“How many of my men?”
“I... I do not know.” He is not even considering refusing, sacrificing my dowry for his men’s lives. He is only calculating who he can save. “Two,” he decides.
I will still have to stand before them and wonder.
“Four. Marguerita was with me.” She was not blindfolded.
“Shall I hang her also?”
I stare at him, horrified. Then I am so angry I do not care who sees us. “You think this is amusing? You think to negotiate the price of my honor?” I whip my hand up to slap him.
He is quicker and grabs my wrist, forcing it down. His face is rigid. He does not speak for a minute, just stares at me, and for that minute I am terrified. Then he says, “In over two years you have never once objected to my method of ...attaining you. Your nicety is too late now, Princess Maria, and the Queen’s as well. I will do what I must to get your dowry, because it is mine by rights, but this—forcing me to hang my men—do not imagine it is anything other than the Queen’s revenge. She will never forgive me, that is what this message of hers means.” He drops my hand as though it were dirty. “I will hang two men, and you will assure her that you heard only two voices.” He turns to leave.
“Her Majesty is with child.”
Charles stops moving. He may not even be breathing, he stands so rigid on the pathway.
This is not at all how I meant to tell him. How can both my husband and my sister make me so angry, and at the same time make me feel guilty for events I had no control over?
“You are certain?” His voice is low, controlled. He turns back slowly, examining my face as though I would lie to him about this.
“Yes. She told me herself. And I could see it when I dressed and undressed her.”
“You have known awhile.” He studies me coldly. I do not answer. “Who else knows?”
“No one. I know. Now you know. I think she will tell Duke Andrew soon, perhaps today. Her maids will know very soon. She cannot hide it from them much longer.”
“And so you tell me now.”
“You told me to do whatever it took to win her trust.”
He looks at me steadily. “Take care, Maria,” he says quietly, “that in winning her trust, you do not lose mine.”
I return his look. Right now I am weary of them both, with their demands and their tests.
“I think you had better come back with me today, Duchess Maria of Durazzo. I think you need to remember who your family is now.”
I open my mouth to tell him I know full well where my duty lies—and close it again. Where does my duty lie? I have sworn obedience to both my sister and my husband, out of love and duty, and both are convinced I am not steadfast. Love is a changing thing, Princess; family is a steadfast thing, Sancia told me, in order to convince me to forget Charles for Joanna’s sake. And now Charles uses the same argument to bind me to him instead of Joanna. Family. Love. It would appear they are both changeable things. How can I be constant when everything else is inconstant?
“I will be glad to return to Castle Durazzo,” I tell Charles. “I have missed my daughter, and I never wanted to spy for you. I am a royal princess, not a bearer of court gossip.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me as I turn to leave the garden. “We rise together, Maria,” he says. “Or fall together. But I intend to rise, by whatever means necessary.”
I look back over my shoulder, considering him and his words, and I understand at last what Sancia tried to tell me about Charles. But she was wrong about love and family.
From now on I must learn to be constant to myself.
Chapter Twenty-Two: A New Banner
Less than a month after Joanna’s condition becomes publicly known, a procession of bishops and lawyers arrive in Naples, sent by Louis of Hungary and accompanied by additional Hungarian men-at-arms for Andrew. The clergy and lawyers sequester themselves in Andrew’s rooms, advising him on ways to undermine Joanna’s authority and increase his own. We have no doubt a similar group has made its way from Hungary to Avignon to confer with the pope, and are proved right when, in mid-June, the Queen receives a missive from Clement VI reproving her for delaying the double coronation and ordering her to share her administration of the kingdom with her lord and husband, Andrew.
“I cannot compete with their money!” Joanne glares down at the dinner set before her. We are alone in her bedchamber, eating our meal on a little table set before the fireplace. I am in her good graces again, having kept her secret from my husband, in whose good graces I currently am not. I am resigned that there will never be a time when they are both pleased with me.
I commiserate by refraining from eating, even though I am always hungry when I am pregnant, and the smell of the venison has my mouth watering painfully.
“Cardinal Aimeric officially anointed me sole sovereign before he left last month, in accordance with King Robert’s will and testament and at the Pope’s command. He reverses his mind more often than a woman!” She rises and paces across the room to the window.
It has been a while since I visited our menagerie, I think, trying to distract myself from the rich juices seeping out of the steaming meat.
“He exceeds his authority.” Her voice is an angry growl across the room.
Ah. The papal bull Cardinal Aimeric posted just before he left, in which Clement VI revoked all gifts of money and position made by Queen Joanna and Grandmother Sancia since King Robert died. Joanna had it torn down and refuses to speak of it, except in bitter comments like this. I resolutely turn away from the platters of food and give her my attention. Underneath her insult and fury, I know there is injury. Clement’s failure to support her reign, after all the devotion and support she and our grandfather, and his father before him, have given the papacy, is a deep wound. My sister’s decision to ignore the Pope’s edicts—the one concerning her appointments and rewards for loyal service, and this one of a double coronation—have cost her something. A measure of faith. Not in God, but in His church, which is almost as bad for Joanna. There is nothing I can say. She would not want me to know her loss, as if I could help it, understanding her as I do. It is a relief not to have to acknowledge it, though, for I lost the greater measure when my Louis died: it was not the Pope, but God, that failed me then. The one exceeding his power, the other not exercising it.
“He does,” I agree, and leave it at that.
“Have you seen my husband the Duke’s new banner?”
I take a sip of wine, so that my voice is steady when I answer, “Who has not seen it?” Andrew has had a banner made for his retinue to carry when he rides out, to replace the one bearing his Hungarian coat of arms. This one has an axe and stake emblazoned on it.
“Beheading or burning. That is what he promises everyone loyal to me if he ever comes to power.”
“Then he must not ever come to power!” I straighten, glad that she is standing at the window where she will not notice my trembling or see the fear in my eyes. Andrew’s arrogance and cruelty are well-known now. One of his chamberlains, Tommaso Mambriccio, approached my husband begging for a position at Castle Durazzo. He had a look of desperation about him, as a man condemned. Charles refused him, sent him back to his master. Later I learned Tommaso’s wife and son were garroted in an alley.
Everyone I have known, have grown up with, everyone I love, is loyal to Joanna.
The axe or the stake.
Which will it be for Charles? Does he think sending Tommaso back to Andrew would please Andrew?
Which will it be for me? Andrew hates me, ever since that night; I have seen it in his eyes. My costume fooled him—never mind what he did to me—and Andrew hates to look a fool. He had his man killed for witnessing it, and every time he looks at me, he knows there is one witness still alive.
“Your lord husband says otherwise.”
Joanna turns from the window. She is watching me, but I cannot look up. I have heard that Charles now vocally supports Andrew’s right to be crowned
and rule with Joanna, but I have been hoping the rumors were false. He has not talked to me of it and I am too sick at the thought of it to confront him. “I cannot believe that,” I murmur. “He is loyal to you. I know he is.”
Do I?
Joanna walks back and sits down. Her arms, resting on the table, tremble. I look up, meeting her eyes. “Naples is in great danger, Maria,” she says, leaning toward me. “I am losing control. I have to regain it, and quickly. I have to secure my kingdom before December. I cannot go into my confinement...” Now it is she who looks away, her voice failing.
I have never seen my sister frightened. I reach out, but she moves her hand, out of my reach. I am not trusted. I am the wife of a man who supports her enemy. Our enemy.
“Charles will never betray you.” I say. “He... he cannot mean what he says.” How do I know what Charles means? He has not spoken to me of any of this. “I will talk to him, Joanna. We are loyal. We are loyal to you.”
Joanna nods. Her face bears the grim expression of someone who knows she is being lied to, but I am not lying. Am I? “I will do my best, Joanna. I will make him see that Andrew must not rule.”
My stomach rumbles, but I am no longer hungry. I put my hand on it to quiet it’s rumble, and am rewarded with a fierce kick. I will go into confinement soon. How will I keep Charles loyal when I am shut away from him?
That night when I return to Castle Durazzo, I tell Charles I must speak to him privately.
“I will come up to your rooms later,” he says.
“It is about the Queen.” I say this quietly, only for his ears.
“I will come up when I am ready,” he says sharply, not caring who hears him.
I bow my head, a dutiful wife, but my face is hot, my stomach churning. Do you no longer love me? I want to cry. What have I done that has so displeased him? As soon as I think the question, I know the answer. I have not made him king, and now it appears I never will. I have not even done the most common duty of a wife: our nursery has a daughter in it, instead of a son and heir. Pray God, the infant I am carrying will be a healthy boy.
“I await your pleasure,” I tell Charles humbly.
It is late when he comes to me. Margherita has already undressed me and let my hair down, and closed the curtains against the night wind. She sat sewing with me until I caught her nodding and sent her to her bed.
Propped up against the pillows I am dozing off when I hear the door to my chamber open. I open my eyes in time to see Charles retreating back through the partially-opened door.
“My Lord,” I call softly, so no one will hear me entreating him in.
There is a pause, insignificant really, except that he has never hesitated before on my bedroom threshold. Then he enters. “I have come as promised,’ he says stiffly. “Have you learned something at court to tell me?”
Is this what we have become? A spy and her master? An untrustworthy spy, by the doubtful tilt of his head. He does not believe I have any information of value, and he is right. I am waiting to petition him, not help him. Not support him, as a wife should.
‘If you rise, I rise. But if you fall, I fall with you.”
He raises an eyebrow at hearing me repeat his own words back to him. “What have you learned?” he asks, approaching my bed.
“Joanna knows that you have been speaking against her, supporting Duke Andrew’s coronation.” I have to force myself to say the words.
He stops, aware that I am actually telling him I know it, too. “Supporting the King is not the same as speaking against the Queen. Or do you agree with your sister that a wife should rule over her husband? Perhaps you also agree with her that here in Naples we are above the Church, are free to ignore His Holiness the Pope’s directives?”
I am struck dumb. How can I argue against being a dutiful wife and a dutiful Christian? What can I say to convince him? Do I have any influence over him any more? When I regain my voice it is to say, “If you wish me to stay here, at Castle Durazzo, I will do so.” I bend my head so he will not see how hard this was to say.
When I look up, his eyes are mocking me. “Why would I want that, little wife?”
“Because Duke Andrew will murder—” I stop myself on the verge of a confession that would ruin me. Charles must never learn my secret. He would not blame Andrew, he would blame me, for wearing that costume, for dressing like a whore in front of everyone “—everyone! He will kill everyone! He has said so openly!” I am sobbing now. I brush the tears away, hating my weakness, but I cannot stop weeping.
“King Andrew will not execute those who supported him,” Charles says. He does not come near to hold me, to comfort me, but stands watching me coolly. “Those who support him will form the new court when he is crowned.”
“Is that what this is about? Promotion?”
Now he steps forward, leaning over me, his expression no longer amused. “What else?” he says coldly.
“Then let the Queen promote you. She will reward your loyalty.”
He laughs, a sharp bitter sound. “The Queen has promoted everyone except her own sister’s husband.”
“You have recently been given lands and castles valued at ten thousand florins, and thirty thousand florins, besides!”
“I have recently been given what should have been mine these two years past.”
I struggle onto my knees, clasping my hands together in front of my burgeoning womb. “Do not trust Duke Andrew, my Lord. He is not to be trusted, and you are coming to his side too late.”
“He will need me. I am his cousin, of the same royal house as he is, the only cousin to support him. And I am Neapolitan born, unlike him. I am head of one of the two most powerful families here. King Andrew needs my support: I can trust in that.”
“Queen Joanna needs your support. Your voice gives Duke Andrew’s cause credibility, hurting hers. You swore allegiance to Joanna!”
“His Holiness the Pope gives King Andrew’s cause credibility. I am not breaking my vow. There is no plot against the Queen. I am only obeying our Holy Father.”
“How can I convince you not to do this? Joanna needs our support!”
His face hardens. He grabs my arm, holding it so hard I cry out.
“You do not convince your lord and husband of anything,” he says, giving my arm a rough shake that draws another whimper from me. I close my lips tightly against the urge to beg him to stop.
He drags me off the bed and across the room, grabbing a lamp from its wall sconce as he passes. It is almost more than I can do not to cry out again as he drags me into the dark hallway in only my nightdress. I pray no one will waken and come out to see us as he pulls me by my arm, now throbbing with pain, through the castle halls. I realize where we are going as we near the nursery. He opens the door and propels me in ahead of him. I stand in the dark nursery, breathing deeply, rubbing my aching arm.
“What do you want for our children?” he asks me, his voice harsh but low, to avoid waking the nursemaid. “Safety and good marriages? Or the axe and the stake?”
“He would never... not even Andrew would...” I stammer, horrified.
“No, of course not, because he has shown himself so tender to the children of his enemies.”
I cringe away from him, from the anger and sarcasm in his low voice, and even more from the truth of it.
We stand there in the dark, listening to the quiet breathing of our sleeping daughter. The thin light of the lamp Charles is holding flickers, as fragile as her tiny life. Joanna is eleven months old, already staggering about the room, chattering in her high, sweet baby voice. Charles raises the lamp so I can see her better, the perfect oval of her cheek, the dark fringe of her eyelashes against her pale skin, the little, turned-up nose and rosebud lips.
Joanna, my Joanna!
I give a stifled sob and bury my face in my hands.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Foolish Young Women
I send a letter to the Queen, begging her leave to absent myself from court that I might tend to m
y mother-in-law. Agnes of Perigord has been ill for two months and is showing no signs of recovery. This is the excuse I use to avoid my sister’s court when she most needs me.
I cannot pretend to be sad as my mother-in-law’s condition worsens. She was never my friend, and she has kept my daughter from me as much as she could, claiming one day that my influence will make little Joanna weak like me, and on another that she will learn disobedience from me, for I disobeyed my sovereign to marry Charles. Although it is a sin to think it, I will not be sorry when she dies.
It is not my Lady Aunt who dies, however; it is our grandmother, the Dowager Queen Sancia. Joanna and her court are at Castellamare, one of the royal summer palaces, when we hear of her passing, so I cannot go to my sister. I clothe myself in white to mourn my grandmother. She was a stern, unyielding moral presence in our lives, and I admit it is a little freeing to know she will never again frown at my behavior. But she was also our powerful protector, a wise advisor, and Joanna’s strongest ally. My world is shaken by her passing, and more dangerous without her. We are vulnerable now, my sister and I, cast adrift in an increasingly turbulent and treacherous world. There is no one, now, to stand between us and disaster; only the tenuous support of Joanna’s favorites and a changeable Pope, while Andrew has the immense wealth of Hungary behind him.
As soon as the Dowager Queen is laid in her tomb behind the altar of Santa Croce, my sister ignores her will, which bequeaths most of her estate to Santa Croce and Santa Chiara, and instead divides her property between Robert of Taranto and my husband, Charles of Durazzo. I understand her desperate bid for allies, but I am shocked she would disregard our Grandmother Sancia’s will. Robert has had more than enough bribes and promotions to buy his loyalty, if it could stay bought, and my husband’s allegiance is cautiously divided—although he is happy enough to accept the lands. All Joanna does is further annoy Clement VI, who accuses her of stealing the estate from the cathedrals and monasteries it was intended for.
Lady Margherita, married now, keeps me company as I sit in my mother-in-law’s chamber. It is August. She has been ill since May. We are losing hope that she will pull through—those who had any, that is. Philippa’s granddaughter, Sancia, still banished from Joanna’s court like all her family, often joins us. She is a countess now, married to the Count of Marcone.
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