White Heart Page 3

  Romano’s beautiful dark eyes smoldered. “I will take care of him, my lady.” He left my side to speak with the bishop, and soon a phalanx of armored knights was riding toward my cousin. I watched with, yes, satisfaction as they snatched up his banner and tossed it to the ground. Brandishing lances and swords, they sent the poor fool riding off as hurriedly as he had approached. The crowds cheered at this humiliation of their own count, having heard by now how he had deserted the French king. I wanted to cheer, too: not only had I shamed that traitor before his own people but, worse for him, he would miss the feast.

  Thibaut swatted away, Louis resumed his slow approach to the cathedral. I smiled at last to see my handsome boy waving so somberly to the people who lined the street, shouting his name and tossing flowers. Not yet a king, not yet a man, and yet he had already won the people’s hearts. They loved him because he was his father’s son, yes, but also for his beauty.

  “Behold the King of France, as soft and delicate as a girl. Does he inspire your confidence?”

  My head snapped around at the sound of that murmured comment. And who did I see but Philip Hurepel, my husband’s bastard brother, smirking with the glint-eyed Count of Coucy? I glanced away quickly, not wanting him to know I had heard.

  I should have known I couldn’t trust him. Ambition coated Philip’s tongue, greasing his words as though he dined on it at every meal. He’d flattered and coaxed Louis, asking for Boulogne until it was given to him—but, apparently, it was not enough. Ambition, especially for the undeserving, is a hunger that can never be sated.

  Whom, exactly, could I trust? The question had plagued me since Thibaut’s confession. I’d thought myself an astute judge of character—but no. I’d trusted Thibaut. I’d sighed to him during Louis’s long absence, yearning for my husband, fearing for his safety. Thibaut had patted my hand in consolation even though he knew that Louis would never return. He had deceived me utterly. It would never happen again. I now sought the demon behind every smile, the treacherous notes in every song of praise. Philip Hurepel had held Louis’s hand as he lay dying and pledged to support our son as king. He bore witness to Louis’s will, which left France in my care. Now, in his mocking words, I discerned his true intentions. As Philip Augustus’s son, he would press his own claim to the kingdom. In this world of treachery and lies, where might I find even one true soul?

  I ground my teeth, chewing on unease. What was amiss? Not Thibaut’s sudden appearance, no: that had surprised me, although perhaps it shouldn’t have, given my cousin’s fondness for attention. Not Philip’s disloyal words, for I had long sensed his envy of Louis. No, something else was afoot—not something unknown but something known. Something forgotten, or overlooked.

  At the cathedral doors, Louis dismounted from his too-big horse with Guérin’s help. Romano returned to my side, and my unease vanished. We stepped aside to let my son pass. As he walked by, he gazed up at me, searching, questioning, seeking my approval. Disturbed by my thoughts, I could only muster a thin grimace. Dear God, forgive me for my boy’s loss.

  Incense cloyed the air, sweet and thick. Candle flames dappled the room with light. The choir sang Gaude Felix Francia, a conductus written for the ceremony in Pérotin’s inimitable style: the traditional chant, familiar to all, over which added melodies rose and fell, weaving a musical tapestry from numerous threads. Rejoice, happy France! O Constance, blessed with new joys. How could Pérotin have written these cheerful words so soon after his king’s death? Even the monks singing them wiped tears from their eyes—but not I. My people needed manly strength from me, not womanish frailty.

  The abbot of Saint-Rémy stepped down the center aisle, cupping the holy ampulla under a white silk canopy held aloft on golden staffs by four monks. Some said an angel had brought the ampulla to Rheims seven hundred years ago for the baptism of King Clovis. I stretched my neck for a view of it. If I touched the chrism, would it dissolve my sins? But no—the holy oil and its blessing were reserved for men, who were made in God’s likeness.

  Not that any man in the room could compare to me—except, yes, Romano, who had answered my question of trust. Without his letter of support, I might not have gained the pope’s blessing to rule until my son’s majority. Without his aid, I could not have arranged this magnificent ceremony—the music, the thousands of candles, the banners hung along the streets, the incense from Outremer, the invitations delivered throughout the realm and beyond, the feast to follow with its thirty courses. I never asked for Romano’s help; he simply performed whatever task might be at hand. I’d even come to rely on his insights in the administering of the kingdom. How often he seemed to guess my thoughts before I discerned them!

  His eyes met mine then, as if I had spoken aloud, causing me for a moment to wonder if I had. What might I have said? I would give anything, my dear cardinal, for a mere drop of that blessed oil. He could obtain it for me, and be trusted never to tell another soul.

  And yet I could not confide my greatest secret even to Romano. I could tell no one, not even my confessor. Such a relief it might have been to unburden my soul! But I dreaded being blamed for Thibaut’s crime. Everyone at court had seen me caress him with my gaze, not out of love, dear God, but out of vanity. I was guilty, yes—but not of treason. My competitors would seize me, lock me away or even hang me, then fight among themselves for the throne. War would tear the kingdom apart, leaving France an easy mark for an English invasion. I would rather live with my terrible guilt than be remembered as the queen who brought down a 239-year-old dynasty.

  But—what was amiss? Why did dread fall like a cold rain about my head today? I lifted my nose, sniffing for danger as, on the platform, the bishop touched the oil to Louis’s forehead and chest. Then the choir sang again:

  May it please God, hanged on the cross above

  To keep you, gentle king, and those you love;

  And grant you, Sire, all virtue and all might

  To guard your throne and manifest your right.

  What is it about ceremonies? I have always found the familiar rituals, the majesty, and the music as comforting as a mother’s arms. As I watched my son’s coronation—the chamberlain Bartolomeu le Roie pulling on his hose, the young Duke of Burgundy affixing his knights’ spurs to his boots, the bishop handing him his sword—my frayed nerves settled. When the nobles placed the crown on his head, I sighed with relief. It was done. Louis was now the indisputable King of France, consecrated by the Church and ready to accept the homage of his peers.

  I would be the first to honor him. I ascended to the altar as the choir sang a lively Te Deum, my spirits soaring on the high notes, my step brisk with anticipation, yes, for a future in which my son and I would reign together. And yet, when I’d kissed my son’s signet ring, I saw uncertainty in his eyes.

  “Your Grace,” I murmured to him. “You are splendid.” I moved to stand beside him and view the barons as they followed suit. Their pledges of fealty would be crucial to France’s future. If only King Henry were among them.

  Not that I had expected the English king to be here today. He’d sent regrets, saying he could not travel from London in time for this ceremony, but I knew he would avoid bending his knee to us. He was Duke of Normandy—which belonged, now, to France—but he coveted that wealthy land for his own. Indeed, he had vowed to reclaim it for England, as his father had not been able to do.

  To take Normandy or any other lands from us, however, Henry would need the help of barons on this side of the channel—barons who, in a few moments, would be pledging their fealty to my son. I looked out into the crowd, expectant—and nearly gasped aloud.

  Where were the barons?

  I squinted in the dim light, searching every face. I saw the lank Robert de Gâteblé, Count of Dreux and Braine. There were Philip Hurepel and Coucy, with their bored wives. I also noted Ramon Berenger, the dashing Count of Provence, and his wife, the great beauty Beatrice of Savoy; Amaury de Montfort, and various other minor nobles. But none of the greates
t landholding lords had come—not Pierre de Dreux, or Hugh de Lusignan; neither the Viscount of Rochechouart, nor the Count of Auvergne, nor the Viscount of Thouars. Also missing was my cousin Raimond de Toulouse, shirking, it seemed, on his debt to me. If not for my intercession, he would have been branded a heretic years ago, and burned at the stake.

  Philip Hurepel met my gaze, his pursed mouth twitching as though he might burst into laughter. I looked away from him and searched the crowd again, in vain. Where were the great lords? Meeting with the English king, perhaps, and hatching plots against my son?

  Louis, too, noticed the snub. “What does it mean, Mama?” he asked after the ceremony had ended and the great ceremonial crown had been replaced by one that fit his head. Even so, he looked small and frightened. “Will there be a war?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said.

  “Do not be afraid.” His smile was tremulous. “The Lord will protect us.”

  As he protected your father? I wanted to say.

  “Afraid of Pierre Mauclerc? Not I,” I said, all bravado. “He and Hugh of Lusignan are like small biting flies, annoying but easily squashed.”

  “I agree,” Romano joined us. “These men will only test your powers, nothing more. Think of it, Blanche!” As we watched Louis distribute alms to the poor folk outdoors, the cardinal gave my arm an excited squeeze. He stood so close I could feel his body’s heat.

  “I do enjoy a challenge,” I said, ignoring my racing pulse. “Especially when the prize is such a juicy one. I long to see Pierre de Dreux on his knees, begging me for mercy.”

  “Which you, of course, will grant.”

  “Must I? Romano, you only want to spoil my pleasure. What good is a monarch’s power if I cannot use it to destroy my foes?”

  “A sovereign’s true power, my lady, comes not from the sword but from the heart. Why do you think Christ admonished us to love our enemies? You may win the battle by killing your opponents, but you secure your kingdom—in this life, and the next—by winning their devotion.”

  I laughed when I heard the news. Did Pierre and Hugh really think to surprise Blanche de Castille? I knew the spies my father-in-law and husband had planted in their midst, servants in their employ whose salaries I increased after my son’s coronation. Two months later, those spies reported that my enemies were amassing an army in Thouars. They planned to join forces with King Henry in April, seize Normandy, and march on Paris.

  “We need do nothing, then, until the spring thaw,” Brother Guérin advised, thinking of his comfort as old men are wont to do.

  “Unless, of course, you wish to surprise them,” Romano said.

  “If Pierre and that cuckold Hugh expect me to warm my feet by the fire while they increase their numbers, then they will be greatly surprised.”

  Romano looked into my eyes. “Blanche de Castille is full of surprises.” Not the least of which was my body’s response to him.

  Would kissing the handsome cardinal be a sin? Not a mortal one, no, and possibly not even a venial one. I, a widow, might kiss as I desired. Would God be displeased with me? Not that I cared, then, about pleasing God. What good had it done me thus far? I had lived chastely and purely—“white in heart as in head.” I’d become renowned—even criticized—for my generosity to the poor. I’d lived a pious life, and for what reward? My husband killed, my bed cold; and now my throne in danger. God, it seemed, had little interest in pleasing me.

  And besides, I would have a lifetime to atone for my sins once I took the veil. These are the stories I told myself.

  Unlike God, the cardinal of Sant’Angelo cared a great deal about pleasing me. Soon he had recruited 125 knights and soldiers to our cause. Robert de Gâteblé, Philip Hurepel, even Enguerrand de Coucy marched with us first to Tours, where Louis and I visited the monastery of Saint-Martin, the patron saint of soldiers—perhaps he would help us—and then to our castle at Loudun. In my first message to the rebels, I threatened to annihilate their camp, hang all the nobles, and dispossess their heirs unless they surrendered immediately. Their response: I must abdicate the throne and let one of them serve as Louis’s regent, or they would summon the English to take the kingdom by force. They would not, they said, submit to the rule of a woman and a child.

  “He claims to have an army of three hundred, my lady, all the finest swordsmen and archers in the land,” the messenger said.

  My resolve wavered. Three hundred men, mustered in so short a time—and in the cold of winter? And yet I could not back down. If I gave up the regency, Pierre would take the crown for himself and pass it to one of his heirs, depriving Louis—perhaps, knowing his ruthless nature, even killing him. So I sent message after message repeating my demand for surrender and, as Romano suggested, sent my troops to the river Dive under Louis’s command to await my order to attack.

  Although, as I now knew, their so-called army numbered only about thirty, Pierre stubbornly refused to give in. When he heard of all our knights and foot soldiers spread on the Dive’s opposite bank, however, he sent a special messenger to me. Imagine my astonishment to see Thibaut walk into the great hall.

  He did not look well. His eyes were bloodshot and his complexion was pale, and he had lost weight—which, believe it or not, detracted from his appearance. I studied him closely, wondering why he had come. Had he told Pierre of his wicked deed, and of the part I had unwittingly played? Thibaut was hardly a shrewd negotiator. Why would Pierre send him on so important a mission unless it were to unnerve me?

  I greeted him with a disingenuous kiss, which he answered with a clutch and a groan. “My beautiful lady! I had thought I might never embrace you again.”

  “Dear Thibaut, you know I can never stay away from you for long,” I lied. And lied. And lied. Already skilled in the art of deceiving Thibaut—a simple task with such a simple subject—I regained his loyalty as easily as if my words were table scraps and he a starving dog.

  “But I thought—after my deed—”

  “Shhh!” I placed a gloved finger gently on his lips. “Promise me that you will never speak of that again. I would not see one hair on your head harmed because of me.”

  “So you do admit—”

  “Shhh! Yes, cousin, I accept the blame for everything. I should not have plied you with promises and flattered you with falsehoods.”

  “Falsehoods?” he squeaked.

  “Dear Thibaut, can you ever forgive me? As much as I wanted to return your love, I could not—not in the same measure.” I summoned tears to my eyes. “How often have I thought that, could I only do so, I should be the happiest woman in the world. For there is no finer man anywhere.”

  “Of course I forgive you!” His face pinkened with sympathy. “And of course, you need not apologize about that”—my finger to my own lips now—“misunderstanding.”

  “I blame myself entirely for it,” I said. Then, in a whisper, “I beg you never to speak of it again, not even to me, not even to yourself— unless you wish to see your Blanche dangling with a broken neck on the gibbet of Montfaucon.”

  “Hanged at Montfaucon? No, lady, never!” He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped the beads of sweat popping on his brow. And then, Thibaut’s affections—and his large, well-equipped army—restored to me, I summoned Romano. What a great error that nearly turned out to be! My cousin poked out his lower lip like a giant baby and glowered at the legate, his arms folded over his chest, until Romano at last invented a headache and left us alone. Then, after I’d ordered wine and roast pigeons for Thibaut, we began negotiations, if they can be called that. Having boasted to Pierre that I would do his bidding—the reason, no doubt, Pierre had sent him—my cousin betrayed him utterly by agreeing to every one of my conditions.

  He returned to Mauclerc the next morning with a contrived report that hundreds of additional troops had joined my camp. We were preparing, he said, to sweep like a tornado across Thouars unless he capitulated—which Pierre did. Never had a battle been so bloodlessly fought, or so eas
ily won, the chroniclers proclaimed. Easily won, yes, if you think it is easy to disguise revulsion and hatred with sweet words and kisses. Oh, the things I have done for France.

  Such pleasure it gave me to see Pierre de Dreux and Hugh de Lusignan kneel at the feet of my son! I had to resist the urge to kick the soft dirt into their faces as they bent their heads to kiss his ring. It would have been a far kinder act than throwing them into the jail, which was what I really wanted to do. Admonished by Romano’s cautionary gaze, however, I feigned forgiveness. Romano had already shown me the power of mercy. At his suggestion I had released the treasonous Count of Flanders after ten years’ imprisonment—and he, in return, had sent troops to Loudun in my support. His wife, Johanna, who had hated me when we were girls, embraced me as though we were loving sisters and declared herself mistaken for thinking me “insufferably vain and self-centered.” As tall as a man and horse-faced, she had always been, understandably, jealous of my graceful good looks.

  Now my task was to win the devotion of the rebels. As they knelt to kiss Louis’s ring, I beamed every speck of warmth that I could muster while Hugh’s scheming wife, Isabella, King Henry’s mother, stood nearby tossing me haughty sneers. No doubt she’d plotted this entire coup, craving my throne for herself. Otherwise why would she refuse to pay homage to Louis? “I am a queen, and bend my knee to no one,” she said. We would see about that.

  We rode home in high spirits, tossing coins to the folk who came out to cheer our success. The way our faces shone with pride, one might have thought we’d conquered Jerusalem for the pope, but privately I worried. I’d seen Pierre exchange devious glances with Isabella after he kissed Louis’s ring. Forced allegiance makes for an inconstant friend. He would try again to oust me, I knew.

  Yet my heart felt as light as a song. Let Pierre and his malcontents plot and scheme and attack all they wished! We were invincible. After the news spread of our success at Loudun, the grateful merchants and mayors of Melun, Sens, Bourge, and Orléans fêted us as we passed through each town. For Pierre to control France would be disaster for them, they said. Everyone knew he’d taxed Brittany’s bishops so severely that the pope of Rome excommunicated him. Then, undaunted, he’d refused to grant a self-governance charter to the town of Rennes, saying that the land was Brittany’s and that, as their “duke” (the title of count, apparently, not being prestigious enough) he had the right to make villeins of them all.