The Girl Who Would Be Queen

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  A week later, Louis closes his eyes to sleep and does not waken.

  Chapter Fifteen: Losses

  Naples, 1344

  I am imprisoned in these rooms, as dark and cramped and airless as a coffin, for three more weeks. The memory of my son is carved into every corner. There is where I sang to him and there is where I sat to rock him; there is where his cradle sat and there his swaddling board, and on that stool I laid out the little green gowns I sewed for him. There the midwife slept with her assistant, and there the nurse and the wet-nurse cared for him, all gone now. Only Margherita has stayed with me, the two of us sitting silently, she at her sewing, me staring down at my empty hands. I have asked her not to speak, the effort of conversation is beyond me. I have nothing to say, and no one can say anything I care to hear.

  Margherita remembers him with me in silence. That is something; I am not alone with my memories. But only I loved him. My mother-in-law never cared for him—I cannot bear the sight of her now. I see her still, examining him as if he was a new foal, and not a very promising one at that. And Charles never saw him.

  Louis was baptized hastily, but he was baptized. The wet-nurse called an alarm when he would not wake to feed, and the priest was sent for at once. Louis was still breathing when the priest arrived, although he would not wake. He was just waiting for the priest’s blessing so he could go straight to God.

  They have taken my son away to bury him, and all his baby things as well. I am left with my memories, so in fact nothing is gone, I see it all clearly everywhere I look: his gowns, his little cap, his swaddling cloths, his cradle, even his tiny clouts: there, and there, and over there, I see them still. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep, with all these memories surrounding me. And yet I would not forget. I would rather starve than forget, I would rather never sleep again than forget one minute of the time I had with him. I tried to keep his green gown and his cap, such a dear little cap, still smelling of his sweet baby scent. I tore the emerald necklace from my throat and tried to make the women take it instead, but they would not. Instead they took away everything that had ever touched him. Except me. They have left me here without him, with only Margherita, poor frightened Margherita who looks at me as though she fears I have gone mad. I am not mad. I am only lost, wandering somewhere between earth and heaven, unable to follow my baby to God, unable to resume my life and give him up.

  “Do you think you are the only woman to lose a child?” Lady Agnes of Perigord demands. “You have been raised to be soft, but life is not soft. Life is not what you want, but what you must endure. A wise woman does not become attached to a child before its third year, surely you have been told that?”

  I do not answer, or even look at her.

  “We will force you to eat!” she cries. “I did not go to all the trouble of getting you wed to my son for you to die before your sister!”

  Behind me I hear Margherita catch her breath, but I do not respond. It is of no importance to me what Agnes of Perigord says. She cannot force me to eat. Until now, I have simply not been hungry; but now I would not eat if I was famished. I am a royal princess; no servant of hers would dare to touch me without my permission, whatever orders she might try to give them.

  “Eat, Maria,” Charles implores me through the iron screen. “We have lost our son, but we will have more. I do not want to lose you, as well.”

  “You should have come before,” I tell him. “You should have come while our son was alive.” I do not say it in anger, or to make him feel guilty. I am too weary and listless for either of those emotions. I am only sad for him that he never knew his son, never looked on that sweet little face, and now he never will.

  “I am the Duke of Durazzo. I cannot come at my wife’s bidding. I have much business to attend to.” I cannot see his expression through the screen, but I can hear the impatience in his voice.

  He had many concerns, while I had only one: to keep our son alive. And that one thing I have failed to do. I begin to weep, quietly. Not a bid for sympathy, it is only something that happens to me now, this weeping. It comes upon me, taking me by surprise, through no intent of mine.

  “I am sorry,” he says.

  I nod, but I do not know what it is he regrets.

  He waits for me to say something, but I have forgotten he is there, so distant he seems on the other side of the screen, and when I remember, he has gone.

  ***

  “Wake up, please wake up, my Lady.”

  I open my eyes. Margherita is standing beside my bed, her hands clasped together anxiously. How long have I been sleeping? It is so dark in here I do not know whether it is day or night, and I am always tired.

  “The Queen herself has come to see you,” Margherita says. “She is on her way up the stairs now. I have water for you to wash.”

  She stops herself in time from telling me to hurry, but it is in her voice. I sit up, because it is easier than refusing. She is beside herself, afraid, no doubt, that she will be blamed for not serving me better if I am discovered unkempt and dirty.

  “Let me do your hair,” she pleads.

  I am still washing my face and arms. What does it matter, my hair? But I am too weary to tell her this.

  “Please, Princess Maria. It will feel nice to have it brushed. You will feel better when it is freshly braided up.”

  I will feel better? Is it as simple as a hairdo? I remember the pride I took in my long blond hair. I was once a girl who cared very much about her appearance. It seems a long time ago. Margherita has the brush in her hand, waiting only for my permission. It will not make me feel better, but Margherita has sat with me through my confinement, has shared Louis’ short life, and stays with me now, and I have not heard a word of complaint or criticism from her. I have only seen kindness and compassion in her face, and tears for Louis. I nod to her. At the least, I can let her brush my hair and braid it up.

  Joanna is announced, as though this dark tomb I live in is my court and she is entering my presence chamber. She sits on the stool beside me, ignoring the cushioned chair that has been brought in for her, and takes my hand in hers. I try to slip out of her grasp, but she will not let go, so I let her hold my hand.

  “I am sorry I was not here,” she says.

  I nod, as I did to Charles. But Joanna is here now, inside the rooms where Louis lived. Her words do not slide through my mind and disappear. They remind me of something. Something I thought once. I wanted...

  I wanted to be with her when Petrarch let her down. It seems very long ago now, and trivial, but she is here and I have to make some conversation, and that will be easier than talking about my son.

  “Why did he come to Naples?” I ask.

  She understands I am referring to Petrarch. We have always understood each other, even when we were at odds.

  “He came on behalf of one of his patrons in Rome, Cardinal Colonna, who wants me to free the Pipini brothers.”

  “The Pipini brothers?” What has Petrarch to do with the Pipini brothers? Have I heard her wrong? It has been happening lately.

  “Imagine a man of his intellect, stooping to plead the case of such villains!” She has warmed to her topic, now. I will not need to think what to say. I can just let her talk, as I sometimes let Margherita read to me, without troubling myself even to listen. But I am surprisingly interested. The juxtaposition of lofty Petrarch and the infamous Pepinis is too astonishing to ignore.

  “What case?” I ask.

  “Exactly! They have no defense. Murderers, rapists, arsonists! They were justly called “the scourge of Apulia.” And treason—they defied King Robert as well as his laws. How can there be a pardon for them? Everyone knows they were guilty, they hid nothing. If I were to release them, as Petrarch asked me to do, they would just continue in their ways. I would be encouraging others to do so also, seeing there are no consequences for lawlessness.”

  I think back. My mind moves slowly these days. Joanna sits fuming inwardly, still holding my hand. “They were rampaging whe
n he was last here...”

  Joanna nods her head, as if I have supplied a brilliant argument on her side. “Yes, you are right! They were captured and jailed after his visit. But he saw nothing then, except his own glory. Now he sees nothing but fault with me and my kingdom. He complains the city is lawless and dangerous, that he dare not walk in the streets at night. And yet he wants me to free the worst offenders of all! I never thought I would say it: Petrarch is a fool!”

  “You did not tell him so?”

  Joanna gives a bitter little laugh. “I told him I must follow the advice of my council, who would not let me release the Pepini brothers. But Andrew...” she gives a little snort of disgust, “Andrew promised to try to have them freed, if only he were king. I would to God our grandfather had had them beheaded as he wanted, and never listened to our grandmother’s pleas for mercy! Their sentence of lifelong prison is just a lifelong headache for me to inherit.”

  I look away. I cannot bear any more of her emotion, I have too much of my own to bear. “He is gone now,” I say, to calm her.

  “Yes, he has done his damage and gone.”

  I consider whether I want to know what damage, whether I have the strength to listen or the energy to care, or even the interest to ask. I find that I do. “What else?”

  “He has complained to Clement VI that I have no control of my kingdom, that Naples has fallen to barbarity and blood-lust—”

  “Blood-lust?”

  “A young man died in the tournament while he was here.”

  I nod. It is not uncommon; tournaments are known as violent sport, that is what makes them entertaining. But now I think, if my son had lived he might have competed, and I find I am not unsympathetic to Petrarch’s revulsion. Except that every complaint he has raised is in direct contradiction to his desire to have the Pipini brothers released.

  “—and my husband’s mother, the Dowager Queen Elizabeth, seized this excuse to write to Clement herself, demanding that Andrew be crowned, and that a legate be appointed. And he has agreed to appoint one!”

  “A legate?” Have I heard right? My sister is to lose her right to rule? I thought she had succeeded in her objection to a legate. “A legate will be appointed?” I ask.

  “Pope Clement VI has issued a bull appointing Cardinal Aimeric de Chatelus as legate, with full power to rule my kingdom.”

  I do not have to ask if she has objected again. She will be doing everything possible to reverse or delay this odious papal bull.

  “Is there any hope?” I close my fingers around her hand, no longer simply allowing mine to be held, but holding hers back.

  “There might have been. Cardinal Talleyrand might have intervened, and convinced His Holiness...”

  “But?”

  “Our Lady Grandmother Sancia’s health is failing. She has made arrangements to be admitted to Santa Croce.”

  “The Clarissan convent? She is to become a Poor Clare?”

  “She has always wanted to go there.”

  “But now? When you most need her?” Grandmother Sancia is the head of Joanna’s ruling council, with decades of experience running the Kingdom of Naples with King Robert. If doubt was cast on Joanna’s ability to rule before, while she had the Dowager Queen Sancia advising her, now there will be no doubt at all.

  Joanna does not answer. What answer can she make? I know the outcome as well as she does. I squeeze her hand in silent understanding.

  The scales have realigned themselves. I have lost my son and Joanna has lost her crown. We have each lost what we most treasured. My loss was greater, I think, looking around the dull room at all the places where Louis is absent. But I also have retained more, for I have a husband I care for, who came to beg me to eat. He does not want to lose me, even though I have failed him in a wife’s greatest duty; while Joanna has only Andrew, who does not even know whether she is eating, let alone care.

  My sister and I sit side-by-side in the small, dark rooms of my confinement, holding hands. It is a testament to our bond, to my need for her and her need for me, that she has come at all, has humbled herself to enter the castle of the woman she blames for my shameful abduction and secret marriage; a woman she will still not allow at her court.

  “I am sorry I was not there,” I tell her.

  She nods, and I understand that she is sorry also, for not being here.

  “Will you eat?” she holds out to me a platter of nuts and figs lying on the table. She is asking me to get well, to come to her court, to help her or at least be there with her. Like my Lord Charles, she is asking me to live—or as close as she will come to asking. A queen does not ask, but a sister does not order. Joanna is simply holding out a plate of food.

  I reach out with my other hand, the one not clasped in hers, and take a fig and a piece of cheese from the platter.

  Chapter Sixteen: Jealousy

  My mother-in-law is finally pleased with me. By nearly dying, I have secured her an invitation back to court. When I have been churched and strengthened myself with food and sleep and fresh air away from my confinement rooms, I also return to Castle Nuovo.

  It is no secret that my sister humbled herself to ask me to return, or that Charles’ family, including his mother, have been permitted back to accompany me. I hesitated before agreeing, giving my mother-in-law time to consider my value. But in truth, I would rather be here, even as my sister’s lady-in-waiting. Castle Durazzo reminds me too much of Louis.

  Joanna has been able to delay the arrival of the legate, but not to change the Pope’s decision. Every face I see is tense, or angry, or both. No one knows what the legate will do, but every one is certain that, since the Hungarians are behind his appointment, it will not go well for the Neapolitan lords.

  I stand at the window in the Queen’s presence room on my second day back, idly looking out—I have been drawn to the sun ever since my dark confinement—when I see Andrew and several of his men ride into the courtyard, dark with sweat from their day’s hunt. Their dogs are with them, panting from the chase.

  Several young lords are talking in a corner of the courtyard. They do not move aside but make Andrew pull his horse up and go around them. When one of Andrew’s dogs trots through the center of their little group, one of the young noblemen draws his sword and kills it.

  I gasp at my window, shocked by the suddenness, the unexpectedness of his brutal attack on the dog. Then I gasp again as the nobleman looks up: it is Louis of Taranto. He glances at Andrew, then up at the window with the tiniest lift of his eyebrows, a flicker of scorn. For a horrified instant I think he is looking at me, then I feel a movement beside me and I realize Joanna has come to stand at the window with me.

  Louis is now holding up his blood-stained sword and calling something to Andrew. There is a cruel curve to his mouth, he is laughing. Two of Andrew’s men draw their swords, and at once all the noblemen in the courtyard have their swords drawn and ready—for what? I hold my breath, frozen in place, unable to believe what I am seeing.

  Andrew calls out something: “halt,” or “stop,” or “no.” I cannot make it out, but I can see the terror on his face. His men are outnumbered as more courtiers suddenly appear in the courtyard, swords at the ready, and the Hungarians are at a further disadvantage, half in their saddles, half out.

  I give a strangled cry, clapping my hand to my mouth in horror. They are going to kill one another! Why doesn’t Joanna stop them? Why doesn’t she pound on the window—Louis knows she is here. Should I raise an alarm? Call for the castle guards? Or would I only be augmenting the odds against Andrew? No one is impartial any more.

  Whatever he said, Andrew’s men return their swords to their scabbards. And now more Hungarians ride into the courtyard, back from their hunt. Louis of Taranto wipes his stained sword across the dog’s fur and returns it to its scabbard, watching Andrew all the while. Andrew stares back at him, his face red with fear and impotent fury. The other young lords and courtiers follow Louis’ lead and sheath their swords, but slowly, as
if they had been willing to murder Andrew and his small band of men, and are sorry they have been stopped.

  I step back from the window, shaking. I am no better than Louis, for I was glad to see Andrew as frightened as he once frightened me. A bully deserves to be bullied. But I do not want to see him murdered!

  “I cannot stop it,” Joanna says.

  I look at her. I am your sister, my eyes remind her, but I let her lie go unchallenged. I am more shaken by Louis’ animosity, and the other lords’ willingness to follow him, than by Joanna’s denial.

  “He was always disliked...” I swallow, trying to steady my voice. Do they want him dead? Has it gone so far? Andrew may be Hungarian by birth, but he is also a prince of the Angevin line. How could they presume to harm him, a royal prince, here in daylight, in the very courtyard of Castle Nuovo?

  “And now he is hated.” Joanna says. “His mother bought the Pope’s decision with her gold, so now we will have a papal legate raising taxes and depleting our royal treasury to pay for his luxurious lifestyle. And Andrew will be crowned with me.” She looks aside. Her hands are clenched so tightly at her sides they are white. When her breathing steadies she continues. “My noblemen are furious; they swore fealty to me when King Robert died, not to the Hungarian Andrew, and not to a papal legate. They say they will defend my sole inheritance.”

  Charles and my Lady Mother-in-law have also written to Clement VI, demanding that Andrew’s crowning be delayed. Andrew will find no advocates among the Neapolitan lords as long as he promises to pardon the Pepini brothers when he is crowned. No one wants their brutality unleashed upon the kingdom again. In case that argument fails, Joanna has quietly reminded her council and lords that if the Pepinis are pardoned, their confiscated property and wealth must be returned to them. Most of that has long been distributed as rewards for loyalty to those who support the crown. Returning it would be a double loss, coupled with the new taxes, to Joanna’s council and most of the noblemen at court.