I blink. “Sicily?” She expects to conquer Sicily when neither King Robert nor his father, King Charles II, nor anyone they have commissioned to lead their armies has been able to? The spell of her vision is broken. She is just a girl who would be queen, no different from me. Except that she has a weak, despicable boy who cannot be trusted with a crown beside her, and I will have a man who deserves to be king, who will win a new kingdom for himself and rule it with me.
“You do not have to believe me now,” she says, a little grandly, I think. “I will show you, and everyone.”
“You are already Queen, Joanna.” And awkwardly, because it is all I can think to say, I add: “Your people love you.”
It is true. Whether they believe in her as a strong and capable ruler or not, they love her. She has ever been theirs, not only their beautiful princess, for I am that also, but the princess who loves them. Even as a child Joanna delighted in throwing handfuls of coins to the poor as she rode through the city, and sewing shirts for those who had none, and washing the feet of beggars with our Lady Grandmother Sancia before the feast of Maundy Thursday during Holy Week. I could never eat after washing those dirty feet. I would sit at the feast and the fire-roasted meat would look like blackened feet, the figs like dirty toes. This Easter I will be affianced to Charles, the intended Countess of Durazzo, I think to myself. I will not have to wash anyone’s feet if I do not choose to!
“Maria, have you ever thought...”
I look at Joanna, staring moodily into the fire. “Thought what?”
“That we owe allegiance, too? We who are crowned,” she says slowly.
“To God,” I agree at once.
“Yes of course, to God. But I was thinking... of an earthly allegiance.”
“You mean our family. Our line.” I say it a little guiltily because I was raised to understand my duty, and that does not include marrying whom I will. “You mean the house of Angevin,” I compromise, because Charles is an Angevin, too. Where is she going with this? Does she know? Is she testing me?
“No, above that. Do we owe allegiance to... say, our kingdom?”
“You do not have to school me, Joanna. I know I owe my allegiance to you as Queen of Naples.”
Joanna sighs. “But what do we owe to Naples?”
“To Naples? The people owe their allegiance to you.”
“And am I not honor-bound to serve them? To serve ‘even the least of them’ as our Lord commanded?”
I am silent, thinking: I will have to wash their feet again. I do not want to say anything that will commit me to it.
“I will restore justice and wealth and prosperity to the Kingdom of Naples.” Joanna sits straight in her chair, her head held high. “I will hold its good above all other allegiances. I vow this before God to my Kingdom, and to my people, and I hold my sister, the Princess Maria, as my witness!”
I start a little, and look around, but no one else is here. Then I feel foolish, for she was speaking to God; and then I am afraid, because a vow to God is a dangerous thing, a threat to one’s immortal soul if broken, and it is an impossible vow, and she has made me part of it. I wish I had stopped her, but it is too late now.
Joanna looks into the fire as though she can already see her future unfolding there exactly as she has sworn it will. As though she is hearing God’s answer. I shiver, squinting into the fire, but all I see are flames. I glance sideways, a little afraid of her, half-convinced she can see what others cannot. What does she mean, a vow to the kingdom? A vow to land? How can one make a vow to land? The King—the Queen, in this case—is the head of the kingdom. Is she making a vow of allegiance to herself? I have never heard of such a thing.
“You frighten me,” I tell her, frowning, for I may frown in private at my sister.
“Good. Then you will remember what I have sworn.”
I shake my head. “How can I remember what I do not understand?”
“Never mind now,” she says. “If I can frighten you, who knows my every secret from childhood, then perhaps I will be able to frighten my council into supporting my decisions.”
“Our Lady Grandmother is the head of your council. Nothing frightens her.” I say automatically. She nods in wry agreement.
“Well then, I will be forced to progress more slowly. Meanwhile, let us eat. I have had our meal set up here so we can talk in private as we used to.”
“I have missed that,” I say, glad to get away from the topic of vows and secrets, although in truth I have thought of no one but Charles this past week. I turn toward the little table, laid prettily with silver dishes and cups and a jug of mulled wine, so she will not see my face and read the lie in it. We sit in the chairs and serve ourselves cold venison and rich dark bread still warm from the oven, with quince jam from the royal orchard, and cheese and figs and walnuts and marchpane. She has remembered my love of marchpane. Joanna waits until I realize that, in the absence of servants, I must pour our wine.
She nibbles on a piece of bread spread with quince jam, while I eat my meal. She has lost weight, I notice. When we were children she could not eat after Philippa had scolded her, never mind a reprimand from our Grandfather the King or Grandmother Sancia. As a consequence Philippa, who ate with us in our nursery, always spoke more harshly to me when we had been caught in a childish escapade, and corrected Joanna gently. I resented the unfairness of it, I still do, but in the end it made no difference; Joanna always suffered for days, while I shrugged off the correction and remembered only the fun.
“I have learned something that concerns you, Maria.”
My throat closes on the piece of venison I have just swallowed. I cough and reach for my cup of wine. What does she know? And how? I try to look unconcerned, even interested in what she has to say as I struggle to swallow, not to choke up my food like someone caught in a crime.
It is a crime, I realize in horror. It is treason for a princess to marry without the express permission of the crown as well as the Pope. I did not think of that. We had not got to planning marriage yet, he only asked me if I would be happy. ‘Would’ is not ‘will’. Is ‘would’ still treason?
“I know you are friendly with our cousin Charles of Durazzo, so perhaps this is not a surprise,” Joanna continues.
She knows! Someone has guessed, and told her. I search her face. She does not seem angry, only concerned. Perhaps she thinks it is a lie? There are always rumors at court, this lady-in-waiting was seen with this or that courtier. Did someone see Charles and me in the garden, with his arms around me? I take another hasty swallow of my wine.
“Do you know what I am talking about, Maria?”
“No?” My voice trembles, turning the denial into a question. Do I know or do I not, she will wonder. So do I.
Joanna looks at me. I put my wine cup down carefully and smile at her, drawing her attention from my shaking hand. “What have you heard?” My voice breaks on the last word. I press my fingers to my lips as though it was an unmaidenly burp, not a croak of fear.
She takes a breath, as though it pains her to say it. I brace myself.
“Our cousin Charles has received a bull from Pope Clement VI, granting him permission to marry whomever he chooses. Our Lady Grandmother told me.” Sancia’s word on this is sound, Joanna will know. Our grandmother, who likes very few people, likes Charles’ mother, Agnes of Perigord. At least she prefers her to the haughty Catherine, Duchess of Taranto and titular Empress of Constantinople. Their mutual dislike of our Lady Aunt Catherine is enough for Grandmother Sancia and Agnes of Perigord to put their heads together regularly.
Joanna is waiting for me to say something.
I am waiting for her to say more.
“I am sorry if this hurts you, Maria. I know you are fond of Charles. But he was bound to marry, and you will also marry soon, God willing.”
This is worse than if she knew. What can I say, where can I look? If I tell her it is me he wants to marry, I am confessing to treason. Worse, I am accusing Charles of treason. But if I deny know
ing anything, I will be lying to her face, and she will always remember it. I have not told her of my tryst with Charles, but I have not lied to her, either. Not yet. I open my mouth, but no words come out.
Joanna misinterprets my inability to speak. She reaches across the table and touches my hand. “I am sorry, Maria,” she says, her voice full of compassion. “I understand what it is to love someone you cannot have.”
“Why? Why can I not have Charles?” I cry, pulling my hand away.
She looks astonished. She was thinking of herself and Louis of Taranto, comparing their situation to mine. But she has been married since she was six, and she is the Queen. I am only a princess, and I am still free. I have not been promised yet to anyone.
Joanna straightens in her chair, pulling her own hand back. “You knew of the bull,” she says.
“I...I know his mother requested permission for him to marry. He told me a few days ago. And that... and that he had not yet asked anyone.” Not quite the truth, but not quite a lie, either, and no more than she already knows.
“That was cruel of him,” Joanna says quietly. “To taunt you with that, knowing he cannot have you, knowing you are to marry Prince Jean or his brother.”
I want to protest Charles’ kindness, to tell her he is incapable of cruelty, but her second statement catches me. “Have they replied? Has the French King made an offer of marriage? Oh God, have you accepted?” I leap up, ignoring my chair as it teeters behind me on the verge of falling before it settles again.
Joanna watches me. “What is this, Maria? Do you imagine that you could marry Charles of Durazzo?” And more sharply, “Has he been courting you?”
“No!” I cry, regaining my wits for Charles’ sake. “Only he told me that he will marry, he must marry, and...” I catch myself again. “And I want it to be me!”
Joanna sits still and straight in her chair. She does not speak, but lets the silence speak for her. I have been shouting. Shouting at the Queen of Naples! I drop into a curtsy. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” I murmur. I start to sit again and straighten quickly, waiting her permission.
She nods her head slightly, and when I sit down she gestures me to continue eating.
“I will throw a feast for you,” she announces after we have sat a short while in awkward silence. “You will enjoy that, will not you, Maria? All the grand noblemen will pay tribute to you and compliment your beauty. You may have a new gown, and dance before the court.”
I keep my head bowed over my plate. I am not a child to be enticed from what I want with a sop. Even though the feast does sound exciting, and I would like a new gown.
“The ambassador to France will be there, he will see how you are admired. I will remind him to speak to Prince Jean about you.”
No offer of marriage has been made yet, then. I am still free. I push my plate aside. “I have eaten my fill, thank you, Your Highness. May I leave?”
I walk out with my head held high, but I feel her gaze on my back. I remember her weary face as she gave me leave to go. I am not really as proud as I make myself appear.
Chapter Eight: A Merry Dance
My new gown is pale purple, the color of royalty, with yellow fleur-de-lis declaring our French Angevin blood, stitched in silk thread onto the skirt. No one is allowed see it, not even my ladies-in-waiting, until I walk into the hall arm-in-arm with my sister Joanna. She will be wearing her customary dark purple with gold fleur-de-lis. We will be stunning together, but all eyes will be on me, because they have not seen me in purple before. It was always Joanna who was the heir to the throne, but now she is Queen, and I am the heir.
“Let them think of that when they see you,” Joanna said, for it was her idea to dress me in purple. “Let them be reminded you are heir to a throne, born to be a queen.”
I would be happy if it were not that Charles has not come to court since I dined with my sister. He will not see me in my new gown. I do not want to dazzle the Ambassador from France; I want to dazzle Charles.
Nevertheless, when I look at myself in the glass, the gown is everything Joanna said it would be. I meet her at the door to the great hall and we walk in together. The hall goes silent, despite being filled to overflowing with guests. Everyone of any importance has been invited to see me honored. As we walk through the crowd of people to our seats at the head table, everyone falls back before us with admiration in their eyes, bowing and curtseying as we pass arm-in-arm.
I do not look for Charles. Joanna has banned him from court; she would not invite him to my feast. I have almost convinced myself that I do not mind, that I will enjoy this evening even without Charles, when I look around and there he is, standing with his brothers and his Lady Mother beside our Lady Grandmother Sancia. We cannot talk, but our eyes meet, his full of admiration which makes me flush with pleasure, mine full of the longing I feel for him. It is as though we have had a full conversation in that one glance before he sweeps into a low bow for Joanna and me, along with those around him. I recall myself in time to dip into a curtsy as low as my Grandmother Sancia’s, since she and I are of equal rank now, while Joanna bows her head. Then we have passed. I cannot look back. I must keep my eyes forward as I progress on the Queen’s arm to our seats.
We dine on pheasant and venison, mutton and capons and dove, on baked mullet and pickled herring and Spanish mackerel. Troubadours sing songs of my beauty and virtue which they have written for this evening, and the jesters compete hilariously with one another for my favor. I hand one a piece of venison for his dinner and another a piece of mackerel and they quarrel over which gift shows a greater affection on my part, with randy comments on the fertility of Pisces and the rutting nature of stags. When I offer the third jester, a dwarf, a piece of bread he tucks it against his breast as if it were my glove and mimes his preparedness to challenge the others to a tournament over it. We laugh until we are weak. I am so dizzy with delight I eat almost as sparingly as Joanna.
The musicians troop in as our plates are being cleared and begin to play while the jesters tumble out to enjoy their dinner in the kitchen. Joanna asks me to dance. I rise willingly. Joanna and I have often danced for the court, but now I must choose another partner for the Estampie. I choose Marguerite of Taranto to please my sister and my powerful Taranto relatives, and also to discredit any hint of favoring Durazzo. My Lady Aunt Catherine smiles smugly as her daughter steps forward.
Lady Marguerite is shy and pleasant, unlike her ambitious family. She has their golden good looks and fair complexion, but she has recently grown tall and moves as though she is not quite sure yet how to manage such long limbs. Dancing with her I will look as graceful as a breeze. She steps forward, looking frightened at the prospect of dancing before the entire assembly. I realize she must be thinking of the complicated leaps and twists the dance calls for and I whisper to her that I will take the lead. She smiles in gratitude.
I am very good at the Estampie. It requires strength and stamina as well as grace, and I delight in executing the jumps and twists perfectly, stamping my feet with the music. This time, however, I am barely aware of my movements. All eyes are on me, but I am aware of only one pair. Every step in this joyous dance is a message to him; every triumphant leap I take is a testament of my love for him. I am aware of him in every muscle of my body as I dip and twirl and leap for only Charles. The roar of approval which greets the end of my dance startles me. I remember for whom I am actually dancing and curtsy to my sister the Queen, who smiles at me.
For my second dance I choose Margherita di Ceccano as my partner. I have not confided to her what Charles asked me in the garden; Joanna’s reaction has made me guarded for his sake. But Margherita knows how I feel about him and she guides our steps in his direction, ensuring that she is most often the one with her back toward him. I have chosen her out of friendship but also to honor the Durazzos as I did the Tarantos.
Margherita dances as well as I do, so our performance will be exquisite. But as soon as we begin I forget my vanity, forget
that I am performing before the entire court of Naples. I feel his eyes on me and I respond like a cat responds to the warmth of the sun. This is a slower tune. I move as one in a dream, floating, with his presence, his appreciation, his pride bearing me up. The music that guides my steps seeps inside me, like a dream of music. I am aware of only the two of us, he and I, one of us the dream, the other the dreamer, but I do not know which is he and which is me. When the music stops I blink as one awakening, and turn instinctively to him. Margherita’s hand, still holding mine, guides me to continue my turn full circle, as though it is the final step of the dance, until I face Queen Joanna, who watches me curtsy to her with a little line between her brows despite the smile on her lips.
The musicians play a rondel, opening the ball to everyone who cares to take the floor. Joanna does not rise to lead the dance. Andrew, sitting beside her, his greasy fingers still stuffing food into his mouth, would never think to invite her to dance. She has not once looked at or spoken to him this evening, nor he to her. On the few occasions they are required to attend a fete together, they are as distant as bird and fish, occupying separate realms. It is not difficult to interpret the glances passed between members of Joanna’s council as they wonder how the Queen and the Duke will ever conceive a child together.
What if I am forced to marry Prince Jean of France and we are as ill-suited as they are? I know it is impossible that a French prince should turn out as dull and boorish as a Hungarian, but Andrew is my cousin, he has Angevin blood as well as Hungarian, and he was raised in Naples. Even if Prince Jean is not a villain like Andrew, even if he never tries to hurt me, we could be miserable together. A queen can be unhappy as easily as a peasant, and have no more power to improve her lot, I realize now. I torment myself with the thought until I cannot bear it. Then I get up and walk to the dance floor.
Immediately Robert, the oldest of my Taranto cousins, offers me his hand. At the corner of my eye I notice Charles guiding his partner in our direction, so that when the music starts it is only natural that they should join our circle.
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