theirs—delivered as it was from your pure, white heart.”
And then, suddenly, he was gone.
I should have recognized the portents: the whispers falling like snowflakes from the palace ceiling; the twisted grins on my chamber guards’ faces; the bawdy song performed during the Christmas feast about a lady and a priest—and, afterward, Thibaut’s pouting refusal to present any of his chansons . The palace reeked of scandal, and the only ones who didn’t smell it were Romano and me.
He came to me in the morning, weeping, before I arose. Pope Gregory had called him back to Rome—permanently. “Vicious rumors have reached his ears, my lady, about the two of us.” Apparently our one, innocent night in my bed had become, on the lips of the rumormongers, numerous wild nights of unrestrained ecstasy resulting, now, in my pregnancy. I would have laughed at the absurdity—how I wished to be guilty of the crime!—if I were not fighting back tears.
“But—our love is chaste! We’ve done nothing wrong. For what, then, would he punish you?”
“Punishment is not his intention,” Romano said. “By removing me, he aims to stanch the gossip. It is deleterious not only to the Church but to you also, and to the king.”
“Of course it is harmful to me,” I snapped. “Else why would my enemies invent these tales?” An affair with the papal legate was an especially juicy scenario, one that cast me as immoral in more ways than one. “Let me travel with you to Rome. I’ll tell Pope Gregory the truth about us, and make him see how much I need you.”
“No, my sweet.” A tear fell from his eye and landed on my hand. “His Grace will not be swayed. He demands my immediate return.”
I pulled aside my bedcovers, inviting him. He slid in beside me, placed his arms around me, and kissed me tenderly for an hour. Who cared, then, about scandal? We had done nothing but, given the penalty we faced, we might as well have done it all.
He left then, sending Mincia back to comfort me, but I turned her away, telling her I was sick and needed to convalesce in peace. She offered to call the healer, but I waved the suggestion aside, saying I wanted only quiet.
When she had gone, leaving me utterly alone, I was able, at long last, to cry.
It is unseemly for a queen to cry. Who said so? A man, that was who, with no inkling of the ways of a woman’s heart—or the sufferings in a woman’s life. Is not a queen human, with frailties and passions? Hugh of Lincoln had denied me my tears; now, Pierre Mauclerc and the pope of Rome—an unlikely pairing—had denied me love. Was anger the only emotion a queen was allowed to feel?
“Are you ill?” At the sound of Louis’s voice, breaking like an egg on the sharp cusp of manhood, I looked up and thought I saw his father’s ghost. But no.
“I am sick at heart,” I said. “And with no one to hold me.” I turned away from him, ashamed of my swollen eyes, my tear-blown face, knowing that a mother’s tears are her children’s worry and woe— and then I felt his arms around me, and his young, slender body curling against mine. I turned around and buried my face in his neck and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
“My boy. I thought I had lost you,” I said when I’d caught my breath.
“I am here, Mama. You are the one leaving, to join the Fontevrault convent.” Tears welled in his eyes. “Pierre de Dreux wrote it to me from Corbeil, before you arrived in Montlhéry.”
“Is that why you have been angry?”
“I have already lost my father.”
“ Mon chèr! I never meant it.” I stroked his hair, touched his cheek. “I only said it to Pierre because he was pressuring me to marry him.”
“But—wouldn’t you like to marry? Your life would be less lonely.”
“Marry, and risk losing your inheritance? Even the most honorable man, having the Crown at his fingertips, might be tempted to seize it for himself. Oh, Louis—don’t you know, my love? I would do anything for
And then, suddenly, he was gone.
I should have recognized the portents: the whispers falling like snowflakes from the palace ceiling; the twisted grins on my chamber guards’ faces; the bawdy song performed during the Christmas feast about a lady and a priest—and, afterward, Thibaut’s pouting refusal to present any of his chansons . The palace reeked of scandal, and the only ones who didn’t smell it were Romano and me.
He came to me in the morning, weeping, before I arose. Pope Gregory had called him back to Rome—permanently. “Vicious rumors have reached his ears, my lady, about the two of us.” Apparently our one, innocent night in my bed had become, on the lips of the rumormongers, numerous wild nights of unrestrained ecstasy resulting, now, in my pregnancy. I would have laughed at the absurdity—how I wished to be guilty of the crime!—if I were not fighting back tears.
“But—our love is chaste! We’ve done nothing wrong. For what, then, would he punish you?”
“Punishment is not his intention,” Romano said. “By removing me, he aims to stanch the gossip. It is deleterious not only to the Church but to you also, and to the king.”
“Of course it is harmful to me,” I snapped. “Else why would my enemies invent these tales?” An affair with the papal legate was an especially juicy scenario, one that cast me as immoral in more ways than one. “Let me travel with you to Rome. I’ll tell Pope Gregory the truth about us, and make him see how much I need you.”
“No, my sweet.” A tear fell from his eye and landed on my hand. “His Grace will not be swayed. He demands my immediate return.”
I pulled aside my bedcovers, inviting him. He slid in beside me, placed his arms around me, and kissed me tenderly for an hour. Who cared, then, about scandal? We had done nothing but, given the penalty we faced, we might as well have done it all.
He left then, sending Mincia back to comfort me, but I turned her away, telling her I was sick and needed to convalesce in peace. She offered to call the healer, but I waved the suggestion aside, saying I wanted only quiet.
When she had gone, leaving me utterly alone, I was able, at long last, to cry.
It is unseemly for a queen to cry. Who said so? A man, that was who, with no inkling of the ways of a woman’s heart—or the sufferings in a woman’s life. Is not a queen human, with frailties and passions? Hugh of Lincoln had denied me my tears; now, Pierre Mauclerc and the pope of Rome—an unlikely pairing—had denied me love. Was anger the only emotion a queen was allowed to feel?
“Are you ill?” At the sound of Louis’s voice, breaking like an egg on the sharp cusp of manhood, I looked up and thought I saw his father’s ghost. But no.
“I am sick at heart,” I said. “And with no one to hold me.” I turned away from him, ashamed of my swollen eyes, my tear-blown face, knowing that a mother’s tears are her children’s worry and woe— and then I felt his arms around me, and his young, slender body curling against mine. I turned around and buried my face in his neck and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
“My boy. I thought I had lost you,” I said when I’d caught my breath.
“I am here, Mama. You are the one leaving, to join the Fontevrault convent.” Tears welled in his eyes. “Pierre de Dreux wrote it to me from Corbeil, before you arrived in Montlhéry.”
“Is that why you have been angry?”
“I have already lost my father.”
“ Mon chèr! I never meant it.” I stroked his hair, touched his cheek. “I only said it to Pierre because he was pressuring me to marry him.”
“But—wouldn’t you like to marry? Your life would be less lonely.”
“Marry, and risk losing your inheritance? Even the most honorable man, having the Crown at his fingertips, might be tempted to seize it for himself. Oh, Louis—don’t you know, my love? I would do anything for
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