White Heart by Sherry Jones Page A

smiled and reached out for his hand, which he yanked away.
    “Already I am mocked as a little boy who needs his mama’s help. Now my detractors will have an even bigger laugh, seeing how you rushed to my side at the first sign of trouble.”
    I gasped. “I have come to help you!” I wanted to slap the pout off his face. “You should be grateful.”
    “I asked for reinforcements, not for you, ” he said.
    Shouts arose from outside, and running footsteps. Brother Guérin burst into the hall, his eyes wild. “The rebel army approaches,” he said.
    We hurried to the donjon tower to see. A vast army moved like a swarm of locusts over ground, pulling wagons filled with supplies as well as trebuchets and platforms. I touched my hand to the cool stone wall, yet perspiration dampened my brow. We had only forty men, including the twenty-five I’d brought with me, and only enough food for a few more days.
    “We must leave now,” I said. “I have brought you a monk’s robes as a disguise. Hurry, Louis, before we are surrounded!”
    “Turn tail and run from my enemies?” He snorted. “Am I King of France, or queen?” He turned to Guérin. “Send a messenger to the Cité Palace informing them again ”—he shot me a dark look—“of our predicament. Did you bring any food with you, Mama? No, I did not think so.” His haughty tone made me feel as if I had been slapped.
    “I have brought knights with me, direct from Rome,” I said.
    “And archers? We need archers,” Louis said. He and Guérin descended the steps together, forgetting me—or so Louis might have hoped. But I was never one to sit idly by, mending stockings, while men took charge of affairs.
    “Only a few knights are available at the palace,” I said, going down after them. “Send your message to the provost of Paris, Louis. He was recruiting an army for us when I left this morning.”
    “A band of soft-handed, soft-bellied merchants is our defense?” he said, sending Guérin an amused look. “Good work, Mama. That ought to frighten the rebels.”
    No one slept that night—not even, it seemed, the rebel army, whose fires illuminated the meadows and fields around the castle as though it were daylight. Louis should have sent his men to raze the nearby trees, or at least to collect all the firewood and large stones in the area for his own defensive use, but he’d spent his precious hours praying for God’s deliverance instead.
    “God gave you a mind and a mother,” I grumbled. “He would expect you to use both, rather than relying on him for miracles.”
    Louis narrowed his eyes. “One might think that, given all your time spent with cardinals of late, your devotion to our Lord would have increased, not diminished.”
    My skin might have burned his hand had he touched me then. My devotion to God diminished? That might have been true until recently, angry as I was over my husband’s death. But I’d spent at least part of the previous night in the arms of the one the Lord had sent to comfort and aid me. Thibaut, not God, had taken my husband’s life, I’d realized. The Lord had not forsaken me, in spite of my own sin. And now, with Romano’s assignment to Paris—for the pope would surely allow it—I had even more cause to thank our Lord for his goodness. Yet I had not spent those last crucial hours in Paris on my knees. If I had, Louis would be lost now, and so would I.
    “‘Honor your father and your mother,’” I quoted, then headed to the chapel to light a candle and pray for, yes, a miracle. Though I pass through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they comfort me. How I would like to use a rod on my son! His mocking tone, his look of disgust reminded me more of his uncle Philip Hurepel than of the lad I cherished. Indeed, if the rebels had managed to turn him against me, I cared not whether they gained the kingdom. Unless his haughty manner changed, they had already