“I was rocking him, Your Majesty,” I said, forcing myself to sound calm, confident. “He has a fever.”
“A fever?” She drew back, stricken, torn between comforting her son and avoiding his disease.
“It is an infant’s malady, you will not get it,” I told her. “Babies often die of it.”
I paused while she gasped in horror.
“But I noticed his ailment in time, and have made him a healing tea with herbs I brought with me. I am confident he will recover, Your Majesty. And I will buy more of the herbs when we arrive in Naples, in case the fever returns.”
“He is so hot,” she cried, taking him from me and kissing his flushed cheeks. “Are you certain he will recover?”
“Very certain, Your Majesty. I have seen this before. It is a good thing I brought the herbs with me.” I brought forward the mug I had set aside with the willow bark tea, cool now, and dipped Charles’ sop into it, and let him suck on it as she held him. She murmured her gratitude in a broken voice that shamed me, kissing her son’s eyes, his hot forehead, the silky yellow cap of his hair. He was quiet in her arms, sucking the sop drenched in willow tea.
He would not take much. After a while I said, gently, “May I, Your Majesty?” and put my hand to his forehead. I feigned relief and told her the tea was working, he was cooler now. Once again I was shamed by her relief and gratitude. She sat him on her knee and played with him until he became fussy.
I did not like the sound of his whine. He had not actually been ill, he should not be so weary, almost lethargic. His little body was cool now, clammy with sweat. My mother made her patients drink ale when they sweat like this, but I dared not give a baby ale.
“He is quite cool now,” the princess said happily.
“Perhaps he has regained his appetite. That would be a good sign.” What would I do if he would not suckle? I was terrified I had harmed him. How could I ever have taken such a risk? He was adorable and he trusted me completely, and I had done something awful to him. I wanted to cry, but I took him calmly when Violante handed him to me. She was looking only at him or she would surely have seen in my eyes the fear and regret I felt, however much I tried to hide it.
Charles would not take my breast himself. I had to place my nipple in his mouth and stroke his little back. But then he suckled, and soon he was eating in earnest.
“See, Your Majesty, he is fine now,” I said, as relieved as she was. We laughed together fondly at the sound of his noisy gulping as he pulled on my breast.
“You have saved my son’s life twice,” Violante said when I handed him back to her, fed and satisfied. He made a gummy grin up at her as if in agreement, but I bowed my head, unable to meet her eyes.
She took it as modesty and vowed that I would be rewarded, that I need never fear for my future, that she was sorry if her earlier words had caused me distress.
My cheeks burned. “Your Majesty,” I cried. “You were right to chastise me! But I have learned from it. I will never from this day do anything to make you regret your faith in me. I swear it! I swear it by my mother who I will never see again!” I meant it, I meant it desperately. I saw how such a life might change me, the insecurity and falseness of a royal court, but I would not let it! I could not look at baby Charles who I had so nearly murdered, or this impulsive princess who had placed her trust unwisely, but wept onto the floor at her feet.
Violante saw my tears, or perhaps it was the mention of losing my mother. She touched my bent head, and when I looked up a tenderness had come into her face that made me weep all the harder. I promised myself that I would never betray her again, not for any reason.
“You did not mean to be vulgar,” she reassured me. “You are very young. Perhaps you did not understand how a rough soldier would take your words.”
My sob turned into a hiccup. She thought all this regret was over an ill-considered joke. “I... I would not want to think I disappointed you,” I managed.
“I am certain you will not,” she said quietly.
***
That afternoon the wind rose. By evening a storm had blown in. The guard at my door came in with a second man, one of the sailors, to make sure everything in my cabin was secure. The bed and table were built out from the walls but Charles’ cradle had to be tied down securely. They left me a fishnet to wrap over it to prevent him from falling out if things got that bad. I nodded, frightened. “You will likely be sick,” the sailor added briskly. “Try to spare the mattress.” He handed me the bucket he had brought with him.
Our ship tossed on waves so tall I could not see their peaks through the little window in my cabin. When Charles cried I sat on the floor beside his cradle and stroked him, singing a little song he liked. I was afraid to pick him up for fear a sudden swell might make me drop him. Fortunately, I was not sick beyond a mild queasiness and as the storm passed, that did also.
The waves were still steep, rocking the boat so that it was difficult to walk, but the worst was over when I opened my door and looked out. The hallway was empty. Looking down it I noticed the door to another cabin swinging open. From inside I heard a voice moaning. Charles was sleeping soundly in his cradle so I made my way down the hall holding onto the walls, and looked in. Princess Violante lay on her cot groaning in misery, her face pale with a greenish cast. On a second cot her maid lay in the same condition. I hurried to the princess. Her eyes opened as I felt her forehead for fever.
“Charles—?” she managed before a retch shook her. She heaved fruitlessly; there was nothing left in her stomach save a small dribble of bile.
“Charles is fine, Your Majesty,” I assured her. “He is sleeping now.”
She nodded and closed her eyes again.
“Are you ill?” I asked.
“It is just the sea. I am always ill on the sea.” Her voice was weak and her head lolled sideways but I was reassured. I had heard the fishermen in my village laugh while recounting tales of ‘land-loving men’ aboard their boats having this same reaction.
Two men appeared at the cabin door carrying emptied buckets and a washbasin of water.
“You are not ill,” one of them observed. He handed me the washbasin.
After I had washed the princess’ face and her maid’s, I ordered boiling water sent to my cabin to make a tea, and two mugs. Anise for nausea. My mother had thought carefully when choosing the herbs she gave me.
I was kept busy tending Charles as well as his mother and her maid the rest of the night and the next morning. When at last everyone slept, I stumbled up to the deck to get some fresh air, steadying myself with one hand on the walls and holding in the other a chunk of bread and some cheese the cook had given me.
It was a great relief to get away from the close quarters and the smell of vomit. The wind was still brisk and the salt air was bracing. I leaned against the railing and ate my simple dinner.
“So you are Philippa the Catanian.”
I turned with a start and found myself staring into Prince Robert’s intensely blue eyes. He stood behind me, quite alone. For a moment I gawked like an idiot, then sank into a deep curtsey just as our ship hit a steep swell. I lost my footing completely and would have fallen across the deck had he not grabbed my arm and pulled me up. I had so longed for him to notice me, even once, but all I could think was that my hair was a mess and I smelled of his wife’s vomit and his son’s spit-up.
“Are you not afraid to be out here in this rough weather?” His smile lit up his eyes and showed his even, white teeth. I stared, caught myself and looked away. My arm burned where he held it, but in so delicious a way I wanted him never to let go. I hardly dared breathe.
“Apparently not,” he answered himself, letting go of my arm. He looked over my shoulder at the sea.
What must he think of me, standing here speechless? And smelly! “On the contrary, Your Majesty. I have always enjoyed a wild wind,” I said breathlessly, wondering if I could move a bit, to get downwind of him. “And the salt air is... refreshing.” I s
hrugged helplessly, acknowledging the obvious.
“You have been ill.”
“Not I. I have been tending your—another, who is.”
“My wife does not have a stomach for the sea.” His lips quirked, almost a smile.
“All the more admirable of her to venture onto it, then.”
“Well said, Philippa of Catania.” He turned that dazzling smile on me again. “I hear that you have foretold my son will... enjoy the fruit of Sicily.” He glanced with amusement at my ripe breasts, swollen with milk.
A hot blush spread over my face; I could not help raising my arm to cover my chest. “A poor choice of words, Your Majesty.” I would gladly have ripped my tongue out to undo that ill-considered jest. Then I heard the other word he had used: foretold. Did he think it was a prediction? I wasn’t a seer like my mother. It had been a joke to make the soldiers laugh! But I couldn’t take it back now. Could not. I could not take it back, I corrected myself. At least I could sound like a Neapolitan lady if the foolish substance of my words could not be retracted. I looked up at him. He was watching me, waiting for an explanation. I looked away quickly, my heart pounding. Whatever should I say?
“Fortunate is the man who sits at the bottom of Fortune’s wheel, for when her wheel turns, he will rise.” I blushed, hearing how pompous it sounded, but it was all I could think of. My mother had said it once to console me when Guilio had beaten me, only she had said “girl’.
“Philosophy from a Sicilian wet-nurse? Or another prediction?” He looked amused but there was a challenge in his voice.
The boat dipped into a wave. I grabbed the railing, my balance shaken, precarious. I was about to confess I could not see the future, but just then the clouds parted. A beam of sunlight caught us, the crown prince of Naples with his golden hair and sea-blue eyes and I in my yellow kirtle, and set us ablaze with light. I took a breath to steady myself against the swells and lunges of the sea, and thought of my mother when she was seeing for someone.
Was I going to do this? Dared I pretend to tell a crown prince’s future? Before I could change my mind I covered my face with my left hand, blocking the light. I pictured the prince’s face, more lined than his youth could explain, and his eyes, steady and direct. But there was sorrow there, and uncertainty, hidden in their depths. Was there not a rumor he had been cruelly imprisoned in his youth by our former King James II of Aragon? I drew in my breath. Pitching my voice as low as I could, I said with a certainty that surprised me, “Your Majesty, you will rise. You who have sat at the bottom of Fortune’s wheel, for the rest of your life you will climb as high as the wheel can turn, and all who are loyal to you will rise with you.” I moved my hand from my face and dared to look him in the eyes. “This is not flattery, my Lord. Have I not left everything behind to align myself with your household? Would I do so if I had not seen your future?”
He looked me over thoughtfully. I could not tell whether I had convinced him or not. I suspected he did not mean me to.
“You are an interesting girl, Philippa of Catania,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
March 6, 1346
Queen Joanna’s Court, Naples
“How can this be happening?” Joanna stares round the table at my son Robert, Louis of Taranto, and me, ensconced in her privy chamber. Her face is pale, her eyes wide and startled. “I am the rightful queen of Naples! King Robert named me his heir. Every noble in the land knelt and swore fealty to me when I was still a child. They swore their allegiance again at my coronation. I rule by the right of God, anointed by His Eminence, Pope Clemente VI! They defy God to rise against their anointed Monarch!” She pauses, breathless.
Louis sits watching her. He, too, swore obedience to her. He, too, would not hesitate to break that oath to wear the crown of Naples, if he had not found a way to secure them both.
“My people love me!”
Not at the moment. I grit my teeth to restrain my impatience. We are here to discuss what can be done, not to console a frightened young woman. Joanna is deeply shaken to let her self-control slip so much.
“Your people are the pawns of ruthless men,” Louis, an equally ruthless man but one who is on our side, says calmly.
Enough. “Your Majesty, you are the rightful ruler. And it is time to rule.”
Joanna blinks at my stern tone, but her breathing slows and her pallor begins to improve. After a moment she straightens, glances round the table at us, and says, “What do you advise?”
The men relax. Robert wants to take a contingent of knights and rescue his brother. He makes the suggestion carefully, referring to Raymond as ‘the seneschal of your court’.
“We cannot appear to be harboring a man accused of regicide,” Louis says.
We? They are not joined yet. The queen has chosen him for her champion, but I have privately warned her against aligning herself publicly with him, whatever she promises in private. Louis’ mercenaries are not popular in Naples.
I focus on this to avoid the larger insult. My son had nothing to do with the murder of Andrew and they both know it. None of my family would be so stupid as to join such a cause for precisely this reason: we would be the first accused.
“The queen cannot send her own guard out against her people,” I say. Robert looks at me as though I have just murdered his brother. He may be right. But Louis has no intention of fighting for Raymond. The prize, for him, is the crown. He will defend Joanna’s favorites to encourage her to marry him, but only when it does not obstruct his goal. I must not force his hand now. And I will not let Robert go out as blithely unprotected as Raymond did.
Louis looks at me with surprised approval. As though I am not ten times the experienced courtier he will ever be. “Joanna must maintain the support of her people,” I say, looking at Robert.
Or we are all dead. After the training I gave him he knows the end of my sentences. I want him to think of his wife and children, of Raymond’s wife and children, of their niece Sancia, and little Maroccia.
In fact, I am thinking of him. My Robert with his father’s complexion and features would be instantly recognized and set upon, and then they would have both my sons at their mercy.
“We will wait until my man returns to tell us what is happening.” Joanna decides. She turns to me. “Stay here in Castle Nuovo where you will be safe.” She looks to Louis, her face relaxing when he nods approval.
I bow my head. Her grandfather, King Robert, would never have sat here allowing a mob of commoners to attack his men, to torture the seneschal of his court. But then, King Robert’s brothers did not challenge his rule as Joanna’s cousins are doing. When his nephew Carobert of Hungary did so, his brothers all stood by him to defend Naples. If King Robert were still here... I feel the familiar clench in my gut, the ache in my chest, that have been with me since his death. King Robert had the wisdom of a great ruler as well as the iron fist of a warrior to back up his decrees.
Naples is a kingdom divided. Joanna has the wisdom to rule, but not the fighting force. Her cousins, the grandsons of those same brothers who supported her grandfather King Robert, have the courage and appetite to lead armies, but lack the wisdom to rule judiciously. Naples flounders like a man whose emotions and appetites have overcome his reason, bestial and stupid, without discipline or judgment. And my family is trapped in its madness, clinging to Joanna, who has barely the strength to save herself, let alone us. I wonder, not for the first time, which of Joanna’s cousins and courtiers were so stupid as to kill Prince Andrew so publicly and bring this calamity down on all of us.
Louis must win. Louis’ hired army must defeat his brother Robert of Taranto’s forces, or we are all doomed. We, my family, will be destroyed if he does not succeed in time.
“Philippa?”
Joanna has asked me something. Advice. But I, who have advised her and her parents and grandparents, have little to give her now. Send every man you have to rescue my Raymond, I want to say. Want to scream. But it is bad advice. It would leave t
he castle unguarded and even then there might not be enough to fight Robert of Taranto’s and Charles of Durazzo’s joined armies, along with the crazed mob of citizens crying for blood. And that would be the end. I will not undermine a lifetime of good advice with very bad advice at a desperate time. Wisdom and calm are needed now, however useless they may be to save my son.
Raymond! I feel a pain so sharp I close my eyes unable to breathe until it passes. It does not pass. Advice, I think, groping for something else to cling to. Joanna is watching me, a worried frown creasing her lovely brow.
A stout knock on the door saves me from answering. “Enter,” Joanna calls.
The guard ushers in Joanna’s man. He bows to the queen and Louis of Taranto, but hesitates to speak, his eyes darting from me to Robert.
“Speak,” Joanna commands. “You are in the presence of the grand seneschal of the kingdom and my most trusted adviser.”
“Speak up!” Louis growls.
The young man bows three times, like flotsam on the sea, his Adam’s apple keeping time. “Your Majesty, I followed the noise of the people to the public square and made my way through a large crowd to stand near the front. There I saw the Duke of Taranto and the Duke of Durazzo surrounded by their men, and with them the seneschal of the court, bound in chains.” The man glances at me and hesitates. I hold myself straight in my chair and meet his gaze until he continues.
“He was bound in chains, without his surcote, his shirt torn and bloodied from the lash. His arms and body were cut with sword wounds, though none fatal—” He chokes to a stop.
“Tell us everything,” Joanna orders. The man is trembling, his face damp. Raymond has ever been good to those he commands, careful of their lives when possible. He is liked and respected among the men.
“His mouth was full of blood. He kept coughing it out, and the sounds he made... Your Majesty, I believe they have cut out his tongue.”
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