“Lady Mother,” Charles interjects, “let me explain this night’s business to our guest. But first, my dear Princess Maria, you are cold and damp. Come inside and sit by the fire with me.”
I should be angry with him still. This was not well done, it is an outrage. My grandfather King Robert would have had him thrown in jail, his men drawn and quartered; Joanna might do so also... The thought of my Charles, with his sweet smile, in jail gives me pause. Why has he risked so much? He must be desperate for me! It is my fault he has done this, his wits have been addled by love. I let him escort me past his mother and into their family castle.
A servant brings us mulled wine. I hold the hot cup in my hands to warm them as Charles tells me Lady Catherine has appealed to her brother the King of France to intervene on their behalf with the Pope in Avignon.
“But he has written you a bull to marry,” I protest.
“He wrote it very carefully,” Charles says. “Clement VI is not a man to refuse a king in the interests of a duke. And can we take that chance? Can we risk our marriage on the hope that the Pope and the Queen will stand firm against the King of France and all our Taranto relatives? I could not bear to lose you.” He takes my wine cup from my hands and leans close to me. I am afraid he will kiss me, here in the hall in front of his mother. I part my lips, in case he might.
“Would you be happy to marry me, Maria?” His voice catches on the familiar words of his own proposal; he is afraid I will refuse him this time.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, Charles.” I lean a little toward him.
He sighs, and appears to come to himself, drawing back just a little. “I am a man whose life has been reprieved,” he says.
Behind us, my Lady Aunt gives a small snort.
I close my lips and straighten, but Charles smiles at me, as if we two understand something that she could not possibly know. He is not at all ashamed of being heard whispering love words to me. “Will you marry me now, Maria?”
“What now?” I look around, confused.
“Now, in our private chapel. I have a priest waiting. Everything is ready.”
“Now?” I repeat, stupidly.
“Before it is too late. Before Lady Catherine can turn everyone against us.”
“You brought me here to marry you? Without my sister the Queen’s knowledge and consent?”
“The Queen has already consented. We are engaged, are we not? Marry me now, before she can change her mind.”
I take up my wine cup and gulp the hot, spicy drink, trying hard to think. It is very hard to think with his eyes looking into mine, so close. I am a royal princess, I cannot marry in secret. Joanna will know I gave my consent; the priest would not marry us otherwise. She will never forgive me.
I trust only you, I hear her say. No, I cannot. “She will not change her mind, an engagement is binding.”
“Did she allow the priest to bless our engagement?”
“That was only to appease—” I stop. Our Lady Aunt Catherine and our Taranto cousins were not at the feast of our engagement. I look at Charles, my mouth falling open. Is my sister planning to cancel our engagement? Was she planning it from the beginning, just waiting until it would look like she had no choice?
I trust only you, I told her.
Charles rises and holds out his hand to me. I take it and let him raise me to my feet.
“You are a most beautiful bride.”
I look down in horror. “I cannot marry you! I am wearing white!” Our marriage will be plagued by grief if I marry him in the color of mourning. And red! A bold color. Yes it denotes wealth, red is a very expensive color, but it is not a color for a new wife. There is neither submissiveness, nor purity, nor love in red. I should be in green, the color of young love, or blue, the color of purity; those are the right colors for a young bride.
Margherita wanted me to wear blue tonight, I suddenly remember. She knew all along! She tried to guide me to wear the blue dress—was she so certain I would agree to this?—but I would not listen. I never listen. Red is my color, surely, the color of a bold, headstrong, foolish girl. But I cannot be married in it! Be still, whore, you are getting what you asked for! I hear Andrew’s voice accusing me. Accusing, or recognizing who I really am? I close my eyes to hold back the tears. “I cannot be married in red,” I whisper.
Charles laughs at me fondly. “Maria, you are barely fourteen. I will mold you into the wife I want, whatever color you wear today. And you are very pretty in those colors.” He holds out his arm to escort me into the chapel.
Everything is ready. A priest is waiting there, and all of Charles’ family, and Margherita. She turns to me as I enter, her smile tentative. Without a word she comes to me and curtseys very low, and holds out a wide blue ribbon. I take it gladly, although I will not thank her, and tie it around me so that it sits on my hips. It cuts the red, dividing the color’s strength, so that the blue, the symbol of maidenly purity, is stronger. Andrew was wrong about me. I am not secretly a whore. I am just a foolish fourteen-year-old princess. But Charles will take care of me. He will make me better. He has promised to make me into a wife worthy of him.
Charles waits patiently as I look around the chapel. They have forgotten nothing. Even the wedding contract has been prepared, listing all my holdings and assets including my pension and dowry, according to King Robert’s final testament. It is lying on a table waiting for the ceremony. I stop when I see it, frowning a little. How long have they planned this? Was he so sure of me?
In King Robert’s bedchamber I put my hand on the Holy Scriptures and swore an oath to uphold his will. I swore an oath of obedience to Joanna.
“I am breaking my vow of allegiance to my Queen,” I murmur, low enough that only Charles can hear.
“You are not breaking your vow. The Queen agreed to your engagement to me, and an engagement is intended to be binding. This is its natural extension, as she well knew. Besides,” he grins at me, leaning down to whisper into my ear “you have been abducted. You are my helpless prisoner until you agree to marry me.”
I find it hard to breathe.
Charles motions to the best man to stand at the chapel door as it is closed behind us. He is huge. I have never seen anyone so big. I do not know whether he is the best swordsman and fighter among the Durazzo family’s men-at-arms, or has been hired for this day, but I do not doubt that he will do his job and stop anyone who tries to interrupt our wedding before it is completed.
My legs shake as I walk down the aisle. I grasp Charles’ arm for support, but I hold my head high, and when we reach the priest, and he asks the traditional question, am I of age, I answer proudly that I am. I have had my courses for a year now. I hesitate only a moment when he asks whether I have received consent for this marriage, then thinking firmly of Clement VI’s bull and Joanna and my Grandmother Sancia agreeing to my engagement, I tell him I do.
The priest pauses a moment before he puts to me the final question, “Do you consent of your own free will to this marriage, Maria of Anjou?”
I realize in that moment that I am about to be married, that Charles and I will be man and wife forever after this, and that I really have no idea at all what that means. Am I to spend my time praying and planning the building of cathedrals, like my Grandmother Sancia? Am I to manage his household like a noblewoman? Will I some day be left widowed to raise his children, like both of my Lady Aunts? And what will happen when he comes to my bed? I have no mother to tell me how to please a husband. No one has prepared me to be married!
The room seems to move. I sway a little on my feet, trying to find my balance. Charles let go of my arm for the questions, I must answer them on my own. I want to grab onto him but I must not. The priest raises his eyebrows. Everyone is waiting.
I look desperately at Charles. He is looking straight ahead, letting the decision be mine, but his face has paled, his smile is strained. He is terrified I will break his heart. I feel a surge of tenderness. I breathe out, my heart begins to beat again,
and, still looking at Charles, I say in a loud, clear voice, “Yes. I consent.”
The priest smiles. I hear murmurs of approval and relief behind me, even though there are no more than a dozen people in the chapel, but all I care about is Charles, who turns his head to me with a smile so wide it splits his face.
Charles answers the same three questions confidently. When he comes to the third I am afraid for a moment, and I realize what he must have felt, and am sorry I hesitated.
The priest asks for the contract and reads aloud my assets and dowry for all present to hear. Then he gives a short sermon in Latin about the seriousness of matrimony which makes me so nervous I want to reconsider, and at the same time makes me feel proud and very adult. When he warns us against lust, exhorting us to go to our marriage bed solely for the purpose of producing children, I am horribly aware of the Duchess of Durazzo, Charles’ mother, listening behind us, and I blush as red as my surcote.
Charles produces the ring, a beautiful gold band studded on top with sapphires and emeralds, blue for a pure bride and green for our young love, and slides it onto the third finger of my right hand. I admire it in delight. Then he takes out of his pouch the wedding brooch. It is cunningly made, with a tiny bride and her Lord husband standing side by side, surrounded by precious stones and pearls. He pins it to the front of my red surcote, proof, despite the bold color, of my modesty and chastity, for none but he may open it and see my breasts. I look down at it, and realize he has pinned it through my white gown, also: the symbol of our marriage clasped to the white of mourning. I feel a chill and open my mouth to tell him to move it, to pin it onto my surcote alone, but what if he misunderstands? What if he thinks I do not want to be chaste and keep myself for him alone? What if he wonders if someone else has already seen my breasts?
Before I can think what to do, the priest directs us to kneel. He leads us in prayer and pronounces us married. It is too late then to repair the damage, I can only hope nothing will come of it.
I watch the priest give Charles the kiss of peace, and then Charles bends and passes it on to me. When his lips touch mine, all my misgivings vanish. I am as hungry for the touch of his lips, for the love he has offered me, as a babe is to suckle. I have to force myself to end the kiss. We turn together to receive the congratulations of our little group of witnesses, and I have a heart as joyous, if not as carefree, as any bride ever had.
Charles takes my hand in his arm and leads me out of the chapel. I expect him to escort me into the great hall for our wedding feast, small though the company may be, but he turns toward the stairway.
“Where are we going, my Lord?” I whisper as he draws me up the steps. He does not answer, but continues. I hear the others behind me and turn and look. They are following us, every one of his family. His brothers have grins on their faces that I do not like. Louis, nearest to Charles in age, starts to call out something to us but Charles looks back and stops him with a motion. They continue to follow us, whispering jests to each other and laughing uproariously.
Even I understand where we are heading now. I stop and try to pull my hand from Charles’ arm, but he holds it tight and pulls me on with him. I cannot stop long anyway, the rest of his family are right behind me. I remember being lifted against my will and carried through the garden and do not want that again, not in front of everyone. It would be immodest for me to look eager for my wedding bed, but it would be humiliating to turn and try to run, as I would like to do. Behave as a queen would behave, I remind myself over the pounding of my heart. A queen would be modest but unafraid. I raise my chin and walk as steadily as I can beside my husband.
We enter the outer chamber of Charles’ rooms—at least, I assume they are his—all together as a group. “What is this, my Lord?” I whisper, trying hard not to weep in front of everyone.
Charles puts his hands on my shoulders and bends to kiss my cheek. “I will explain when I come in. It will all make sense when I explain. Go in now, and trust me, Maria. I will not hurt you.” His brothers snicker when they hear this.
Charles ignores them. He gives me a little push toward the door to his bedchamber. Margherita has squeezed through the others and is waiting for me at the door, but I am afraid and confused. Are we not to have a feast, and a dance, and wine and singing and music? I look back at Charles, searching his face. He frowns and nods toward the door.
I feel a tear slide down my cheek. Before anyone can notice, I turn away, so that his brothers will not have something else to laugh at, and enter the bedchamber with Margherita. As soon as the door closes behind us, she takes my hands.
“Do not be afraid, Princess Maria,” she begs. “You were so brave in the garden, so proud and royal. This is nothing to cry about now, this is only what every woman must endure.”
“But I want a feast.” I wipe my eyes and hiccup. “And dancing and music! I want a wedding feast!”
“You shall have them, you shall have it all. The cooks are preparing it now, I promise you.” Margherita unclasps my wedding brooch and lays it on a table.
“Then why... why are we here?” I blush. Of course I know why we are here, I just do not know why we are here now.
“Charles will explain.” She has already unlaced my surcote and lifts it high for me. I am so used to being dressed and undressed by my ladies-in-waiting that I duck my head and step out under her arm while I am still objecting, “I want to know now.”
“We must hurry, Princess Maria.” Margherita begins to unbutton my white gown. “They will know that you are not coming to dinner in Castle Nuovo by now. Your ladies-in-waiting will have told them you are not in your rooms.” She lowers the gown for me to step out of. “They may already be searching the grounds.” She shakes my white gown gently and lies it on top of my surcote over a chair. “When they do not find you...” she pauses.
“My sister the Queen will be worried. She will fear that I have been harmed, or abducted—” I stop, my mouth forming a little “o” of surprise, when I realize that she will be right. I have been abducted. “They may guess who would do it,” I say slowly.
“Your Lord the Duke of Durazzo only wants to be sure that the marriage cannot be annulled.” Margherita finishes unlacing my chemise and bends down to lift it from the hem.
“But it is not night-time.” I raise my arms so she can lift my chemise over my head. “And I have nothing else to wear.” I shiver in my nakedness.
Margherita opens a chest at the bottom of Charles’ bed and takes a pretty blue nightgown out of it. “You have this,” she says, giggling at my expression of surprise. She helps me into it and pins the brooch at my breast. I am pleased to see it on blue, as it should be, instead of white.
There is a loud knock at the door. Margherita pulls the bedclothes down and helps me up into the high bed. “You haven’t undone my hair,” I remind her. “My Lord will want to see my hair down.”
She looks at me apologetically. “There is no time to let down your hair and plait it up again,” she says. “We have to hurry. You will have to be careful not to...” she stops and blushes. A second, louder knock comes.
“But I do not know what to do!” I whisper urgently. “No one has told me what to do!”
She is already on her way to open the door and let them in. She looks at me in the bed and whispers, “Princess Maria, I cannot tell you. I do not know either!” She hesitates, thinking, her face as worried as mine. Then she shrugs and whispers, “The Duke of Durazzo will know.” She opens the door to let him in.
Chapter Eleven: Unbalanced
BAM! BAM! BAM!
I start awake to the sound of shouting and pounding. I lie frozen in fear, the darkness pinning me to my bed, trembling at each new volley of fists against my chamber door. What? I cannot make a sound even to demand what is happening The bed shakes as my bedmate climbs out quickly, pushing aside the curtain. The volume of angry voices and banging on the door increases.
Do not open the door! I struggle to cry to Margherita, but I cannot
move, even to speak, in my terror.
“I am coming,” a male voice calls beside my bed.
Charles’ voice. Charles! It is not Margherita sleeping with me! My sleep falls away. I strain to see in the pitch dark room, pulling the cover up around my chin. Why are they so angry? They have already seen the sheets.
I hear the door open. The shouting stops. “I will get her ready,” Charles says, and aside, as to a servant, “Light the wall lamps.” I clutch the blanket closer about my neck.
“Maria.” The bed sways as he climbs back onto it. Our bed. Our marriage bed. I am a married woman. I close my eyes. I have done everything he asked of me. I am sure he was as gentle as any man can be, but no one told me it would hurt.
Charles shakes my shoulder gently. “My Lady wife, Duchess of Durazzo. You must wake up for only a little while.”
I open my eyes. What can he want of me now? Surely not to be stared at by those rough, loud-spoken men?
“It seems they have found us out.” Charles grins down at me until I smile back. “We have had longer than I feared, but less time than I hoped. Nevertheless, you are married, and bedded, and no man can deny it.”
I blush at the memory of him holding up our blooded sheets to those waiting in his sitting room, and their raucous cheer at the sight of them, while inside the bedchamber Margherita dressed me again to go down to the feast. Neither of us mentioned that my hair was barely mussed at all.
I should never have agreed to this hushed and hurried wedding. My sister would not go back on her decision after letting our Lady Grandmother throw an engagement party for me. Charles is persuasive—too persuasive. And I am too easily persuaded. I have been cheated of a proper wedding day, of the glorious progression to Santa Chiara while the people of Naples cheered me in the streets, of a proper ceremony and a sumptuous feast attended by all the nobles in the land, and a merry dance and a respectable—well, more respectable—bedding. I shut my eyes so he cannot read my thoughts in them.
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