I leave her to sit in my alcove if she wishes and walk over to the games table. Three of my ladies are playing at dice. I am about to marry a man I love; surely my stars must be aligned—so I sit down to play.
It is true that I am very good at hazards. I win more often than not, when I play in my presence chamber, and I do love winning. Today, however, I wonder if the winning is too easy. Would I win so often if I were not a princess, for all my skill? I push the little pile of coins in front of me back into the center of the table, telling my ladies to divide it and continue playing without me. “It would be unlucky for me to win at dice as well as love,” I tell them magnanimously as I leave the game.
Bolstered by my own virtue, I cross the room and sit in the alcove beside Sancia. She rises quickly to curtsy, but I wave her back to her seat.
“What message has Her Majesty sent you with, Sancia?” I ask, not bothering to use a false honorific. Sancia of Cabannis, granddaughter of a peasant and a slave, is not a lady even if she is one of my sister’s ladies-in-waiting. I speak to her pleasantly, though, and smile to show I bear her no ill-will.
“Her Grace did not send me. I have come on my own, because we were once friends.” She looks down into her lap, biting her lower lip as though she is wondering if it was a mistake.
That single act—biting her bottom lip—transforms her. She was always unsure of herself at court. Our cousins treated her with casual mockery, sometimes so obviously that Joanna would come to her defense, telling them they were only lords when they behaved as such. I remember, too, that habit of catching the side of her lower lip when I, who was younger, would say or do something that made Joanna and my older cousins laugh. Sancia never laughed. No matter how foolish my question she would answer it solemnly in her quiet voice, and if she did not know the answer a single glace from her and Joanna would stop laughing to explain to me. Their laughter was not malicious; I am a royal princess. But Sancia was better than not mean; she was kind. I taught those hands she is clasping in her lap to play hazards. I am sure now that she already knew, but she let me teach her, she made little mistakes that I would catch. I would giggle and tell her, “No, not like that,” and she would nod and thank me.
Impulsively I grasp her hands. “You have always been my friend, Sancia,” I tell her, ashamed now of having let my cousins’ example influence me. “I am the one who has not been a good friend.”
She does not shame me by accepting my apology, but simply says, “I am glad of your friendship, Princess Maria,” as though no apology was needed between us.
“Have you come to congratulate me?”
Her smile fades. She bows her head as though unwilling to see my joy. “I want only your happiness, Princess,” she murmurs.
“Then be glad for me.” My voice comes out more sharply than I intend.
She does not look up with a smile and a good wish, as I want. I had forgotten how stubborn she can be, in her quiet way, when she believes she is right. She waits for me to give her leave to speak.
I consider not doing so. I seriously consider just getting up and leaving her. But then I am curious, and besides, a royal princess should listen even to advice she does not want to hear.
“You may speak,” I tell her graciously.
She catches the side of her lower lip in her teeth, and I have the unpleasant feeling of not knowing whether she is holding back fear or laughter. The expression is gone almost at once.
“Your Royal Highness, Princess Maria—”
I blink at her excess. Is she mocking me? But this is Sancia. Ah! It is a prepared speech she is delivering. I feel a momentary sympathy for her uncertainty. It must be difficult to live surrounded by your betters.
“—I beg you to reconsider your... present course. Your cousin, Lord Charles, Duke of Durazzo—”
Yes, yes. I know his titles. Will she dare abuse him to me?
“—I fear marriage to him will not... be all that you hope.”
“Do you have any reason for your concern?” I am proud of my response. It is a restrained and queenly response.
“The Duke is an ambitious man, your Grace.”
I wait, but she says nothing more. She is looking down at her lap again, unable or afraid to meet my eyes after what she has implied.
“I am ambitious also.” Does she know he promised to win us a kingdom? How would she learn that?
“Marriage to a French prince would be a great ambition.”
“I do not love a prince of France.”
“Love is a changing thing, Princess. Family is a steadfast thing.”
“Are you implying that I will not be steadfast, Sancia?”
“Marriage to a prince of France would keep you aligned with your family’s interests. With your sister, the Queen’s.”
“And marriage to the Duke of Durazzo will not?”
“The Duke is an ambitious man.”
I take her meaning now, and rise quickly, furious. It is all I can do not to slap her. Did Joanna send her? I will not protest my loyalty again, certainly not before Sancia of Cabannis. Once is for honor; twice is a liar, as they say. Sancia scrambles up hastily, and this time I let her curtsy, watching to make sure her hand brushes the floor before I turn and leave her.
Chapter Ten: A Scandal
My sister does not walk into the great hall arm-in-arm with me at the feast to celebrate my engagement. I enter ahead of her, with my Lady Grandmother, to receive the bows and curtseys, the broad smiles of those associated with the Durazzo family, and the cool congratulations of everyone else.
Queen Joanna enters last. She crosses the great hall, acknowledging the obeisance of her subjects as she passes, but not once does she glance at me. She bows her head to Grandmother Sancia, who is waiting at the head table for Joanna to sit before anyone else may be seated. Standing at the table on the other side of the dowager queen, I cover my shock with a deep curtsy to my sister. I have never known Joanna not to curtsy in public to our grandmother. She has always revered Sancia, and chastised me if I offered even a hint of criticism for our cold, pious Grandmother. Not that she has to; as Queen Regnant, Joanna owes exactly the gesture she has given to the dowager queen. But Joanna never gives only what is owed; she is as generous with her heart as with her coin. Only, apparently, not this evening.
Joanna’s attempt to reconcile with our Lady Aunt Catherine has failed. Neither my aunt nor her sons nor even Lady Marguerite, who would benefit from being seen by the young lords here, have come to observe my engagement to Charles. I am just as glad they are absent. Their offended pride would spoil the feast, but I know Joanna is anxious about making enemies where she used to have friends, so early in her reign.
Well, there is nothing I can do about that. Charles says it will all work out, and I believe him.
Charles must feel my gaze; he turns his head and smiles at me, his warm gray eyes taking me in from my head to my waist as I sit beside him. I shiver at the look in his eyes, and feel myself blush. I cannot wait till the dance, when we can touch hands and move together through the steps of the music. I am giddy just thinking of it.
“I am glad you wore your purple gown,” Charles says, his voice as languid and suggestive as his eyes.
“You told me to.” I smile, reminding him of our veiled messages on the day of the feast to honor me.
“Will you always do as I say?”
“Always, my Lord.” I feel myself blushing again.
“Then we will have a happy marriage, Maria.”
After the feast, before the tables are cleared for the dance, Charles and I rise to our feet as the room quiets. We announce our names and our intentions before the entire assembly. Charles gifts me with a silver bracelet on which our names have been engraved twined together. As he slips it over my hand his fingers linger on my wrist as though he would like to possess me right here. I feel weak and willing and hot, and I cannot speak but look at him with my heart in my eyes as I hand him the blue sleeve which I have unlaced from my favor
ite mi-parti gown. I have chosen the blue side rather than the red, which I prefer, because blue is the color of purity. I am not entirely pure; Andrew has put his vile hands where only my husband should ever touch me, but Charles will never know that. I am chaste, which is pure enough.
“I hope to unlace the rest of this gown myself, soon,” he murmurs as he accepts my sleeve, causing me to blush furiously.
The priest who has been Joanna’s and my confessor since we came to live in Castle Nuovo, steps forward to place my hand in Charles’, the symbol of our promised union. Before he can do so, Joanna waves him back.
“Leave that until her marriage,” she says.
A ripple of indrawn breaths, and murmurs quickly subdued, goes through the great hall. The Queen will not have her royal sister’s engagement blessed and confirmed by a priest. A chill goes down my spine; a foreboding. I cannot look at Joanna to measure her expression, everyone in the hall is watching us, but I glance at Charles. His eyes are cold, furious at the insult, although his brow is clear, his smile tightly in place. I take a little breath and smile back at him, full and loving, as a wife-to-be would smile at her intended husband, to show him that I support him, that I will always support him. And then I turn and smile at everyone, all the lords and ladies of our kingdom, as though this has all been planned. I incline my head to the priest as if he has blessed our engagement, smiling my merry smile that shows my dimples. I smile gaily, blessed or not, because I am a royal princess and I am going to marry the man I love, who loves me also, and that is blessing enough.
***
“Would you walk outside with me before the warmth of the day has gone?” Margherita asks.
I look at her in surprise. My other ladies-in-waiting have left to dress for dinner, having first dressed and prepared me.
“I am in my best shoes,” I say, looking down at my beautiful red pointed leather shoes. They are maybe not my best, I choose them so often they are beginning to lose a little of their stiffness, but they are my favorite. I raise my white gown and the red surcote over it just enough to display them, but Margherita has already admired them many times. She did not want me to wear the white gown, or the red surcote.
“The blue will match your eyes,” she said, and I was tempted. I imagine she is tired of mourning the King after two months, but Joanna still wears the white of mourning and I have been doing what I can to placate her since my engagement feast two days ago. The sense of foreboding has not left me, but neither has my determination to be Charles's wife, whether it suits Joanna or not. I nearly agreed with Margherita about the red, and was about to have the blue surcote she brought from my wardrobe pulled over my head, but then I thought of my red shoes. I do not have blue shoes and would have to wear my dull brown ones if I chose the blue surcote.
Margherita is wearing a blue gown—did she want us to wear the same color as we sometimes used to do when we were children? We have always been close, and now she is my only confidante, the only one who is genuinely happy about my engagement. I feel a pang of regret that I did not realize her intent and may have seemed to disdain her sentiment. Also, to be truthful, I feel slightly superior for I will soon be a married woman and beyond such girlhood fancies as matching-colored surcotes. So even though I glance out the window and shiver at the gray sky, I agree to walk outside with her before dinner, and let her fetch my cloak.
I pause on the steps. The wind is picking up. Dusk is approaching more quickly than I thought. The city is not safe at night for two women alone.
“We can walk in the courtyard,” I suggest, but she begs me so prettily to walk outside the gates and into the west gardens, that I cannot refuse. I will not show myself afraid if she is not, and we will not go far. “Only to the garden,” I tell her. “It is nearly time for dinner.”
It is even darker beyond the torches that hang from the castle gates. The wind picks up so we have to raise our voices to hear each other. I would as soon not talk; our chatter just announces our presence. I remind myself that I am a princess, no one would dare harm me in the castle gardens.
We cross the narrow street and enter the garden. When I look back, I can no longer see the guards at the castle gate, we have passed out of their sight. Ahead, the gardens are even darker than the streets, textured with shadows, shadow on shadow disappearing into the night. I shiver and stop, gripped with a premonition of danger. I open my mouth, about to insist we go back, but Margherita has also stopped. She stands still, contemplative, as though she is waiting for someone, or considering how to tell me something. She holds her face averted, not meeting my eye.
“What is it Lady Margherita?” I ask. She does not answer.
“Do you have a lover?” I say this with a little thrill of delight; it will be more pleasant to talk to her of Charles, listing his qualities and accomplishments as I have been doing, if she has someone, too.
She still does not answer. Perhaps she has not heard me. The wind is louder here, moaning through the trees. Before I can ask her again, someone grabs me from behind. Rough gloved hands pull my arms behind my back. I open my mouth to scream for the guards, and a kerchief is stuffed into my mouth!
I struggle to free myself, to spit out the cloth, to tell them there is no advantage in this, I do not have my purse on me. But they have not looked for it. They have not reached for my belt where it would be hanging. It is not coins they are after! Dear God, who are they? How dare they touch me, do they not know who I am?
Andrew’s men! Have they come to silence me as they silenced his guard?
A second kerchief covers my face, blinding me as it is tied securely behind my head. I struggle desperately, wild with panic, trying to scream my name. Where is Margherita, what have they done to her?
I am lifted off the ground. I kick out viciously and hear a satisfying grunt before strong arms secure my feet. They carry me—me, the Princess Maria, heir to the throne!—through the garden at a brisk pace. I struggle, wrapped in my cloak, but they are strong armsmen, I do not even slow them down. One of them chuckles under his breath, not a sinister sound, but as if he is amused by my resistance.
They would have killed me by now if that was their intent. My fear turns to fury. Joanna will have them hanged, drawn and quartered for this!
Where is Margherita? Why can I not hear her being carried beside me? I hope it is only the wind, muffling the sounds of her struggle as it muffles our captors’ footsteps. I lie stiff and furious in their arms, the touch of their base hands loathsome to me, trying to make out where they are taking us.
I catch the heavy scent of roses and lavender, so we are still in the garden. The wind has the salty scent of the sea in it, blowing in from the Mediterranean. My cheeks are wet with exertion—maybe a few tears, but they are tears of anger, I will not let these foul men think they frighten me!—and thus made sensitive to the wind’s direction. They are carrying me west, through the middle of the garden. Their steps are slowing, they must be nearly at the far side. What is on the other side of this garden?
Then I know. Of course I know, but I cannot believe it. Why would Andrew’s men be taking me to—
Because they are not Andrew’s men. Of course they are not Andrew’s men. I want to laugh, but it is only relief, I am still too angry to find this amusing. Now I know why Margherita did not scream, why I did not hear her struggling beside me when they came upon us. Up ahead I hear the whinny and snuffle of horses, and the stamping of their hooves on the ground.
“Do not be afraid, we would not harm you, Princess,” a gruff voice murmurs in my ear as I am set back on my feet and my hands untied. As soon as I am freed I whip my hand up, smacking the insolent fool’s face before he can back up. I hear someone laugh.
My eyes are still covered so I cannot run, and my mouth is bound to silence, but I stand there proudly, making sure they know I am not in the least afraid of them.
“We must mount our horses, Princess,” another voice says. “I would rather you ride pillion, but I cannot risk your
life, so you must give me your word to sit quietly in the saddle.”
I nod my head once, regally. They would never dare toss me across the saddle onto my stomach and tie me in place—but I do not want to test that. They have already gone too far to back down now. We canter over the hard ground, hidden in the darkness. I can hear the sea below us, the waves, whipped by the wind, slapping hard against the rocks. If I had not already known I would know now where we are going.
We stop, but they do not lift me down from the horse. “Open!” one of them calls. A large gate creaks open. We trot through, and it closes with a solid clang. Only then do they lower me carefully to my feet and remove the kerchiefs from my eyes and mouth. I am standing inside the entrance to Castle Durazzo, rubbing the bruises on my arms as they approach me. Margherita stands beside me with her head bowed, unable to meet my eyes.
“How dare you?” I ask Agnes of Perigord, glaring at her, and at Charles, too, as they curtsy and bow in front of me.
Charles snaps his fingers for his men to leave and they hurry to obey, their faces averted. As if I could punish them without convicting Charles as well.
“My poor darling.” Charles takes my hands. “Were you very afraid?”
“Not at all.” It is only a partial lie. “I was planning their executions.”
“I am so sorry, Princess Maria—”
My Lady Aunt silences Margherita with a look and motions her to go inside.
“Princess Maria, I am afraid it was necessary to inconvenience you this way,” she says, turning back to me. “If you were sincere in accepting my son’s marriage offer.”
I have always been a little afraid of both my Lady Aunts, but no one has ever accused me of faithlessness. I straighten my back and do not answer.
The Girl Who Would Be Queen Page 9
