you.” I pulled him close and held him against me as if to meld our bodies into one. “No sacrifice is too great. And indeed, I already have given everything—including my only chance at love—for your sake. The Virgin Mother didn’t love her son more than I love you!”
I cried again, holding my son, the only man to see me cry since that day, a little more than a year before, when I’d heard about his father’s death. God knew that I had avoided showing my weakness to Louis. But I needed him now. Romano taken from me, where else would I find love if not here, with the flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood? No one else was allowed to me except him.
Years later, when Louis left for Outremer, he would see me cry a third time, anguished in my certainty that I would never see him again. And indeed, I have not, for he lingers there in pursuit of Jerusalem, leaving me in command of France again. How I long to speak with him once more! I would tell him this: I lied, to him and to myself, when I said I’d given up everything for his sake. I gave up nothing for him. I did it all, I realize now, for myself. I sacrificed love in exchange for the Crown of France—for this is not a queendom but a kingdom, reserved for men to rule.
“Stay with me, Mama,” he said now. “Don’t go to Fontevrault. I need you here.”
“Stay with me,” I whispered back. “Here, tonight, holding me in your arms.”
“Every night, Mama,” he said, “if that is what you need.”
“I need your love,” I said. “Nothing else will keep the bad dreams away.”
I never slept that night. Instead, I wept and prayed, with my little man beside me, snoring lightly, as his father used to do. Pierre, with his mocking messages, had tried to turn him against me, but my mother’s love had prevailed. Now that liar strove to turn my people—my children—against me by accusing me of giving to others the prize he had coveted for himself: my virtue. He portrayed me as Eve, the evil one, the temptress. But I knew a better woman to emulate.
When I’d first come to Paris, the trouvères had praised me for my purity. “White in heart as in head,” they’d sung, playing on my name, which means “white” in French.
To regain the love of my people—my children—I must claim my name again. As queen, you are mother to your people. Not Eve, no. I would be as the Virgin Mother, as chaste and sexless in my people’s eyes as if I had indeed taken the veil. And Louis, yes, must be as spotless as the Christ if we were to win, and keep, the love of France.
You must hide your woman’s frailty and show only strength. Today was the meeting of the barons’ council. The time had come, once and for all, to disprove the ugly rumors and shame the rebels’ tongues into submission. I sent Louis to his room and called for Mincia. With a brush and some dark powder she drew a heart around my face, then filled it in with a white paste. Doing so made me unbeautiful, which was my intention.
A woman’s power lies in her beauty.
Grand-mère was wrong. My power lay not in my beauty but—yes, as Romano had said—in my pure, white woman’s heart.
Read on for an excerpt from the next full-length novel by Sherry Jones,
FOUR SISTERS, ALL QUEENS
Available in paperback and ebook May 2012!
Prologue
I, Beatrice of Savoy, am mother to four queens. What other woman in the history of the world could make this claim? None, I warrant, and none ever will.
Yes, I am boasting. Why shouldn’t I? Do you think my daughters rose to such heights by happenstance? A woman achieves nothing in this man’s world without careful plotting. I began scheming for my girls before I even held my eldest, Marguerite, in my arms.
Margi was no ordinary child. She spoke in sentences before her first birthday. But then, she is a Savoy, and we are no ordinary family. If we were, we would not have become guardians of the Alpine passes and rulers of an expanding domain, as well as
I cried again, holding my son, the only man to see me cry since that day, a little more than a year before, when I’d heard about his father’s death. God knew that I had avoided showing my weakness to Louis. But I needed him now. Romano taken from me, where else would I find love if not here, with the flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood? No one else was allowed to me except him.
Years later, when Louis left for Outremer, he would see me cry a third time, anguished in my certainty that I would never see him again. And indeed, I have not, for he lingers there in pursuit of Jerusalem, leaving me in command of France again. How I long to speak with him once more! I would tell him this: I lied, to him and to myself, when I said I’d given up everything for his sake. I gave up nothing for him. I did it all, I realize now, for myself. I sacrificed love in exchange for the Crown of France—for this is not a queendom but a kingdom, reserved for men to rule.
“Stay with me, Mama,” he said now. “Don’t go to Fontevrault. I need you here.”
“Stay with me,” I whispered back. “Here, tonight, holding me in your arms.”
“Every night, Mama,” he said, “if that is what you need.”
“I need your love,” I said. “Nothing else will keep the bad dreams away.”
I never slept that night. Instead, I wept and prayed, with my little man beside me, snoring lightly, as his father used to do. Pierre, with his mocking messages, had tried to turn him against me, but my mother’s love had prevailed. Now that liar strove to turn my people—my children—against me by accusing me of giving to others the prize he had coveted for himself: my virtue. He portrayed me as Eve, the evil one, the temptress. But I knew a better woman to emulate.
When I’d first come to Paris, the trouvères had praised me for my purity. “White in heart as in head,” they’d sung, playing on my name, which means “white” in French.
To regain the love of my people—my children—I must claim my name again. As queen, you are mother to your people. Not Eve, no. I would be as the Virgin Mother, as chaste and sexless in my people’s eyes as if I had indeed taken the veil. And Louis, yes, must be as spotless as the Christ if we were to win, and keep, the love of France.
You must hide your woman’s frailty and show only strength. Today was the meeting of the barons’ council. The time had come, once and for all, to disprove the ugly rumors and shame the rebels’ tongues into submission. I sent Louis to his room and called for Mincia. With a brush and some dark powder she drew a heart around my face, then filled it in with a white paste. Doing so made me unbeautiful, which was my intention.
A woman’s power lies in her beauty.
Grand-mère was wrong. My power lay not in my beauty but—yes, as Romano had said—in my pure, white woman’s heart.
Read on for an excerpt from the next full-length novel by Sherry Jones,
FOUR SISTERS, ALL QUEENS
Available in paperback and ebook May 2012!
Prologue
I, Beatrice of Savoy, am mother to four queens. What other woman in the history of the world could make this claim? None, I warrant, and none ever will.
Yes, I am boasting. Why shouldn’t I? Do you think my daughters rose to such heights by happenstance? A woman achieves nothing in this man’s world without careful plotting. I began scheming for my girls before I even held my eldest, Marguerite, in my arms.
Margi was no ordinary child. She spoke in sentences before her first birthday. But then, she is a Savoy, and we are no ordinary family. If we were, we would not have become guardians of the Alpine passes and rulers of an expanding domain, as well as
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