by Sherry Jones
When he learned that the famous Eléonore d’Aquitaine had not accompanied me to Paris, his face drooped—and I grinned.
“I forbade her to come,” I said. “She is so beautiful, even at eighty years, that I feared she might steal your son from me.”
The mighty Philip Augustus laughed—at me! In the garden with his twinkly-eyed son, however, I could only mumble and sigh. Then, to my delight, Louis called for a lute and began to play. How did he know of my love for music? I sang with him, my tongue untangled, my fears forgotten. Louis played the songs I knew and loved, the songs of the troubadours who frequented my father’s court, including one composed for my mother by Guiraut de Bornelh:
Lithe and quick her body flows,
With lovely colors it is completed;
Never was such fresh bloom exceeded
By rose or any other bough.
Nor has Bordeaux
Possessed a lord so lively ever
As I would be if, apart or together,
She were mine and I were hers.
Lying on my bed, remembering, I could almost hear the melody—but no. The music was gone, Guiraut departed from this world when I was yet a girl, and Louis inexplicably and suddenly taken, to play for me nevermore. My bedchambers forever silent. I would never sing again.
I closed my eyes and squeezed out a single tear—and felt a hand touch my hair. In an instant I sprang upright with a cry, my elbow hitting against something hard, ready to scream for the guard—but a hand clamped around my mouth. I struggled until I heard Thibaut’s voice in my ear.
“By God’s head, Blanche, it is only me.” He released me to massage his face where I’d hit him. “A little more to the left and you might have broken my nose! You ought to come and train my soldiers in the art of hand-to-hand combat.”
“What are you doing here?” I hissed. “In my bedchambers—in my bed?”
“I came to comfort you, my dear.” In the glow of the dying fire I could see the love on his face, no different than always—and yet today I took neither pleasure nor comfort from it. I stood and walked toward the fire, away from him. Let him write songs about me from now until the end of time. Of what use were they to me? A woman’s power lies in her beauty. Thibaut’s poetry kept alive the legend of my beauty even as I had begun to fade, at thirty-eight nearly an old woman. Yet all the beauty in the world would not save me from an English invasion.
“How do you fare, my lovely? I heard that you collapsed.” From behind, his arms slid around my waist. “I hope you did not injure yourself.”
“My body is intact. My heart has suffered the wound.” My voice cracked; I swallowed, fearing it would break open and spill my sorrow at his feet.
“Very poetic, my dear. May I use that in a song? But you must take care not to grieve overly much. People will suspect you of pretense.”
“Pretense over what? The loss of my life’s love?” I turned around to rest my cheek on his chest. Thibaut was my friend—so I thought. In his arms, I could cry without worry. And yet, before I could finally release my grief, Thibaut did the unthinkable. He slipped his fingers into my hair. I reached up to move his hand and he pulled me so close I could barely breathe. He pressed his pelvis against mine. He mashed his wet mouth all over my neck. He moaned.
And I? I smashed my left knee into his testicles.
“How dare you?” I snarled.
He wheezed for a moment or two, doubled over. I watched with my haughtiest glare, one eyebrow cocked, as he struggled to regain his composure. “Darling, forgive me,” he said, gasping. “I know it is too soon—”
“Too soon? Thibaut, your audacity never ceases to amaze me.” The poor idiot looked positively crestfallen, as if he had expected me to writhe in ecstasy at his touch. His soft mouth trembled like a girl’s.
“Blanche.” Still gasping for breath, he stepped toward me again, his arms outstretched.
“Touch me again, and I will scream.”
He stared at me as though I had grown a third eye, or a second nose. What in heaven’s name was wrong with him? Thibaut was no philosopher, but I had never thought of him as obtuse.
“Your ladies are taking their supper. The nurses are putting your children to bed. You may thank me properly without fear of being discovered.”
Had he lost his mind? I laughed without mirth. “Thank you? For treating me like a whore?”
“This is the moment of which we have dreamed!” He beamed at me but, seeing my stunned expression, his face bunched like a babe’s on the verge of a squall. “By God’s head, Blanche, haven’t I endured enough? Do you think I haven’t suffered every moment of every day and night since leaving the king at Avignon?”
“So you do possess a conscience, after all.”
“Of course. I am tormented by guilt.”
“Well, that is a mark in your favor. Some whisper that you and your knights abandoned Louis.”
“We had completed our forty days’ service.”
“You departed in the midst of his campaign. You left him only a small force with which to lay that siege.”
“We were no match for the southern heat. The sun beat down more of my men every day, and Louis’s, too.”
“And so you left him to die.”
“No, Blanche.” His voice took on a wheedling tone. “I did not simply leave, hoping he might die. Of course, I did hope for that—”
“You hoped for his death?”
“You know I did, my love. But I did not leave it in the hands of fate. Three of my men stayed behind. For your protection, I won’t say whom.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “I supplied them with arsenic to do the deed.”
“Arsenic!” I barked the word.
“Shhh, my dear. We don’t want to be heard.” He glanced nervously about the room. “Yes, arsenic,” he murmured. “Colorless, flavorless—no one will ever suspect poison. With so many fallen from dysentery, everyone assumes he died from it, too.”
I grasped the windowsill to keep from falling. “You p-p-poisoned Louis?”
“Yes, my darling. Now he is gone, and we can be together at last.”
“Oh, my God.” Sweat broke out all over my body. “You murdered him.” The urge to run seized me—but to where?
“Murder is a harsh word.” He shook his head. His eyes rebuked me. I wanted to scratch them out.
“Murder is the word I will use against you in court.”
“But—you wanted him dead, didn’t you? Yes, you did.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pouch and mopped his brow. “You remember our talk. You said you might love me except for being married to the king. You said he would kill you if we were discovered. You said you would give your very soul for things to be different.” He fumbled for my hands, trying to clasp them; I slapped them away. “Well, things are different now. My beloved.” He leaned forward for a kiss. I took a big step backward and slapped his face with all my might. The feel of my hand on his skin sent ripples of pleasure up my arm.
“Stay away from me! Keep your bloodstained hands off my person, or I will call the guards and have them throw you in the jail, which is where you belong.” He poisoned Louis. I pressed my hand to my throat.
“You don’t want to do that, Blanche. You are an accomplice to my crime—”
“No!” Now I seized him around the throat, wanting to choke the words—indeed, his very life—out of him. How dare he blame me for his awful crime? He pulled my hands away and held my wrists.
“Oh, God.” I glared at him through eyes filled with hot tears. “You ought to hang for this.” Only there isn’t a rope strong enough in France to hold your fat carcass. Had he released my wrists, I’d have scratched out his eyes.
“If I hang, then so must you.”
I stifled a cry.
“You encouraged my affection, Blanche!” he rasped. “Only the king, you said, stood in our way. And so I did what you wanted: I removed him.”
“I never wanted that. I loved Louis.” I struggled to free mysel
f from his grasp. “I loved him with all my heart.” A tear slid down my face. “You should have known that. Everyone could see it except you, you fool.” Oh, for a private place in which to rage! I’d have descended into hell itself for it.
His jaw dropped. “Fool? Would you turn against me now, after all I have done for you?”
“For me?” My blood surged and I tried again to fling him away. “You’ve done nothing for me.”
“I did it all for you,” he hissed. “France is yours, Blanche! You, a woman, now reign over a mighty kingdom. Without me, you would never have held such power.” He pulled me close again, still holding my wrists. “I would have given you the world, if I could,” he said, and lowered his wet lips to my shuddering throat. My stomach twisted and I thought for a moment that I might be sick—but I was not to have that satisfaction, for, at that moment, my guard at last came running in, his sword drawn.
“I heard a shout, my lady. Are you in danger?” Thibaut released his hold. I quickly wiped my tear.
“I cried out aeons ago,” I snapped. “Have you been napping at your post, or are your legs made of lead?”
“Neither, my lady, but keeping visitors from your chambers as you requested.”
“And a fine job you have been doing.” His gaze met Thibaut’s, then slid away. I wondered how much my cousin had paid him to gain access to my bed—and my blood rose again. How dare Thibaut risk my reputation! The palace walls fairly hummed with gossip, as surely he knew. Soon everyone in France would know that Blanche de Castille had entertained the Count of Champagne in her chambers, alone, on this day. Had anyone heard our tête-à-tête? If so, not only my virtue but also my life might be in danger. I must be rid of Thibaut—immediately.
“Escort the count from my chambers, and from this palace,” I said, drawing myself up. “This is the traitor who deserted my husband the king at Avignon. Thibaut of Champagne is banished from this court until further notice. Inform the other guards.”
Now bristling with the importance of his task, the guard escorted Thibaut out the door. On his way, my cousin sent me a pleading look, so pitiful that I almost felt sorry for him. But no. Thibaut, I now realized, was a man to be feared rather than pitied.
Exhausted, I longed to lie on my bed again—but instead, I called Mincia and dictated a letter summoning Cardinal Romano Bonaventura, the wily papal legate who had accompanied Louis to the southern provinces. I needed to hear his account of how Louis had died, and what my enemies were saying. Did anyone suspect foul play?
I also sent a note to Thibaut: You loved King Louis well, as you have said, but I cannot let your defection at Avignon go unpunished. You must not return to this court until I have called for you. That, I hoped, would satisfy the gossips, who would certainly read the message. Practically all the world knew of Thibaut’s love for me—a love I had encouraged, yes, for the sake of his songs of praise, performed by minstrels in courts from Castille to Constantinople. A woman’s power lies in her beauty, does it not? What my grand-mère did not say was this: Power can destroy as well as build.
I have destroyed my husband with my vanity. A sob crested from my chest, but I swallowed it. This was no time for self-pity. Pierre Mauclerc and Hugh de Lusignan might be plotting with the English king even now, touting the crown of France as easily plucked from a woman’s hand. Admired as I was for beauty and piety—a woman’s most highly lauded virtues—few knew of my abilities. Indeed, it was assumed that, being a woman, I had none. In the case of an English invasion, who would fight for me? No one. France was a kingdom—and it must have, as soon as possible, a king.
Unease scuttled like a spider in my clothes. Something was amiss. But what? I walked about the crowded cathedral, listening for treason in the mindless chatter of the nobles and their empty-headed wives, seeking improprieties on the gilded altar where the bishops lay the royal vestments—the purple hose embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis, the golden spurs, the scepter—and searching for adders in the folds of purple silk draping the throne. Everything appeared as it should, all ready and in place. So why the fluttering in my chest? Why the shaky feeling in my bones, as if the very earth were unstable?
“My lady, the young king approaches.” Romano Bonaventura appeared, beaming, his teeth impossibly white. How could he smile? I felt as if my face would crack if I tried. “He cuts an exceptionally fine figure. You must be proud.”
Proud? Of the fact that Louis was dead, bitterly poisoned by my cousin? If not for me and my terrible pride—my vanity—we would not have been in Rheims on that day, crowning his heir. Young Louis and his brothers would be running wild through the palace, up and down the stairs, bumping into servants, knocking table linens from their arms, screeching like children. That’s what my boy was, by God’s head: a child.
Yet as I beheld him from the cathedral entrance, I felt my heart swell with just that: pride. He had never resembled his father more as he sat astride that great, dark destrier—my husband’s favorite. Indeed, Louis was exactly his age when first we met.
The gold-and-blue irises—fleur-de-lis—my new husband presented to me. The appreciation in his sidelong glance. Saffron, Castille’s most precious export? I think not, my lady. How he made me blush! My grandmother had urged me to flatter him, falsely, if necessary. No one needs adoration more than princes and kings, she had said, who hear from their first breath that they are extraordinary. But I never needed to contrive with Louis. Adoration perfumed every word I ever spoke to him—and to our son, the product of our love, extraordinary indeed in his royal robes on his coronation day. Through my tear-filled gaze his image blurred, and for a moment I thought he was Louis himself, not the son but the Lion. His silken hair, shining in the sun. His proud bearing; his grave demeanor. He was a boy, yes, but I had instructed him in the art of kingly bearing—essential to gaining his people’s confidence, and to keeping the throne.
My heart seemed to stop, then, at the sight of a man and horse racing toward the procession at full gallop, intent, it appeared, on crashing into my son. Alerted by the pounding hooves, Guérin wheeled his horse around. His guards drew their swords. No harm could come to Louis—and yet I held my breath, paralyzed in fear. Since my husband’s death, dread had infused my every waking thought, horror my every dream, for I knew to what lengths a man might go for power. King John slit his own nephew’s throat over control of Normandy. Pierre Mauclerc, while perhaps not as evil as John, was every bit as ambitious. And yet I could not believe my ears when, just the week before, Pierre had requested my hand in marriage.
I am sure my jaw dropped open. “I am descended from queens, and kings,” I said. “Would I lower myself by marrying the likes of you?”
“You could do worse than marriage to a member of the House of Dreux.” His voice, deceptively calm, oozed menace.
“A minor son, born to a minor son.”
“I was born the grandson of King Louis VII’s older brother. My grandfather should have been the king. But Louis the Fat chose the wrong son.”
I regarded him with interest. “Why would he have done so?”
“My grandfather,” he said, “was too dull to be king.”
I snorted. “Dullness, it seems, is a heritable trait.”
“Marry me, and your troubles will end.”
“Troubles? Can you bring back my dead husband?”
“I can soothe the barons, who fear you’ll take a husband from a foreign land—from Castille, perhaps.”
I frowned. Take a husband? I had not considered it. In that instant, however, I saw the dangers of doing so—to myself, my son, and my people.
“I don’t intend to marry anyone,” I said, “least of all, you.”
Now he was the confused one. “Not marry? But you must.”
“Why, pray tell?”
“The prince won’t come of age for seven years. Who will rule France until then?”
“My husband willed the kingdom to me, and I intend to keep it.”
“A woman, rule France?
The barons will never agree to that. Believe me, it is far better for you to marry. Besides”—his leer displayed long, yellowed teeth—“you will become lonely without a man in your bed. A beautiful woman like you will attract many suitors, and you’ll surely be tempted by one of them.”
“Perhaps, monsieur, but not by a man with a borrowed title and no lands of his own.” He flinched, making me want to laugh in his face.
“Besides,” I added, “I have vowed to join the Fontevrault convent when Louis comes of age.”
The genius of this notion occurred to me as I spoke. In pledging to take the veil, I might avoid having this unpleasant talk with future suitors—for, as Pierre pointed out, others certainly would follow. I had no desire to marry, and give up my authority. Besides, a new spouse might want to keep the crown for himself, and for his own heirs. Jealousy had killed my husband, at Thibaut’s hand. It would not be the reason for my son’s death, too, not if I could help it.
And it was Thibaut who, I then saw, spurred his horse toward, then around, Louis. Not attacking him, no, but late for the ceremony, as usual, and racing to reach the cathedral before Louis did. I laughed, relieved—but then I remembered that he was banned, and why.
“Thibaut! Would he defy me?” I turned to Romano. “I forbade him to appear in my court for abandoning Louis at Avignon.” Who knew what damaging songs, what oblique confessions, what public pleas for my forgiveness he might present today? He would reveal too much, and cause both our arrests.
