The Girl Who Would Be Queen

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  Joanna would like to say something, I expect. I expect she is itching to be Queen and not need anyone’s permission to speak. She must be beside herself to know what our Grandfather the King intends to do. The still intentness of her body beside me pierces the silence I would draw around myself. This is real. Joanna knows it is real. She is not praying, as though this bitter cup could be removed from us. She is preparing herself. Whatever our Lord Grandfather does, she will inherit it. And soon, by the looks of it.

  Who will I marry now that the contract which bound me to Louis is broken? I grit my teeth. Whoever he is, he had better sit on a throne! What countries have unmarried princes waiting to inherit their father’s crown? For the first time, I admit to myself that I did not want to marry Andrew’s brother and travel far away from the beautiful Neapolitan court to live the rest of my life among barbarians. What if Louis is like Andrew? I shudder before I can stop myself.

  Last week I learned that Andrew’s man—the one who was with him that night—was killed in a street brawl. If you tell anyone, I will kill you, I still hear Andrew’s voice saying. And now his man will never tell anyone. But that was his favorite companion, the man he trusted most... Surely I am wrong?

  What if Louis is like Andrew?

  Perhaps it is not a tragedy that King Robert will have to find me another husband.

  Raymond stops just inside the door and bows, waiting there for the King to be informed that he has arrived. When the King motions him forward he crosses the room in that way he has that makes any room look too small to contain him. Tall and powerful, even in the clothes of a courtier he looks like he should be on a battlefield, where he has proven himself many times. No one can question his value and devotion to our royal house, but he is not well-liked. Even I know it, not that anyone would confide that to me, the granddaughter of the only King in Christendom who would elevate an African slave to such a lofty position, no matter how capable and intelligent he is.

  I peek through my lashes at Philippa. I have never seen her acknowledge Raymond when they are together at court, but when he is present she is no longer a ladies’ maid, or a royal adviser, or even the surrogate mother of the heirs to the throne; she is Raymond’s wife. She may not stand near him, she seldom even looks at him, but there is a subtle change in her voice, and the way she stands, the way she holds her head and moves her arms and even how she glances sideways at him is confession enough. Looking at her, I think, what do I care if my husband wears a crown as long as I can feel that way about him?

  I narrow my eyes and try to see Raymond as she does: the intelligence in his large brown eyes, the toned, muscular body of a fearless soldier, the controlled movements of a man used to commanding others in battle, the confident way he holds his head in the presence of royalty, the ready expression on his face, as capable in the intrigues of court as on the battle field. I blink, and see him now as others do: his black face, thick-lipped and broad-nosed with flaring nostrils, incongruously sitting atop the elegant embroidered silk tunic of a courtier. A black monkey wearing men’s clothes, he has been called—never in our royal family’s presence, but I have heard the rumors, spread by jealous and inferior men. I scorn them, as does my Grandfather, who respects Raymond’s manly abilities. But still... I glance again at Philippa; is it possible love can make you so blind? I will never let it do that to me. My husband must be truly handsome as well as honorable for me to find him so.

  The door opens again. Joanna and Philippa do not look around, but I cannot resist a quick glance, moving my head as little as possible so no one will notice. Andrew has entered. He stands uncertainly just inside the door, short and dark and wide-eyed. His facial hair is just beginning to grow, so most of his face is still clean, but soon he will be as hairy as his men. Why do they deliberately want to look like animals? I shiver. He is an animal. No one else may know it, but I do.

  The King’s face darkens. “You know what your brother has done,” he says, without looking at Andrew, as though this relative-by-marriage is not even worth a glance. “Come in and witness my response.”

  Andrew creeps forward. When he reaches the foot of the bed I can see he is trembling. My fear of him changes to scorn. He is a year older than I am, a grown man only eighteen months younger than Joanna. He is arrogant and cruel in front of women and servants, yet as soon as he is in the presence of a king—a dying king, at that—he trembles like the coward he is. His brother Louis is already a proven soldier, and a formidable one. But I will not think of Louis; he is not worth a thought after what he has done. Beside me, Joanna acts as though she is not even aware of Andrew, and I am not certain it is an act.

  Raymond stands by the bed with his stylus and a scroll, ready to take down the King’s words. The King turns back to him, and Joanna draws a little breath. It focuses me, that little breath that no one could hear but me, standing so close beside her. What is she afraid of? Should I be afraid as well? It occurs to me that there are worse husbands than King Louis of Hungary, including none at all. I do not want to be a spurned and unmarried princess, subject to my sister all my life.

  King Robert opens his eyes. He looks at Joanna, and begins to dictate his last will and testament. Joanna is named his sole heir and successor to all his empire: Queen of Naples, Countess of Provence, Sovereign of Sicily, titular Queen of Jerusalem, and overlord of Piedmont and Forcalquier.

  Some of these titles are as thin as the scroll they are written on: Jerusalem, for example, and Sicily, which our grandfather has been trying to regain all his life. Even so, the list as he recites it for Raymond to copy down is impressive. I will never have so great an empire. Briefly I regret losing Louis, for his empire is even larger, and very much richer since the discovery of gold. They may be barbarians, but they are very rich barbarians.

  “If Joanna dies childless,” King Robert continues...

  I hold my breath. Will I have to wait, and marry Andrew? Never! I could not bear it now!

  “...the entire inheritance goes directly to Maria.”

  I let out my breath in a whoosh. Grandmother Sancia’s face twitches with disapproval. Philippa does not move, but I will hear from her for my indiscreet reaction later. Nevertheless, the entire inheritance! And no mention of marrying Duke Andrew! King Robert has bypassed Andrew completely. It will all be mine!

  Joanna shifts beside me; I feel it like a little shock. Only if she dies. In that moment I hate Naples as much as I love it, because I love my sister and I cannot have both. Then I think, surely my Lord Grandfather does not intend me to wait? Will I not be able to marry until my sister dies? What if she lives until I am too old to marry? And in that moment, I hate her as much as I love her, for every prince will spurn me as long as she lives.

  King Robert continues without noticing my temporary distraction. “Should the contracted marriage of my younger granddaughter Maria to Louis of Hungary not take place—” he pauses to glare at Andrew, who actually cringes. Cringes before a dying old man. Well, so he should, I think, indignant again because of course the marriage cannot take place now, we all know it, my grandfather is only reminding everyone whose fault that is.

  “—Maria is to wed the heir to the French throne or, if he is not available, a younger brother.”

  This time I gasp out loud, and do not even care about my Lady Grandmother and Philippa disapproving. Queen of France! I shall move to Paris, a city even more elegant and cultured than Naples. And why not? My mother was sister to King Philip VI, my great-great-grandfather was the younger brother of Louis IX. I have the royal blood of France in my veins already!

  “What do you think of that?” King Robert says, turning to our Grandmother Sancia.

  “I think she will never marry,” my Grandmother says.

  I do not intend to narrow my eyes. I am not aware I have done so. Joanna moves beside me, as though merely shifting her weight from one leg to the other. I am annoyed because she is blocking my sight of our royal grandparents, and then I understand. When she shifts ba
ck my face is as clear as a sunny day, but underneath I am thinking hard. Grandmother Sancia is only saying out loud what I thought a moment ago. If I do not want to wait for my sister to die, what prince will want to? And that is if she and Andrew have no issue; if they do, there will be nothing to wait for.

  King Robert looks at me. Thanks to my sister I am able to return to him a clear and obedient gaze.

  He glances again at Grandmother Sancia, nods to himself, and turns back to Raymond. I listen in disbelief and delight as he dictates a provision for me of lands and castles to a value of ten thousand florins, as well as a dowry of thirty thousand florins, to be paid when I marry.

  I am giddy at the thought of such a dowry. I breathe deeply, praying my legs will not give way. No one will consider me worthless now. I may not be as clever as Joanna, or as pious, but I am still worth something as a princess of Naples. With a rush of affection I realize my grandfather does intend me to marry, and marry well, to forge a valued alliance for Naples. I am no longer a bone to be thrown to the Hungarian dogs in recompense for my Uncle Carobert not inheriting Naples as he should have; I am a spoke in the Angevin wheel moving us forward. I raise my chin proudly—not enough to be noticed and accused of arrogance by my pious grandmother, but enough to claim my place.

  My grandfather the King continues to recite his will. Joanna will rely on a council headed by our Grandmother Sancia until she reaches her majority at age twenty-five; neither of us may sign legal contracts until we reach our majority; we are to submit to the authority of the Holy Pope and are commended to his protection; and on and on. I listen closely, trying to discern what it means for me, although most of it is about Joanna. Unless she dies, I remind myself. But still the details are tiring, so I decide to ask Joanna about it later, and try to imagine what the French princes look like. I am sure they will be tall and blond and handsome, and they will be civilized already.

  When he is finished, the King sends for a judge and a notary and each of us, Joanna and Andrew and I in turn, place our hand on the Holy Gospel and swear in King Robert’s presence that we will never do anything in opposition to the intent of this will. My sister is very pale and her hand trembles as she makes her oath, but I place my hand firmly upon the Holy Book and speak as the notary directs me in a clear voice. When it is Andrew’s turn he mumbles the words with a sullen face, barely touching the Holy Gospel. But he dares not object—he has sworn his allegiance to King Robert, and he is bound to that oath.

  Before we are allowed to leave the room, King Robert looks at Andrew. There is such contempt in his expression I wonder how Andrew can endure it, but to his credit he looks back steadily. The King looks even more disgusted at this show of false bravado, and everyone in the room knows why. He closes his eyes.

  “Two days after my death.” He speaks slowly, as though the words pain him. “The Duke of Calabria will be knighted—”

  No one moves or says anything. Even Raymond’s busy scribbling stops. I do not think anyone in the room even dares breathe. I try to imagine our court celebrating a knighthood while the King’s body is lying in state awaiting burial and the city is officially in mourning. Impossible! The entire civilized world will be as shocked as we are in this room.

  Andrew’s knighthood ceremony had been planned for Easter, to celebrate his return from leading a campaign against Sicily—the campaign that was planned a year ago and which Andrew has postponed three times now. Grandfather has given up on him, I think. And then I realize the extent of our grandfather’s disgust, for Sicily is all he cares about. He has been trying to reclaim it all his life. My father was born on one such expedition, for my grandmother—my real grandmother who died before I was born, as brave a queen as ever lived—accompanied him. And when King Robert grew too old to lead a battle himself, he sent others: my cousin Charles of Durazzo and then Charles of Artois, my grandfather’s bastard son, each of them no older than Andrew when they proved themselves men, for they fought bravely regardless of the outcome.

  “—And on that evening the Duke will appear at the door of the Duchess’ rooms and know her carnally.”

  Somehow I manage not to gasp, and equally difficult, not to look at my sister. The King opens his eyes to glare at Andrew, who swallows—I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing without moving my head. I almost giggle. Is it the King’s glare or the thought of approaching Joanna’s bed that terrifies Andrew? He is saved when the sound of scratching brings the King’s focus back to Raymond, who is busily recording this last directive. I cannot help, I truly cannot keep myself, from glancing ever so little sideways.

  Joanna stands still and straight, her head held high. Her face is pale, but her cheeks bear no sign of the blush I expect to see. Instead I am again shocked, because looking at her proud, stiff face I see the tiniest movement of her lips, so small only I who have lived beside this face every day and slept beside it every night of my life, would notice. She is staring directly at King Robert, the corners of her mouth moving unbelievably into the barest suggestion of a smile. The King turns his head and their eyes meet in that way they have of perfectly understanding each other.

  What? I wonder. I risk a glance at Andrew. His face is as pale as Joanna’s, but there is no hint of a smile on his lips; they are pressed together in a tight line that belies the bland expression in his eyes. Then I understand. There will be no ceremony for Andrew’s knighting. It must be done, but it will not be celebrated. No court in Christendom would expect us to celebrate while the King lies unburied. Nor will Andrew be knighted by a king; King Robert has found an irrefutable excuse to avoid that distasteful task. Joanna will have to knight him—she will be the only royal above him in rank. Knighted by a woman, by his own wife! Andrew is not being honored with a knighthood; he is being prepared to do the only task he is good for, the task of a daughter, not a son. He is breeding stock. While Joanna is being given, in his presence, the task she has been raised for, the task of a son, not a daughter. She is to rule King Robert’s empire.

  I make a little choking sound. Not quite a laugh, my Grandmother would scold me and even my Grandfather, much as he despises Andrew, would disapprove. But Andrew hears. I feel him stiffen, his face flushing red, and I am glad. Who could blame me after what he did?

  Joanna is silent as we walk back to our rooms. I sneak little glances at her, trying to fathom her silence. There is nothing she wants more in all the world than to be Queen of Naples, and now she can rule it without Andrew’s interference. And without his help? A woman ruling a kingdom on her own? With no man to rule her? I do not doubt my sister’s strength and intelligence, but she is a woman, with all the frailties of her sex. And if she does not know it, nor our Lord Grandfather admit it, still every one of their subjects will.

  “Andrew will lead your army, and help you make your decisions,” I say helpfully.

  Joanna snorts. “God forbid it.”

  I am shocked. Not as shocked as I would be if I did not hate and despise Andrew, but surely she cannot imagine ruling Naples on her own.

  “King Robert has forbidden it, at any rate,” she adds. Her lips twist upward but her eyes are not smiling.

  There is no dissuading my sister what she has determined on a course. “I will stand by you when I am Queen of France.” I promise her. At least I will have a King to govern and protect me. “You do not forget my inheritance, do you, my Lady Sister?”

  She does not answer at once. Can she be jealous that my kingdom will be greater than hers? I am secretly pleased at the thought of her envying me for once.

  “I hope you will have the opportunity to inherit it.”

  I feel my cheeks flame. “I will marry better than you, and claim it soon enough,” I retort in a low voice so that Philippa, walking ahead, will not hear us quarrel. Will she dare refuse me my inheritance?

  “You had better do it soon,” she says. “For when our cousin King Louis and his mother—Andrew’s mother—learn that Duke Andrew will never be crowned king, not even as my consort...”<
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  She does not finish. She does not need to. I am well aware that Louis of Hungary, like his father, King Carobert, would welcome an excuse to press his claim on our kingdom. Louis delights in warfare as much as his younger brother Andrew shrinks from it. But would he... would he really invade us? I try anxiously to remember the details of our tutor’s lessons concerning the treaty between our two kingdoms.

  Louis’ and Andrew’s grandfather, Charles Martel, was our grandfather’s oldest brother. He should by rights have inherited the kingdom of Naples as well as Hungary. Instead, Charles Martel died before his father, King Charles II. He left behind one son, Carobert. But Charles II feared his grandson, Carobert, was too young to hold the important Kingdom of Naples. He sent seven-year-old Carobert to claim his inheritance as King of Hungary, expecting Carobert to be killed in the attempt, the Hungarians being lawless villains. Then King Charles II passed the Kingdom of Naples over to his third son, our grandfather, Robert the Wise, blatantly disregarding the law of succession. Against all odds, Carobert succeeded, and when he had brought Hungary under his firm control, he turned his attention to the rest of his father’s rightful inheritance. In order to avoid a war with the huge army of Hungary, our grandfather agreed to marry his heirs to King Carobert’s sons, joining the kingdoms once again. They signed a treaty, and we have lived in peace since Joanna married Andrew. So why is Joanna worried?

  “Louis of Hungary chose not to marry me.” Our marriage was part of the treaty, but Louis must know my Lord Grandfather would marry me to someone else. How furious Grandfather was on my behalf! I smile. So furious he made Andrew swear never to...

  Joanna’s husband Andrew will never be crowned King of Naples, not even as royal consort. A Hungarian will never sit on our throne. At least, not until one of us has a son, and what if it is my son, who will now not have a single drop of Hungarian blood?

  My initial pride in working out my sister’s meaning—she is often deliberately obscure, just to annoy me—is immediately overwhelmed by fear. Will the Hungarians see this as excuse enough to break the treaty?