For the first time, I doubt Joanna’s ability to rule. How could a well-ordered kingdom sink so low, so quickly? Perhaps Petrarch was right, and my husband also: Joanna is not strong enough to rule Naples, no woman is capable of ruling on her own. It is an affront to God, who made Eve subject to Adam, for a woman to rule over men. This is the result: chaos and barbarity, law and justice mocked. All that I love in Naples—its culture and beauty, its graciousness and sophistication—will be lost, is being lost, as nature is turned upside down and women command while men obey.
I pray my sister will get well, but if she recovers Joanna will never give up the throne. Even if she was willing to share it with Andrew, he is not fit to rule. If there was any doubt of that, he is proving it now.
For the first time, I consider that Charles may be right: Naples would be better off with the two of us on the throne, a strong king who will defend Naples and restore law and order, and a queen by birth who is willing to rule under the guidance of her lord and husband.
If Joanna dies, Charles and I will restore the Kingdom of Naples to all her past glory.
If Joanna dies, no one can say we usurped her crown to do it. Our succession will be natural and peaceful.
I close my eyes and lean forward, the curtains of the litter forming a little confession box around me, but I do not know what to pray for.
If Joanna dies, I will never hold her hand again.
***
Charles’ men wait at the castle gate while he escorts me into Castle Nuovo.
“I am safe here,” I tell him. This is my home, I have grown up in this castle. But he escorts me through the rooms, bowing to everyone we meet and asking after their welfare. Of course they must then ask after ours, and Charles replies, with his easy, charming smile, that we—and he gestures to me, or more specifically, toward my belly—are blessed with good health and good fortune indeed, thank you my Lord, my Lady. He will not leave my side until we are at the door to the Queen’s presence chamber. Her guard lets me in.
Sancia is there, and her father, Philippa’s son, Robert of Cabannis, and Catherine of Taranto with her daughter, Marguerite, looking miserable and frightened beside her. Sancia curtsies to me and Robert bows, but my Lady Aunt Catherine merely dips her head, and glares at her daughter as Marguerite awkwardly stumbles up from the beginning of a curtsy and bows her head also. I pass by them with the barest nod and a rustle of my silk gown against the floor rushes, and enter the Queen’s bedchamber.
Philippa is with her, as I knew she would be, and our court physician. I look around for Philippa’s husband Raymond, the Royal Seneschal, then remember Charles telling me Raymond caught the summer fever also. Philippa’s other daughters must be attending him. Philippa herself looks exhausted, her gray hair falling from its braids, her head drooping... I have never noticed how old she is, as old as our Lady Grandmother, a woman near the end of her life. The thought shocks and pains me. Then I look down at Joanna.
Her fair hair, damp and stringy with sweat, is tangled over the pillow as though it has not been washed or combed for days. Her face is as white as the sheet that covers her, and as still. Her hand, lying over the edge of the sheet, is limp and lifeless. She was always slender, but now she is gaunt, she looks as frail as an old lady herself. I lean forward trying to make out if she is breathing. Philippa motions me back urgently. I am so shaken by my sister’s appearance I do not argue but straighten and step back at once.
The look on my face prompts Philippa to murmur wearily, “She is alive still, Duchess Maria.”
The physician brings a chair over. I sink down into it. I am going to lose her. She cannot possibly recover. She looks as our grandfather looked at the end, her skin hot, hanging on her bones, nearly translucent, as though her essence were already leaving, slowly seeping out of this world to heaven.
My eyes fill. I blink back the tears. This is no time for weakness. I motion to Philippa. “Let me be alone with her,” I say.
She gets up unsteadily from her chair. I am not sure she will make it to the door.
“You need to rest,” I tell her. “Go and rest, Philippa. You cannot help her by—” I am about to say, by dying with her, but the words catch in my throat, I cannot speak them. I cannot speak at all, my throat is so tight. A tear slips from my lashes, and another. I cannot hold them back. I bow my head, ashamed to weep before others, and motion again for them to leave. The physician steps forward and helps Philippa from the room.
At last I can permit myself to weep. How can I lose her? How can I bear to lose her?
It must be God’s will. He is restoring order to His realm. The Kingdom of Naples needs a strong king; this is why I was led to marry Charles and not travel to France to be Prince Jean’s bride. The Holy Father, who gave his permission for our marriage, and even our Grandmother Sancia, must have seen that Joanna would not be able to rule alone, while I was still blind to it out of loyalty to my sister. I have resisted it as though it was temptation, and not my destiny, but I see it now. I see it, but even now I wish with all my heart that Joanna would not die. I do not care if it is God’s will, or if it is best for Naples; I do not want to lose my sister. My tears flow faster, blinding me. How will I live without her? How will I learn to be happy without my sister? I will hear the sound of her voice, the music of her laughter, all my life. I will feel her hand in mine—I cover my eyes and close my lips tightly to keep from sobbing, but nothing will stop the flow of tears.
I weep until I am exhausted, until I have no more tears to shed. My face will be red and splotchy, my eyes swollen, everyone will know I have been weeping when they see me leave. Charles will be annoyed. He wants me to look strong, ready to rule a kingdom, but I do not care. Let everyone know I wept for my sister on her deathbed.
I look down at her still, white face and place my hand on my belly. “Before God, on my child’s life, I swear to you, my sister, my Queen, that you will not be forgotten. If I am carrying a girl, I will name her Joanna.”
I lean forward and take my sisters’ pale, limp hand in mine. It is so hot. I feel the heat of her fever, burning away her life. “When I hold her hand, it will be as though you are still with me,” I promise her.
She does not move. I do not know if she has even heard me. I am talking of this world, but my sister is already focused on the next. Is she afraid? Is that why she clings to life still, when she is so close to her release?
“Do not fear your rest, Joanna,” I whisper. “You go to join our Lord Father and Lady Mother, to dwell with Holy Mary and our Lord the Christ, and all the saints of Christendom. I will follow you in time and we will be reunited.” A tear falls onto her pillow. I brush my hand across my eyes.
“I will be a good queen to Naples,” I sob. I want her to die reassured that the Angevin line is secure, that her kingdom is in safe hands.
As soon as I say it I realize my error. Joanna expels a small puff of air, which I know to be an insult even in her near-death sleep. Her breathing, which has been shallow and uneven all this while, catches, and slowly begins to lengthen.
“Heaven and the Holy Saints wait to embrace you, sister.” I clasp my hands together and close my eyes in prayer. “Take her quietly to Heaven,” I implore Holy Mary, the Mother of God.
When I open my eyes again, Joanna’s are open also. I feel her forehead. It is no longer as hot to my touch.
But it was God’s will, I think, confused.
Joanna blinks. She gives a little moan. As well she should, defying God this way. What kind of woman turns her back on the very gates of Heaven in order to deny her sister a crown?
I rise and walk to the door. I will look like an idiot with my face all splotchy from crying, and Joanna recovered. I hesitate, but there is nothing I can do about it now, so I open the door.
“Fetch a cup of broth,” I order Sancia.
I return to Joanna’s bedside and stare down at her. “I see you have decided to recover, sister,” I say. I do not know if this is God’s will or Joanna’s, but we would
all have been saved a good deal of trouble and false feelings if she had not taken so long to decide.
Joanna’s lips part. I bend to hear.
“You would take my kingdom from me also, sister?” Her eyes close again, before I can answer.
Chapter Nineteen: Birth and Rebirth
Summer is nearly over by the time Joanna is well enough to give Cardinal Aimeric her oath of homage. On August 28th, Charles and I stand in Santa Chiara with the entire court to witness the Pope’s legate take over the government of Naples.
I glance sideways to where Andrew stands, surrounded by his men and the lords he has drawn to him out of affinity to the Pepinis and the Gatti family. Their alliance with him has changed him from victim back to bully, the natural progression of a coward. He is now publicly uttering threats against anyone who stands in the way of his coronation.
Cardinal Aimeric—“the officious fool” my husband calls him—shivers under Andrew’s glare, but he will not be intimidated from doing his duty. In front of everyone he recognizes Joanna as sole heir to the Kingdom of Naples, and then accepts command of her kingdom on behalf of His Holiness Clement VI.
“God help us,” Charles whispers to me.
“I believe that is what this is supposed to be,” I whisper back. I meet Charles’ stare straight-faced for a moment before arching my eyebrow, and then have the pleasure of watching him struggle not to laugh.
“Are you not the least bit sorry for your sister?” he asks, when he has regained control.
“She was offered an honorable alternative,” I answer smartly, watching my sister’s humiliation clear-eyed. This time my husband’s chuckle of amusement is annoying. I should tell him my sister’s first words on recovery. See how amusing he would find that. But it is one thing to be annoyed with my sister, and another thing entirely to have my husband angry at her, so I hold my tongue and let him chuckle.
***
I enter my second confinement less frightened for myself than the first time, but much more afraid for the infant I carry. If this child is weak also—I dare not even think if it might die—Charles will know I am no fit wife for him. If I cannot produce an heir, even my claim to the throne will be in question. A queen who cannot bear strong babies is a threat to the peace and security of her kingdom.
I cannot eat at the feast my mother-in-law and my husband arrange to celebrate my last public dinner before going into confinement. I force myself to smile at the jesters and listen to the musicians as though I am confident and carefree, but I am aware of the Dowager Duchess glancing at me, at my protruding belly, with barely concealed disdain. A dozen times today alone I have let her feel the infant kick. I have made a great deal of wincing to prove the strength of those kicks, only now she has decided that this is proof of my weakness, not of my child’s vigor. I tell myself she is nervous, as I am, and it makes her irritable. I would like to be irritable, too, but my anxiety only makes me nauseous and fearful.
I have insisted on a different set of rooms for this confinement—I will not go back into the place where Louis died. Even so, when I stand at the door with Margherita and the midwives beside me, I find I am trembling, unable to enter.
“What is it?” Agnes of Perigord asks impatiently. “Have you forgotten something? Your maid can fetch it. Come in now.” With a sweep of her skirts she marches into the room, and I have no choice but to bid my husband farewell. Margherita takes my arm as my farewell lengthens, and draws me into my confinement.
There is one large room where we will sleep and dine and sit together, with only a small, curtained alcove for my personal needs. The cradle has not been moved in yet, or the swaddling board or any little gowns. I do not know if this indicates my mother-in-law’s doubt that I will produce a healthy babe, or her sensitivity, but regardless of which it is, I am grateful. I am not ready to see Louis’ cradle again.
“Well then, you are set up,” my Lady Mother-in-law says. “I imagine you are tired.” She is gone before I can respond, or even bid her farewell. I turn as though I would follow her out, but the mid-wife is there, and Margherita, and the door is already closing us inside.
“I will read to you,” Margherita offers soothingly. She holds a book already open.
I look at the door, already closed.
The infant kicks, reminding me that there is only one way out of here for both of us.
“Yes, read to me,” I say, sinking into my chair. “And I want to hear the news at court. You must tell the Dowager Duchess I insist on being told what is happening.” I look at Margherita and try to imagine her telling my mother-in-law anything. “I will give you a note to take to her.”
I will not sit in here thinking of the child I carry. It will live or it will not, but I will not love it until its path is clear. I will be read to, I will hear the news, even the gossip—anything to keep my thoughts from another child I may lose.
My mother-in-law gives her word, and she keeps it. She comes in herself every day when she returns from Castle Nuovo and sits with her head close to mine discussing her day at court. I am surprised at her constancy as the weeks go by, although I expect my written threat never to return to court is behind it. She does not ask me about my day, or my health, but she notes, through the layers of my shift and gown, every kick the infant makes, and sometimes I catch a small, approving smile on her face. It raises my spirits, that hidden smile, though I do not acknowledge it, neither of us acknowledges my state.
So I learn the Pepini brothers are flaunting their freedom. They appeared at a tournament riding in royal colors, with their family banner raised higher than the Queen’s. I learn that Andrew publicly threatened to beat and lock up his wife if she opposed his coronation. I learn that Cardinal Aimeric has dismissed the provincial governors throughout the kingdom and appointed men who know nothing about their new jurisdictions; that the displaced governors are protesting, the provinces are in revolt, and in the resulting chaos dishonest men are resorting to banditry and honest men are withholding their taxes until justice and peaceful trade have been reinstated. Lady Agnes tells me with scorn that the cardinal is helpless to check the increasing lawlessness because his orders are ignored. She tells me with amusement that the Queen herself has refused to pay Pope Clement the Angevin’s annual tribute granting the Angevins the right to rule Naples, since her rule has been transferred to the Pope’s legate.
Brilliant, I think, conceding one blow to my sister. While my mother-in-law nods approvingly at Joanna’s clever husbandry in keeping the money in our royal treasury, I recognize it as the subtle riposte that it is. My sister may have lost a round, but she has not yet surrendered the field to Elizabeth and Clemente VI.
I do not need to be told how Joanna is enduring Aimeric’s blunders. I know my sister. Every blow to the grace and dignity of Naples is a blow to her; every injustice done to her people is an injustice against her. I have watched her hearing petitions at Castle Nuovo. No man is too lowly to bring his grievance to her court, and she deals justly with each one, signing every decision herself. Law and justice, the pursuits for which our university is famous in all of Christendom, are sacred to Joanna, as sacred as her faith in God. Joanna is watching all that she believes in being trampled and destroyed, while she stands by unable to intervene.
Do not give up! I will my sister to hear my prayer. She is our only hope, if Naples is to recover.
I do not talk of this to my mother-in-law. She would neither understand nor sympathize with my sister. To Lady Agnes of Perigord, and indeed to most of the unruly, ambitious and fractious Neapolitan nobles, the throne means power and wealth. They never doubt that they would be more successful, given the chance—and perhaps they would, since their standards are lower.
Which makes me wonder, what kind of queen will I be? Would Charles and I do any better at ruling Naples than Joanna has, in nearly two years on the throne?
When we were children playing in the gardens, Joanna and I used to imagine ourselves as sister queens. We would desc
ribe the dresses we would wear, the jewels on our crowns and clasped about our necks, the knights who would carry our favors when they jousted, the entertainments and masques we would organize. That was my favorite part of the game. I became bored when Joanna talked of sending an army to conquer Sicily again, of making every road in the kingdom so safe a lady could ride through the countryside unescorted.
And now a man needs a dozen armed guards to ride on the streets of the city in daylight.
When we were children playing at being queens, we never talked of losing our crowns. We were royal princesses, anointed by God and destined from birth to rule. We never imagined royalty as a game of hazards that one could lose.
I keep these thoughts to myself while I listen to my mother-in-law describe all my sister’s failings.
And then I go into labor. Another game that one can lose.
This time I bear a lusty daughter. She howls in outrage when the midwife wipes her clean. She kicks her feet and pummels her hands in resistance when they strap her to the swaddling board. She announces her hunger as though she has to alert the kitchen below us at the other end of the castle, not the wet-nurse sitting beside her cradle. Her little eyebrows pull together into a stubborn frown the minute she awakes, her beautiful bow-shaped lips purse with impatience, and her tiny hands form fists. I laugh every time I see her, with her father’s dark brown hair sticking up at all angles and her little face red with passion. The fear that has been gripping my heart all these months falls away before her abundance of life, and I love her with a reckless joy that consumes my every thought. I will not be read to, I no longer care what is happening in Naples, I only want to hold my invincible little daughter, Joanna.
Charles comes the day after she is born. Perhaps he regrets that he never saw his son. I am pleased he has come, whatever the reason. Since I am still in confinement I can only watch through the grill as the mid-wife shows him his daughter. She is strapped to her swaddling board, which usually makes her complain bitterly, but she has just finished feeding, her lips are still milky and soft with contentment. She gazes up at her father solemnly, as though she is deciding his fate, which makes him smile. When the mid-wife returns to lay our daughter in her cradle to sleep, she brings me Charles’ gift, a gold bracelet with three large emeralds.
The Girl Who Would Be Queen Page 18
