White Heart

by Sherry Jones

  “We are traders, not knights or foot soldiers, and would be loath to leave our shops for battles we are ill-prepared to fight,” the mayor of Orléans told me. “We hope, my lady, that you will honor the agreements made by King Philip Augustus, and grant us the freedom to govern ourselves. In exchange, we offer you our loyalty and love as well as a portion of our profits.”

  At the Cité Palace, Romano and I discussed the townsmen’s concerns with Guérin. “Many a villein and not a few knights have balked when pressed to fight, not wanting to leave the comforts of home,” the old monk said. “Why should these merchants be allowed to escape their duty?”

  “Villeins are good for little else besides tilling the soil and manning the battlefield,” Romano said. “And fighting is a knight’s sole task. As our towns prosper, however, so does our kingdom. If their merchants wish to devote their energies to trade, why resist, especially if they are offering fees in lieu of military service?”

  I agreed with Romano, but wondered if a compromise could be found between the two positions. “What if England invades? The townspeople would lose as much as the barons, if not more. If they won’t fight for us when we need them, should they expect our protection?”

  Louis came into the chancellery then, a wax tablet in his hand and a stricken expression on his face. “Read this, Mama,” he said, thrusting the tablet at me.

  What kind of king clings to his mother’s apron strings? the message etched on the tablet read. It bore no signature, but I knew the work of Pierre Mauclerc.

  I burst into laughter. “By God’s head, did we ever fear these petulant little boys?” I handed the tablet to Romano. He laughed, too, and told Louis to reply that the mighty Blanche de Castille wears an “apron” of chain mail with strings long enough to hang a man. Guérin shook his head. “We should not treat these taunts lightly,” he said.

  “Disregarding their slander will only embolden them,” he said. “You ought to arrest Pierre de Dreux for treason, my lady.”

  I was loath to do so. The House of Dreux’s influence reached throughout the realm and into the Holy Roman Empire—to the Emperor Frederick II himself. Only a few barons supported me now, and that number would further decline if I dealt harshly with Pierre. Even Robert Gâteblé might abandon me.

  “If ridicule is the worst Pierre can do, then I am far from worried,” I said airily. How could I fail, with Romano by my side? When Louis and Guérin had gone, leaving us to ourselves, I said as much to him.

  “Then you will not mind my letter to our new pope, asking for permanent assignment to France,” he said. “I told him that, as a weak woman, you must have my help or the kingdom might be torn apart.” His wink—as if his words were untrue—made me laugh. Romano, in Paris for good! Was it any wonder that, at the sound of the pipe, I danced him around the room?

  A week later, Hugh of Lusignan sent his own message to Louis. The lady Blanche, your mother, ought not to rule so great a thing as the realm of France, for it is not meet that a woman do such things. Unlike the first missive, this was no prank: It bore the signatures of Pierre and six other barons. And now they called me “Queen” no longer, but merely “lady.” The rebels had not abandoned their plan to oust me but had merely shifted strategies. Guérin was right: the time had come for action.

  “The only way to counter this ridicule is to present the king as his own man, in spite of his young age,” he said.

  The time to do so was at hand. We were even now planning to tour the castles of the realm, during which many of our subjects would see Louis for the first time. “We shall let Louis lead the tour, to show all the world that he is in command,” I said.

  “Even better, my lady, would be to let him go alone,” Guérin said. “Without his mother, I mean.”

  I hesitated. Send my boy into the hostile world unguarded? Guérin took offense. “Have I earned your mistrust? I protected him well, I thought, on the journey home from Loudun. Do you think I wouldn’t do so now?”

  He had a point. After our victory, Louis had preferred to lead his army directly home to Paris rather than linger in the towns with Romano and me. I had worried then, too, that rebels disappointed with our peace treaty might try to attack Louis—but Guérin had convinced me that my son would be safe. Perhaps I needed to release the strings binding me to him, and not the other way around.

  I bid him farewell with a lump in my throat—how very like his father he appeared now, taller and self-assured—but he avoided my kiss, clearly affected by the rebels’ chiding. I felt an ache in my breast, as if he had walked out through a door in my heart and left it open to the cold winds—but I quickly dismissed it. Louis was as much a part of me as my own soul. He would return soon enough.

  Imagine my distress a few weeks later, then, to hear that he was in danger. Two messengers burst into the great hall with the news: Louis and his knights and servants had fled the previous evening to the castle at Montlhéry, fearing for their lives. Pierre and Hugh, somehow hearing of his tour—had they planted spies in my court as well?—had gathered a large army at Corbeil to entrap him.

  How I refrained from tearing the hair from my head I will never know. “Thanks be to God for protecting the king, and to you for your haste in bringing us this news,” I said in a voice as still as a stopped heart. I ordered baths and a meal for the messengers, then walked to my chambers as if in a dream, suppressing the urge to run to him, go now, hurry before it is too late. My people needed strength from their queen, not womanly weakness. In that moment, I forgave my mother everything.

  Romano. But he was not here. Instead, I walked into my chambers to find Mincia laying out a new gown of gray-blue silk for the fête planned that evening in Louis’s honor. I had ordered the dress a week ago especially for this occasion. I snatched it up, crumpling the delicate fabric, and pressed it to my weeping eyes. The last time I’d planned a surprise welcome for someone, he’d never returned home.

  “My lady!” Mincia, the dear soul, my companion of nearly thirty years, pulled the tunic gently from my hands and handed it to Eudeline, then wrapped her arms around me. Together we sat on the bed’s edge as I told her the news.

  “Thank you, Holy Mother!” she cried. Her eyes shone. “The Virgin has answered my prayers. Since the king departed I have begged her daily to watch over him, and now behold: she has alerted him to this trap. Fear not, my lady. She will keep King Louis safe.”

  “Or, more likely, Montlhéry will do so.” Its five towers made it the most fortified castle in France. Mincia said nothing, but I could discern her thoughts behind her frown. You used to be pious. What has happened?

  “So many trials, and all undeserved,” I said with a sigh.

  “Remember Job, my lady. His trials strengthened his faith, as ours may do for us.”

  “Indeed, Mincia, I now have more faith than ever before—in my own abilities.”

  As much as I longed to do so, I could not cancel the fête. Already guests were arriving from as far away as Flanders and Toulouse. To raise an alarm would only lend credence to the rebels’ claims that I was weak and emotional, being female, and therefore unfit to rule. Maintaining calm in the face of this crisis was my best course of action. I could send no aid to Louis, anyway, until I mustered an army large enough to beat back the stubborn rebels. I hoped some of our guests—the provost of Paris, for instance, and Robert Gâteblé—might provide ideas and intelligence for doing so.

  Romano, too, would be here tonight, returned from his meeting with Pope Gregory in Rome. I was eager to learn what, if anything, had transpired. Had the pope granted his request? Please, God, give me Romano, at least. I’d come to depend on my cardinal. Without him now, I felt as if my every decision were a guess, and every happy result mere good fortune.

  That night, the musicians played cheerful tunes, as I had requested. News of Louis’s endangerment would have spread by now, and I wanted to convey confidence that we would prevail. Banners and ribbons trailed gold and blue, the colors of France, fro
m the rafters. Irises gathered wild from the banks of the Seine filled the hall with fragrance. The meal was served en confusion, all courses presented at once: spring green salad with mustard dressing, roasted eel, tourtes parmeriennes—Louis’s favorite, a gold-leaf-covered pastry castle with turrets of chicken legs—thirty dishes in all, wafting mouthwatering aromas that kept my 150 guests so occupied that no one noticed the paleness of my cheek—or the brittleness of my laugh as I waited for Romano, who should have arrived by now.

  Where is he? A minstrel sang Thibaut’s latest chanson—of unrequited love and heartbreak, a new theme—as, from his seat at my table, my cousin gazed at me with the eyes of a kicked puppy. I forbade myself to stare at Romano’s empty place beside him. Where could he be? I could not even send anyone out in search of him, for the highways on this moonless night teemed with robbers and cutthroats.

  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?”