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expectant—and nearly gasped aloud.
    Where were the barons?
    I squinted in the dim light, searching every face. I saw the lank Robert de Gâteblé, Count of Dreux and Braine. There were Philip Hurepel and Coucy, with their bored wives. I also noted Ramon Berenger, the dashing Count of Provence, and his wife, the great beauty Beatrice of Savoy; Amaury de Montfort, and various other minor nobles. But none of the greatest landholding lords had come—not Pierre de Dreux, or Hugh de Lusignan; neither the Viscount of Rochechouart, nor the Count of Auvergne, nor the Viscount of Thouars. Also missing was my cousin Raimond de Toulouse, shirking, it seemed, on his debt to me. If not for my intercession, he would have been branded a heretic years ago, and burned at the stake.
    Philip Hurepel met my gaze, his pursed mouth twitching as though he might burst into laughter. I looked away from him and searched the crowd again, in vain. Where were the great lords? Meeting with the English king, perhaps, and hatching plots against my son?
    Louis, too, noticed the snub. “What does it mean, Mama?” he asked after the ceremony had ended and the great ceremonial crown had been replaced by one that fit his head. Even so, he looked small and frightened. “Will there be a war?”
    “I’m afraid so,” I said.
    “Do not be afraid.” His smile was tremulous. “The Lord will protect us.”
    As he protected your father? I wanted to say.
    “Afraid of Pierre Mauclerc? Not I,” I said, all bravado. “He and Hugh of Lusignan are like small biting flies, annoying but easily squashed.”
    “I agree,” Romano joined us. “These men will only test your powers, nothing more. Think of it, Blanche!” As we watched Louis distribute alms to the poor folk outdoors, the cardinal gave my arm an excited squeeze. He stood so close I could feel his body’s heat.
    “I do enjoy a challenge,” I said, ignoring my racing pulse. “Especially when the prize is such a juicy one. I long to see Pierre de Dreux on his knees, begging me for mercy.”
    “Which you, of course, will grant.”
    “Must I? Romano, you only want to spoil my pleasure. What good is a monarch’s power if I cannot use it to destroy my foes?”
    “A sovereign’s true power, my lady, comes not from the sword but from the heart. Why do you think Christ admonished us to love our enemies? You may win the battle by killing your opponents, but you secure your kingdom—in this life, and the next—by winning their devotion.”
    I laughed when I heard the news. Did Pierre and Hugh really think to surprise Blanche de Castille? I knew the spies my father-in-law and husband had planted in their midst, servants in their employ whose salaries I increased after my son’s coronation. Two months later, those spies reported that my enemies were amassing an army in Thouars. They planned to join forces with King Henry in April, seize Normandy, and march on Paris.
    “We need do nothing, then, until the spring thaw,” Brother Guérin advised, thinking of his comfort as old men are wont to do.
    “Unless, of course, you wish to surprise them, ” Romano said.
    “If Pierre and that cuckold Hugh expect me to warm my feet by the fire while they increase their numbers, then they will be greatly surprised.”
    Romano looked into my eyes. “Blanche de Castille is full of surprises.” Not the least of which was my body’s response to him.
    Would kissing the handsome cardinal be a sin? Not a mortal one, no, and possibly not even a venial one. I, a widow, might kiss as I desired. Would God be displeased with me? Not that I cared, then, about pleasing God. What good had it done me thus far? I had lived chastely and purely—“white in heart as in head.” I’d become renowned—even criticized—for my generosity to the poor. I’d lived a pious life, and for what reward? My husband killed, my bed cold; and now my throne in danger. God, it seemed, had little interest in pleasing me.
    And besides, I would