But I could read his lips. The king is dead. My shriek skittered horses, rolling their eyes. I slumped to the ground, crushed by God’s own hand. Louis. My only love, taken so soon. Dear Lord, take me, too. Brother Guérin tried to help me up. “My lady.” His voice trembled with sorrow and something else: alarm. It is not seemly for a queen to cry. Who said that to me? Hugh, the bishop of Lincoln, when he found me sobbing at the Cité Palace, newly arrived in Paris and sick for Castille. A mother’s tears are her children’s worry and woe. He had a pinched nose, like the beak of the swan he kept as his pet, and his brown eyes looked tired. As queen, you are mother to your people. You must hide your woman’s frailty from them and show only strength. I was strong, but my knees were weak. Guérin pulled me up ever so gently, but I could not walk. I leaned against him, staring at the road spooling out before me, as desolate as my heart’s terrain.
