can easily guess—glares at her. He has lost this game, and he knows it. But did he really expect to triumph over Blanche de Castille?
“White in heart as in head,” people used to say of her twenty-seven years ago, when she arrived in France to marry the prince Louis. Perhaps her grand-mère had this sentiment in mind when she chose Blanche over her older sister to become France’s next queen. “Blanche will be an easier name for the French to pronounce” was her excuse. Its connotation of whiteness may help her now, please God.
“We have heard it said that we are with child.” She turns her body this way and that, giving all the room a full view of her stomach sunken, like the rest of her, by grief; her smallish, unswollen breasts. “Is this the body of a pregnant woman?”
Thibaut is licking his lips, damn him to hell. Were it not for him, she would not be in this predicament.
“Have you seen enough?” She lowers her gaze to them, meets Pierre’s whip-like glare, the as-yet-beseeching eyes of Robert de Gâteblé. One by one they look away like bashful children caught in some wicked deed. “Does anyone still believe we’re carrying the child of Romano, the cardinal of Sant’Angelo?”
Her voice snags on his name. She looks down her nose at them, daring them to notice. Romano. Gone this morning with a final kiss, his fringe of hair curling darkly over his soft Italian eyes, his soft hands like warm milk on her skin. The taste of him lingers on her tongue.
Thibaut stands. “We have seen all we need to see.” He rushes over to her, his chins jiggling. His breath comes in labored pants. He snatches the gown from Mincia’s hands and holds it high over Blanche’s head. “May I?”
She lifts her arms. He slips the gown gently over her head, then over her shivering body.
“It is evident to me, monsieurs, and it should be to you, as well, that our queen is innocent,” he says as Mincia and Eudeline finish dressing her.
“Perhaps now,” Robert says, “these terrible rumors will cease.”
“Cease they must, monsieurs, for I have now proved them to be lies.” She gives Pierre a pointed look. She imagines him swinging from a noose, and a smile tugs at her lips. His face turns as pale as her own. “You all know the penalty for treason,” she says and sweeps around to ascend the stairs, the taps of her booted feet on the stone the only sound audible in the great, stunned hall.
One year earlier Paris, November 1226
At first, I thought he mocked me with that twisting mouth, forming words I couldn’t hear. But I could read his lips. The king is dead.
My shriek skittered horses, rolling their eyes. I slumped to the ground, crushed by God’s own hand. Louis. My only love, taken so soon. Dear Lord, take me, too.
Brother Guérin tried to help me up. “My lady.” His voice trembled with sorrow and something else: alarm. It is not seemly for a queen to cry. Who said that to me? Hugh, the bishop of Lincoln, when he found me sobbing at the Cité Palace, newly arrived in Paris and sick for Castille. A mother’s tears are her children’s worry and woe. He had a pinched nose, like the beak of the swan he kept as his pet, and his brown eyes looked tired. As queen, you are mother to your people. You must hide your woman’s frailty from them and show only strength.
I was strong, but my knees were weak. Guérin pulled me up ever so gently, but I could not walk. I leaned against him, staring at the road spooling out before me, as desolate as my heart’s terrain. A hawk circled overhead. Louis, dead? I pressed my fist into my mouth, stifling my sob.
A hand squeezed mine. I looked down into the solemn gaze of my son, also named Louis, the sweetest boy in all the world and now the King of France. How proudly he had led this procession, a surprise greeting for his father, Louis the Lion, on his way home after seven months in the south and now—dead? I tried to speak the word, but it weighted my tongue like a
“White in heart as in head,” people used to say of her twenty-seven years ago, when she arrived in France to marry the prince Louis. Perhaps her grand-mère had this sentiment in mind when she chose Blanche over her older sister to become France’s next queen. “Blanche will be an easier name for the French to pronounce” was her excuse. Its connotation of whiteness may help her now, please God.
“We have heard it said that we are with child.” She turns her body this way and that, giving all the room a full view of her stomach sunken, like the rest of her, by grief; her smallish, unswollen breasts. “Is this the body of a pregnant woman?”
Thibaut is licking his lips, damn him to hell. Were it not for him, she would not be in this predicament.
“Have you seen enough?” She lowers her gaze to them, meets Pierre’s whip-like glare, the as-yet-beseeching eyes of Robert de Gâteblé. One by one they look away like bashful children caught in some wicked deed. “Does anyone still believe we’re carrying the child of Romano, the cardinal of Sant’Angelo?”
Her voice snags on his name. She looks down her nose at them, daring them to notice. Romano. Gone this morning with a final kiss, his fringe of hair curling darkly over his soft Italian eyes, his soft hands like warm milk on her skin. The taste of him lingers on her tongue.
Thibaut stands. “We have seen all we need to see.” He rushes over to her, his chins jiggling. His breath comes in labored pants. He snatches the gown from Mincia’s hands and holds it high over Blanche’s head. “May I?”
She lifts her arms. He slips the gown gently over her head, then over her shivering body.
“It is evident to me, monsieurs, and it should be to you, as well, that our queen is innocent,” he says as Mincia and Eudeline finish dressing her.
“Perhaps now,” Robert says, “these terrible rumors will cease.”
“Cease they must, monsieurs, for I have now proved them to be lies.” She gives Pierre a pointed look. She imagines him swinging from a noose, and a smile tugs at her lips. His face turns as pale as her own. “You all know the penalty for treason,” she says and sweeps around to ascend the stairs, the taps of her booted feet on the stone the only sound audible in the great, stunned hall.
One year earlier Paris, November 1226
At first, I thought he mocked me with that twisting mouth, forming words I couldn’t hear. But I could read his lips. The king is dead.
My shriek skittered horses, rolling their eyes. I slumped to the ground, crushed by God’s own hand. Louis. My only love, taken so soon. Dear Lord, take me, too.
Brother Guérin tried to help me up. “My lady.” His voice trembled with sorrow and something else: alarm. It is not seemly for a queen to cry. Who said that to me? Hugh, the bishop of Lincoln, when he found me sobbing at the Cité Palace, newly arrived in Paris and sick for Castille. A mother’s tears are her children’s worry and woe. He had a pinched nose, like the beak of the swan he kept as his pet, and his brown eyes looked tired. As queen, you are mother to your people. You must hide your woman’s frailty from them and show only strength.
I was strong, but my knees were weak. Guérin pulled me up ever so gently, but I could not walk. I leaned against him, staring at the road spooling out before me, as desolate as my heart’s terrain. A hawk circled overhead. Louis, dead? I pressed my fist into my mouth, stifling my sob.
A hand squeezed mine. I looked down into the solemn gaze of my son, also named Louis, the sweetest boy in all the world and now the King of France. How proudly he had led this procession, a surprise greeting for his father, Louis the Lion, on his way home after seven months in the south and now—dead? I tried to speak the word, but it weighted my tongue like a
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