stone. My stifled tears began to leak from my pores.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” I moaned.
“Mama,” Louis said, “I am here.”
I looked into his eyes, bluer than sky—his father’s eyes, never to be seen again—and tried to smile. I tried to be brave for him, my eldest and best boy, although not the firstborn, dear God. Two daughters dropped like unripe fruit from my immature body before Philip came screaming into the world, only to leave it again at nine. Two more boys stillborn left Louis as heir to the throne. One might think me accustomed to death, but no. To this day I hear the scrape of poor Philip’s final breaths, like fingernails clawing for purchase on a sheer cliff.
The king is dead. Louis! My knees buckled again and I fell, or rather, I flung myself down, letting my son go, letting myself go, folding over myself, burying my face in my lap, my hands over my eyes—crying, yes, the Queen of France, in a sobbing heap in the middle of the world, or at the end of the world.
I longed for darkness, but found it only within. Bereft of my husband and abandoned by my God in a single sweep of death’s scythe? A queen must not cry. Mama, help me! Eleanor of England never cried, not even when she heard that Papa had been killed. “We are most aggrieved,” she said. That was all. In a quiet voice she ordered baths for the messengers and a feast for the knights returning from the field, then rode out to view his body. Thanks be to God that it was not Papa who lay under that velvet wrap. Another knight had donned the king’s mantle to fool the Saracen generals, and the trick had worked. A poet wrote of the “moistness” in Mama’s eyes when she found my father alive—wounded in the neck and faint with thirst—but that was all. Another woman might have cried from relief, but not my mother. Her sorrows pooled within her heart until, at last, it burst, killing her. Was that strength?
I pressed my hands to my face, but the flow would not stop. Grief was a river rushing from my eyes and dripping through my fingers. “May I help you to your feet, my lady?” Mincia’s whisper threaded through my sobs. It is unseemly for a queen to cry, even more so for her to grovel in the dirt. I wanted only to sink farther down, to bury myself. How would I live without him?
A hand pressed my shoulder. Guérin stood beside me, his tears falling like rain onto my head. Glancing up at him I spied the handle of his dagger in the sheath on his belt, glinting in the incongruous sunlight. I leapt up and snatched the blade, thinking to plunge it into my breast—but Guérin clasped my wrist and would not allow it. “I beg you to remember your children, my lady,” he wept. In the carriage, my children, Robert, Jean Tristan, Alphonse, and Phillippe, shouted my name. Louis led me by the hand back to them.
“Do not you leave me, too, Mama,” he said, so sweet and earnest. “You must help me to be king.”
Inside the carriage, my boys clambered atop me, shielding me or perhaps seeking shelter. A mother’s tears are her children’s worry and woe. My prostrate grief had frightened them. I felt sorry, especially for Louis, who depended on my strength. France had become a mighty force under his grandfather Philip Augustus, its rule too demanding for even the most capable of twelve-year-old kings. As ardently as I yearned for death, I rose, in that moment, to the tasks left for me: to go on ruling France as I had done these past seven months, and to prepare my son to meet his fate.
Indeed, I had reigned since the day my husband and I were crowned, three years earlier on the Feast of the Transfiguration. An auspicious date it was, for I, like the Lord, entered heaven on that day, now joined with Louis more completely than in all our years of marriage. We ruled not as a body with two heads but as one head with two bodies. He consulted me on all matters, included me in every meeting, every counsel, every petition,
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” I moaned.
“Mama,” Louis said, “I am here.”
I looked into his eyes, bluer than sky—his father’s eyes, never to be seen again—and tried to smile. I tried to be brave for him, my eldest and best boy, although not the firstborn, dear God. Two daughters dropped like unripe fruit from my immature body before Philip came screaming into the world, only to leave it again at nine. Two more boys stillborn left Louis as heir to the throne. One might think me accustomed to death, but no. To this day I hear the scrape of poor Philip’s final breaths, like fingernails clawing for purchase on a sheer cliff.
The king is dead. Louis! My knees buckled again and I fell, or rather, I flung myself down, letting my son go, letting myself go, folding over myself, burying my face in my lap, my hands over my eyes—crying, yes, the Queen of France, in a sobbing heap in the middle of the world, or at the end of the world.
I longed for darkness, but found it only within. Bereft of my husband and abandoned by my God in a single sweep of death’s scythe? A queen must not cry. Mama, help me! Eleanor of England never cried, not even when she heard that Papa had been killed. “We are most aggrieved,” she said. That was all. In a quiet voice she ordered baths for the messengers and a feast for the knights returning from the field, then rode out to view his body. Thanks be to God that it was not Papa who lay under that velvet wrap. Another knight had donned the king’s mantle to fool the Saracen generals, and the trick had worked. A poet wrote of the “moistness” in Mama’s eyes when she found my father alive—wounded in the neck and faint with thirst—but that was all. Another woman might have cried from relief, but not my mother. Her sorrows pooled within her heart until, at last, it burst, killing her. Was that strength?
I pressed my hands to my face, but the flow would not stop. Grief was a river rushing from my eyes and dripping through my fingers. “May I help you to your feet, my lady?” Mincia’s whisper threaded through my sobs. It is unseemly for a queen to cry, even more so for her to grovel in the dirt. I wanted only to sink farther down, to bury myself. How would I live without him?
A hand pressed my shoulder. Guérin stood beside me, his tears falling like rain onto my head. Glancing up at him I spied the handle of his dagger in the sheath on his belt, glinting in the incongruous sunlight. I leapt up and snatched the blade, thinking to plunge it into my breast—but Guérin clasped my wrist and would not allow it. “I beg you to remember your children, my lady,” he wept. In the carriage, my children, Robert, Jean Tristan, Alphonse, and Phillippe, shouted my name. Louis led me by the hand back to them.
“Do not you leave me, too, Mama,” he said, so sweet and earnest. “You must help me to be king.”
Inside the carriage, my boys clambered atop me, shielding me or perhaps seeking shelter. A mother’s tears are her children’s worry and woe. My prostrate grief had frightened them. I felt sorry, especially for Louis, who depended on my strength. France had become a mighty force under his grandfather Philip Augustus, its rule too demanding for even the most capable of twelve-year-old kings. As ardently as I yearned for death, I rose, in that moment, to the tasks left for me: to go on ruling France as I had done these past seven months, and to prepare my son to meet his fate.
Indeed, I had reigned since the day my husband and I were crowned, three years earlier on the Feast of the Transfiguration. An auspicious date it was, for I, like the Lord, entered heaven on that day, now joined with Louis more completely than in all our years of marriage. We ruled not as a body with two heads but as one head with two bodies. He consulted me on all matters, included me in every meeting, every counsel, every petition,
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