The Girl Who Would Be Queen

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  When the curtain closes again I feel dizzy, as though I had left my body and become someone else, and am just now returning. I am Maria again, not a sorceress. It was ridiculous to stand there justifying in my mind a creature who does not exist.

  Joanna’s last words before she left our little curtained area, were a hissed whisper to go and change, now my part is done. Normally I do not care to take orders from my sister, but this time I am eager to go to my rooms and return as myself. My blue gown may not be cut in the new style, but I am surprisingly eager to put it on.

  Duke Andrew appears beside me at the doorway. The mask cuts off much of my peripheral vision and his sudden appearance makes me start. He bows mockingly—at least it seems so to me.

  “Shall I walk with you, Lady Sorceress?” He does not wait for me to respond, but holds out his arm for me to rest my fingers on. I do so nervously. Will he recognize my hand? But he barely glances at it as he guides me through the door; he is busy looking at my low-cut bodice. One of his men, the one who is always with him, follows us closely, as though I was a real sorceress and might harm the Duke. I straighten, shoulders back and head high, and let my cape hang open rather than pull it close as I want to, so he will not know I am nervous. I have seen Andrew taunting servants when they let him see their fear.

  We walk through several rooms in silence, away from the grand hall. I cannot go to my own rooms now, so I let him take the lead. The farther we go, the fewer people we see and the fewer wall sconces are lit, until we are quite alone, walking in semi-darkness, and I am becoming alarmed.

  He leads me toward a dark alcove. I stop, pulling my hand from his arm, but he pushes me against the stone wall. For a moment I am too surprised to protest. Andrew leans against me, pinning me to the wall, and reaches down my bodice to cup my breast. Horrified, I try to push him away, but he is stronger than I am. He catches my wrists easily in one hand. I struggle against him, truly frightened now.

  “Stop!” My voice comes out high with terror, unrecognizable. Not that I care any longer; I want him to recognize me, he will stop at once when he does.

  Andrew pushes his hand under my mask and wraps it around my mouth. “I like you better silent,” he growls. I cannot breathe, his hand is so wide it covers my nose as well. He will suffocate me here, not knowing who I am! I struggle desperately against him, but he has my arms pinned, all I can do is kick my slippered foot against his muscle-hardened leg. Behind him, his man coughs discreetly.

  Andrew shifts, his hand moving so my nostrils are uncovered. I slump against the wall, sucking in the precious air in great gasps. His elbow still has my right arm pinned to the wall, his body against mine. I feel his left hand, fumbling, and realize with terror that he is loosening the drawstring of his hose!

  He shoves my head hard against the wall. “Why are you struggling? You wanted this, you came with me willingly enough. Do not pretend to a false modesty now, not in that gown. Be still, whore, you are getting what you asked for!”

  The fight goes out of me. I stand, pinned against the wall, stunned. I did not know, I did not understand, I want to cry. But even if his hand were not pressed firmly against my mouth, I could not protest. Why did I come with him away from everyone, unchaperoned and alone? What did I think? Is he right about me—?

  Andrew flattens himself against me, I can feel his hard manhood, throbbing against my stomach through the tight fabric. He releases my mouth, his hands under my arms to lift me, and I am so terrified it overcomes my guilt, I do not care if everyone comes and finds me like this and I am shamed forever. I close my eyes and scream!

  I feel his arm rise and cringe, thinking he means to hit me, but instead he tears my mask off. It catches in my hair. He rips it off anyway, my scream choking off into sobs as he pulls it away, a handful of my hair ripping out with it. For an instant I see fear in his eyes, then a look of rage so fierce it stops my sobs. I stand before him, unable to move for terror, waiting for him to murder me.

  “What is this? Are you mocking me? Who set you up to this?” He looks around wildly.

  “We are quite alone, my Lord,” his man says quietly.

  Andrew turns on him a look that makes me shiver. “If you tell anyone, I will kill you,” he says, his voice low and hard. He looks back at me, and I am not certain which of us he is addressing. He must see the terror in my eyes, the tears still damp on my cheeks, because he smiles then, an ugly twist of his thick lips. I flush, hot with shame, as though I am naked before him, caught in a mortal sin. He ties the drawstring of his hose, casual, no longer concerned we may be caught.

  “You look unwell, Princess,” he says mockingly. “Perhaps you are disappointed?”

  I look away. “King Robert will have you hanged for this.” My voice trembles, lacking conviction.

  “Oh, but this is our secret, Cousin Maria. We must keep you fit to be married to my brother.” He laughs as though the thought of having something on his brother pleases him. I am humiliated, but also relieved: No one will know. Andrew laughs again, a cruel sound. I cannot look up. I cannot bear to see him looking at me, to see the scorn in his eyes, the knowledge that I will gladly keep a secret with him.

  “Do not be disappointed, Princess Maria. Perhaps your sister will die, and you will learn what you have missed this night.”

  I think I will be ill. If Joanna dies without issue, I must marry Andrew; it is in the treaty keeping Naples and Hungary from war. I clench my teeth to keep from vomiting.

  “Straighten yourself up, Princess.” He hands me back my cape. “I will walk you to your rooms. I know a back way. No one will see us.”

  Trust Andrew to know the back ways through the castle, the secret, cowardly routes. I take the cape, shaming myself further by my willingness to creep back to my rooms after him.

  When we are nearly there I remember my maid will be waiting inside. I reach under my mask and wipe my eyes and cheeks dry, and stiffen my shoulders, trying to stop their trembling.

  “Ah, the Princess returns,” Andrew says. He leans toward me. “I know what you are now,” he whispers. “You had better treat me nicely if you want me to keep your secret!”

  I do not turn to watch him go. It is not true. I did not want this! I did not understand. But who will believe me? They will remember I went with him willingly. No one will ever know about this, I promise myself. I will forget this evening completely. It will be as if it never happened. Wrapping my cape more tightly about me, I march toward the door to my presence chamber, and enter it without a glance at the guard who holds it open for me.

  Chapter Three: A Broken Vow

  Naples, 1343

  “Princess Joanna! Princess Maria! You must awake.”

  I open my eyes groggily. Philippa stands at the foot of our bed, I can see her outline through the linen curtains. Beside me Joanna sits up. I peer through the bed-curtains: a servant is hastily lighting the silver wall-lamps in our bedchamber. The sweet smell of olive oil fills the room.

  “It is still night,” I protest, closing my eyes again. Grandmother Sancia cannot expect us to pray before dawn, even if our Grandfather the King is ill. He has been ill before and always recovered. I am too sleepy to pray in the middle of the night. We are not Holy Sisters, we are royal sisters. I smile to myself at my wit, repeating the phrase in my head.

  The bed creaks as Joanna climbs out of it. “Maria,” she says. And to Philippa “What is it, Mother?”

  It is still night. I scrunch my eyes closed, feeling the pucker between my eyebrows and in defiance I deepen it. If Philippa notices, I can blame it on a bad dream. She will know better, but she will have to pretend to accept that. She may instruct us, but she has never gone so far as to punish us, and she will not speak to our Lady Grandmother about such a little thing now.

  “His Majesty the King requests your presence.”

  I open my eyes. Philippa is looking at Joanna, whose question she has answered, but I know she is well aware of my rebellion, and also aware that she has neatly f
oiled it.

  I sit up. “Both of us?”

  Although I would never mention it, I am a little jealous of all the time my sister spends with our grandfather, even if it is boring. He has her sit beside him when he is hearing supplicants or signing laws, and he takes the time to discuss his decisions with her. Joanna is interested in such things, but I should be learning them too. I am going to be a queen as well, even if I will only be a queen consort and not a reigning queen when I marry. But I would be just as happy not to learn to be a queen in the middle of the night.

  “Both of you,” Philippa says.

  Joanna glances at me. She has already washed her face in the bowl of rose water presented by her maid and is waiting to be dressed. Before she can say ‘Maria’ again, I slide out of my side of the bed, my back toward them both, and cup my hands in the cold water scented with rose petals which my maid is holding out to me.

  I feel my cheeks flush and pat the cold water over my face to hide it, glancing across the room at Philippa. She has the disconcerting tendency of knowing what I am thinking, especially when it is a thought I would prefer not known. She is focused on my sister now, but I wonder if it is that tendency that helped her rise from her humble origin to being a royal adviser, even to being honored as surrogate mother of the royal princesses.

  I pat my face dry and raise my arms so my maid can remove my nightdress and put on my shift and gown. Turning my head I see that Joanna is already dressed in her rich purple gown with fleur-de-lis stitched on it in golden thread. This is a formal audience, then. Now I am impatient to be dressed, but even so my dalliance has cost me, for no sooner is my hair combed ready to plait and pin up than Joanna rises from her dressing table and announces she is ready. Philippa leads her out of our room and I must follow with my hair down like a child.

  He may be dying, I realize, and everyone will be there. I am nearly fourteen, a woman grown, and they will all see me enter looking like this, behind my sister, whose hair is elegantly done up and whose neck and fingers are jeweled and who is the fairest flower of Naples to all who see her. I hurry to catch up, not wanting to trail behind like a shadow to her sun. If Joanna would act human just once, and not always be thinking of her duty, there would have been time for me to have my hair done, also. I frown at her back, ahead of me.

  Then I remember her laughing in the garden with me the day before, and I am ashamed. Of course we would not be wakened in the night for no reason. I should have realized that at once, as Joanna did.

  If we have been wakened to go to him, he must be dying.

  And everyone will see me with my hair down.

  ***

  The hordes of courtiers I expect to see in the presence room outside King Robert’s bed-chamber do not appear. Instead I hear his voice even before we enter his chamber. He is angry, but instead of the low and terrifying thunder that always reminds me of the lion in our menagerie—the one that took its keeper’s hand as well as the fresh meat he was pushing through the bars of its cage—my Royal Grandfather’s voice has become the high-pitched whine of illness and old age.

  The door opens and a man tumbles out like a leaf tossed in a gale. He is fat and short and dark, with a face as covered in hair as the back of his head. He wears the Hungarian livery of Joanna’s husband, Andrew. We pause to let him pass. He peers at us through his greasy black hair, eyes wide with terror, and rushes away without remembering to bow. In another it might be insolence but in a Hungarian it is simply ignorance and stupidity. I take a quick breath and straighten my back, preparing myself in case Duke Andrew is inside the room. I have avoided him since the night of the masque, but if I must stand near him now, at least he will not see me afraid.

  “...lying, vow-breaking, scheming, untrustworthy...” Grandfather’s voice, thin and treble but nevertheless rising to the task of conveying a royal rage, can be heard clearly through the open door. I am glad now to be able to follow Philippa and my sister, third in line before the breaking storm.

  Grandmother Sancia is already there, standing tight-lipped and composed beside Grandfather’s bed. It is no secret that this is probably the closest she has been to it in all their years of marriage.

  “...they have broken their word to His Holiness the Pope...”

  My Grandmother’s face pales: can there be a greater sin?

  “...they have broken their vow before God...”

  Grandmother Sancia clasps her hands together, but it is too late now to send a prayer in advance to prepare God to hear this awful declaration.

  “...and they have broken their treaty with me, with the house of Angevin!” Grandfather finishes with a roar, albeit a high-pitched one.

  Joanna’s face pales. I try to look suitably horrified but it would help if I knew who has done what.

  Grandfather turns his head and sees us. “Maria,” he says.

  I jump and look around, as though there might be another Maria in the room. Immediately I feel stupid, because I have already seen that there are only the four of us in here, as well as Grandfather’s physician and a manservant who looks like he wishes even more than I that he were someplace else. To cover my nervousness I drop into a deep curtsy and say, “Your Majesty.” It comes out part whisper, part croak.

  He beckons me closer. I have to stop myself from looking at Joanna because I cannot believe he has seen her and still wants me.

  “Come here, little Maria.”

  I step forward, ahead of my sister, and start to curtsy again but he catches my hand and stops me. I straighten beside him. And now I do want to look at Joanna to make sure she is taking this in, how he is holding my hand and looking into my face, not hers, but I hold my head up and return his gaze steadily, like the queen I will one day be.

  Whatever you want, you must act like you already have it, Joanna told me once. I thought at the time she meant the gown she was being fitted for, or a new ornament for her neck, but today I understand her comment as I stand like the Queen of Hungary in front of my dying grandfather.

  He looks down at my hand, soft and white and small against his wrinkled palm. I start to remove it but he closes his hand, completely engulfing mine. “They have broken our contract,” his voice is angry again, “your cousin Louis and his Lady Mother Queen Elizabeth. They have spurned you.”

  I only have one cousin Louis who could be linked to me. I have been waiting in fear and anticipation for his summons, secretly excited to think that I would beat Joanna onto a throne. With Louis’ silence and Grandfather’s illness, that ambition is dying, but now, with Grandfather holding my hand, I think: He has sent for me. I will be crowned before her after all!

  Before I can sort out why the thought does not make me entirely happy, my grandfather’s expression, and his words, spurned you, register. I pull my hand back as though the insult came from him. “Spurned me?”

  “She has married him,” my Lord Grandfather’s eyes burn with rage. He has to stop for a coughing fit before he can continue. “She has married him to Princess Margaret of Bohemia. She chose Bohemia over Naples.” He says this last less in anger than in sheer disbelief.

  “They already have Naples,” Joanna says, referring to her marriage to Andrew. Her voice is controlled but tight; she is as angry as our grandfather. Not on my behalf, of course; on behalf of the Angevins.

  “Margaret?” I ask, stupid with shock. I will not be queen? I have lived my whole life expecting to be Queen of Hungary, and now I will not be. “Margaret of Bohemia? But she is a child. She is...” I think. “...Seven years old. And she is not the heir to Bohemia, she is only the daughter of the heir!” My voice rises into a wail. I cannot help it. A child less than half my age has skipped her way onto my throne.

  I am not an heir, either, an ugly little voice inside my head whispers. I am just the sister of the heir. In that moment I hate my sister as much as I love her. She was not spurned. She is a prize worth having. I feel my eyes fill and blink back the tears. Who will I marry? Who will want me now that I have been so pu
blicly shamed?

  My Lady Grandmother is watching me. A royal princess does not weep in public, and never weeps for herself. I raise my chin a little. Now I will not have to go to Hungary and live among barbarians, I tell myself firmly. They have lost me. I will never come and civilize them, and certainly little Margaret of Bohemia will not be equal to the task. They will remain barbarians forever! I feel a little avenged, but it is poor consolation for losing a crown.

  King Robert’s expression of furious disbelief disappears when he glances at me. For a moment, so brief I think I might be mistaken, a look of tenderness crosses his face. Almost immediately it is gone, replaced once more by fury.

  “Bring Raymond at once!” he shouts to his man, who jumps to relay his command. “And Andrew, that sniveling, useless little pup!”

  Chapter Four: A Dangerous Will

  We wait in silence for our Royal Seneschal, Raymond the Ethiopian, to arrive. Grandmother Sancia looks about to say something, but the King begins to cough again. His physician approaches his bed and offers a potion that smells so vile I am sure it will poison him, but after he has taken a swallow the coughing stops. Most likely so they will not give him more of it, I think to myself. He lies back against his pillow and closes his eyes. Grandmother Sancia folds her hands and begins to pray, her lips moving soundlessly in the quiet room.

  I notice all these things as from a distance. It cannot be possible that all of this is happening. There is a signed treaty between Hungary and Naples, and my marriage is part of that contract. Grandfather will do something; he clearly has a plan. Meanwhile I am grateful for the silence. Conversation would make this real, and it is not real. All I want to do is wait in silence until King Robert has made things right.