Before Plantagenet - Chapter 258
March 1135 - Huelgoat, Brittany
“How’s the wine?”
Marguerite looked at her sister Mascarose, who had her cup at her mouth. The former Countess of Charolais smiled.
“Sweet,” she said. “I confess, I like Bordeaux’s wines far more than Charolais or here. I’m glad you brought some for the feast.”
“Then I will need to send you some,” Marguerite replied.
Silence fell once more as they sat in the queen mother’s guest chambers at a manor near Huelgoat in Brittany. Small talk was never easy, even for someone as well versed in it as Marguerite.
Of course, one might argue small talk shouldn’t be necessary to converse with family. Mascarose was her youngest sister, but the pair were not so far apart in age that they had not grown together. And for years they lived in the same locales, Angers and later Bordeaux.
But Marguerite was in a different world for much of it. Virtually imprisoned after her affair with Aubry Karling, and the bastard son it produced, Marguerite did not see her sister much in Angers, even though they lived in the same locale.
Things were a bit better when Marguerite and the rest of the Angevin court moved to Bordeaux following the ascension of her husband, but Mascarose had her own duties by that time as a baroness and mother. They remained distant.
So even now, as they both could sit having shared so many experiences separately, they struggled to experience anything together. But they had been brought together once more for an impromptu family reunion that for once had not been because of tragedy.
The occasion was the wedding of Ancel d’Anjou, heir to the Duchy of Brittany, to the daughter of Mascarose and her late husband Count Herve of Charolais, Plaisance de Semur.
It was a large gathering with many of the prominent lords of Aquitaine present, since most were related to both the bride and groom.
Three of Geoffrey’s councilors, Duke Guilhem along with his wife Marguerite the younger, Duke Adhemar and his son by the same name, and Bishop Edouard, attended for that reason.
Foulquesson's two full siblings, Philippe of Thouars, consort to Countess Sarrazine, and the Duchess Ermengarde made their way to Huelgoat. Philippe came alone, without the Countess and their two daughters. So too did Ermengarde, as she made the trip without her new husband, the Duke of Transjurania.
The dwarf duchess was married to her husband, who was 19 years her junior, and ruled lands that bordered Aquitaine to the east near the alps, a few years before. The union had already produced a child, a son. But Marguerite had barely interacted with her, as she usually didn't speak much with the Angevin side of the family.
Naturally Mascarose was present for her daughter’s wedding, as was her teenage son, Count Geoffrey of Charolais, who had the duty of giving away his sister.
One conspicuous absence, however, was King Geoffrey himself.
The king remained in England with his wife and children, sending Prince Alias in his stead. Alias claimed his brother “would have loved to attend, but feels compelled to continue his efforts to raise the queen to her rightful place on the English throne.”
It was an argument Marguerite didn’t fully buy, remembering her son’s fury at the marriage of Ancel’s sister Marguerite the Younger to Duke Guilhem. She suspected Geoffrey’s sometimes petty behavior reared its ugly head here, even if few could fault the king for continuing his war across the channel.
Geoffrey had released Duke Simon to go with Alias, however, as well as Rogier and Cenolth d’Uzes, with the latter two first cousins to Plaisance through Mascarose’s sister, the late Ness de Limoges.
The other big absence was Princess Aines, who was left in a keep near Saumur. But that was hardly surprising - she was being kept mostly out of sight after birthing her second bastard. Technically still promised to Duke Simon, who didn’t not appear in a rush to end the betrothal, she was nonetheless being left under guard to avoid any further embarrassments.
There was always a fear of that at these get togethers. And since one of the more recent large gatherings involving the realm, the funeral for Plaisance’s father Count Herve, had featured the embarrassing revelation of the affair between Geoffrey and Countess Sarrazine, Marguerite hoped things would go better for her sister’s family this time.
And it appeared to. The ceremony went off well, with husband and wife married at the steps of a church in Huelgoat, ironically, not far from where Herve fell.
“Your father watches over you from here,” Mascarose had told her daughter. “That is why God allowed all of this. He wishes him to look out for you, always.”
It was a sweet thought and Marguerite hoped it was true. She knew she had not been as fortunate with her parents, after all.
But Plaisance did not appear thrilled the morning after the ceremony and feast, as she was mostly silent and generally downtrodden as she ate with many of the other prominent ladies who had come to the wedding. And Marguerite figured she might as well see how Plaisance was faring - it was as good a conversation as any.
“How is Plaisance?” Marguerite asked. “She seemed a bit down after everything.”
Mascarose sighed. “I am not surprised. She was not looking forward to this union.”
The queen mother’s brow furrowed. “Is my grandson so unappealing to her?”
“It is not him,” Mascarose said. “She fears marriage to any man. I think she is just not the type to enjoy… the physical parts of a union. But rest assured, I have told her she must perform her duties, and I saw that she did on their wedding night.”
Marguerite nodded - she had skipped out on that part of the evening as Ancel took his new wife to the marital bed to consummate their union. But Beatritz, Mascarose, Foulquesson and a few others had.
She did have some sympathy for the girl - it was never nice to be in a marriage that was miserable - but if her objection was to the institution itself, then she was out of luck. Given she was her brother’s only surviving sister - his elder half-sister Eve had passed over a year before after the birth of her second child - Plaisance’s duty would be found as a wife, not a nun.
“It is not a problem I expect with my little Fry,” Mascarose said. “Already he is sweet on girls.”
“Yes, I saw him making eyes at his new brother-by-law’s sister, Guillaumette,” Marguerite said. “Have you found a wife for him yet?”
“Not yet,” Mascarose said. “And I am hesitant to have him marry Guillaumette, given we already have a union with that family. I look to nearby lands, both in Aquitaine and beyond. But it is no rush - he cannot be wed for another few years anyway.”
“It is not too early to tie him down,” Marguerite said. “He is a count, and first cousin to the king. Surely you have plenty of candidates.”
“As I said, I am in no rush,” Mascarose said. “Who knows? Perhaps more options will open up soon, if your son is successful in England.”
And on that, Geoffrey appeared to be. Word had come back of his success in taking Lydford, and he had moved on to Exeter. The English had yet to attack again either there or in Aquitaine with another army, which created a growing confidence it would only be a matter of time before they submitted.
“Besides,” Mascarose continued, “Fry may be sweet on some girls, but his real desire is to go to England with his cousins and join the king in his war. He was hurt being left out in the first place, with so many others going.”
“Geoffrey insisted Alias go,” Marguerite said. “As he demanded when he came here to Brittany. I could not stop him.”
“I did not mean him, but the prince and new princess?” Mascarose asked.
“I would have preferred the prince remained,” Marguerite said. “But Geoffrey wished it. As for the princess, once her mother decided to accompany the prince, I saw no reason for her not to go.”
“And Duke Simon?” Mascarose asked.
“That is a bit different,” Marguerite conceded.
“Because he is a duke and my son is just the count?” Mascarose asked.
Marguerite guessed it probably was that. And it might be difficult to stomach for the young count of Charolais, who was currently out riding with Alias, Simon and Adhemar the Younger. Of them, he was likely to be the one of least prominence for most of their lives. He would have to get used to that type of disappointment.
“Simon is more than a simple duke,” Marguerite said. “Our grandnephew stands to inherit nearly a third of the realm. And he will be my son-by-law, and Geoffrey’s brother-by-law. It is different - and there is no disrespect intended, sister. Just facts.”
Mascarose nodded. “I know. I am not naive. I just wish Geoffrey would have considered his cousin.”
“You speak to me as if I have some say over this,” Marguerite told her. “You might be better off speaking to Alias. He has more of his brother’s ear these days than me.”
Mascarose waved her off. “Nonsense. You are still his mother.”
“A mother he stopped listening to years ago,” Marguerite said. “Trust me.”
“You speak as if I do not have a son of my own,” Mascarose noted. “A son who is now feeling his oats and has been handed the responsibilities of a man in his father’s stead. But I make sure he always hears me, even if sometimes he does not listen.”
“A count is no king,” Marguerite said. “Not to disparage my nephew. It is just different. And he is younger than my sons.”
“Say what you will sister,” Mascarose replied. “But you are still a mother, and a former queen. Your words carry more weight than most.”
Marguerite remained unconvinced by her sister’s argument, but found an opportunity to drop the subject thanks to a knock at the door.
The guest turned out to be Bishop Edouard, their nephew, who bowed before his aunts, likely out of respect. After all, neither one of them held any official title anymore, though Mascarose was her son’s regent.
“Forgive my intrusion, auntie Mascarose, Lady Marguerite,” he said. “But I have an important message for Lady Marguerite.”
The queen mother’s brow rose. “Let us hear it then.”
Edouard frowned. “It would be best if you heard it in private, my lady.”
Marguerite and Mascarose traded glances, but the younger woman stood from her seat.
“As you wish, nephew,” she said. “I shall not go far, so just summon me when you are finished.”
Marguerite nodded but Edouard remained more stoic, making no expression toward Mascarose then, or when she departed. Once the door closed, Edouard slowly approached Marguerite.
His demeanor was nervous, almost fearful. And Marguerite grew concerned, for it was clear he had a message he did not want to deliver.
“What is this news you bring me, nephew?” Marguerite asked. “Has some embarrassment befallen Alias while he was out with his cousins?”
“Not Alias my lady,” Edouard said. “Though he will need to know as well.”
The bishop sighed. “It is your son. He is dead.”
Marguerite’s heart skipped a beat. “Geoffrey… Geoffrey is dead?!”
Edouard suddenly blanched. “No! No, my lady. Forgive me. I did not mean him. I just, I refer to Geoffrey as ‘the king.’ I… I forgive me.”
Marguerite was speechless, left to shake her head. It is not Geoffrey, came through. But if it wasn’t him…
“Your eldest son,” Edouard said. “Bishop Aubry. I am truly sorry, my lady.”
Marguerite again remained unable to speak. Her eldest child, a bastard sired with Aubry Karling - the affair that had arguably ruined her life, and certainly did her marriage.
The boy had lived a life of exile from his half-siblings, moving to wherever Geoffrey I wasn’t. And upon her husband’s death, Marguerite attempted to do right by her son, getting Geoffrey II to grant him a bishopric.
It wasn’t ideal of course. She still would have no relationship with Aubry, as he became the bishop of Maulevrier, which was just south of Cholet, somewhat near Angers. And she had annoyed Geoffrey to do it, as he didn’t like the idea of granting his half-brother anything. But at least she had given Aubry a place after he lacked one for years.
She tried to check up on him. But it was always so difficult to do more than that. What could she say to him? She was his mother in name, but hardly in much else. For most of his life, he’d been away from her.
And now he would be away forever.
“When did this happen?” Marguerite finally managed.
“Four days ago,” Edouard said. “They sent word as quickly as they could.”
“I wish to be there,” Marguerite told him. “When he is laid to rest.”
Edouard looked down. “I fear he may have been already. While laymen often flout the church’s wishes of… using techniques to delay burial, most bishops respect our doctrine. He has likely been committed by now. Though if you would like to visit his resting place, and speak with those of the parish, I could arrange it. I could even come with you, if you wish.”
Marguerite could barely find the words. Her son was gone and now she could not even properly say goodbye?
“I… I… I would like to go, yes,” was what she managed.
Edouard nodded. “I will arrange it.”
He paused before adding: “My lady. Aunt, if there is anything I can do...”
Marguerite shook her head.
“If you wish, I can send your sister away,” Edouard said. “Or send her back if you wish company.”
“No…”Marguerite said. “Send her away. But tell her why.”
“I will, my lady,” Edouard said. “And, once more, my condolences.”
Edouard bowed and turned to leave. But Marguerite called for him to remain.
“Edouard… do you… do you think Geoffrey will do anything to honor him?” Marguerite asked. “He is… he was his brother. Half-brother… but…”
Edouard pursed his lips and then looked down. “I… I can’t know, my lady. He is preoccupied with England and…”
Marguerite shook her head. She got the message.
“Thank you, nephew,” she said. “I do wish to be alone now.”
Edouard bowed before her before departing.
When the door closed, a weakness overcame her, and Marguerite stumbled her way over to her bed. Her head swimming, it felt as if she were drowning.
My eldest… gone, she thought.
Like his brother. My two boys. My sons. It can’t be. He was not old. He was not...
She fell onto bed, still struggling to breathe. Feeling ill, she began to dry heave, in between sobs as the tears began to stream down her cheeks.
…..
Despite having done this before, Marguerite was still not ready for what faced her in Maulevrier.
She had laid her son Foulques to rest nearly two decades prior. It was a thought that needed no help in remaining fresh in her memories, and this made it worse.
Kind words were spoken to her by all at the abbey. They spoke of Aubry’s devotion to the church and how pious he was.
“At time where so many of our brethren seek to exploit their flock for material gain, Bishop Aubry was a man of strong moral fiber and a blessed soul,” one of the priests told her. “You should be proud of the man he became, my lady.”
The words stung, for Marguerite felt she had little input in that. The monks and those who tended to him while she was kept away - they deserved the credit. All she had done was make his life difficult.
But those feelings of guilt were nothing compared to how she was overcome by emotion as she saw her son’s freshly dug grave. Marguerite fell to her knees in tears.
His final resting place was a simple grave, without even a hint of the illustrious blood that had flowed in his veins. A child of the Karlings and of the de Poitous, two of the most powerful families in Francia over the past few centuries… left to this. Obscurity. Swept away… soon to be forgotten by all.
What she would have given to have Aubry buried in a crypt. But she could not bring herself to even ask Geoffrey to place him with his half-brother Foulques, for she knew he would refuse. And he could not join his Karling ancestors - no bastard could ever dream of such a privilege.
She was not alone on the day. Mascarose had accompanied her to Maulevrier, citing she could never abandon her eldest sister. So too did Duchess Beatritz, perhaps out of respect to her one full-blooded sibling.
While it seemed as minor a thing as could be, it was not to be scoffed at - Marguerite’s brother Adhemar was nowhere to be found. She knew why - her youngest sibling would not risk having his presence being construed as an insult to the late king Geoffrey I, especially since Geoffrey II did not seem to care for his half-brother.
Of greater sting was Alias asking out of accompanying her. He claimed to have to return to Geoffrey in Exeter, having not been given leave for anything but the wedding. Marguerite could barely muster the strength to fight him, as she preferred Alias’ cowardice in this instance to Geoffrey’s potential coldness.
Still, despite the support from her sister and eldest daughter, Marguerite found herself unable to muster much conversation with either. The small talk she could normally manage was a bridge too far. She was silent on their journey, simply listening as Mascarose commented on the world around them, the words going into one ear and out the other. And at night she would remain alone, crying herself to sleep.
This night was no exception, as Marguerite was granted her own quarters. In a cruel sense of irony, it was Aubry’s, for a new bishop had yet to be appointed and Marguerite’s status as the queen mother meant she was above sleeping with the rest of her party, Mascarose and Beatritz included, in the abbey.
She could not sleep. Her eyes burned and her throat was raw. She wished to stop her tears. To stop her sobs. But she could not do that either.
At the table were multiple cups, surrounding a pitcher of wine. It had been set there by those at the abbey for her, assuming she would host her sister and daughter. Marguerite had not and the cups remained empty, while the pitcher was full.
With a small sigh, Marguerite plopped herself down in a chair at the table and poured herself a cup. She said nothing, but sipped, letting the tart red wine burn her throat as it went down. The pain almost felt good… a contrast to the rest of her body, which felt numb.
My first born, Marguerite thought as she put down the drink.
My poor child.
“Care for some company? I could use a drink.”
Marguerite’s heart skipped a beat, for she had not heard the door open, nor footsteps approached. But opposite her, standing with her hands over the chair stood the thin figure of Agnes d’Anjou.
“You?!” Marguerite exclaimed. “Impossible! You’re dead!”
“And yet still unable to escape the problems of this family,” Agnes lamented. “Truly, I suffer for my sins.”
“Of which there are a great many,” Marguerite said.
Agnes eased herself into the chair and let loose a sigh. “Well I never denied that, did I?”
Marguerite eyed her. She had long heard stories that ghosts might appear before a person before they died. And if that were the case here, she supposed it was fitting that Agnes would be the one to collect her.
Still, she wanted to know for certain: “What do you want? Why are you here? To take me to the hereafter?”
Agnes shook her head as she poured herself a drink, leaving Marguerite befuddled of her intentions.
“Then what?” she continued. “To gloat over my son’s death?”
“No,” Agnes said. “I know what it is like to lose a child before what should be their time. And a child who you feel your actions punished.”
“We are not alike,” Marguerite insisted. “You insult me to even suggest it.”
“In some ways no,” Agnes said as she poured wine into another cup and placed it to the side. “In this? Conceiving bastards right after our sixteenth birthdays, embarrassing our families, but managing to find a way for them to have some place in the world… only to have them die fairly young, without having ‘lived’ as we define it? I say we are quite the same.”
Marguerite pursed her lips and looked away. She hated when Agnes had a point.
“You did the best you could,” Agnes told her.
“I don’t need or want your pity,” Marguerite said.
“It is not pity to state fact,” Agnes said. “Given what could have happened to the boy, that he found himself a bishop is no small thing. You did that. His half-siblings never would have aided him so.”
“A small consolation for the life I forced upon him to begin with,” Marguerite said. “Growing up, alone. With no true family. Shuttled from drafty keep to drafty keep to stay out of my father-by-law’s way… then my husband’s… always knowing himself to be the cause of misery. Of discord… of regret…”
“Unavoidable,” Agnes said. “Sadly.”
“And that is my fault,” Marguerite said.
“You made a terrible mistake,” Agnes said. “As did I. But it could not be undone. The best you could do is make up for it. Which you did.”
“It is never enough,” Marguerite said. “Nothing I could do was enough. Others suffered… but in some way, they were responsible.”
“My brother?” Agnes asked.
Marguerite narrowed her gaze. “Not initially… but he paid me back and then some. My son… what could he do?”
“He lived his life,” Agnes said.
“I don’t even know how he did,” Marguerite said. “He was my own child… my first child. And I didn’t even know him. I had no idea he was ill. I had no idea he might pass. And he was buried so fast, I could not even witness it. Your daughter… you knew her. You could… care for her in whatever way you managed. You were her mother. I wasn’t even that.”
“You couldn’t be,” Agnes said. “Not if you were to be a mother to your other children. And they benefited.”
“So he was sacrificed for them?” Marguerite asked. “And for what? My poor Foulques is dead as well. Beatritz dislikes her younger siblings… and tolerates me because I am her best ally. Aines…”
Marguerite’s voice trailed off for a moment. Then she continued. “Alias already pulls away from me, as he should. And Geoffrey… he’s never needed me. He had
you.”
“You sell yourself short,” Agnes said. “I could be his teacher. I could not be his mother.”
“That’s not what the rumors say,” Marguerite replied.
Her stomach twisted at her own words. Those hurtful tales… some of which she believed, some of which she didn’t. Why did she even voice it? Just to spite a specter?
“You don’t truly believe that,” Agnes said as she finished her wine. Looking into the cup she added: “Besides, it was such a foolish one. I was not even with child when he was born. Such stupidity.”
Then Agnes stood up and turned to leave. Marguerite reached her hand out toward her.
“Wait!” she said. “Where are you going?”
“Sadly nowhere,” Agnes said. “I am to wait… for how long? Your guess is as good as mine for when he shall come to me. But I shall endeavor to help until then, as I always have.”
“Like with your murderous father?” Marguerite demanded.
“And with your inexperienced son,” Agnes said. “But I have tried to aid you as well. Penance if you will - as paltry as it is.”
Marguerite shook her head. “Paltry is right. And besides… you cannot help me now.”
“True,” Agnes said. “Which is why I have brought her instead.”
“Her?” Marguerite asked.
And suddenly when Marguerite shifted her gaze to the side of the table, she caught sight of a youthful woman. Her black hair cascaded down to her shoulders freely, and her eyes met Marguerite’s with a piercing gaze.
It was a face Marguerite had not seen in decades - the face of Aines de Poitou.
“Mother?”
“So you
do remember my face,” Aines said. "It has been a long time."
“I could never forget the woman who gave me life,” Marguerite said. “And who, in some ways,
stole it as well.”
Aines rolled her eyes. “So dramatic. I hoped you would outgrow it, but here you are - with hair white as snow and still over embellishing the world around you.”
“You killed my father!” Marguerite shouted. “It is not over embellishing anything!”
“Yes,” Aines said. “I took
his life. Not
yours.”
The specter took a cup of wine from the table before her and sipped it. A scowl formed on her lips.
“These wines around the Loire never compared to what we have in Aquitaine,” Aines said. “Couldn’t you have told these priests to use one of the barrels you brought with you?”
“That is what you wish to talk about?” Marguerite demanded. “Not that you killed my father… your husband… and did not think I would be affected?”
“No, I did not think you would learn of it,” Aines said. “It is not as if I wanted the world to know Foulques killed him. Unfortunately, sometimes these things happen.”
“Yes, some sad note in the larger plan. That’s all I was.”
Marguerite’s eyes widened at the sound of a man’s voice. A man she had not seen or heard from in decades.
“Father?”
Emerging from the shadows, Adhemar de Limoges approached his daughter. He smiled as he looked down upon her. He leaned forward to kiss her, but Marguerite felt nothing upon her forehead.
“You have grown well,” he said. “Beautiful and wise.”
Marguerite shook her head. “Beautiful once, perhaps. Wise?
Never.”
“You were a queen,” Adhemar said. “One who navigated many treacherous waters. A fool would have drown for sure.”
Aines smirked. “
You would know.”
Adhemar turned and slapped Aines across the face. Holding her cheek she looked to Marguerite.
“You see how he treats me?” Aines asked. “You remember, don’t you? It was not as if he did not do this in front of you and your sisters.”
Marguerite lowered her eyes. She didn’t remember much of her childhood anymore, but sometimes when she closed her eyes, she would see it.
“You… you were never an easy wife,” Marguerite said.
“My thoughts exactly, daughter,” Adhemar said.
Aines shook her head. “Pathetic. You are so beholden to a false memory of this man that you would excuse for him what you would not for anyone else? Would you like it if I said you deserved all that you received from your husband and his family? You did lay with another, after all.”
Marguerite frowned. “I would not like it. But it would be true. What I have suffered… what I have endured, perhaps it is a penance of sorts.”
Tears came to her eyes again. “But for what? My poor son still suffered. Aubry… Foulques… both of them dead before their time. What has my suffering earned them?”
“They were not exactly paupers at their end,” Aines said. “But even so, they are not your only children, my dear.”
“It is true,” Adhemar said. “Your son is king of a powerful realm and soon of two realms. It is something to be proud of. He could not have done it without you.”
“He could have,” Marguerite said. “All he needed was his father. And his aunt. I gave him life… but little else.”
Aines rolled her eyes. “You speak of it as if that is nothing. I have yet to meet a man, great or otherwise, who has managed something without living.”
“It was my duty,” Marguerite said.
“Had you simply given up, in those days when you were imprisoned in Angers,” Aines began, “then he would not exist. You struggled. You lived. Your resiliency is nothing to scoff at - for one can accomplish a great deal by simply… existing.”
“What would you know of that?” Adhemar asked. “You who did not see much past your 30th year.”
Aines turned her scowl to her husband. “It is one way. But it is not the
only way - I packed much into my short life. Why, without my efforts, none of this would be possible.”
“Yes,” Adhemar said. “Our daughters would not have suffered so. Poor Ness forced to be that disfigured monster’s lover. Our eldest imprisoned, nearly raped, and certainly left to suffer.”
“Our youngest daughter,” Aines interrupted, “wife of one of the realm’s most respected lords, and mother to a count. Our youngest, the Duke of Gascony. To say nothing of our grandson, King of Aquitaine and soon to be King of England. Or one of our other grandsons, Duke of Poitou. Our great grandson, Duke of Toulouse and one day Poitou. Another shall have Brittany. And yet another, of course, Aquitaine and England.”
Adhemar’s frown suddenly became a small grin. “Yes… that is true. I have much to be proud of… my cousins - fools that they were, denied my greatness. And look now… my descendents will be the most powerful men in all of Christendom.”
Aines laughed. “Your cousins were not fools. You did none of this. You provided your seed. But any man could have done that. I carried our children. I gave them life. Then I provided for them. I made our eldest a future duchess, where she would one day be a queen. I placed Ness in the court of Angers, and then my memory is what drew Foulques to her… to sire in her the future Duke of Poitou and all that would follow. It was my efforts that would get Masacrose in the right position to become Countess of Charolais one day. And if not for the lust and desire I had nurtured in Foulques, our son would not be the Duke of Gascony today. I did it all… you did nothing.”
Adhemar slapped Aines again. “You lying, disrespectful bitch!”
Marguerite’s stomach twisted at the sight, as she could hear the smack ringing in her ears. But despite the blood from her lip, Aines simply smiled.
“My apologies… I speak falsely husband,” she admitted. “You did have the decency to die. But then, I suppose
I initiated that as well.”
Adhemar went to strike her again, but this time Aines caught his hand. When Adhemar tried to wrench it free, he seemed unable to. He struggled, his arm shaking as Aines refused to release it from her grasp.
“Un...hand me!” he ordered.
“You do not rule over me,” Aines said. “Those days are long since past, husband.”
She pulled Adhemar down, twisting and turning his arm until he was on his knees before her. But even then she did not release him, squeezing and closing her fingers around his arm so much it caused him to scream.
“Mother!” Marguerite pleased. “Please! Release him!”
“You would show him mercy?” Aines snapped. “After you watched him hit me?”
“I… I…” Marguerite stammered.
Aines, scowling, turned her gaze back to her husband.
“You are nothing,” she spat. “A pathetic excuse for a man that my mad father forced upon me. You died as you live, sad, pathetic and forgotten.”
He welped loudly once more, before crumpling to the ground. Only then did Aines release him, as Adhemar laid motionless on the floor. When Marguerite peered over to him, she saw his eyes, lifeless and cold, his face frozen in horror.
As she had envisioned throughout her life, when she thought of what must have happened the moment he realized what was to befall him at the inn that night he died.
“How… how could you?” Marguerite demanded.
“It is not enough I had to endure him in life?” Aines asked. “Now you wish me to in death as well? Even our vows were not so demanding.”
“He was my father!” Marguerite shouted.
“Does that justify his actions?” Aines demanded. “That he sired you means I must deal with his insults, his abuse and his disgraceful actions, for eternity? You would have me suffer so?”
“He is your husband!” Marguerite shouted.
“He is not my
God!” Aines exclaimed. “And you, of all people, should know better. You, who betrayed oaths to your husband right as you barely finished speaking them!”
“I honored him later,” Marguerite said.
“Ah yes, because that makes up for it,” Aines scoffed. “Here is an uncomfortable truth, my dear. Your father was scum. I hated him. And all those knew him - whether they were courtiers in Angers or his cousins… felt the same. And had he not been killed, you would have hated him too. He should thank me - I am the only reason anyone has a positive opinion of him.”
Marguerite, her eyes blurred by the tears in her eyes, simply shouted. “I hate you! You ruined everything! Everything!”
Aines rolled her eyes. “There again you go with the drama. I freed myself from a man who would be a tyrant if he had the talent. In the process, I saved my descendants from obscurity, and turned them into something so much more. Exactly what you desired with the bastard you sired, even if he nearly did ruin everything.”
“Do not speak of him in such a way!” Marguerite shouted.
“I shall speak of him however I please,” Aines said. “I am your mother, and nothing you can say will ever change that. And nothing you did ever changed what he was.”
Marguerite wanted to argue. She wanted to scream. But at what? A ghost? What would that do to someone long dead, beyond her reach?
Meanwhile, Aines sipped her drink and then met Marguerite’s gaze square. “You see my dear, that is the difference between you and me. When I didn’t like my situation, or that of my children, I worked to change it. You? You just wallow in it. And wallow in it you have… for decades now. Even as those who took part in your misery fall away, you remain, clinging to it tighter than you do your own children. Is it any wonder you feel a failure?”
Marguerite swallowed hard. Once more, her mother’s words cut deep. As they always did, even when she lived.
“It is more than a feeling,” Marguerite said. “My failure… it is real. You know it. You’ve said it.”
“I do not think you a failure,” Aines said. “I think you have failed, at times. But there is a difference. Everyone fails. It is how one recovers which proves their measure.”
“And I did not,” Marguerite said.
“You did enough to survive,” Aines said. “As I said, it is useful. But you did not thrive, as
I would have. That is a shame, for you were capable.”
“I do not want to be like you,” Marguerite said. “I never wanted to be like you.”
“But your sons do,” Aines reminded her. “They wish for power. They wish for influence. So to, do your daughters. You cannot deny them this, any more than I can deny your feelings. You cannot hide from who you are, the blood in your veins, or theirs.”
Marguerite fell silent. She knew this. It was something she had long lamented, but knew she could not change. And it always left her depressed.
“You spend too much time looking back,” Aines said. “Focusing on past mistakes. Rarely an eye to the future. You did so with Geoffrey, out of fear. But regardless of your reason, it was to his benefit. Now you should do so again. Move on. Let Aubry go. Let Foulques go. They have their peace. You must find yours.”
“Should I forget what I have wrought on my poor sons?” Marguerite demanded. “Should I just forget how my actions harmed them?”
“If you refuse to learn from your mistakes?” Aines demanded. “Yes. It would be better for everyone if you simply ignore that suffering and move forward.”
“I cannot be a cold, heartless woman, like you,” Marguerite said.
“You have long been colder than me,” Aines said. “But if you wish to be different, then actually be different. Learn from your errors. As I said, you have other children.”
“There is little I can do for Geoffrey,” Marguerite said. “Nor Alias. Beatritz is a woman, long grown, with children of her own. My time is done.”
“I wonder,” Aines said. “Do you forget the other girl because she is named for me?”
“She tried to kill her own family,” Marguerite said. “Something even you would not have done.”
“And yet… she remains your daughter,” Aines said. “You simply… wish her to suffer in virtual exile as you have done, for what?”
“For her crimes,” Marguerite said. “They are legion, in my opinion.”
“What’s the point?” Aines asked. “If you wished to punish her, you should have killed her. Otherwise… this means nothing, except fostering hate within her.”
“Since when do you care for such things?” Marguerite demanded.
“Since it will do nothing for any of your children long-term,” Aines said. “If you could see past your anger for a moment, you would realize that.”
“What… do you mean?” Marguerite asked.
“The girl will always be a valuable piece, so long as she lives,” Aines said. “As is, she will become Duchess of Toulouse soon. But even if she doesn’t, she will have sway and power. Whether she is sent to a convent, or to the Christians in the Baltic, her blood will carry enough weight to be a threat to the rest of your family, no matter what is done.”
Marguerite felt her stomach twist. Her mother’s words rang true. Yet she felt powerless. What could she do now?
Except...
“You wish for me to…” Marguerite started. But she could not bring herself to finish.
“That is one solution,” Aines said. “It would be the ultimate sacrifice… for you and her. But… perhaps it may not be necessary.”
“What do you mean?” Marguerite demanded.
“It is a funny thing… relationships between parents and children,” Aines said. “Sometimes we think our words do not matter. But they have a way of resonating… for years to follow. Look at you and me - even now you cannot forget what I have done and said. It shapes you even now.”
Aines paused for a moment and looked away.
“It is not just us, of course,” Aines said. “Your husband and his father. Your son and his father. Your son and you. Your daughter is no exception. What you say to her matters. I do not know if she can be salvaged. But… the way I see it, you must try.”
“I… she fills me with rage,” Marguerite said. “Frustration. I failed her as a mother. As I did Aubry. As I did Foulques. They did not harm others though. She wished to.”
“And your eldest sons are dead,” Aines said.
The words felt like a knife to her gut. And she was unable to speak. However, Aines did not release her from her gaze.
“But your daughter is not,” Aines reminded her. “So all is not lost. You may continue to wallow in your misery, lamenting your multitude of failures, or you may resolve to do better, so that she does not suffer the same fate… and drag your other children down with her. But it is your choice, my dear.”
“How can I save her?” Marguerite asked. “She will not listen.”
Aines shrugged. “Then cut the limb off. It is what
I would do. But you are not me. So I would suggest using all the wits and resilience you used to outlive your many enemies, and focus them to the one thing left that you can save.”
Aines stood up. “I have made you listen, despite all that you hate me for. I would think your daughter, who wronged you, would be a much easier task.”
“But how?” Marguerite asked. “I thought you all were here to usher me to the beyond.”
Aines smiled. “No my dear. Your time will come soon enough. But not yet.”
Marguerite looked at her with wide eyes. Then, when she blinked, Aines was gone. The room was settled… as if no one had been there. The wine cups were empty… but perhaps they had always been so? Her father? Gone. Agnes as well.
And Marguerite’s eyes fell to the table before her. She felt empty. She felt worthless. She felt alone.
….
Days later, Marguerite sat alone once more in a small manor near the town of Saumur.
It was an area much smaller than she was used to these days, given she had spent the past few decades in a palace. This residence had but a main hall and a singular bedroom, which Marguerite had decided to share with her sister on this occasion, her daughter having gone back to Brittany.
But at this moment, Mascarose was down in the hall, as Marguerite awaited the guards to arrive with her guest. A guest, who was a resident of the nearby keep.
The door was opened and the guards entered. Unbound but still a virtual prisoner, Aines d’Anjou entered the chamber.
The Princess of Aquitaine had been shifted from keep to keep, with an occasional manor mixed in, over the past few years. Between her murder plot, and embarrassing two out of wedlock children, it was considered best to keep her out of sight.
Even here, she was not given the greatest of conditions. She was not given this room in the manor. Instead, she was kept in the draft keep nearby, under close guard, with a few servants.
Aines was thinner than when Marguerite had last seen her. But that was hardly surprising - she wasn’t living the most glamorous of lives in a pseudo exile. In some ways, she had stumbled into Aubry’s life.
Though this is entirely her doing, Marguerite thought.
The guards left and Aines stood before her. Despite her suffering, Aines did not cow, standing defiant before her mother, scowling in a manner that was reflective of her namesake.
“You summoned me,” Aines said.
“You have done a great wrong,” Marguerite told her. “It is scheming as your grandmother would have done. So too your grandfather. Scoundrels that they were.”
“I have heard your disgust of me before, mother,” Aines said. She paused. “Am I permitted to call you that now? Or is it still forbidden?”
Marguerite frowned.
Such hate. Such anger. Another failure.
The words came surprisingly naturally. “I am sorry, Aines.”
To that, Aines’ eyes grew wide. “You… you what?”
“I am sorry,” Marguerite repeated. “I failed you. As I failed all my children in some way or another. Aubry. Foulques. Beatritz. Even Geoffrey and Alias, but perhaps they had enough other people around them to salvage them. Or perhaps they are doomed as well. I do not know.”
Marguerite sank her face into her hands as her eyes stung. The thought of her eldest sons made her chest ache once more. But she knew she had to press forward.
“You did what I have done,” Marguerite said. “In bedding a man who was not your husband. But at least you did not do it while you were already married. I did not teach you to plot against kin - that was the others. But did not fight hard enough against it. Not like I tried with Geoffrey. Even Alias.”
Aines’ brow was raised as she seemed uncertain of what to make of any of this. Marguerite couldn’t blame her - she wasn’t certain what to make of this either.
“You… you came here to apologize for this?” Aines asked. “I… I do not know what to say.”
“I did not just come here to apologize,” Marguerite said. “I came to… to do what I failed to do first. That is… be a proper mother to you.”
“I think that is too late,” Aines said. “I wanted a proper mother and not an unfeeling ghoul years ago. There were times when I tried to speak to you. When I tried to ask about… the urges and thoughts I had. But it was never anything but dismissal and… and…”
“You’re right,” Marguerite said. “But it is never too late to start. For you need only look to me to see what not to do.”
The queen mother sighed. “Your eldest brother, Aubry is dead.”
Aines’ eyes widened. “I… I had not heard.”
Marguerite nodded. “I visited his grave. He died away from his blood. Isolated. Not forgotten by men, for he was a man of the cloth. But forgotten by his family. And afterthought to all. I failed him.”
“Now you understand why I wanted more for my children,” Aines said.
Marguerite shook her head. “You misunderstand. Aubry would not have been served by being a lord. Or a king. He would have been served in a world that cared and thought something of him. Your children need not be anything more than what they are to achieve that. But they need a mother who can do that. And if they only get a schemer, then they will be doomed to suffer the same fate as my eldest son.”
Aines eyed her. “I don’t understand.”
“Your fate does not end in that dusty keep,” Marguerite said. “You have another chance. Do it well enough and you will be Duchess of Toulouse and eventually Poitou. You will still be a princess, sister to a king. Your children will have a chance to be something in your brother’s court… if you do right by your family.”
“Geoffrey hates me,” Aines said. “I don’t blame him. But he does. He will never treat me as his blood again.”
“You are his sister,” Marguerite said. “He could have killed you. Or banished you. Or sent you to a convent. He instead allowed you to keep your union. Most people do not get such an opportunity after crimes such as yours. Make something of it. That is my mothering… advice to you.”
“And if I don’t listen?” Aines asked.
“Then your children will suffer,” Marguerite said. “As mine have. You included. If that is what you want, by all means, do as you do. For mark my words, it will happen. If you want something better for them, heed my warning instead.”
Marguerite stood up. “Now then, I have lost another son. But I have sworn I will not lose my daughter without a fight.”
“What do you mean?” Aines demanded.
“I have left my children to their own devices long enough,” Marguerite said. “You shall return with me to Bordeaux and take up residence in my chambers. And I shall truly watch you, and guide you… as I should have done before instead of letting you be.”
“Return?” Aines asked. “Has Geoffrey sanctioned it?”
“No,” Marguerite said. “But he is too busy to care. And his children are not in Bordeaux. Just yours… and I have not forgotten that promise, should you ever be caught plotting against your family again.”
Aines swallowed hard. “What if he sends me away again?”
“He will not,” Marguerite said. “So long as you keep your nose clean. And your legs closed.”
Aines blushed. “Mother… I…”
“If you
are with child again, tell me now,” Marguerite demanded.
“I am not,” Aines said. “After Giselle’s birth, the guards told me they had license to skewer Count Gui if he came anywhere near me.”
She lowered her head and her voice. “Or anyone else who was caught in my bed.”
Marguerite wished to laugh, but it brought back uncomfortable memories. Instead she just looked at her daughter square.
“Then let us return to Bordeaux. It is time for you to finally learn how to be a true lady… and believe it or not, you will find few better teachers than myself.”
Aines just eyed her and Marguerite knew she didn’t believe it. And Marguerite didn’t know if she believed it herself.
But she had meant what she said. She did not know if she could truly save her daughter. But she owed it to all of her children to finally try.