“Excellent. We will refresh ourselves before dinner.” Raymond turned to me, holding his arm out. “Allow me to escort you.”
I could hardly refuse in front of his man. I lay my hand lightly on his forearm, but he took it and tucked my arm under his elbow against his side, so that I had to walk close beside him, and thus we ascended the stairs, followed by his steward.
Raymond led me into the room we had shared the previous night. Instead of stopping, he escorted me through a small door at the other end, which led to an adjoining bed chamber. This second bed chamber was larger, the walls painted like those in the main hall with exotic birds and animals sporting in a green forest thick with ferns and vines, more lush and fertile than any woodland I had seen. The furniture was massive and ornately decorated with embroidered cloth and cushions: a bed, a table with a large bowl of water on it and a drying cloth, three chairs by the fireplace, a writing table. This last surprised me. Was it for his steward, or could Raymond himself read and write?
“Have wine sent up. And figs.” Raymond turned to me. “You like figs, do you not?”
I nodded. I had eaten them only a few times in the castle and afterwards sometimes dreamed of them. He smiled at my nod and I realized, blushing, that I had first tasted figs when Raymond began sending dinner trays up to the castle nursery.
When the man left, Raymond stripped off his tunic and linen shirt and began to wash his face and upper torso in the bowl of water. Embarrassed by the intimacy of observing his toilet, I walked over to the mural and examined it more closely. Some of the creatures depicted were purely imaginative—a yellow spotted horse with long, thin legs and a ridiculously elongated neck standing so tall it ate from the top of a tree; a grossly fat thing that looked like an oversized grey pig with a unicorn’s horn stuck on its snout—while others were merely strange, like the black-and-white striped ponies and spotted felines I had seen in the king’s menagerie.
The abundant foliage made sense when I realized I was looking at an African jungle, the landscape of Raymond’s native home. I turned slowly, observing the jungle on every wall. It pressed in on me from every direction, this bizarre green world. Even the ceiling was covered in curling vines. What kind of human could call such a place home? In the corner beside the fireplace I saw a man depicted, black-faced and smiling, possibly a representation of Raymond himself. He wore what appeared to be a long narrow skirt tied about his waist, with a length of the same brightly-woven cloth draped over one shoulder, and stood poised to throw a long spear he held balanced above his bare shoulder. He was tall and muscular, intensely male, with a proud, fierce expression on his face. He was at once both primitive and majestic, a warrior and a king among men. I looked up, bemused, and caught the real Raymond watching me as he toweled himself dry. I turned back to the painting, confused by an unidentifiable emotion.
On the other side of the fireplace a woman had been painted. She was tall and willowy with skin as black as the man’s—I found it necessary to refer to the first figure objectively as “the man”—and wore a similar multi-colored woven cloth wrapped loosely around her from neck to ankle. Her shapely bare feet showed beneath. Despite the blackness of her skin she was undeniably beautiful. I felt a stab of something I would have called jealousy if Violante had been this lovely. I turned and looked at Raymond.
He came across and stood beside me. Beads of moisture glistened on his chest. He smelled of soap and sweat, like any other man. I was tempted to touch him and tempted to run. I looked steadfastly at the painting.
“My mother,” he said, “as I remember her.”
“She is beautiful.” I felt him look at me but I would not look up. He was too close in this wild, primitive landscape. Too large and too close in any world. Not trusting my voice I pointed to the other figure, the man.
“That is my father, the king of our tribe. The artist painted him to look like me.” He chuckled disparagingly. “But he was much...larger than I am, much more...” he trailed off.
I nodded. My mother was also much more...more everything...than I will ever be.
The door opened. Raymond and I stepped apart as his man entered carrying a tray with wine and figs upon it. He set it on the table and poured the wine, handing a cup to each of us. He appeared not to notice his master’s state of undress except for a brief glance at the foot of the bed where a clean linen shirt and a fresh tunic had been laid out.
“We will be down for dinner presently.” Raymond said, offering me a fig. I accepted it and bit into the soft, sweet fruit, letting its sun-drenched flavor fill my mouth. “Send my wife’s maid up,” Raymond called to the retreating servant. “Tell her to wait in my wife’s chamber while we drink our wine.”
I swallowed the sticky treat with a gulp of wine. “Why have you sent for my maid?”
“To help you dress for dinner.”
“I am quite well-dressed.” I chose another fig from the platter although I had no appetite for it now.
“I would like to see you in the headdress and the necklet that matches your green kirtle. Did she not show them to you?”
I set my wine cup down. “She did. I chose not to wear them.”
“I would like you to.”
“Why did you have all these things made for me? The gowns, the headdress, the jewelled necklet...?”
“I like to see something pretty when I come home.”
“You want to see something pretty?”
“Have I asked anything more of you?”
“I cannot be bought.”
He smiled, amused. “I am your husband.”
“I mean my affection, my loyalty,” I stammered, furiously aware that I was making myself ridiculous.
“I am glad to hear it. I want a friend I can trust.”
“You are my husband.”
“We will get to that in time. For now, let us learn to be friends.” He went to the bed and began to put on the linen shirt laid out for him. “Go prepare for dinner,” he said, when I did not move. “I mean you to wear them.”
“And if I refuse?”
He looked over at me. “Do not refuse. It would be disrespectful.” There was something in his face, something I should heed. A warning look, such as my father wore before a rage took him. I straightened my shoulders and raised my head and gave him a level look, this man who spoke of disrespect. Let us have the truth between us, then.
“Why did you hire that girl?”
“My wife must have a maid.”
“That particular girl?”
“I thought you would like to see someone from your homeland.”
“If ever I do, I will have them painted on my chamber wall.”
He stood very still for a long moment. Had I gone too far? Then he laughed. “Perhaps you are right. A painting can never betray you.”
I gritted my teeth. “What does she know?”
“Everything.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
March 15, 1346
Castle Capuano, Naples
I awake in a haze of agony to find myself lying on the damp floor of a dungeon. I am naked except for my thin shift, which is stiff with blood and dirt and smells of vomit. I lie still. Even the slightest movement brings fresh waves of pain. The flesh on my back is ribboned with lashes, my chest and arms feel like they are on fire. I remember the red-hot iron, and push the memory away. My left eye will not open. Slowly I force the other open, blinking to clear my vision. The dungeon is dark with only a single narrow slit in the stone wall high above me letting in a meager shaft of light. I judge it to be shortly after dawn.
After the torment we endured on del Balzo’s ship, we were not taken to Castle dell’Ovo as promised, but to the castle of Charles of Durazzo. Throughout the night he has had us tortured in turns.
I hear a low moan. Bracing myself against the pain, I turn my head. Three feet away I make out a lump in the darkness: Sancia. She moans again. She is alive, at least.
I grit my teeth and try to rise. My right arm wil
l bear no weight and my left foot is in agony. I struggle to crawl toward my granddaughter, groaning despite my efforts not to.
“Sancia.” My voice comes out raw and hoarse, unrecognizable. It is not kind to wake her. I would be more compassionate if I smothered her now, insensible in her anguished stupor. For the sake of her child, my great-grandchild, I cannot. “Sancia, you must try to live.” I croak.
“I am trying, Grandmother.”
Her voice is a broken whisper that brings tears to my eyes. I do not want to know what they did to her, nor think what they will do next to us both. “Joanna will get us out of here,” I say. I think it is a lie, the queen has done nothing to prevent our torture, but I must give Sancia something to coax her to live. I lie down beside her and stroke her hair with my good hand, a small touch of kindness among so many brutal ones. She moans again and begins to weep quietly, hopelessly. I whisper, “Shh, child, courage,” and smooth her hair from her face until her sobs subside.
When I hear the thud of men’s boots descending the stone stairway to us my hand stills, lying on her head like a benediction. I close my eye, waiting for what will come.
A man’s voice mutters something, lost in the grate of the iron cell door swinging open.
“Oh, she will be alive. She is too stubborn to die.” Charles’ voice, arrogant and cold, fills the dark cell.
I open my eye and see his boot in the muddy straw a few inches from my face. I am made of stern stuff, as he says, for I do not move a muscle although inside I feel myself cringe, expecting him to kick me.
“So you have come to this,” I say, peering up at him with my one good eye.
He opens his mouth, closes it again with a glare, and gives a forced laugh. “Arrogant still! Are you expecting a rescue? Lord Louis of Taranto has been forced out of Naples. He has retreated as far north as Capua with all his troops. Naples is ours!”
It is my turn to say nothing.
He smiles. “You are not so clever after all. You have chosen the wrong side this time.”
“Does your Lady Wife know what you are doing down here in your filthy dungeon?” My voice comes out a broken rasp but the disgust I feel is still audible.
I hear a harsh intake of breath followed by a hushed silence from the guard. Then Charles bends down. His face, just above mine, is cruel and hard. “Why would she care that I am punishing a woman who conspired to murder her prince?”
“You know I did not.”
“You have confessed to it. I have witnesses.”
“They are lying.” But I have doubts. I was delirious with pain half the night, I cannot be certain what I said.
“You will die and all your accomplishments will come to nothing.”
I stare at him through my good eye, horrified. He has used the very words of my great-grandmother’s prophecy.
He laughs as though he has won, as though he personally engineered my downfall. It brings me back to myself. “Your Lady Wife is a princess, raised by a noble king and queen. She will remember that I supported your marriage when no one else would. That I spoke on your behalf, for her sake. She will be disgusted when she learns of this, and see you for the treacherous creature you are.”
He stands up with a roar of outrage.
I raise my hand, pointing my finger up at him, and with my remaining strength I cry, not knowing where the words come from but certain of their truth, “You, too, will die by treachery. It will not be long, not long now, before you are betrayed!”
He does kick me then, hard enough that I feel my rib crack before darkness takes me.
***
I come to under the rough hands of soldiers pulling me upright. I stumble on my feet, gasping with pain, and fall when they let me go. Two of them grab my arms and half-carry me out of the filthy cell and up the stone stairs, cold and rough under my bruised, swollen feet. Sancia follows behind me, leaning heavily on a third soldier.
I squint when we reach the main hall with its bright windows. Is that Princess Maria watching us? I would like to see her better, to learn whether she knew her husband was torturing us while she slept in her bed, but they pull me on, out through the door. The harsh sunshine completely blinds me.
“Climb up! Get in!” one of the men holding me growls, pushing me forward. My outstretched arms knock into the back of a wagon. I dimly make out the iron bars of a prison cage built onto the wagon bed.
“Lady Mother!” Robert cries. “You are alive!” His arms clasp mine and help me in beside him.
“I am too stubborn to die,” I inform him, sinking down onto the clean straw and drawing in a shallow breath, careful of my broken rib. I squint at him through my one good eye as he helps Sancia up. He is covered in dirt and crusted blood, under which I note bruised flesh and burn marks. One of his ankles is twisted at an awkward angle. “Where are they taking us?”
“To Castle Capuano. Queen Joanna has rescued us.”
I nod, hearing the irony in his voice. It is not much of a rescue. Castle Capuano is the prison where the worst criminals are interred, usually for decades unless they die, which they often do. But we are out of the hands of Joanna’s enemies, and that is something.
***
Castle Capuano is dirty, cold, and damp. Sancia and I are locked together in a stone cell with a wooden cot and a plain wooden chair and table. I hobble over to the rough-hewn cot and sink onto the dirty straw mattress. Luxury!
Raymond’s wife brings us our dinner, a fish stew with bread still warm from the oven and a jug of small ale. I am so hungry and weakened I nearly weep at the sight of it. She drapes a shawl over my shoulders and has her servant lay the two blankets she has brought us on the cot, along with two clean shifts. She has also brought a pail of fresh water and cloths, and they set to wiping our faces and gently washing away the dried blood from our bodies.
“Lord Robert’s wife has left Naples for her family’s estate in Provence,” she tells me.
“You should leave also,” I answer.
“My family will protect me.” Her mouth forms a thin, tight line. I remember her brother has allied himself with Duke Robert. It will not help my son, but it will ensure her safety, at least for now.
“Tomorrow I will send over two chairs with arm rests and cushions, and more clothes. What else can I bring you? I have paid the guards well to supply your needs, make sure they do not cheat you,” she fusses as she cleans me.
“Beatrice, you have done well,” I murmur, clenching my jaw against the pain despite her gentleness. How pleased I am to be clean again. But when she reaches for my left foot I cry out and pull it back. She turns her face away, her shoulders heaving.
“Is it Raymond?” I have been afraid to ask for fear of what she might tell me.
“He is alive,” she says, struggling for control.
My eyes well up. “Well then,” I say. I swallow twice. “Well then, we are all alive, and we will heal.” I take a breath. “Put that clean undershift on me, dear Beatrice, and wrap me in your warm shawl and let me have some of your good fish soup.”
She looks at me in surprise, for I have never been one for endearments. A flush rises up her neck. “Cicillia will be here soon, Madame Mother-in-law. She is with my Lord Husband now.”
I accept her gentle rebuff. She loves me, this one. She wants me to be well. She wants me to be myself. She needs my courage, not my kindness. They all do.
“My shift,” I say, nodding at the clean garment. “Sancia will need Cicillia more than I.” Sancia’s baby is still alive despite her ill treatment, I have ascertained that, but I will be happy to have Cicillia confirm it. Cicillia, the daughter and namesake of my old maid, is a fine healer. I taught her mother everything I know, and she taught her only daughter. The girl’s father taught her to read and under Queen Joanna’s new laws permitting women a profession, she became a physic for women.
“Lord Robert is lodged with my Lord Husband,” Beatrice says as she helps me out of my dirty shift and into the clean one. “He told Cicillia
he did not need her care either, and to look to his brother.”
I huff a snort of disgust at my prideful son.
“Do not worry, Madame. Cicillia would have none of it. And at least you will be examined in a clean shift.” She turns, hiding her smile, to fill a bowl of soup for me from the pot.
That night I kneel and thank God for our lives. We have produced a line of survivors, my husband and I. I am relieved and grimly proud. I thank God also for the dismal prison that is Castle Capuano and pray that we may stay here out of sight until the turmoil in Naples subsides.
The next morning my old maid, Cicillia, visits. She brings fresh kirtles, fresh bread, and fresh news: “Queen Joanna has publicly renounced the Duke of Taranto’s suit and made clear her preference for his brother Louis,” she tells me while she examines my wounds.
“Pope Clement has given his permission? They are betrothed? Ahh!” I gasp as she winds the cloth around my ribs more tightly than I permitted her daughter to.
“He has not. And I doubt he is pleased with her public statement. We must wash that foot.”
“You will not touch it. Is Louis of Taranto still at Capua?”
“He is fighting his way toward Naples, I have heard. And gaining supporters daily.” She places a bowl of water on the floor beside my chair. “We cannot leave it like that. It will fester. I must wash it and draw out the poison with a poultice and then rebind it.”
“Your daughter sent you here to torture me.”
“She sent me here to heal you. Which she would be perfectly capable of doing herself if you were not so—” She catches my look. “—my Lady, you know it must be done.”
“Is Queen Joanna still at Castle dell’Ovo?” I extend my left foot reluctantly toward the bowl.
“The toenails?” She unwinds the loose cloth her daughter tied there and examines the dirt- and blood-crusted foot.
I grunt a rough agreement, and grit my teeth.
“The queen has returned to Castle Nuovo. I understand she has set up a temporary council. Do not ask, I only know the Empress Catherine is her head advisor.” She trails off, bending over my foot now submerged in the water bowl, gently dabbing with a cloth at the crust of dirt and dried blood. I distract myself from the pain with the strong poppy tea she brought and consider what she has told me.
The Girl Who Tempted Fortune Page 19
