to marry this girl? His face pinkens, and the muscles in his neck bulge.
    Eléonore reaches over and touches his arm. “Breathe,” she whispers. Her mother’s advice, and most beneficial.
    Henry takes a deep breath before continuing. “The White Queen aims to withhold from me the lands France stole from my father. Ponthieu is too close to Normandy for her comfort. And she has Pope Gregory’s ear. If she wants him to annul our contract, he will do so.”
    “I am willing to wait for his ruling. My daughter’s honor hangs in the balance, as does that of your new intended bride.”
    “I have waited long enough for marriage!” Henry bangs a fist on the table. “It might be years before he decides.” He turns wild eyes to Eléonore.
    Uncle rises from his seat. “Your Grace, I have information that can help in this matter. If you will meet with me privately.”
    “I do not see how involving other parties would be beneficial,” the count says.
    “Quiet!” Henry roars. “I have not given either of you permission to speak.”
    With a trembling hand he touches the platter of food in front of them. She watches, fascinated. Will he hurl it at the count, or at her uncle? Uncle, back in his seat, mouths a command to her: Do something .
    Joan smiles at Henry, aiming to beguile him with her buxom figure. Eléonore places a hand on her own, still-flat, chest. Should she intervene, or would she only agitate Henry more? His eyes linger on Joan of Ponthieu, the forbidden fruit. He licks his lips. Eléonore leans toward him.
    “My lord,” she whispers.
    He draws his gaze away from her competitor. She places her hand on his, possessing him.
    “Our meal is interrupted, as you noted. May we dine, and then discuss this matter? I have traveled so far today.” She gives him the wide-eyed look that always melted Papa’s resolve. Joan of Ponthieu might have the body, but Eléonore has the heart-shaped face, the long lashes, the perfect smile. And, at the moment, she has the King of England’s full attention.
    “Of course,” Henry says. His smile is the sun emerging from behind the clouds. He claps his hands, and servants come running. “Set up tables for the count and his entourage,” he commands. “We will meet in my chambers once the feast is finished.”
    “And my uncle, too?” she murmurs. “He met with the White Queen during our visit to Paris. He spent quite a lot of time with her.”
    “We do desire the attendance of the bishop-elect of Valence,” Henry says. “We are most eager to hear your news, sir.”
    Eléonore sends a look of triumph to Uncle, whose grin is as satisfied as if he had already filled his belly.

 

Eléonore
    Ruffled Feathers
    Westminster, 1236
     
     
    B EFORE THE CORONATION , she sits