White Heart Read Online Free Page B

armored knights was riding toward my cousin. I watched with, yes, satisfaction as they snatched up his banner and tossed it to the ground. Brandishing lances and swords, they sent the poor fool riding off as hurriedly as he had approached. The crowds cheered at this humiliation of their own count, having heard by now how he had deserted the French king. I wanted to cheer, too: not only had I shamed that traitor before his own people but, worse for him, he would miss the feast.
    Thibaut swatted away, Louis resumed his slow approach to the cathedral. I smiled at last to see my handsome boy waving so somberly to the people who lined the street, shouting his name and tossing flowers. Not yet a king, not yet a man, and yet he had already won the people’s hearts. They loved him because he was his father’s son, yes, but also for his beauty.
    “Behold the King of France, as soft and delicate as a girl. Does he inspire your confidence?”
    My head snapped around at the sound of that murmured comment. And who did I see but Philip Hurepel, my husband’s bastard brother, smirking with the glint-eyed Count of Coucy? I glanced away quickly, not wanting him to know I had heard.
    I should have known I couldn’t trust him. Ambition coated Philip’s tongue, greasing his words as though he dined on it at every meal. He’d flattered and coaxed Louis, asking for Boulogne until it was given to him—but, apparently, it was not enough. Ambition, especially for the undeserving, is a hunger that can never be sated.
    Whom, exactly, could I trust? The question had plagued me since Thibaut’s confession. I’d thought myself an astute judge of character—but no. I’d trusted Thibaut. I’d sighed to him during Louis’s long absence, yearning for my husband, fearing for his safety. Thibaut had patted my hand in consolation even though he knew that Louis would never return. He had deceived me utterly. It would never happen again. I now sought the demon behind every smile, the treacherous notes in every song of praise. Philip Hurepel had held Louis’s hand as he lay dying and pledged to support our son as king. He bore witness to Louis’s will, which left France in my care. Now, in his mocking words, I discerned his true intentions. As Philip Augustus’s son, he would press his own claim to the kingdom. In this world of treachery and lies, where might I find even one true soul?
    I ground my teeth, chewing on unease. What was amiss? Not Thibaut’s sudden appearance, no: that had surprised me, although perhaps it shouldn’t have, given my cousin’s fondness for attention. Not Philip’s disloyal words, for I had long sensed his envy of Louis. No, something else was afoot—not something unknown but something known. Something forgotten, or overlooked.
    At the cathedral doors, Louis dismounted from his too-big horse with Guérin’s help. Romano returned to my side, and my unease vanished. We stepped aside to let my son pass. As he walked by, he gazed up at me, searching, questioning, seeking my approval. Disturbed by my thoughts, I could only muster a thin grimace. Dear God, forgive me for my boy’s loss.
    Incense cloyed the air, sweet and thick. Candle flames dappled the room with light. The choir sang Gaude Felix Francia, a conductus written for the ceremony in Pérotin’s inimitable style: the traditional chant, familiar to all, over which added melodies rose and fell, weaving a musical tapestry from numerous threads. Rejoice, happy France! O Constance, blessed with new joys. How could Pérotin have written these cheerful words so soon after his king’s death? Even the monks singing them wiped tears from their eyes—but not I. My people needed manly strength from me, not womanish frailty.
    The abbot of Saint-Rémy stepped down the center aisle, cupping the holy ampulla under a white silk canopy held aloft on golden staffs by four monks. Some said an angel had brought the ampulla to Rheims seven hundred years ago for the baptism of