How happy I will be to see Somma again. We have always had such fun there—plays and music and picnics on the beach. Last summer Joanna and I, and all the court ladies, spent long days boating and hunting for sea-shells along the shore, and dancing to music in the evenings. Joanna invented little games and contests: which lord could compose the most charming song, which lady could sing and play it most sweetly, who might find the most strawberries or seashells, or row their little boat fastest down the river. It seems so long ago.
Joanna is Queen of a troubled kingdom now, I remind myself, and I am a married woman carrying my husband’s child. We are no longer carefree maidens, and we have each deceived the other. I look out the carriage window, my gaiety subdued. There is no road that can take us back to last summer.
When I arrive and follow the servant in his royal livery to my quarters, I find I have been given a single bedchamber. I did not expect a presence room, I will not have a little court of my own here, but I assumed at least I would have a privy room and not have to sit in my bedchamber when Joanna dismisses us. At least I have my own room, which is better than most ladies-in-waiting have. It is more likely due to my condition than intended as an honor. The lack of a privy room tells me clearly enough I am to be considered a Duchess now, not a Princess of the palace. A little maid brings me a bowl of rose water, and I wash the dust of the trip from my face and hands, and join the lords and ladies in the Queen’s presence chamber.
Joanna is standing at a window, looking out. Behind her I see the spires of Naples’ churches in the distance.
“Your Majesty,” I murmur, curtsying.
She turns.
If I thought before that she looked pale and weary, it was nothing to the face that greets me now. I stop at the bottom of my deep curtsy, staring at the lines under her eyes, the pallor of her skin, the glum expression on her face. The carefree sister I recalled on my journey here cannot be seen anywhere in this gaunt woman.
“I am glad you are here, Maria.” She holds out her hand to me. I rise quickly and take it.
I do not know what to say. How can I ask what is wrong, when it is I who have wronged her? How can I offer my help when I have been so unhelpful to her? Nor will I apologize, for I cannot regret being Charles’ wife. I hold her hand and tell her, “I am here with you now, Your Majesty.”
She draws me to the window. We stand there together with our backs to the room. I am not sure what we are supposed to be looking at. Naples lies in the distance through a haze of summer heat that rises from the land like a pestilent cloud.
“She will arrive tomorrow. Andrew has ridden out to meet her and escort her to my castle.”
I wait, but she says nothing more, so at last I have to ask, “Who?”
Joanna looks at me as though she wonders where I have been. A brief expression of scorn passes over her face, gone almost at once. I flush, but before I can defend myself—how should I know of state matters? No one speaks to me of court doings at Castle Durazzo—she says, “his mother, the Dowager Queen of Hungary.”
“Queen Elizabeth of Hungary is coming here?”
“Dowager Queen. She will stay at Castle Nuovo with Andrew.”
“She has not seen Andrew since he was six.” I ignore her reminder that there is a new Queen of Hungary, and it is not me. Why is Elizabeth coming? Andrew has lived here since he left his home to marry my sister, and his mother has never once visited him. “Why has she come now?”
Joanna looks at me as though I am a fool. I feel like one, for of course I do know; Joanna herself predicted it the night our Grandfather wrote his will. She turns back to the room and claps her hands, calling out to the minstrel to play something lively. “Dance,” she says to her ladies-in-waiting. “Dance for us.” We watch them in our separate silences as they vainly attempt to amuse us.
The Dowager Queen of Hungary waits three days for an audience with the Queen of Naples. When she finally receives her mother-in-law, Joanna, dressed in her robes of state and wearing her crown, sits on a raised chair at the center of the great hall with Philippa and Raymond the Seneschal standing to one side of her and the lords of her council on the other. Grandmother Sancia, claiming she is too ill to travel, has stayed at Castle Nuovo.
I have been given a chair, a small concession to my condition, off to the side, but I stand and curtsy like everyone else as Elizabeth of Hungary sweeps down the room toward Joanna. Elizabeth does not curtsy to her daughter-in-law, but bows her head formally. Queen Joanna bows hers to the same degree, and officially welcomes her mother-in-law to the Kingdom of Naples.
“I have been made welcome by my son, the King of Naples,” Elizabeth of Hungary says pointedly.
“I am sure your reunion was most tender,” Joanna replies to this most hardhearted woman.
They continue in this way, each courtly, crafted sentence sharp with hidden innuendos, little arrows aimed at the other’s weakness. I am not the only one in this silent assemblage who is relieved to go into dinner before blood is drawn.
Tumblers and jesters entertain us through the many courses of dinner; the musicians and dancers enter immediately after and perform until the long evening ends. No expense has been spared in the food or in the entertainment. The Hungarians brought a fortune with them, I have learned, and my sister is determined to show that she is in no need of it. The Dowager Queen of Hungary takes her leave at the end of the evening, after securing the promise of a private sitting with Queen Joanna in two days. Then she is gone back to our city, our castle and her son.
When Elizabeth returns, Joanna sends her ladies-in-waiting away, save only me and Marguerite to serve them.
Elizabeth of Hungary is ushered into the Queen’s privy room. She curtsies to Joanna, a shallow dip, and Joanna curtsies to the exact measure back. When she looks around and sees us, Elizabeth’s displeasure is clear. Before she can comment, Joanna introduces us: “My sister, the Duchess of Durazzo and Lady Marguerite of Taranto.” I understand then why Joanna has chosen to have us here. We three represent the three great families of Naples, descendants of King Charles II, with Durazzo and Taranto in service to the recognized Queen of Naples. Marguerite and I curtsy low when we are introduced, and manners require Elizabeth to bow her head to us. She does so with the smallest bend she can politely offer.
Marguerite pours the wine and offers the royal queens—Joanna first—the platter of cheese and olives and sweetmeats placed on the table in advance by the kitchen servants. Joanna motions Marguerite and me to eat and drink as well, as though we were nearly equals, her allies as much as her attendants.
I am not her equal. I am a duchess in the presence of queens. I might always be a duchess. Then I remember Sancia of Cabannis speaking to me of Charles’ ambition, and Charles himself promising me he will win us a kingdom. I smile and choose a sweetmeat. I will be a queen as well one day.
“This has been a difficult year for you, daughter-in-law,” Elizabeth of Hungary begins.
Joanna takes a sip of her wine. “I understand your husband faced an uprising when he arrived to claim his crown. I am fortunate, for my people love me.”
“I have heard they do not love each other.”
Joanna looks surprised. “Have you heard anything of this sort?” she asks Marguerite of Taranto and me, the Duchess of Durazzo. We shake our heads on cue. “How strange,” Joanna murmurs. She smiles at Elizabeth. “I wonder where you could have heard such a thing?”
“I am glad to find my son and daughter-in-law’s kingdom at peace,” Elizabeth says stiffly. “But you cannot expect to be at peace forever.”
“What are you suggesting, Your Grace? Do you know of a kingdom that intends to march against us?”
“No, certainly not. I meant to point out that a woman cannot rule alone. You need someone to share with you the burden power brings. And if your kingdom is threatened by enemies, you need a husband who can meet them in battle.”
“My Lady Mother-in-law, I already have a husband. Surely you were not su
ggesting I choose another?”
Elizabeth flushes, her lips pursed in frustration, but she persists. “I hope to see my son’s coronation while I am here.”
Joanna smiles. She nods to Marguerite to offer the platter again.
“I would be pleased to finance the festivities, and to provide funds for the King to raise an army, should there ever be need.”
“That is generous of you,” Joanna murmurs. I recognize the way her voice sounds when her jaw is clenched, though it is so well-disguised under her smile that neither Lady Marguerite nor Dowager Queen Elizabeth would know. “But we are not in need of money.”
We are very much in need of money. Our Grandfather King Robert the Wise poured half the royal treasury into his campaigns against Sicily. Joanna herself complained to me of the state of our treasury before my engagement and marriage ended our confidences.
Elizabeth of Hungary continues to press her point. Joanna responds mildly, her smile fixed in place, pretending not to understand some arguments, agreeing with others only to turn them aside from where they are leading, promising to consider everything her mother-in-law says. Elizabeth is no fool; she knows she has achieved nothing, for all Joanna’s seeming agreement. She insists on talking with Joanna again when Joanna has had time to reflect on her concerns, and Joanna agrees.
My sister’s agreeableness alarms me; Heaven help Naples if Andrew and his Hungarian men-at-arms had any real power. Rash, thoughtless, cowardly and cruel, I know him to be all these things. Joanna’s tight control over his allowance keeps him in line. As a crowned King, under the influence of his rough men-at-arms, and of the Paladin and the Gatti family, he would be ungovernable.
I want to speak to her about this, but we are no longer on close terms. As soon as Elizabeth leaves, Joanna dismisses both me and Marguerite. My one brief conversation alone with her at the window of her presence chamber when I first arrived is not repeated.
Elizabeth returns again and again, presenting her arguments for Andrew’s coronation. Each time she is met by Joanna’s smiling courtesy and renewed promise to bear in mind her mother-in-law’s sage advice. Never, in all these ‘private’ meetings to which I am invited—sometimes with Marguerite, sometimes with my Lady Aunt Catherine of Taranto and my mother-in-law, Lady Agnes of Perigord, sometimes with the head of her council, the Dowager Queen Sancia, sometimes with Philippa—does Joanna raise her voice, or lose her patience, or refuse her mother-in-law anything. There is nothing Elizabeth of Hungary can object to, and yet I know—as everyone now knows—Andrew is never going to be crowned.
The Dowager Queen eventually arrives at the same conclusion: she will never convince Joanna to share power with Andrew. She announces that she is departing.
“I will take a little tour of France and Italy before I return to my home,” she tells us, as if we do not know exactly where she is going with enough gold to buy her son a crown—from anyone but Joanna.
When her mother-in-law has left, Joanna and her court return to Castle Nuovo. It is August now, the worst of the summer’s heat is over. Although it is only a small distance, our travel preparations take days. The tapestries must be taken down and rolled up, the bedding dismantled, the dishes and kitchen pots, not to mention our clothes and Joanna’s crown jewels, all must be carefully packed and readied for the journey. Even the food in the kitchen, fresh and salted, the spices and preserves, must all be sealed in barrels to come with us.
Despite the pleasantness of Somma, I am pleased to be returning to Castle Nuovo, where I will be closer to Charles and, I hope, able to meet him from time to time in the west garden. Our baby has begun to kick. I want Charles to put his arm around me, with his hand on my belly, and feel our child growing. I want to ask him about names and show him the little gowns I am sewing for our son. I am certain it will be a son. The gowns are green linen, the color of new life.
We have been back at Castle Nuovo only a few weeks when a letter arrives from Clement VI. Joanna rushes into a hastily-called meeting with her ruling council. It is late when they leave. Joanna comes out last, her face pale and drawn. She dismisses the servants and ladies from her presence chamber, asking only Sancia of Cabannis and me to stay and prepare her for bed.
She stands silent and still as marble while we unlace her, moving only to step over the folds of heavy fabric we lower to her feet. Her back is straight, chin high, nor do her shoulders sloop, yet she looks burdened down even as we remove the weight of her robes.
“Our Holy Father has written that he intends to appoint a legate to rule Naples.”
Sancia, bringing Joanna’s night gown, nearly drops it. Her shocked face alarms me more than Joanna’s toneless statement. Sancia is the granddaughter of the two most influential advisors to King Robert; she knows what a legate will mean to Naples.
“How will we ever recover from the cost?” Sancia asks, the night gown in her arms forgotten. My first thought, that a man will finally be in control of Naples, fades as I realize this man, this legate, will feel no loyalty to Naples. A papal representative will direct as much of the kingdom’s resources as possible to himself and the Church. We will be ruined! Joanna should have taken Elizabeth’s money. When I am a queen, I will be more practical. But I am not foolish enough to say it.
Joanna looks at Sancia. I note that look and take satisfaction in understanding my sister better than Sancia does. We were raised by our pious Grandmother, whose dearest wish is to leave her worldly position and join the Poor Clares. Joanna was not thinking of the royal treasury when she stood like a figure robbed of its soul, letting us undress her.
“He would not do this if I were not a woman! He would not strip a rightfully-crowned seventeen-year-old King of his sovereign authority!”
I am right. It is her crown, not her treasury, that she will not trust to another. But a legate is temporary, she will regain her crown. And surely a legate, a man who represents the Pope...? I feel the beginnings of genuine fear. A man who feels no loyalty to Naples. A stranger in control of our kingdom, a stranger who knows nothing of our court, of our rivaling cousins, of how to maintain the delicate balance of power and enticements that Joanna has only recently restored. How will such a man, even a papal legate, keep our proud and passionate cousins from civil war?
“What will you do?” I ask, my voice catching in the tightness of my throat.
“I will send a formal objection to the Pope. He has no legal grounds to do this. We have had an agreement between the papacy and the monarchy of Naples since 1265.”
Another letter, I think. This is the year of letters. I am well aware of the agreement Charles of Anjou, our great-great-grandfather, made with in order to rule Naples: an annual tribute to the Pope of 7,000 ounces of gold, and Clement VI is aware of it also. He does not need a letter to remind him. I wonder that he has not become sick of letters.
Sick of letters and sick of complaints. I have not been married long, but I have learned one thing: Charles does not like to hear me complain of his mother, or to hear her complain of me. He does not complain to me of my sister, or write me letters objecting to her barring him at court, although I know it is ever on his mind. And when Louis of Taranto took my Lord’s castle and laid waste to it, Charles did not write to the Pope. He called up his vassals and prepared for war. I shiver, but I know I am right. If my sister wants to be treated like a king, she must not behave like a young, inexperienced queen.
“What does your council say?” Sancia asks.
Joanna looks at her thoughtfully. She motions for the night gown. Sancia flushes and hurries to lift it over the Queen’s head.
“There will indeed be a high cost for this, Sancia. The question is, who will pay?” Joanna watches Sancia’s face as she laces the front of the night gown.
“You must not let them blame you,” Sancia says.
“Why would my lords blame me? It is clear who is behind this. It is the work of Elizabeth of Hungary and her money. Andrew and his mother between them will ruin us all if we are
not careful.”
“The Dowager Queen and her retinue have already cost us enough in upkeep during their visit, and now she is costing us our sovereignty and the expense of a legate!”
I look at the two of them amazed—not at them, at myself. Only months ago I would have been taken in, gullible as a child, by their outraged remarks. But I have since watched my husband and mother-in-law as they weave their past actions—particularly concerning my engagement and wedding—into the design that best suits them. Not actually false, outright falsehoods can be disproved, but not the entire truth, either.
So I am ready, when the two of them turn to me expectantly, to add my thread to the loom. “All for Andrew who would not even lead a campaign to Sicily and does not deserve to be King,” I say.
Joanna smiles.
***
Joanna understands her council and her lords. A few regretfully-murmured comments, certain of their insinuations not checked, and they are won over. If Andrew was not liked before, he is hated now that his mother has stirred Clement VI to ruin us with a legate. The council and the lords know who will pay for this legate’s upkeep and his papal causes. No one will blame the Pope—the Holy Father is immune—but Elizabeth of Hungary and her son...
When the lords pass Andrew they spit at his feet or jostle him, knocking him against the wall. He develops a wary look in his eye, a nervous way of startling easily when he walks. He does not leave his room without his men surrounding him. He writes to his mother, who writes to Joanna, who writes back that there is nothing to it, no one dislikes Andrew, how could they?
How could they, indeed?
The year of letters continues.
Chapter Thirteen: Economics
Joanna chooses one of her most trusted advisors, Hugo del Balzo, who she elevated to Count of Avellino shortly after King Robert died, to head the delegation that carries her formal protest to the Holy See. As September slips by with no word from Clement VI—and no legate—Joanna’s spirits rise.
The Girl Who Would Be Queen Page 12