White Heart (6 page)

Had he been captured by the rebels? My heart seemed to turn over at the thought. Everyone knew, by now, how I depended on his counsel. But no. Were he attacked, I would be the first to hear of it. The journey from Rome was long and difficult. A lame horse, a violent storm, an unexpected problem at one of the abbeys he had visited—any number of surprises might cause his delay. And yet I found my eyes darting again and again to the palace door, as if by willing his appearance I might make it so. If only I possessed such powers!
Hurry, Romano—I need you more now than ever before.

Without him, I could only muddle through the evening, feigning ease as I fought back images of my son being thrown into some dark jail, then being burned with candle flames or bitten by rats, or subject to another of Pierre’s imaginative and cruel tortures until he renounced his allegiance to me.

I needed to raise an army, and quickly. Whom, though, could I call? Thibaut, yes; Flanders, yes; Toulouse, possibly. But they were far away, and their vassals would not eagerly rush to our aid at the start of the planting season.

“What of these rumors, my lady, that the young king is held hostage at Montlhéry?” The Parisian provost, sitting on my left, had leaned close to murmur his question—discreetly, thank God, so that no one could guess why I began to fan myself.

“Hostage? By God’s head, sir, I had not heard that tale.” I gave a little laugh. “Yes, King Louis is at Montlhéry, but as a precaution only. I assure you, he is safe—for now.” In a low voice I told him of my son’s predicament, and my worries over gathering an army. Montlhéry was strong, but Pierre, who had spent much time there with my late husband, would know better than even I how its defenses might be breached.

The provost’s eyebrows flew upward, nearly touching his receding hairline. “This is unconscionable! Our beloved king, threatened by the likes of Pierre Mauclerc? Paris will never support that scoundrel, I assure you.”

“I know,
monsieur.
The Parisians’ loyalty has never wavered.” An idea glimmered in my mind then, like a gold ring in the bottom of a clear pool. I sighed. “If only they were accomplished fighters, too. Pierre’s army is said to be quite large. And merchants, it seems, are not warriors.”

“Not warriors! Whoever gave you that idea,
madame
?” He thrust out his chest. “The merchants of Paris have swords, and they wield them deftly. How else would we guard our profits against swindlers and thieves?”

“Swindlers and thieves.” I sent him a sly glance. “What a clever way to describe these rebels. No wonder the men of Paris chose you as their provost.” I dropped my gaze, and sighed again. “But already we have been told that merchants do not wish to leave their shops to fight, even for their king.”

“Ah, but we are men, my lady, with men’s hearts. Who among us would not rush to your side if asked?”

“They would lose income—”

“Pffff.” He waved a hand as if clearing away a bad smell. “We must earn our livings, but the loss would be small compared to the loss of our king.”

“Perhaps I could reimburse you.”

“Do not even think of it! Of course—that is
my
assessment. The members of the Paris commune may not agree, but even so, the amount needed would be small.”

“No amount would be great enough to convey my gratitude.” I placed my hand on his, and noticed a blush creeping up his neck. “Especially to you,
monsieur,
for gathering a force in so short a time. But—do you think it is possible to do so? Will we have enough to defeat Pierre Mauclerc and Hugh de La Marche and all their men?”

“Leave it to me, my lady. The men of Paris all swoon for you and your beautiful ‘eyes of vair’”—from one of Thibaut’s songs—“and the plight of a mother in fear for her son will be the
pièce de résistance
to convince any doubters.” He tore a drumstick from his
tourte parmerienne
and chomped down on it so ferociously that he bit his own mouth. I pretended not to notice his exclamation or the blood beading on his lip—but I did wonder whether such a nervous man would plead my cause effectively.

“What a brilliant idea!
Monsieur,
you astonish me. My God, why didn’t I think of it?”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Where should I appear, then, and at what time in the morning?”

“For what, my lady?”

I laughed. “I can see that your attention has shifted to the delicious flavors of the meal. But if I am to address the burghers of Paris in the morning, I must know when and where your meeting will occur.”

“Y-you will address us?” He gulped. “Queen Blanche de Castille, coming to our meeting?”

“Are you having second thoughts? It is a most excellent idea. I thought so as soon as you suggested it.”

“No! No, my lady. Of course you must come, as my special guest.”

“I would be delighted.” I smiled at him. “And honored.”

“No—the honor is all mine!” And he leapt up from his seat and ran out the door—to alert the city, I hoped, to the morning’s special appearance by his close friend the queen.

But where was Romano? Later that night, as the others in the palace settled into slumber, I paced the floor of my chambers, more distraught than ever. Why hadn’t he arrived? I should have sent someone to look for him hours ago, but I’d feared the gossip that might ensue.
Why does the queen’s cheek grow pale at the cardinal’s absence? Have you noticed how she blushes when he is near?

Where is he?
Why hadn’t he sent a messenger, at least, informing me of his delay? He’d known of tonight’s feast. He had even suggested that I invite the provost.
If you cannot trust the barons, then you must find support elsewhere.
Paris was the natural place to turn. In my years there, I had grown to love the city, with its grand cathedrals, its great river, its colorful markets, its musicians and poets, its university attracting young scholars from all over the world. Paris was my home in a way that Castille had never been. Its people, I felt, were
my
people. So why did the very idea of speaking before them make my mouth feel dry?

“Oh, God,” I moaned, slumping to my bed, “what have I done?”

“Something magnificent, I wager.”

I turned my head at the sound of his voice. “Romano!” I rose and, without a thought, crossed the room and slid my arms around him, pressing my cheek to his. He smelled of camphor and rosewater. His arms wound about my waist. For a long time, neither of us spoke, just embraced so closely that I could feel his pulse knocking against both our chests.

“Thank God you are safe.”

“Safe?” He loosened his hold to give me a quizzical look.

“You were supposed to be here hours ago! The feast we planned for Louis, remember?”

“Oh, yes. I am sorry I missed it, dear lady. I returned to the palace late in the afternoon after an exhausting journey. We lost a wheel on our wagon and had to unload everything to repair it, and then, a short time later, it broke again. I was so impatient that I insisted on fixing it myself the second time, which was much more difficult than I had imagined.”

“You arrived this afternoon?” I let him go. “But—where have you been all this time?”

He chuckled. “Sleeping. Like a babe, in my chambers. Or, given how fitfully babies sleep, let me change that. I slept like the dead, my dear.”

“Sleeping! While I’ve been through the fires of hell.” I hugged myself now.

“What do you mean, Blanche? What has happened?”

I told him everything—of the threat to Louis and his flight to Montlhéry, of the feast in his honor at which I’d had to hide my mounting panic, of my impetuous promise to speak to the members of the Paris commune in the morning.

“I have never spoken to a group, not in that way,” I said. “The very thought of it makes my stomach churn. Mother Mary, why didn’t I think before proposing such a thing? Now all of Paris will see me as a weak and foolish woman.”

Romano laughed. Laughed! “How dare you mock me, when you are the cause of my distress?” I snapped.

“The cause?” Concern seeped into his eyes. “How is that, Blanche?”

“I needed you today, but you weren’t here. Or, rather, you
were
here, but you were busy. Sleeping.” I spat the last word, bitter as it tasted.

“My dear, I am sorry I wasn’t here. Truly I am. But—am I the cause of your distress? Because it seems to me that you haven’t needed me at all.”

“My son is in danger.”

“He is at Montlhéry, the safest castle in all of France.”

“Pierre and Hugh will certainly attack, and I have no army.”

“But you are going to recruit one tomorrow with your brilliant speech.”

“But what if it isn’t brilliant? What if my tongue trips over itself and I cannot speak at all? What if I bore everyone, or if they laugh at me? I would rather die. How could I bear their mockery?”

“You are overwrought,” Romano said. “Sit down, my lady.”

I did as he asked. Standing behind me, he laid his hands on my shoulders. I gave a slight gasp but did not protest, for in the next instant he was massaging them, kneading away my fears, untangling my knots. As he did so, he murmured questions about the speech I would give in the morning, asking what I hoped to accomplish, prompting me as to what I might say and how I might say it, warming me with his palms and his fingertips until, relaxed at last, I melted into my bed. I never even thought to argue when he lay beside me.

“You should have seen the fear in your eyes,” he said. “You, the most remarkable woman in all the world, should never feel afraid—not of the mere mortals who people this earth, at least. You have done everything right, even without my help. You don’t need me, Blanche. You don’t need anyone.”

He kissed my forehead, as chastely as if we were brother and sister, and started to rise—but I held on to his hand, pulling him back to me. “I
am
afraid, especially tonight,” I whispered. “My son’s life hangs in the balance, and it is up to me to save him. What if I fail? Don’t leave me alone with these terrible thoughts.”

“If we are discovered—”

“By whom? Mincia? She would never tell a soul. Romano. I do need you tonight, more than you could ever imagine. Come and hold me. I will feel safe in your arms.”

My speech rolled like thunder from my tongue, striking awe.
I came to France alone, leaving my family and friends in Castille, bringing no one with me except my handmaid. Now you are my family. You are my friends.
Having twisted the rebels’ complaints against me—I was a “foreign” queen, yes, as they so scornfully said, and also a lonely one—I then appealed to their manly instincts. Louis was still a child, and needed our protection. Unless we rescued him, the plotters would seize him, and the Crown, for their own plunder.
So much more is at stake than the life of one boy. The future of France depends on Paris. It depends on you.

At the palace, knights in hauberks and mail suits strutted and laughed among horses being saddled and fed by servants. I frowned: These were Romano’s men, their horses sporting the red and gold colors of Rome. Would he leave me again so soon?

I found him in the great hall, sending a messenger out the door with an admonition to hurry: “The king’s life depends upon your haste.”

“He’s going to Flanders,” he told me. “The Count of Champagne has already agreed to send men, without even hearing your speech today. Blanche, what a triumph it was! You astound me daily.” The look in his eyes made me want to weep with joy.

“I see your horses and knights preparing to travel,” I said, hating my own breathlessness. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Not I, but you, my lady.” Together we walked to my chambers, where Mincia had laid out Romano’s clothes: a flowing white tunic, a blue velvet robe, a broad-brimmed hat. “These are for you,” he said. “To disguise yourself.”

After leaving my bed the night before—as I’d slept—Romano had gone to work, calling together his own knights to escort me to Montlhéry, and petitioning everyone he could think of, even the pope, to defend me and my son. “After your rousing plea today, I have no doubt that the Parisians will respond. And now, you must go.”

“I cannot leave now. The Parisians—”

“I will take care of everything. Your son needs you, and you must go to him.”

“In your clothes?” I fingered the soft fabric, imagined it against my skin, this tunic that he had worn.

“Not even a common robber would dare attack the papal legate.” I, however, would be in greater danger than Louis were I discovered on the Orléans road. I alone stood between the rebels and the throne.

Mincia dressed me in a hurry. I would need to ride immediately if I wanted to make it to Montlhéry today. At Corbeil, said my spies, confusion reigned. When the rebels heard of Louis’s taking refuge in the castle, they’d cursed, their plans for a surprise attack foiled. Pierre and Philip Hurepel, both hoping for the crown, were quarreling. Philip wanted to storm the castle, while Pierre, knowing how heavily fortified were its walls, wanted to wait until Louis ventured out and then swoop down like a hand to snatch him up. They aimed, as I’d suspected, to separate him from me and take the throne for themselves. But they hadn’t reckoned on me.

Romano’s kiss on my forehead. His mint-scented breath. The look in his eyes—what was it?

I wondered, settling into the saddle on his white palfrey, how I would endure the long hours that reaching my son would require. I wished that I could fly, and indeed as I whipped my horse to go faster, faster, the countryside passing in a blur, its hooves seemed never to touch the ground. The rebel barons were well versed in the art of siege warfare. Many of them had taken the cross, and learned from the Saracens terrible new acts of devastation.
Please, O Lord, do not let them harm a hair on his head.
I remembered Romano’s admonition the night before, that if I were afraid I might pray for God’s comfort.
You are the answer to my prayers, Romano.
Indeed, he was the prayer itself.

We reached the castle before dusk, our horses lathered, my legs weak from the long ride, my hair straying from under my cardinal’s hat. The rebel army had not arrived yet, praise God. The castle guards stared as if I were a wraith, astonished to see a woman in a man’s attire—especially the cardinal’s holy vestments—but they lowered the gate to me without delay and I hurried into the great hall to see my beautiful, marvelous, regal—sullen—son.