White Heart by Sherry Jones Read Free Book Online

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