White Heart by Sherry Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

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