The Girl Who Would Be Queen

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  Anyway, Charles is a man and cannot come near me at this time. My womanhood is too strong during this period of childbirth, it would unman him to touch me. And I do not want that!

  The door into my confinement rooms opens onto an iron screen which we walk around to enter. A priest will perform mass for me once a day, standing on the outside of this screen while I kneel on the inside where I can hear him and make my confession and receive the host, all without being seen. No man may enter these rooms or lay eyes on me during my confinement, not even a priest who should not need his manhood any more. That is a wicked thought.

  I am fortunate it is late autumn, not summer, for the windows are all shuttered tightly and hung with heavy cloth to keep out any draft that might carry fever on its breath. The lamps are dim and the fires in the fireplaces are banked up regularly. There are fresh, sweet-smelling rushes on the floor, scattered with shepherd’s purse and motherwort, herbs that are beneficial to childbirth. Altogether it is as dark and hot and airless as my womb, where the next heir to the Duchy of Durazzo, and possibly to the throne of Naples, waits to be born. I am certain it will be a boy. My Lord husband and my Lady Mother-in-law will accept nothing else. I close my eyes and offer another quick prayer for his, and my, safekeeping. I feel better afterwards. Surely God will hear me praying when I am not even at chapel.

  In the first room there are beds for Margherita and my mid-wives, and chairs for us to sit on to do our sewing and reading and entertain ourselves as best we might while we wait. I walk through it, into the second room. Together they are not much bigger than my bedchamber beside Charles’ rooms. The low birthing bed where I will sleep is in this inner room. Beside it is a cradle with beautiful carving of a woodland scene on its headboard, made up with fine linen trimmed with lace. Inside it lies a swaddling board with bands, and a cunning little cap, ready for my baby. I cannot help but smile as I lay the little pale green gowns I have sewn beside them.

  “You like it, then?” my mother-in-law asks as I stroke the cradle headboard, setting it to rocking.

  “I do,” I tell her. “It is beautiful.” We exchange the first sincere smile we have shared.

  “It was your husband’s cradle, and his brothers’.”

  “I like it all the more for that.” I feel my baby kick, as though he, too, likes the cradle and gowns awaiting him. “Do you want to feel?” I ask her shyly.

  She hesitates a moment, then she places her hand on my belly where her grandchild is moving.

  “Does he hurt you sometimes?”

  “Oh, no. He is always gentle.” I smile, and almost add, like a little fish, which is how I have come to think of him. A little fish swimming lazily inside me.

  “My sons hurt me,” she says. “They were strong and robust, even in the womb. We will have to hope he takes after his father when he is born, and is not a weakling.” She does not say, like his mother, but it is there in the look she gives my now-still abdomen. I turn quickly and go to the other room, where Margherita asks if I would like her to read to me, to cover the fact that everyone has heard my mother-in-law’s opinion.

  Fortunately, the dowager duchess is too busy overseeing Castle Durazzo to come to my confinement rooms often, or stay here long. She does make sure I have everything I need and that the choicest cuts of meat are sent up from the kitchen. But she will not let me have anything sweet, claiming it will make the child womanly and weak. I dream of custard and candied aniseeds and marchpane until I can almost taste them when I wake up.

  When I am not dreaming of sweets, or music and dancing, or any entertainment at all besides this endless sewing and reading, and when I am not dreaming of every calamity in childbirth that my imagination can provide, and when I am not on my knees praying to Mother Mary to keep me safe from them, I think that the worst part of this confinement is not fear but boredom. Oh, I would love to ride on a hunt, kicking my horse to gallop faster. I would love to be in a garden, to feel the sun and the wind, to be dancing at court, or hearing the latest gossip whispered in my ear.

  I wonder what is happening at Castle Nuovo. Is my sister having long conversations about literature and philosophy with Petrarch, as she hoped? Before I left she confided to me her intention of appointing him the honorary title of her domestic chaplain, just as King Robert did at the end of Petrarch’s examination. I try to picture him accepting, and hope he did so gallantly, but cannot make the scene clear in my mind. There is nothing a seventeen-year-old girl can do or say that will impress the poet laureate of Rome, even if she is the Queen of Naples. He has written of her beauty, but her intelligence? He is not even looking for that in her. I know that, even if Joanna refuses to. I was very young, but I remember Petrarch’s arrogance. So why has he come to Naples?

  It is the first time I have asked that question. At once I am alarmed and angry, because seeing the beautiful and learned city of Naples and being honored by its Queen should be reason enough to come, as we assumed—after all, he has visited Naples before. But now that I have asked the question, I know there will be another reason. And I realize Joanna has already learned this bitter truth, as soon as Petrarch had a chance to speak privately with her.

  I wish I could go to her. I wish I could stand beside her when she learns her clever mind does not impress him in a woman’s body, when he reveals the true motive for his visit. I wish to God that I was not locked in this unbearable, hot, little room when my sister needs me!

  It is no use to ask anyone questions about Petrarch’s visit. Margherita knows less than I do, shut up in these rooms with me, and my mother-in-law, Agnes of Perigord, will tell me she knows nothing, not being at court, and look at me as though that is my fault. She will deny to my face that she has spies in Joanna’s presence chamber, as though I do not already know that Margherita used to be one of them. She is afraid when I go back to court I would tell Joanna who Agnes of Perigord’s eyes and ears are. She is not sure where my loyalty to my husband ends and my loyalty to my sister begins. I am not sure I know that myself, so how could she?

  Margherita might be spying on me now, for my mother-in-law. I have nothing to hide, but the thought makes me pause. Now I would very much like to know who her spy in Joanna’s court is, because that girl will be watching me as well as the Queen, when I am at court.

  My baby kicks, and I forget all else. It is a gentle kick, a polite nudge. What I used to think of as a sign of gentleness, I now find worrisome. Is there something wrong with my baby? I cradle my stomach in my two hands: one below, that I might always catch and hold him safe, and one above, that he may always know he has my blessing.

  Agnes of Perigord has hired a wet-nurse who will be sent for at the first sign that my baby is coming, and another nurse who will clean and swaddle and rock him. I am content to hand him over to them; I do not know anything about babies. But for now he is mine, I think, as I cradle him inside my womb. For now he is mine alone.

  That night I wake to the sound of thunder. The wind rattles the shutters and shrieks through the halls and stairwells of the castle. Even the stone walls seem to be trembling, so great is the fury of the storm. I cannot sleep, but lie awake all night waiting for the castle walls to fall. Is it a sign? Is something terrible going to happen to us? To Naples? In my fear I long for my sister. Her hand in mine is all the strength I ever needed; I am lost without it. My hand in hers was the support she counted on; I know she is missing it, too.

  When dawn breaks I wait impatiently for my mother-in-law’s morning visit. “What is the news?” I demand before she can even ask how I am doing.

  She shakes her head. Her face is pale, her eyes wide as though she has seen demons. “I have never witnessed such a terrible storm. The shore is filled with bodies, strewn like debris amidst pieces of destroyed homes and fishing boats, uprooted trees and huge boulders tossed there by the wind. Brains and bowels and broken limbs cover the sand and float on the waves breaking against the shore. Those still living lie among the dead, screaming for help, while women walk
among them wailing, searching for their sons and husbands caught on their fishing boats when the storm came up.” She sinks into a chair. I have never seen my Lady Aunt distraught like this. It is a shocking sight, nearly as bad as the horrific picture she paints of the seashore. I reach out toward her, whether to seek or to offer comfort, I could not say which.

  She straightens in her chair. “Your foolish sister! Your immodest, unthinking sister ran out of her castle barefoot, her hair undone, in her night-robes, with all her ladies similarly undressed, and raced to the Church of the Virgin Queen to pray for her intercession on behalf of the people of Naples. The Queen of Naples! In her night gown! It is a miracle she and her ladies were not killed by the rampaging winds as they ran, and it will be an even greater miracle if they do not all die of fever, praying on their knees before the statue of the Virgin, soaking wet from the rain, for hours while the storm raged.”

  “But she was not killed? She is not ill?”

  “No. Instead, she is a hero to the people.” Agnes of Perigord, who will never be loved by those beneath her, or want to be, gnashes her teeth as she says this.

  “They love her for loving them.” I do not know whether to smile at my sister’s faith and courage, or frown because I will never be a queen like her.

  “They will not love her long if she continues to risk her life this way.” She shakes her head and gets up from her chair. “Well, you may get your chance sooner than we hoped,” she says, leaving.

  By the time I realize what she means, she has gone. I do not want my sister’s kingdom! I fume inwardly. And a little insincerely, a small voice in my head whispers. Charles promised to win us our own kingdom! Only he did not say which one, the small voice whispers again. I will not listen. I will not believe it. I will never agree to take the Kingdom of Naples from my sister.

  Oh but I would be tempted. To be a queen, without having to leave Naples?

  That would be to lose my sister.

  I will not think of it. I have been awake all night and I am over-tired, or such a thought would not come to me. It is impious, especially when so many of our people lie dead on the shores of our Kingdom. I go to my bed and close the bedcurtains, blocking what little lamp light there is in my rooms. I close my eyes and think of nothing but sleep...

  I wake up soaking wet, and lie there in the darkened room, horrified that I have wet myself and too humiliated to call someone to clean me. Then it hits, a searing pain in my abdomen, as though I am being cut open.

  “Help! Help me!” I scream. Something is terribly wrong. Another pain hits me. The baby is dying, or I am, or both of us! I gasp for breath as it recedes.

  My midwife appears beside me. Her assistant pads in behind her and lights the lamps, slowly, as if the calamity I feared was not upon me! The midwife slides her arm under my shoulders as the sweet scent of burning olive oil fills the small, closed-in room. She bids me to rise. Does she think I will not die if I stand up? Men die standing in battle all the time. But I am too terrified to do anything but obey.

  By the time I am standing, the pain has begun to recede. Margherita lifts my damp shift over my head and pulls a clean, dry one onto me, while the midwife and her assistant change my bedclothes. They urge me to walk when the pain eases. When it returns they lower me back onto the bed.

  The midwife places her hands on my shift to feel my abdomen. The cramp increases, gathering strength under her hands, is she pushing? Is she pushing on my stomach which is already under such pressure I fear it will burst? I try to shove her hands away but she is strong and the pain is intense and I am wrung out between them. I cannot breathe with the pain, I cannot scream, only a low moan escapes me, the air flowing out of me like my life ebbing away. Surely I am dying?

  I am not aware I have spoken aloud until the midwife chides me, “No, Duchess, do not talk of dying. You are young and strong, you have nothing to fear. No one will die here today.”

  When the cramp is over, she holds a cup of birthing ale to my lips, sweetened to give me strength. I sip it thirstily. But then I feel the first few swallows lying heavy in my belly and I do not want any more. Another spasm of pain contracts my abdomen. I open my mouth to scream when my mother-in-law walks in, stopping my protest with a single glance.

  Weak like his mother, I can hear her thinking. No one will call a Princess of Naples weak. I close my lips tightly together. It is only that I was not prepared. I did not know it would hurt this much.

  Now you know, I tell myself, behind my clenched teeth and closed eyes. The pains continue, getting worse and worse, for the rest of my life. Or what feels like the rest of my life, but is only the rest of the night and half the next day. I walk when they tell me to and lie down to rest when they let me. My mother-in-law comes in every so often to ask the midwife how much longer it will be. Each time the midwife says, “It will be a while yet, my Lady,” apologetically, as if we are keeping her waiting unnecessarily, as if she has more reason than I to want this to be over.

  I do not make a sound, even when I come to believe it will never stop. Between the waves of pain I worry about my child. If it is this bad for me, how will he endure it? If he is weak, as my mother-in-law predicts, how will he endure it? And if he cannot, if it is too much for him, how will I endure that?

  I am so certain that this is all beyond endurance—his and mine—that I am taken by surprise when he emerges, when I hear his little mewling cry as I push out the afterbirth and the ordeal is finally over for both of us. I watch wearily as the midwife cleans him and puts on his little clout. Before she hands him to the wet-nurse, who arrived sometime this morning and has been waiting for hours, I reach out my arms to hold him.

  How tiny he is, how exquisite. He is two weeks early and very small, but perfect. His thin little fingers grasp my shift as though he will not be separated from me, and his head turns sideways searching for food. I am entranced by his delicate ears, his perfect, rosebud mouth, puckered as though he wants a kiss. He blinks and squints in the light, as dull as it is, and blinks again as I watch him open his eyes for the very first time. I am the first thing he sees in all the world, looking down at him when he opens his huge, dark eyes. He stares solemnly up at me. I am the only thing in his world as we stare at each other, and he is the only thing in mine.

  When my mother-in-law takes him from me it feels like my heart is being torn out. I cannot take my eyes from him. I can barely breathe for wanting him back. She examines him briefly, then hands him to the wet-nurse. I hear the contented, sucking noises of his little lips against her breast, his eager little swallows, and it is worse than all the pain of birthing him to hear him take nourishment from someone else.

  I was not prepared. Nobody told me it would be like this. I did not know it was possible to love anyone this much.

  The Dowager Duchess says, “He will be named Louis.” It is the only thing she has said to me this whole time, and I am not certain she is talking to me now.

  I wanted to call him Robert, for my Grandfather. She leaves before I can tell her.

  When he has eaten his fill and given a satisfied little burp, the midwife binds him tightly to his swaddling board so his legs will grow straight, and hands him to me. Only his little neck and head can be seen above the binding. I stare at the lines of his blood, fine and blue as royalty beneath his pearl-pale skin, and the nearly translucent lids of his eyes. He is as perfect and delicate as white glass, as music, as the sweetest poem Petrarch ever imagined. Louis. A name like a whisper, soft and sweet. It suits him perfectly.

  I will have six weeks with him. Six weeks to hold him as often as I like, with no one to say I may not, to watch him till I fall asleep and wake to see him sleeping in his cradle beside me. We will be together in these cozy little rooms for all of Christmas, until I am churched and he is old enough to go to his nursery. I am ecstatic at the thought of it.

  Charles sends a Yule log for my fireplace, and a yuletide gift for me, a necklace with emeralds, brilliant green for our son’s new
life. I send to him the fine linen shirt I sewed for him myself during my confinement.

  Plans are made for Louis to be christened in January at Santa Chiara, for he is the great-grandson of King Robert. I am sorry I will miss it, but I cannot come out of confinement until I have been churched, six weeks after childbirth, and Louis must be christened and sealed to God as soon as he is strong enough. I smile to think of him being presented to the court, who will be in attendance however discredited my husband’s family is. My Louis will not cry when the priest anoints him with holy water. He is a quiet baby, a peaceful child. He would sleep through his feedings if his nurse allowed him to. I will miss the christening feast as well, but I do not care. They will bring Louis back to me and I will order all my favorite dishes sent here to us, with marchpane and candied nuts and a fruit torte. We will have our own little feast, Louis and I and Margherita.

  On Christmas day I have his nurse put him into one of the little gowns I made for him, and I sing him a Christmas carol, rocking him in my arms. He does not sleep, but fixes his wide dark eyes on me as though he is listening to every word and trying to understand their meaning. I wear my new emerald necklace, and when Louis reaches up his tiny hand I guide it into his grasp. He stares at his jeweled hand in wonder, making me laugh. The sound makes him startle—he looks at me—and his beautiful little mouth curves into his first smile. The nurse reaches to pat him, thinking it is only gas, but I know he has smiled at me. It is the nicest Christmas I have ever had.

  By Twelfth Night, Louis’ sleepiness has his nurse worried. “He was born early,” I remind her, but she just shakes her head. I ask for the priest to give me an extra Mass and to pray with me. On this night when the three Magi visited the infant Christ, surely a prayer for an infant will be answered. The priest gives me the host through a small opening in the screen and blesses Louis when his nurse holds him up. I rise from my knees reassured.