Ignoring the fact that they have already broken it, I think, scowling. But to the Hungarians, it is one thing to spurn a princess, and another entirely to spurn a prince.
Now I understand why our Lord Grandfather wants the marriage legally consummated before his last testament is read. But will that be enough? Will Louis invade us anyway? King Robert will be dead when King Louis finds out, I remind myself, my fear growing, and only Joanna, a sixteen-year-old girl, sitting on the throne...
“What will you do?” I whisper, horrified. How could I not have realized there would be repercussions if Andrew is shamed so publicly? How could our grandfather not realize it?
She turns to me, her expression so fierce I step back. “I will keep the oath I made this night,” she says, “whatever it requires of me. Before God, I will be sole ruler of my Kingdom!”
Chapter Five: A Tryst
“My Lady Sister,” I murmur, dipping my head as Joanna passes me.
I should have said, Your Majesty, and curtsied low enough to touch the floor with my hand, bowing my head until she spoke to me, for she is now my Queen. But so much has happened, so suddenly, I have not had time to decide how I feel about any of it. Joanna does not notice anyway; she brushes past without even acknowledging me. Turning to watch her retreating back, I do know how I feel: I am glad I did not curtsy.
Immediately I am ashamed. Joanna is distracted by grief and worry. I love my sister, I tell myself firmly, and I have promised her my allegiance. As if there could ever be a relationship as simple as that between the two of us.
Then another thought occurs to me, and now I do regret my lack of courtly manners. I am nearly fourteen, a woman raised in the elegant and renowned Neapolitan court, not some crude barbarian like our Hungarian cousin, Andrew. I know proper behavior. I look around quickly, in case someone saw my slip and is already comparing my manners to his, but the room is empty. Relieved, I continue toward my Grandmother Sancia’s chapel. No doubt she is waiting.
As I near the entrance to her rooms I see a figure leaning against the wall, looking away from me. He turns, and I recognize my cousin, Charles of Durazzo. “Princess Maria,” he says, bowing his head. When he raises it he is smiling.
“Lord Charles.” I return his smile. Even if he had not smiled, I would have. I cannot help but smile when I see him, try as I might to hide it. Why is he here? Is he waiting to see my Lady Grandmother, so early in the morning? He must know she will be praying in her chapel at this hour.
“You are going to your prayers,” he observes. “We have all lost a great King, but you have also lost a grandfather. Although you are a beautiful sight in the pure white of mourning, I would never wish to see you sad.”
I blush and lower my eyes. I feel my heart’s pulse in my throat, and I am afraid he will see in my eyes how far from sadness I am at this moment. “You are kind, Cousin,” I murmur, and feel my blush increasing. I dare not look up until I can compose myself.
“It is not only kindness, Maria,” he says, boldly dropping my title, creating an intimacy between us, as though we have an understanding...
I glance up quickly to see the same suggestion of intimacy in his smile, a warm invitation in his dark eyes. My breath catches. I am hot all over now, not only in my cheeks. I lower my eyes again at once, before he sees too much and laughs at me.
“What else could it be?” I manage, wincing at how silly, how childish I must sound. Am I trying to flirt with him? I look up to make sure he is not laughing.
He is not. He is looking at me more earnestly than he has ever done. “Surely you must know, my sweet Maria. Surely you will let me hope for more than kindness between us?”
My mouth falls open. With a little gasp, I press my lips together and look down quickly. He must hear my heart pounding, so loud in the silence after his words. I clasp my hands together to hide their trembling, my knees are so weak I can barely stand. I am not accustomed to this. It is Joanna the courtiers flirt with. My sweet Maria, he said. I cannot think what to say, I can barely remember to breathe.
In a burst of daring I look up again and tell him, “Anyone can hope.”
And then I blush even more at my boldness, and stammer that my Lady Grandmother is waiting, and hurry toward her chamber, almost running, without even saying goodbye.
At the door to Grandmother Sancia’s rooms, waiting for her guard to open it to me, I glance back. Charles is gone. Was he only here to speak to me? Can that be why he came? For me?
The guard clears his throat. I struggle to collect myself, and hurry through the door toward Grandmother Sancia’s private chapel. The chapel door is already open for me. I am quite late.
My Lady Grandmother is kneeling before the altar when I enter. I drop into a deep curtsy, which does nothing at all to appease her.
“You have kept us waiting,” she says, without turning to look at me. I walk forward and kneel beside her as I have done every morning for as long as I can remember. I only half-listen to the prayers and exhortations of my grandmother’s Franciscan monk; just enough to provide the expected responses and genuflections.
My sweet Maria, I hear him saying still. And: Surely you will let me hope for more than kindness between us? I have to stop myself from grinning foolishly.
Beside me, my Lady Grandmother stiffens. I do not think she can hear my thoughts, but I am not certain she does not know them, nevertheless. I force his face—his dark, inscrutable eyes, his full, passionate lips, his straight aristocratic nose, his charming, heart-stopping smile—I force his face out of my thoughts, firmly. This is no time to think of my cousin Charles.
Our grandfather will be laid in state at Santa Chiara this morning. Joanna was probably on her way to confirm the arrangements for the ceremony. I concentrate on the Franciscan monk, murmuring his prayers in Latin.
I was not yet born when our father died, and only two when our mother followed him into the afterlife. I do not remember her at all. My earliest memory is clinging to Joanna’s hand when we left our parents castle and came to live with our grandparents at Castle Nuovo.
“You are like your mother,” Grandmother Sancia says when I have said or done something she considers frivolous or vain.
“Like her mother,” Grandfather the King used to say when I could not follow a philosophical point he and Joanna were debating.
“You are as beautiful and sweet as your mother was,” Charles told me two Christmases ago, when I attended my first dance.
Does Joanna remember our parents? She will not talk of them. Her loyalty is all transferred to Philippa, a servant, and Grandmother Sancia, who sees to our religious training but shows us no affection whatsoever; and most of all to our grandfather, King Robert the Wise, for Joanna was his darling.
Will I ever be someone’s darling?
Was Charles only flirting? I feel a pang in my chest. Sweet Maria. Do not let him have been merely flirting, I pray earnestly.
The chapel is silent. I blink, looking up through my lashes. Grandmother and the Franciscan are both looking at me with stern disapproval. They do know my thoughts!
No, they cannot. Only God, and maybe Philippa, can know my thoughts, and that is bad enough. My grandmother and the monk are only suspicious.
Looking down again I let my shoulders tremble and open my eyes wide, willing them to fill with water. In a moment I feel the moisture collect, and blink it onto my cheeks, allowing myself a little sob. Just one. Too great a display of emotion will annoy my Lady Grandmother as much as my lack of attention to the monk’s words has. I think of King Robert, dead this morning, and the dowry he bequeathed me, and the fact that only my sixteen-year-old sister and her cowardly, untrustworthy husband stand between us and a Hungarian army that might even now be rushing to destroy Naples...! My eyes water in earnest.
Shielding my face in my hand—not too much, enough to claim modesty but not so much as to hide my tears—I rise and stammer an apology for not following the Franciscan’s discourse, but I have been praying fo
r my Grandfather the King’s soul. “And for his children, the people of Naples, who have lost his strong protection,” I add for good measure, since a queen always thinks of her subjects and I will be Queen when I marry the French prince. That is my destiny, even though it will break my poor cousin Charles’ heart. The thought causes me to shed fresh tears.
Unable to chastise me now, Grandmother Sancia curtly dismisses me to collect myself and prepare for the ceremony of King Robert’s interment.
Back in my rooms I look at once for Margherita di Ceccano, my friend as well as one of my ladies-in-waiting. She is the niece of a Cardinal; her mother and my Lady Aunt Agnes, Charles’ mother, are close friends because of their mutual connections in Avignon. Margherita was raised here like a sister to Charles. She looks up as I come in.
I sit down beside her and take up my sewing, but I am too excited to sew. We have often whispered about the courtiers, which ones we think are handsome, and who is flirting with whom. I have confided to her more than once how much I like Charles, and she has talked to me about one of the young counts. But now that I have something to tell her, something new and much more exciting than anything we have whispered about before, there are no words that sound right.
“I met Duke Charles in the hall on my way to my Lady Grandmother’s chambers,” I finally say, keeping my voice low. Can I tell her he was waiting for me? Would it sound foolish? Was he?
“He must have risen very early,” she murmurs. “I wonder what could have brought him there at just that time?” She smiles knowingly.
She has guessed! And now it does not sound foolish at all. “Do you think he was waiting for me?” I whisper, my voice catching with delight, eager to hear someone else say it.
“I have told you often that he likes you,” she says. Her eyes crinkle, sharing my happiness. “What did he say?”
“He said...” already I feel myself blushing. I stare down at my sewing, hoping no one will notice. “He said he hopes there might be more than kindness between us.” I whisper all in a rush.
“Ohhh,” Margherita sighs. It is most satisfying to hear her sigh like that over something said to me.
I cannot hold the rest back after that. I lean in close and whisper in her ear, “I told him, ‘anyone may hope.’” She giggles with me at my wit and daring. We have never been the ones flirting, always the ones listening to others’ witticisms, ladies and lords of the court who are older and bolder than we are. It is a heady thing to join their ranks at last. Should I tell her he called me ‘my dearest Maria’? I am wondering if I want to share that, or keep it just to myself a while longer, when the door to my receiving room opens and the guard announces, “Her Majesty the Queen!”
I am surprised to see Joanna enter my chambers. We all rise to curtsey, but she is in a hurry and comes to me at once. She leads me into an alcove where we can talk privately, and slips a note into my hands.
“You will see Louis today when we lay King Robert in state,” she whispers as she hands me the note.
“I cannot! Everyone will be looking.” I try to push it back to her but she has withdrawn her hand. I cannot return her note without it being obvious to others in the room, even though we are standing with our backs to them.
“They will not be looking at you.”
Charles will. I hope he will. If he does, I do not want Charles of Durazzo to see me coquettishly slipping a note to Louis of Taranto! I have seen how Charles looks at Joanna as she flirts with the young men at court, especially our handsome cousins of Taranto. Anyone can hope, I told Charles. I meant him; he knew I meant him. But if he sees me give a note to Louis, he will think I really meant “anyone.” I could not bear to lose his good opinion now! Surely there will be a better time than tomorrow to give Joanna’s note to Louis.
“Can it wait?” I need not say how unseemly it is to be thinking of our handsome cousins today. Joanna flushes slightly, but I do too, as guilty as she.
“Tomorrow Andrew will be knighted, and tomorrow night... No, it cannot wait.” Her face is impassive, but I do not need an expression to tell me how she feels. I would want to see someone handsome and fond of me before I bedded someone like Andrew—God forbid!—and Louis is one of the most handsome men in the Neapolitan court. He and his brother Robert won every joust at the Christmas tournament. Duke Andrew was furious—he led his men galloping through the narrow streets, heedless of the people scattering before them to avoid being trampled by their horses. I do not want to think of Andrew now, or imagine him watching me slip a note to a courtier. I have avoided Duke Andrew since the night of the masque, but I can remember the scorn in his eyes. If he sees me passing notes to lords on the day of my Grandfather King’s interment... I look up at Joanna, ready to refuse.
“Please, Maria,” she whispers. Is that a tear on her cheek? Does she love Louis? Does he feel about her as Charles does about me, and call her, ‘my sweet’? Does she feel like giggling, and blushing, and all shivery inside when he glances at her, as Charles makes me feel?
I look at her doubtfully. Have I ever seen my sister blush? Even if I dared ask her such questions, Joanna would not answer. Joanna is married to Andrew of Hungary, cowardly, stupid, ugly, brutal, cruel Andrew. I feel a surge of pity for my sister. I cannot tell her I understand, or that I am sorry for her, without disclosing what Andrew did; and she would know, as I do, that I deserved it for wearing that dress. I could not bear my sister’s scorn—Andrew’s is bad enough—so I don’t say anything as I close my fingers around her note.
But if I am seen passing a note to Louis when I should be mourning my Lord Grandfather, the King? Joanna will never claim the note if I am caught; she could not. I would not say it was hers, anyway. We do not tell each other’s secrets. So if I am caught, it will be bad.
“If King Robert were alive you would not do this,” I tell her.
“If King Robert were alive I would not need to.”
I look at her, and see in her frightened eyes that she is not thinking of Louis of Taranto now; she is thinking of the other Louis. I shiver. King Robert’s testament will be read aloud after his internment. Louis of Hungary will soon learn that his brother will not be crowned.
“Naples must have a Hungarian heir to the throne,” my sister says. I think I hear her voice tremble. She has been Queen for one day and already she looks older than her sixteen years. Her face is drawn and pale. If our grandfather was alive he would never permit Andrew to go to her bed before he had proved himself a man. My sister would know at least that she had a soldier in her bed, a man worthy and capable of fathering a son.
“Give it to Lady Marguerite,” I whisper, looking over my shoulder to where Louis’ sister is sitting among my ladies-in-waiting.
“I trust only you.” She says this quietly, neither pleading nor insisting. It is simply the truth, and I accept it because underneath everything there is between us, she is still the big sister who held my hand when I stopped at the entrance to Castle Nuovo, afraid to enter this imposing new home. And I am still the little sister who held her hand when she cried herself to sleep that night for parents I was already beginning to forget.
I trust only her.
“Tomorrow night there must be blood on your sheets,” I say, tucking the letter into my sleeve. I feel very worldly saying this, although I do not know why everyone says there should be blood on bridal sheets. I am not a child; I have seen my grandfather’s stallion with a mare, but I did not see any blood.
“Of course there will be blood.” And then, smiling, as she turns to leave: “I heard about your tears this morning.”
It is a good thing we trust each other, for we can never fool each other.
Chapter Six: A Walk in the Garden
“I would speak with you, Princess Maria.”
I turn. Charles is standing behind me. He has leaned in close to whisper in my ear so no one else can hear. Or perhaps to make the curl of hair that always escapes my plaits tickle my cheek with his breath, so he can see me shiver. I
glance around quickly at the ladies-in-waiting sitting about my presence chamber. Their attention is focused on the minstrel playing for them, and on their sewing. A few are chatting with the young noblemen who have joined us. None of them are looking at us. This does not fool me, I have lived in a royal court all my life. Every one of them is aware that Charles and I are talking where we cannot be heard.
“You are speaking to me now,” I murmur. I feel his breath on my skin, as soft as a caress.
“Alone.”
Who could imagine a single word could sound so delicious?
“Why, what have you to say, cousin?” I ask, hoping he does not hear the catch in my breath. I am so awkward at this.
He makes a noise and I see he is impatient with courtly teasing. I fear I have displeased him, but then he smiles and leaning very close, he whispers, “Surely you have some idea, dearest princess Maria.”
If I move, just a little, his lips will brush my cheek. I stand very still, trying not to move, desperately wanting to.
I have been raised in the flirtatious Neapolitan court, and yet I cannot speak. Is this courtly flattery, or does he mean something more? Has he realized at last that I am no longer a child? Even so, he will not dare say anything beyond a pretty compliment; he knows that I am not for him. And yet, how I hope he will. Oh, I wish he were my French prince!
Joanna has beaten me onto a throne, she has beaten me into a marriage bed, whether it is a happy one or not, and in the month since King Robert died she has done very little toward arranging my engagement. The last time I asked her about it, she told me sharply that a letter had been sent, and she is too busy with matters of state and hearing petitions from her subjects and supervising the building of King Robert’s tomb in Santa Chiara to do more.
Why should I not talk to my cousin Charles? He has not forgotten me for affairs of state.
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