The Girl Who Would Be Queen

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  “Open your eyes, little wife. We are about to have visitors.”

  “What, here?” I sit up quickly. “Now?”

  “Your sister’s men believe you are being held against your will.” He traces the curve of my cheek with his finger. “Are you here against your will?” His eyes crinkle with laughter.

  “I gave my consent,” I tell him—and remind myself.

  “That is all they need to hear,” he says.

  I look down, not meeting his eyes. Outside Charles’ rooms we hear the jingle of spurs and stamp of heavy riding boots as the Queen’s men wait impatiently outside. I feel Charles looking at me and glancing up I see him frowning. “They will hear it from me,” I tell him.

  “Will you not smile for me, as you used to?”

  I smile. It feels more like a grimace, but it is not meant to be.

  He gives a little snort, much like the sound his mother makes when she is annoyed, and glances at the door. But when he speaks, his voice is patient “What can I do to put a real smile back on your face, my little Duchess? Or do you not love me anymore? Have I been too... rough? I have tried to be gentle with you.”

  “I do, Charles. I do love you,” I say in a rush to prevent him from being more explicit. “I am glad we are married.” I say this last with some difficulty, even though it is true. I know it is true, but I am having trouble feeling it right now.

  “Then what is it?”

  I take a breath. I will sound foolish, but the concern on his face encourages me. “Charles can we have another feast? A real one, for me as your wife, when our marriage has been accepted? With musicians, and a dance? And can I wear a new green gown for it?”

  He stares at me, and bursts out laughing. But when he sees me look away, hurt, he cups my chin in his hand and stifles his mirth. “Yes, Maria,” he says. “I promise you I will throw a very big feast in your honor. Everyone you wish will be invited, and you shall wear green. Just as soon as our marriage is officially recognized.”

  I clap my hands and laugh with delight. Charles leans down to kiss me, and that is what the Queen’s men see when they walk into our room.

  ***

  Margherita stays to attend me at Castle Durazzo. I do not quite trust her as I did before, but I must accept her company. She is the only one of my ladies-in-waiting who will join me here. The others are all too scandalized by my abduction and unauthorized marriage. So they claim—I think they would simply rather stay at court.

  I can hardly blame them. I have never lived so meanly. I have my own bedchamber, and the smallest privy chamber I have ever seen. It has two chairs by a fireplace and a single table. The bed in my bedchamber is as good as any I have ever slept on—ready for Charles when he comes, which he does every night. But I have no presence chamber at all, and only Margherita to wait on me, dress me, do my hair, bring me what I need.

  My mother-in-law, now the Dowager Duchess, has the larger rooms that should belong to the Duchess of Durazzo. She also retains all the privileges and responsibilities that go with the title. I have no say in anything, I am not even consulted, I who have been mistress, with Joanna, of our own rooms, our own kitchen staff, our own entourage, our own court, ever since we were old enough to wear a surcote over our shift. I tell myself it is temporary, that I will learn what I need to know to manage this household and be the Duchess in fact, but Agnes of Perigord seems to be telling herself quite the opposite.

  Meanwhile, Joanna sends me letter after letter begging, then ordering, me to come back to Castle Nuovo. I write to her that my husband wants me at his side, but she does not invite Charles to come with me. Instead she writes that I must leave him and return to my home, and she will have the marriage annulled.

  Why sister, I think, reading her letter, did you not intend to honor my engagement?

  Charles was right about her after all. I write back that I am at home and that I think I will stay here, because my husband wants me in his bed at night. Let her know I am a woman who is desired, unlike her, I think, furiously scratching my quill across the paper. I ask that she release to my husband my dowry of lands and monies, according to our Grandfather’s will. She sends me back a curt refusal, saying if I wanted it, I should have married according to our Grandfather’s will. I scrunch the letter into a ball and throw it into the fireplace in a temper. She knows full well the testament we swore on does not mention exactly who I should marry, as no marriage had been arranged at the time.

  Queen Joanna writes to Pope Clement VI to complain of Charles’ and his mother’s conduct in abducting me, calling it an insult to our royal family. She bemoans my insolence in refusing to leave the Duke of Durazzo. She demands that His Holiness annul my marriage and order the Durazzos to return me, as though I am a plate or a silver cup.

  We hear of this from my Grandmother Sancia, who remains in contact with My Lady Aunt Agnes, Charles’ mother. Immediately I write to Clement VI to say I am very happy in my marriage and thank him for his bull permitting the Duke of Durazzo to marry whomever he chose. I point out that my Grandmother the Dowager Queen and my sister the Queen both celebrated my engagement to the Duke, thus consenting to it. His Holiness writes me back that he is pleased with my marriage, and counsels me to appease my sister and reconcile with her, which advice he has also given Joanna. I throw this letter into the fire also. Joanna is the false one—she never intended to let me marry Charles; that is clear now. Let her appease me!

  A torrent of letters pours from Queen Joanna’s writing table, from mine, from my Lady Grandmother’s, my Lady Mother-in-Law’s, my Lady Aunt Catherine’s desks, all hammering at each other over my marriage and appealing to the Pope for justice. Even Joanna’s mother-in-law in Hungary contributes her letters to the flood of protest. While we women and ecclesiastics conspire to drown each other in paper, the men take arms.

  Our cousins of Taranto raise a small army, which attacks and captures one of the Durazzo family’s outlying castles. Charles calls on his vassals to arm themselves in defense, and the triangle of power in the kingdom of Naples—King Robert’s line, his brother Philip of Taranto’s line, and their brother John of Durazzo’s line—prepare in their fury and greed to tear Naples apart, while the descendants of their eldest brother, Charles Martel, wait like vultures in Hungary to finish off the war-weakened victor. It is just as Joanna predicted.

  I stand at the window of my tiny sitting room and watch Charles’ brother, Louis, drilling the house guard in the courtyard below. Does he really think our cousins of Taranto will attack us here? That we will have to barricade our gates and defend ourselves? I cannot imagine that it will come to that, here in Naples. I cannot believe that I, who was never important as a princess engaged to Louis of Hungary, am suddenly being fought over as the wife of Charles of Durazzo.

  Below me, the guards form two lines and attack each other, their swords clanging fiercely. I step back, stifling the urge to scream, and slam the shutters closed. Margherita runs in alarmed and I fall, weeping, into her arms.

  “It is all my fault! All this—I have caused this,” I sob.

  “No, no. You must not think that,” Margherita says, but when I look up my tears cannot blind me from seeing the same guilt in her eyes, for she led me into this. We hold each other, but we find no comfort in each other’s false assurances.

  I think of my sister facing the prospect of civil war in the first year of her reign, because of my impulsive marriage. She must hate me for this. My anger at her falseness fades, but still I cannot go to her. Because, despite my shame, my fear, my regret, I cannot do the one thing she asks: I cannot leave Charles. We love each other.

  But if it comes to war? If Charles is killed, and someone else decides to do as he did, this time without my consent?

  I cannot sleep at night. I toss and whimper with nightmares of running through the dark, pursued; of being taken, a prize of battle, while my guards lie murdered around me. I rise every morning nauseous with exhaustion and throw up. I hide it from Charles, ashamed
of my weakness and unwilling to burden him with it while he is fighting to hold on to his lands and estates, which I have put at risk. I do not want him to wonder if I am worth it.

  In the midst of all this, Sancia of Cabannis comes to see me. She is more honest this time; she does not pretend to come out of friendship for me, but asks me to return with her for the sake of the Queen. I do not even grace that with an answer. We are no longer three children playing together, and my husband is not a toy I can toss aside when playtime is over.

  “At least, please speak to Her Majesty,” she begs me.

  “I will speak to Her Majesty if she orders Robert of Taranto to disarm, and return my lord’s holdings,” I tell her. Our cousin Robert, arrogant and cruel though he is, would surely have to listen to his Queen. But even as I think it, I have my doubts. Robert listens to no one.

  “Robert? Robert is in his bed with a fever, and has been this past month.”

  “Who is leading the Taranto army?”

  “Louis is the head of the family Taranto while his brother lies ill.”

  “Louis?” I stare at her, dumbfounded. Hot-headed sixteen-year-old Louis of Taranto is leading the army against us? This is at my Lady Aunt Catherine’s command. Matriarch of the Taranto family, she may not be able to control Robert, but she has her younger sons in hand.

  “Louis is attacking us,” I repeat, as it sinks in. I passed him Joanna’s note at our grandfather’s interment, before her marriage was consummated. Louis, Joanna’s favorite, is attacking my husband?

  I raise my head and stare levelly at Sancia. “Tell Joanna I will speak to her when she orders Louis of Taranto to disarm, and return my lord’s holdings.” I turn, dismissing her from my privy chamber.

  “Princess—”

  “Duchess!” I snap, without turning back.

  “...Duchess Maria,” she takes a step closer and lowers her voice. “Your sister does not want any of this, you must know that.”

  I whirl on her. “And how would I know that when Louis, Louis of Taranto, is attacking me?”

  “Not you, never you. He is defending you! Your honor!” Her voice is almost a whisper.

  “I am married!” Despite my fury, I strive to keep my voice low. If Charles learned what she has said, he would kill her. I want to slap her myself, for insinuating that my honor is sullied, that I went to Charles’ bed without the sanctity of marriage.

  She takes a breath and steps back. “I meant no—”

  “Oh, did you not?”

  Another careful breath. “Duchess Maria, the Queen cannot order Louis of Taranto to desist from defending your honor. It would amount to admitting she approves of your marriage, that she has favored the Durazzos over the Tarantos as the heirs to her throne.”

  She did. She attended my engagement party. But we are both aware that Joanna prevented the priest from blessing our future union.

  “Better the Tarantos fight the Durazzos for my honor than that they fight for her crown,” I say bitterly. Joanna warned me: the balance of power, the scales she has to keep carefully equal. And yet I feel betrayed. “She is playing both sides.”

  “She is the Queen. She is Naples. There is no other side.”

  I watch from my window as Sancia’s carriage leaves, returning to the Queen’s court. Despite our dispute, our mutual deceptions, I miss my sister, and I know she is missing me. But this has gone too far for that. I am married and bedded, and the whole kingdom is involved; neither of us can turn back now. Joanna will have to make do with Sancia. Sancia of Cabannis will be her friend and sister now. My sister will no longer trust me, as I no longer trust her.

  Joanna’s words come back to me: I will restore justice and wealth and prosperity to Naples. I will hold her good above all other allegiances.

  I should have warned Sancia, I think, as I watch her carriage turn out of sight.

  ***

  I send word to my husband that I cannot eat and retire early to bed. He comes to me anyway, as he has done every evening since our wedding, save only those nights my womanly courses prevented him. I have come to look forward to his arrival, not only because I see him so little during the day now that he is busy preparing his men to fight, but because... because I have become as loose as a strumpet, longing to be touched. There, I admit it. He only has to slide into the bed beside me for my heart to pound and the queasy feeling in my stomach to spread lower. When his hands squeeze my breasts gently, suggestively, and stroke down over my belly and lower—he does not have to part my legs, they are already open, eager for him. He runs his fingertips along the inside of my thighs, barely touching the curls of hair, until I am panting. Then, teasing me, he moves his hand up, caressing my belly, his fingers circling the little round curve of it.

  “You did not come to dinner,” he says. “Are you unwell?”

  At the moment I feel very unwell, I feel desperately unwell, and only he can resolve it, but I am not quite brazen enough to say that. “I am well,” I murmur, hoping he will not notice the catch in my voice. I run my hands down his back, feeling awkward even after three months, for I am embarrassed to ask him what I should do, and he has not made any suggestions. I would like to take his hand and push it lower again. I close my eyes, as though that can stop the impure thought.

  He bends down and kisses my stomach, making me gasp. “Why did you not come to dinner, then?” His lips slide further down.

  I groan. As if of their own volition, my legs spread a little wider. “It... it comes and goes,” I gasp, hardly knowing what I am saying.

  He raises his head. “An illness that comes and goes? Is there a fever?” His fingers very gently tickle the hairs that mound below my stomach. Yes there is a fever!

  “No, no fever...”

  “Is there any nausea?” he whispers. His fingers stroke the inside of my thighs, brushing my hairs, as light as a feather, sending little shocks of pleasure and excitement. “In the mornings, perhaps?”

  I nod, unable to speak.

  He hesitates, his fingers still.

  I have never done this before, but I am desperate. I slide my hands down to his hips and pull him closer, my legs fully spread. With a groan he enters me.

  Later, when we are finished, when we have caught our breath and can speak again, he tells me, “Maria, I believe you are with child.”

  I sit up in the bed, shocked. “With child?” I think back. It has been a while since my courses. I have only had one since coming here. And I have been here since March, three months now. I look at him in wonder. “Are you pleased, my Lord?”

  He laughs and cups my belly in his hand, its roundness even more obvious when I am sitting up. “I am delighted, my little wife. But I cannot come to your bed again.” He laughs at the disappointment on my face. “I did not expect this when I married you, Maria.”

  I blush, embarrassed. I am not acting like a royal princess, as my Lady Grandmother often told me. To my surprise he kisses me, a strong, hard kiss that leaves me panting again.

  “You please me, Duchess. You please me more than I thought. And now that you are carrying my son, no one can deny our marriage.

  Chapter Twelve: Return to Court

  I wear my new green gown for my return to court. The Queen and her royal council have officially recognized my marriage, as Charles said they would. Not even the Tarantos can expect Joanna to annul my marriage when there is a child in my belly. Neither the Queen nor my Lady Grandmother has offered to feast us, and my husband and his mother, the Dowager Duchess, have not been invited to court with me. Charles has decided it would be impolitic to host a marriage feast until the Queen has forgiven them as well, but he approved the expense of my new gown, green just as he promised, with a darker green surcote to hide my expanding belly.

  As Duchess of Durazzo, I am to be one of my sister’s ladies-in-waiting. The irony does not escape me. I grew up in this castle sharing a court with my sister; now I return to wait in service on her. Margherita is not invited back. I am sorry for her but it
is her own fault; she led me into this. If I plead for anyone’s return to court, it will be for my husband’s.

  “Goodbye, my Lord,” I say awkwardly as Charles holds out his hand to help me into the litter that will take me to the Queen’s court.

  “Be sure to please Her Majesty,” Charles instructs me. “And let her see how happy you are. She must want you happy.”

  I look at him doubtfully. My sister is not happy in her own marriage, why would she want me to be? Charles is very dear, but he does not understand sisters.

  “Remember you are the Duchess of Durazzo. This is your family now. You must do what you can for us,” my Lady Aunt says, interrupting our leave-taking.

  “I will, Lady Mother-in-Law,” I reply. My aunt has been disgruntled since she learned of the considerable payment Robert of Taranto was given from the royal treasury to placate him and his mother over my marriage, especially since my husband is still waiting for my dowry. I glance at Charles. I hope he does not think he got the worse deal. At least he and my cousins have disbanded their armies.

  He looks down into my anxious face and smiles—a little stiffly, I think—and hands me into the litter. “Take good care of my son,” he says. “Do not over-exert yourself.”

  I wonder what he thinks a lady-in-waiting does that is so taxing. “I will return safely in time for my confinement,” I assure him, before he pulls the curtains closed.

  I am going to join Joanna at the royal castle at Somma, just outside of Naples. We often go there in July and August to escape the heat and the illnesses that breed in the city during the hot summer days. I settle back in the litter. It is the middle of July and stifling in here. I can barely breathe. It would be faster and cooler to ride my horse in the open air, with the breeze from the sea on my face, but I cannot even suggest such a thing in my condition.

  I have not admitted it to anyone—I am barely willing to admit it to myself—but I am ecstatic to leave Castle Durazzo, where I have nothing to do and no one but Margherita to talk to. I do love Charles, but he is away all day and now that I am with child, he does not come to my bedchamber, either.