The Girl Who Would Be Queen

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  Isabelle the Hungarian peers at me suspiciously from behind the confessional grate when I arrive at the entrance to Joanna’s birthing rooms. No doubt she enjoys the power she has had over Joanna’s confinement until now. She frowns at me, but she, too, allows me in.

  Joanna turns to see who has come. Her face lights up. She opens her arms and I run into them.

  “I have only just been churched,” I apologize. “Else I would have come sooner.”

  Joanna smiles though her eyes are moist, with a look I have never seen on her face. I have no more than a quick glimpse of her vulnerability before she straightens and forces the weakness away. “Yes, I have heard. Congratulations. What have you named her?”

  “Agnes. She is healthy and thriving. And very pretty,” I add defensively.

  “I am certain she is. The Duke of Durazzo is handsome and you are beautiful. My beautiful sister, I am so happy you have come.” She says this quietly enough, but I have never heard Joanna speak so effusively. Then she laughs shakily and calls for a servant to bring us food and drink.

  That night I sleep with my sister as we have not done since our childhood; her lady-in-waiting must sleep with Isabelle the Hungarian and my maid in the outer room. When we are alone together I ask her, quietly, “I have heard you are to marry Lord Robert, Duke of Taranto?”

  “I will never marry him!” Her voice is low and fierce. I do not answer, but wait for whatever she wishes to tell me. Under the covers, she touches my hand, and I impulsively grasp hers. We lie there holding hands as though we were children again, alone together in a frightening new place.

  “I am helpless in here,” she whispers in the darkness for only my ears. “I cannot meet with my councilors or pass laws or even order the palace guards to close the gates and man the walls if it should become necessary. I am dependent on others’ eyes and ears to know what is happening in my kingdom. Louis of Hungary is threatening war if Andrew’s murderers are not caught and publicly executed. What if they come while I am in here? They would eagerly take Naples from me, and this is their chance.”

  “They would not break the treaty!”

  “They accuse me of sheltering Andrew’s murderers.”

  This is so close to my own suspicions I hesitate before I answer. “Have the two cardinals appointed by Clement VI made any progress in their investigation?”

  “They have not even arrived!” Her low, harsh whisper is laced with frustration. “I believed an investigation by the Curia would prove the result impartial and satisfy King Louis and his mother, but this delay just makes me look worse. They claim I am the one putting off the rightful punishment of my husband’s murderers. The war between England and France has distracted the Holy Father from our troubles, but Louis of Hungary is not distracted!”

  “Lord Robert is defending your kingdom while you are in confinement. But what will you do when your child is born and he expects an engagement? What will you do when His Holiness sends you permission to marry Lord Robert?”

  “He will not.”

  “He gave Lord Charles permission to marry me.”

  “Not because we are cousins. Because...” she hesitates. I am stung by her distrust, but I know I have earned it. I am about to release her hand, and tell her she need not confide in me, when she says, “...because I have sent a secret emissary instructing him... asking him not to permit it.”

  I feel her shift in the bed beside me. More to it than that, I tell myself, but this time she remains silent.

  “Well,” I force myself to speak lightly, “your enemies will not get through Lord Robert’s men—I have seen them guarding the castle. So let us sleep soundly under his protection and toast his ignorance at every meal.”

  “His ignorance or his arrogance?”

  “Both, for each is the cause of the other.” We laugh softly in the darkness together. Her hand releases mine gently under the cover, and she rolls over laboriously. In a few moments her breathing lengthens into sleep.

  Why did she not call on Charles, her brother-in-law, to protect her instead of Robert? I wonder in the darkness. But I am relieved. If Robert is here at Joanna’s invitation, to protect her during her confinement, he will have to leave when she is churched and able to take command again. And he will willingly do so if he expects a future engagement. The delay will not alert him. If the Pope takes three months—or more—to send his cardinals to investigate the shocking murder of a prince, one can hardly expect him to give permission for a marriage in less time. And they must wait the proper period of mourning, in order not to insult the Hungarians. I close my eyes, reassured enough to sleep.

  Joanna rises early as she always does. I hear her murmuring at the prayer station in the corner of the room. I crack open one eye. She is kneeling on her prayer pillow. But it is still dark—or at least not fully light yet—so I lie a while longer with my eyes closed...

  When I wake again Joanna is sitting at her desk, composing a letter. I watch her for a moment. One would not know her as the same pale woman who greeted me last night. Her eyes are bright and determined, her back straight, her head held high as she writes her message.

  “Good morning,” she says, although I have not moved or spoken to indicate that I am awake. “I have had an excellent idea. I am writing to ask Clement VI to be my child’s godfather.” She looks across the room at me, in command once more. “Whatever happens, no one will harm the godchild of His Holiness the Pope.”

  I sit up at once. I had expected we would be the child’s godparents. Joanna is my little Joanna’s godmother. “God will not allow anyone to harm your child, the rightful heir to a Christian throne.”

  She gives me a twisted smile, as if to say we both know by now that God allows many things we would not have imagined He would.

  Still, she is strong and confident, her natural self again. How it must have weighed on her, for her to be so changed at the thought of finding a strong ally. “It is a fine idea, but you need not look so far afield for support, sister,” I tell her. “I am here to make sure no harm befalls you or the child. And Duke Charles has sworn to protect your child, as well.”

  “I know why you are here, Maria. And words cannot express how much comfort I take in your presence. But you will have to go home to your husband when this is over, and that is as it should be.” She returns to her letter, leaving me to wonder whether I have been thanked or put in my place. Both, I decide, as I climb out of bed and call for my maid to help me wash and dress. Joanna finishes her letter and entrusts it to one of her own palace guards.

  I miss my daughters and my husband, but other than that our days are easier than I dared hope. We live in our little cocoon almost able to forget that we are surrounded by armed guards keeping us in as much as they keep our enemies out. Minstrels sing carols outside the Queen’s confinement rooms, and the palace jesters dance and juggle sticks and balls for our entertainment as December progresses. I read for Joanna and sew a fine shirt for Charles, and a little gown for each of my daughters. With every stitch I miss them more. Agnes will be unaware of all the Yuletide preparations, but Joanna is old enough to notice, this year. I wish I could be there to see the wonder in her face. What if Charles forgets to send some little treats to the nursery when there is a feast, or to let her watch the mummers just a short while? He may not think of it.

  Well, she will see them next year, I console myself with a sigh, and I will be there with her. I close my eyes and say a quick prayer, for spirits are tempted to interfere when humans imagine they control their future.

  When they bring us the Yule log, I cannot help but think of my first confinement and my son. How he stared at the Yule fire! As though he must absorb as much delight as possible in the few days that he had.

  I shake my head and try not to think of him. It will call bad luck down on Joanna’s child to bring memories of my poor lost babe into her birthing rooms. I pray for Virgin Mary, a mother herself, to strengthen the soul of my sister’s child that it should not be tempted t
o follow the path of my son.

  In fact, I pray much of the time. Underneath our false Christmas cheer there is a growing tension. No one knows what will happen when Joanna’s child is born. The Hungarians, for now, appear to be waiting, as is our cousin Robert. All the Angevins wait, watching, ready for... what? Like a dry woods in summer, all of Naples waits in hope that this birth will redeem us, and in fear that it may be the spark of lightning that destroys us. What if Joanna dies? Will Taranto step aside for Durazzo? Will Robert try to murder me and take the throne? What if the child dies? What will King Louis of Hungary do then?

  I pray for my husband, for my little girls, and all my family. Secretly, I pray Joanna will have a girl. After all, I may have a boy myself next year, and it would be disloyal to him to pray for my sister to have an heir ahead of him. But most fervently, I pray for my sister’s safe passage through childbirth, and her infant’s healthy birth. For no spark of lightning to strike our kingdom. Day and night I pray that we may all come through this, while I am sewing and listening to the musicians, while I am eating, even in my sleep I wake up dreaming a prayer for our safety. There are those who are praying for the opposite, praying for a lightning opportunity, perhaps my husband among them. I pray constantly, hoping God and all the saints will hear my prayers above theirs.

  Joanna receives Pope Clement’s answer in a letter brought to us by the same loyal guard. She breaks the seal with trembling hands and reads it quickly. I watch her face and see the emotions she tries to control, but I do not know whether the tears that gather in her eyes are from relief or disappointment, until she looks up and says: “He will be godfather to my child!” She crumples the letter and throws it onto the fire.

  I express my delight, we all do, smiling at her joyous relief, our eyes on her as she laughs with happiness. Not one of us allows herself to glance at the burning parchment. Clement VI will make the announcement himself when the child is born.

  On Christmas Eve, Joanna goes into labor. The midwife and her assistant bustle around her, ordering rosewater to moisten her brow and arms, helping her walk between contractions. When the sky begins to lighten, the midwife sends a maid to alert Joanna’s court that the time is near. Joanna’s councilors and officers, led by Robert, come to the outer receiving room, followed by the ladies of the court, who stand at the entrance to the birthing room as witnesses. We are all awed by the timing; the Queen’s child will share the birth day of Our Holy Savior. Surely God is blessing this birth.

  Joanna bites on the leather they have given her, and holds my hand so tightly I fear she will crush it as I stand beside her bed murmuring reassurance, but she does not scream.

  As Christmas morning breaks, the royal infant emerges into the midwife’s hands. The silence is so heavy I am certain every breath is being held as the midwife’s assistant cuts the cord and the midwife runs her finger around the inside of the child’s mouth to clear it, and

  holds the naked babe high for all to see. With a lusty wail, the heir to the throne greets the most powerful nobles of his kingdom.

  “A healthy prince,” the midwife calls for those who are not close enough to see him and note his little manhood. The succession to the throne of the Kingdom of Naples is assured.

  “He will be baptized tomorrow,” Joanna says to me as the midwife hands her son to the wet nurse. “Tell them to begin making the arrangements. The Bishop of Cavaillon, chancellor of the realm, will perform the ceremony. Tell the Bishop Pope Clement VI is to be his godfather.”

  When I return, the infant has finished suckling and lies in Joanna’s arms in his little gown and a clean clout. I look down at him, my sister’s son, so tiny in her arms. Not so long ago we were children too, his mother and I. Joanna is nineteen now, and I am seventeen. We have survived more than we could ever have imagined when we were children together in this castle, and we are not safe yet. How long it seems since we were children together.

  “Charles Martel,” Joanna murmurs.

  I start at hearing the name she has given her son, his great-grandfather’s name, King Robert’s oldest brother. It is a tribute to his father’s line, and a reminder to his uncle, King Louis of Hungary, that we have kept the terms of the contract made by his father and our grandfather when Joanna married Andrew. When this Charles Martel takes the throne of Naples—the throne his grandfather King Carobert should have had according to our Hungarian cousins—our two kingdoms will be joined and we will have peace at last.

  That is, if Joanna can maintain the delicate balance between our arrogant, ambitious Angevin cousins, Hungarian and Neapolitan alike, long enough for Charles Martel to grow up.

  “Sleep well,” I whisper to the drowsy prince, his lips pursed and soft with his nurse’s milk. His brows pucker into a little frown, as if he knows his childhood, like ours, will end too soon.

  Author’s Note

  All of the people and main events in this story are historically accurate. I have invented their conversations and a few minor entertainments, such as the masque and Maria’s dance with Charles, although all the feasts, including their engagement feast, actually occurred. Occasionally, I have placed people where they might not have been, most notably Maria being present at Joanna’s court when major events took place. She may have been there or not, but she was in Naples, and it is very likely she was part of Joanna’s court, so I consider it a small liberty. I have tried to portray Naples in the 14th century as accurately as I can, through extensive research and personally visiting Castle Nuovo and the churches in Naples that Joanna would have gone to. However, it is still likely I have made some errors, for which I beg my readers’ indulgence.

  About the Author

  Jane Ann McLachlan was born in Toronto, Canada, and currently lives with her husband, author Ian Darling, in Waterloo, Ontario. They spend most days sitting in their separate dens writing on their laptops, each working on their next book. When they get out it’s usually to do research.

  Between books, Jane Ann enjoys gardening, quilting, travel, spending time with family, and getting away from the cold Canadian winters. She is addicted to story, and reads just about any kind of book, but she writes mostly historical fiction set in the Middle Ages and young adult science fiction and fantasy.

  You can learn more about her novels and join her launch team on her author website: www.janeannmclachlan.com

  Find resources for creative writing on her website for writers: www.downriverwriting.com

  If you have enjoyed reading The Girl Who Would Be Queen, please consider posting a review on Amazon to help other readers find this book. I would really appreciate it. To do so, go to the book page here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07459C598 Scroll down the page past my picture and bio and you will see a button the says “Leave a Customer Review”. Click on that to write and post your review.

  Thank you!

  The Sorrow Stone by Jane Ann McLachlan

  In the middle ages, a mother mourning her child’s death could “sell her sorrow” by selling a nail from her child’s coffin to a traveling peddler. Overwhelmed with grief, Lady Celeste tries to sell her sorrow to Jean, a cynical peddler who insists she include her ring along with the nail. Lady Celeste’s magnificent ruby ring binds her husband to his marriage vows, but it is also the key to escaping her terrible grief. Which will she choose?

  Praise for The Sorrow Stone:

  “This is an amazing book and I felt as though I was transported to a different world. The medieval time was so clearly illuminated that it felt like I had traveled through time. I could not stop reading once I began....it was all consuming to me. Great, great read!” ~ K. Charon

  “J.A. MacLachlan has managed to captivate the reader with each page of well-developed story line. The twists and turns will keep you on the edge of your seat right up until the last few pages. The well-developed characters also make the story interesting. I really enjoyed how easily I was able to immerse myself into the social and physical environment of 12th Century France. Her vivid descr
iptions are testimony to her incredible writing abilities and her thorough research of medieval beliefs, customs, and socio-economic contexts. I highly recommend it!” ~ J. Ardon

  “I was intrigued from the beginning, then, I couldn't stop reading! I had to know what happened next!” ~ Katrina

  Read Chapter One of The Sorrow Stone, a historical fiction novel set in 12th Century France.

  The Sorrow Stone

  Chapter One

  At first he did not know it was a human being. She lay crumpled on the ground like a bundle of dirty rags tossed aside by some trader. Even when Jean was close enough to see the tangled black hair, the small, bare hand, his inclination was to hurry by. A corpse could pass on the terrible fever that had razed this village.

  He had wasted his time stopping at Sainte-Blandine-de-Lugdunum. The few villagers who came to market were silent and glum, barely talking to one another let alone to a spice peddler from some distant town. He had sold one pair of woolen hose and two denier’s worth of salt all morning—barely enough to pay for his dinner and lodgings, let alone feed his family through the winter. The plague had run its course by now, otherwise Jean would have sold some of his side items: pilgrims’ badges and handkerchiefs blessed at the holy shrines of Santiago and Jerusalem. People will give up their last denier when death grins at their windows. Now, if he had been here a few weeks earlier...

  He shook his head, glancing at the inert form lying beside the road just ahead. He had known a priest who took his holy pardons, with the Pope’s sin-erasing signature, into towns where illness raged. The traders called him ‘Reaper’, but it was the last of their coins he went in for, not their souls. And what good did it do him? He handed all the profits to the church. The man was a fool. His body was found lying beside the road like this woman’s, his money pouch as heavy as a drunk’s bladder and the agony of his final convulsions frozen on his face.