The Girl Who Would Be Queen

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  The room is dark and stifling hot with the curtains drawn to keep out the summer fevers. It is a little late for that, I think, cross with the heat and constantly tired by my advanced pregnancy. I stab my needle through the linen shift I am sewing for little Joanna, wishing my contrary mother-in-law would hurry up and die so I could leave this hot, closed room. The needle pricks my finger, drawing a bead of blood onto the fabric. I throw it to the floor with an oath I have heard my husband use. Margherita looks at me, shocked, but Sancia bends her head, biting her lip. I recognize that movement.

  “Oh, go ahead,” I tell her, which makes her bite her lip harder. I look at my sewing, lying on the floor rushes. Remembering the expression on Margherita’s face when I swore, I cannot help giggling. In a minute we are both giggling, Sancia and I, while Margherita sews stanchly in silence. I nudge her foot with mine. She looks up. “Would you like another shift to sew?” I ask, pointing to mine, which sets all three of us off. It is so hot in this room, and so unbearably boring waiting for my Lady Mother-in-law to die, whom none of us like very much and who certainly does not like any of us.

  “She would be so angry to hear us,” Margherita says between gasps of laughter.

  “Vain girls! Vain, silly, frivolous young women!” I scold in my aunt’s shrill voice, making us all laugh harder.

  “Watch her closely, now. Do not sit gossiping and forget your duty here!” Sancia joins in, mimicking the pompous little doctor, Giovanni da Penne, whom Charles paid to come and examine his mother.

  The door opens suddenly. “What is this? What is this I hear? Laughter and foolishness?” Giovanni da Penne struts in, sounding exactly as Sancia represented him. He scowls at us as we choke back our laughter, and marches stiffly to Agnes of Perigord’s bedside.

  “Look at her! Look at her!” he scolds, pointing to my mother-in-law’s sweating forehead and cheeks flushed with heat. He begins to apply leeches to her arms and neck, muttering to himself about humors out of balance and idle young women. Our brief flippancy dies out and we resume our sewing. The heat settles around us again, worse than ever.

  How I would enjoy a game of hazards! Or better yet, a picnic in the garden, or an afternoon in the nursery with my little daughter... Instead I sit here day after dreary day while my inconsiderate mother-in-law drags out her death just to spite me. She will, no doubt, keep me shut up in here until it is time to enter my confinement, another dark, closed, hot little room.

  The doctor begins removing his leeches. I watch them stick, pulling on her pale, loose skin, leaving a smear of blood when they are finally torn free.

  “I must have a sample of her urine,” he says, putting the last of his leeches in their bottle. He does not look at us, a man speaking of such things to young women. She is my mother-in-law, so I am the one who must say, “Yes, we will get one for you.”

  “It must be collected at daybreak,” he says. “I will come for it in the early morning.”

  I nod, but he is not looking at us, so once again I say, “Yes, I will have it done.” He gives us another lecture on the irresponsibility of young women before he leaves.

  “Irresponsible,” I huff when he has gone. “Let him carry and birth a child!”

  Sancia smiles. She is pregnant with her first and very pleased about it. “What can he be looking for in your Lady Aunt’s urine?”

  “Is he too foolish to recognize she is dying? What else does he think could make her sleep day and night?” Margherita says.

  “Pregnancy,” I say, suppressing a yawn.

  “Oh, I would love to see his face if her urine showed that!” Sancia cries, laughing. Margherita and I join in. The more I picture that stuffy little doctor’s face, and the image of my stern, righteous old mother-in-law carrying an illegitimate child in her old age, the harder I laugh, until I am gasping. “We could...we could substitute our urine for hers,” I choke out through my laughter.

  “I could do it,” Sancia giggles. “You are too close to your confinement, Lady Maria. I will get up early, when her maid has collected her urine, and tip it out and fill the vial with my own!”

  I stop laughing. Agnes of Perigord was one of Joanna’s advisers the day she was convinced to send Philippa and her family away from court. Well, why not indulge Sancia’s little revenge? I have no love for my mother-in-law. It will be amusing, and no one will know but us three.

  “We will do it.” I look at Margherita. Before she can voice the objections I see in her face, I say, “What harm can it do? She will never wake. Only the doctor will look foolish, as foolish as he claims we are.”

  It is worth it the next morning, when we present the false vial of liquid. Giovanni Da Penne stares at it, looks closer, and sniffs it, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. He blushes redder than a young girl. It is all we can do to keep straight faces when I ask, “Does it tell you what is wrong with her, good doctor?”

  “S...send for the d...duke,” he stammers to a servant.

  Send for the duke? I give Sancia and Margherita a startled look. Sancia’s eyes are wide, her face suddenly pale. I take a deep breath. Whatever the doctor says now, we are committed to protesting our innocence.

  When Charles arrives, the doctor pulls him aside and whispers urgently.

  “How dare you?” I hear Charles say in an undertone that does not disguise the rage behind his low voice. “How dare you even suggest it!”

  I wince and struggle to stand firm and straight, to look as though I have no idea what is being discussed. Whatever possessed me to do this? I am every bit as foolish, as silly, as irresponsible a young woman as my mother-in-law and the doctor maintained. I have not embarrassed the pompous doctor; I have shamed Agnes of Perigord’s reputation and my husband’s honor; the whole Durazzo family will be a laughingstock. I cannot breathe for the thought of what I have done.

  I dare not look at my accomplices, but I feel Sancia trembling beside me. Margherita and I are part of the Durazzo family, but she is an outsider, and already accused of stirring up trouble between the Queen and King. Margherita and I will be found faultless if Sancia is blamed, but if we confess, she will be accused of inciting us, whatever we say.

  It was my idea. Or Margherita’s. I do not think it was Sancia’s, she only offered to do it for us. She is innocent, or at least no more guilty than we are, and I will not—will not—sacrifice her to avoid my husband’s anger. I step forward, straightening my knees to stop their shaking.

  “What is it, my Lord?” I ask. “Is your Lady Mother failing?” Charles frowns at me. He has barely spoken to me since the hanging of his two henchmen. I have lost his love and his trust for telling Joanna my abduction was forced. I am miserable under his indifference, but I am too proud to beg his forgiveness for I only told the truth, and if the truth is so terrible the shame is his, not mine. I hold my head straight and look at him steadily, waiting for his answer.

  “The good doctor,” he says, through gritted teeth, “says my Lady Mother is with child.”

  I do my best to look astonished and outraged. “This is a terrible jest! How dare he?”

  “It is no jest, my Lady.”

  “Then it is incompetence!”

  Charles is looking at me, but I dare not look away from the doctor. My husband has never heard me speak this way; in truth, I am pretending to be Agnes of Perigord as hard as I can, acting the part like a common mummer. Will Charles set me aside if he finds out I have shamed his family? Will he have me locked up, and starve me, claiming I died in childbirth? At the least he will beat me, and no one would blame him. I throw myself into the part, glaring at the little doctor. “Who sent you here? Have you been paid to besmirch our family?”

  “I can prove it!” he squeaks. The last words I want to hear. I open my mouth to cut him off, to tell him to leave at once, but he has already gestured toward his servant and before I can speak he says, “Go at once and fetch the vial.” I am left with my mouth open, afraid to protest further.

  “I will never believe
it,” I say. A weak retort, but I raise my chin grandly, as I have seen my mother-in-law do. It always intimidated me, that raised chin. I cannot believe mine will have the same effect. Already I am sorting through my robes and blankets, thinking which ones are warmest. Even in summer the dungeons are cool.

  We wait in silence. I hope Charles notices the doctor’s nervous fidgeting, for I am holding myself as still as rigor mortis not to do the same. I have no plan, except that the doctor must be made to look false. It is him or me. He is a man, and I am just a woman, and Charles is already distrustful of me. But he would rather believe me, I have that on my side, for if he believes the doctor, it will shame the Durazzo family.

  The servant returns with the vial and Giovanni da Penne begins his explanation of how a pregnant lady’s urine differs from normal urine. I can barely follow his words for the pounding in my ears. This is the type of proof a man believes, whether he wants to or not. Can I say Agnes of Perigord has stopped her courses? But that will only prove she is not pregnant; it will not discredit the doctor, it will just point directly to me.

  Or to Sancia. Charles will not be able to lock up another man’s wife, and a countess at that, in our dungeon. And the Count of Marcone will not risk his first child to have her punished, even to satisfy the Durazzos. Charles will know it was either Sancia or me, for Margherita is not pregnant. I glance at Sancia and find her watching me. She knows what I am thinking. She is expecting the same from me as her family received from my sister.

  I raise my chin. This time it feels a little more natural. “How do we know what you are telling us is correct?”

  “I am a respected doctor of medicine.” The doctor eyes me coldly. He has gained confidence, showing off his knowledge.

  I consider several retorts questioning his skill. Agnes of Perigord could have given them, but I dare not. Charles must already wonder why I am defending his mother so fiercely. An old woman, a matriarch, can be arrogant, but a young woman must be clever. The trouble is, I am too frightened to be clever. I draw a silent breath to calm myself, and remind myself to be steadfast. What if this was just Joanna and me, playing a trick on Philippa? We did so, as children, mostly at my instigation. Joanna was the intelligent one, but I could be clever.

  “I will provide my urine.” I say impulsively. “If it shows the same signs, we will have to believe you.” Then, for Charles, I add, “But I will be sad to believe it.”

  Charles looks at me thoughtfully, but the doctor agrees, pursing his lips complacently. I beckon my maid over to take the vial.

  It is a relief to see my maid empty and rinse the accursed vial in the privy room beside my bedchamber. “Lady Margherita will help me,” I tell her, taking the vial and sending her outside the curtained alcove to wait with Sancia and the doctor, leaving Margherita and me alone in the tiny space. “Hold up my skirts, if you will, Lady Margherita,” I say, loud enough to be heard through the heavy curtain, as I lift Margherita’s skirts, deliberately making them rustle. She has already understood my intent, and takes the vial with a grin.

  When my maid presents the vial to him, Giovanni da Penne is confounded, for I am clearly pregnant yet this urine shows none of the signs he pointed out earlier.

  “Clearly you were mistaken,” I say. “Perhaps you got the signs backward?” My voice is light and careless, my smile sweet, but my eyes as they meet his, are hard. He looks at me, the Duchess of Durazzo, sister to the Queen of Naples and heir to her throne, and at my husband standing beside me, the son of the woman he has accused of carrying a bastard child.

  “Well,” he says. “Well... it is possible...” the words nearly strangling him.

  That evening Charles comes into my bedchamber as my maid is combing out my hair. He snaps his fingers and sends her scuttling out of the room. “Come here,” he orders.

  I rise on trembling legs and cross the room to him.

  “What have you to say to me?”

  “N...nothing my Lord.” I raise my chin.

  He slaps me across the face so hard I am flung to the floor. I throw out my arms to break my fall, scraping my elbows raw, but at least I do not take the brunt of the fall on my stomach. “My Lord, our child!” I gasp.

  “Get up.”

  When I am standing in front of him again, he asks, “Whose idea was that?”

  For a wild moment I consider denying everything, feigning innocence—

  “Do not deceive me,” he says. “Tell me now or I will hit you again, much harder, child or not!”

  “It was... it was only meant as a joke... a harmless joke on the doctor...” I am crying. I do not want to. I am a royal princess, I should not weep with fear. But I have never seen Charles like this and I cannot stop the flow of tears. “It was not meant to go so far.”

  “My God, you are even more stupid than I imagined! Who thought to do it? Tell me!”

  “I cannot...” He raises his hand. “I do not know, my Lord! We were all laughing at the doctor, someone said... said, what would make your Lady Mother sleep so much? and...”

  “It was Lady Sancia. Her family sowed discord between the Queen and King, and now she comes into my castle and stirs up trouble and shame upon my family!”

  “It was not! I swear it was not her! We were all—”

  “Whose urine was in the vial instead of the Duchess’?”

  The Dowager Duchess, I think, but I am unable to answer. It was not mine, I dare not pretend it was, and there is only one other of us who is pregnant. “We all...” I start, then, “mine!” But he has already seen my hesitation.

  “As I thought. Lady Sancia, the granddaughter of that Ethiopian slave. I will remember this. She will be sorry one day to have shamed the Durazzos!”

  The look on his face terrifies me. I cannot speak, dare not protest. When did I go from being afraid I would break his heart, to being afraid of him? He leaves without another word between us.

  Within a week my Lady Mother-in-law, Agnes of Perigord, succumbs to her illness. I am surprised to find, however much I disliked her, that I am shaken by her death. She was a strong, powerful woman, a formidable opponent, and however much she disliked me, I was securely under her protection. The cornerstones of our kingdom, one by one, are falling away from us. I shiver in the summer heat as she is laid to rest. The winds of chaos are blowing toward us.

  The day after the Dowager Duchess of Durazzo is laid to rest, the Pope’s nuncio formally announces the latest edict from Clement VI: Joanna and Andrew are to share the rule of Naples. They will have a double coronation on September 20th.

  Andrew has his men-at-arms hoist his banner, the axe and the stake, and gallop with him through the narrow streets holding it high and shouting in triumph, trampling anyone not fast enough to dodge his horses’ hooves.

  Chapter Twenty-Four: A Foul, Unholy Night

  Joanna invites Charles and me to join the royal court as it moves to Aversa, just outside of Naples, in early September. They plan to sojourn there for twelve days, returning to Naples in time for their coronation on the twentieth. I will go into my confinement the day after the coronation. I am pushing my time back by a week, but Charles has allowed it, since he wants us both to be seen at the coronation which he has made no secret of supporting.

  The days pass pleasantly away from the city. I walk with the other ladies of the court in the cool, green gardens of the nearby Celestine monastery, while Charles joins Andrew and his men in falconing and archery competitions. After a dinner at which the wine flows freely, they continue carousing at night with those who are drawn to the castle where wealthy young lords are looking to make merry. I retire early, my pregnancy making me weary, and pretend not to notice when Charles returns to our rooms very late, smelling of wine and other women.

  I see little of my sister. She works all day and into the night, hearing petitions and signing papers and documents. Delegations from Naples and the surrounding towns and villages bring their requests to her and she turns no one away. She has always worked hard an
d taken a personal interest in performing the details of governance, but now she works as one driven. When I pass her going to the hall where she sees petitioners, or coming from her morning prayers, her face is drawn and haggard.

  “Your Majesty,” I call impetuously as she passes without seeing me. “You need not see everyone. Your lords can judge the common people.”

  She stops and stares a moment, as though she has forgotten I am here. “They ask for me,” she says. It is true. No one leaves Joanna’s court disgruntled. They may not have received all they hoped for, but they wear the faces of people who have received justice.

  “This morning’s delegation specifically asked for you?”

  She frowns, then remembers the one I am referring to and grins with me. “In fact, I asked for them. The townspeople had their say and I thought it fair to hear both parties. How did you hear of it?”

  “The entire court—no, all of Aversa by now—knows that you allowed prostitutes into your court to plead their case!”

  “King Robert the Wise believed justice must be impartial.”

  “He did not carry it so far as you do, sister,” I tease her.

  “He had our Grandmother Sancia to deal with.” We both burst into laughter at the thought of our deeply religious grandmother allowing prostitutes into her castle.

  “And what were their arguments?” I ask.

  “The townspeople wanted me to ban the independent prostitutes. Bad for business, they argued. Who will go into town to a common house if the business comes to the castle?”

  “And the prostitutes?”

  Joanna’s face turns serious. “They said women must have some means of surviving.” She frowns, thoughtful.