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King Clovis. I stretched my neck for a view of it. If I touched the chrism, would it dissolve my sins? But no—the holy oil and its blessing were reserved for men, who were made in God’s likeness.
    Not that any man in the room could compare to me—except, yes, Romano, who had answered my question of trust. Without his letter of support, I might not have gained the pope’s blessing to rule until my son’s majority. Without his aid, I could not have arranged this magnificent ceremony—the music, the thousands of candles, the banners hung along the streets, the incense from Outremer, the invitations delivered throughout the realm and beyond, the feast to follow with its thirty courses. I never asked for Romano’s help; he simply performed whatever task might be at hand. I’d even come to rely on his insights in the administering of the kingdom. How often he seemed to guess my thoughts before I discerned them!
    His eyes met mine then, as if I had spoken aloud, causing me for a moment to wonder if I had. What might I have said? I would give anything, my dear cardinal, for a mere drop of that blessed oil. He could obtain it for me, and be trusted never to tell another soul.
    And yet I could not confide my greatest secret even to Romano. I could tell no one, not even my confessor. Such a relief it might have been to unburden my soul! But I dreaded being blamed for Thibaut’s crime. Everyone at court had seen me caress him with my gaze, not out of love, dear God, but out of vanity. I was guilty, yes—but not of treason. My competitors would seize me, lock me away or even hang me, then fight among themselves for the throne. War would tear the kingdom apart, leaving France an easy mark for an English invasion. I would rather live with my terrible guilt than be remembered as the queen who brought down a 239-year-old dynasty.
    But—what was amiss? Why did dread fall like a cold rain about my head today? I lifted my nose, sniffing for danger as, on the platform, the bishop touched the oil to Louis’s forehead and chest. Then the choir sang again:
     
    May it please God, hanged on the cross above
    To keep you, gentle king, and those you love;
    And grant you, Sire, all virtue and all might
    To guard your throne and manifest your right.
    What is it about ceremonies? I have always found the familiar rituals, the majesty, and the music as comforting as a mother’s arms. As I watched my son’s coronation—the chamberlain Bartolomeu le Roie pulling on his hose, the young Duke of Burgundy affixing his knights’ spurs to his boots, the bishop handing him his sword—my frayed nerves settled. When the nobles placed the crown on his head, I sighed with relief. It was done. Louis was now the indisputable King of France, consecrated by the Church and ready to accept the homage of his peers.
    I would be the first to honor him. I ascended to the altar as the choir sang a lively Te Deum, my spirits soaring on the high notes, my step brisk with anticipation, yes, for a future in which my son and I would reign together. And yet, when I’d kissed my son’s signet ring, I saw uncertainty in his eyes.
    “Your Grace,” I murmured to him. “You are splendid.” I moved to stand beside him and view the barons as they followed suit. Their pledges of fealty would be crucial to France’s future. If only King Henry were among them.
    Not that I had expected the English king to be here today. He’d sent regrets, saying he could not travel from London in time for this ceremony, but I knew he would avoid bending his knee to us. He was Duke of Normandy—which belonged, now, to France—but he coveted that wealthy land for his own. Indeed, he had vowed to reclaim it for England, as his father had not been able to do.
    To take Normandy or any other lands from us, however, Henry would need the help of barons on this side of the channel—barons who, in a few moments, would be pledging their fealty to my son. I looked out into the crowd,