When first one, and then the second of Yolande’s younger sisters came down with smallpox, it was Juana who nursed them night and day, ignoring the danger to herself. When they died, her grief was heartbreaking. She had refused to allow Yolande to stay in the same house, which probably saved her life, and thereafter she devoted herself to Yolande’s daily care. It is no wonder that the princess has always trusted her more than anyone else. Juana is the only person to whom she feels able to voice her deepest concerns.
Now, as the two of them travel further and further from home, Juana’s Catalan way of speaking is soothing, and her chatter fills the hours as their procession winds its way through deep forests with occasional rays of sunlight breaking through the trees. Only when they come to open ground do they spur their horses to a canter or gallop. How Yolande loves to race the spirited grey Andalusians she is bringing with her to France. People gape at the sight of the proud, arched carriage of their heads, their thick manes flying in their riders’ faces, their long, full tails streaming behind. The princess and Juana are accustomed to long journeys on horseback, opting to ride rather than use litters or carriages when travelling.
No matter how tightly Yolande ties on her hat, it will slip back around her neck when she breaks into a fast canter or gallop. The exhilarating feeling of the wind in her loosened hair has he close her ears to Juana’s admonitions, her calls to tie her hat and think of her complexion. As she spurs on her horse, the girl cannot help wondering whether she will ever be able to ride with such abandon again.
*
Early each morning when the mist slowly lifts and the sun breaks through, Yolande can hear the birds calling and listens to the snorting and shaking of the horses being prepared for another pleasant day’s ride. Around midday they find a shady place to sit and refresh themselves with water mixed with a little wine and bread with cold meat. She stays with Juana, a little apart from the others, blankets on the grass and cushions against a tree for comfort. She loves looking up at the red, yellow and gold of the leaves mingled with the dark evergreens overhead – it is her favourite time of year. The air has a special scent, a mix of pine and the fresh smell of leaf decay.
Their route is well planned and not too tiring. Every evening they halt at sunset, spending the night at a welcoming castle or manor. Sometimes, after washing and changing their clothes, the Princess of Aragon will appear before the local people; at other places they just eat and sleep. A number of their hosts have arranged for singers to entertain them while they dine, everyone acknowledging Yolande as the grand lady she is, and as the queen she will become on her marriage.
What will it be like, this new kingdom of hers? And the household she will join? Yolande knows that her mother considers Marie de Blois, her future mother-in-law, to be a lady like herself, shrewd, yet caring for her country and her children. Her husband died long ago, fighting on the Italian peninsula, leaving her all those great lonely castles, huge estates to administer – so much responsibility on her shoulders to preserve the inheritance of her two young sons. And as if that was not hard enough, a cousin of her husband’s – Charles de Duras – actively encouraged the great cities of Provence to turn against the Anjous, their acknowledged rulers.
Yolande has heard, Marie de Blois left Anjou and rode to Avignon to consult with Pope Clement VII. It was a courageous act, and it succeeded – the Pope confirmed the sovereign rights of Yolande’s betrothed, Louis II d’Anjou, to Provence, Naples and Sicily. Next, and without hesitation, Marie de Blois pawned her jewels and her silver, and with the proceeds she raised a substantial army. When she realized it would still not be strong enough for a definitive victory against Charles de Duras, she used her head. Famous for her charm, she travelled throughout Provence with Louis, wooing the towns, ensuring their loyalty to her son. And where charm failed, she used her money. A good lesson: charm first, and if that fails, bribe!
As for her husband-to-be – Yolande’s thoughts are both full of him, and shy away from him: he is too large a presence in her mind.
One evening after supper, Yolande and Juana sit before the fire in their cosy rooms at the old stone inn where they are spending the night. Juana knits. She sees Yolande draw a piece of paper from her bag, something she always carries: it is the draft of the first letter she ever wrote to Louis, with Juana’s help. With a gentle little nudge of her foot to make Juana look up, Yolande begins to read:
My lord, my dearly betrothed husband-to-be, my lady mother has told me of your difficulties in your land of Provence and of the efforts your good mother has made on your behalf to regain your inheritance. What a splendid and inspiring lady she must be and how I look forward to knowing her – as I do you, my lord. Please write and tell me of your struggles in the south of France, a place I know little about. If you will allow, I would like to write to you of my life here in Aragon so that you may know something about me, but mine is as nothing in comparison with the excitement and dangers of your life. Your devoted bride-to-be, Yolande d’Aragon.
Juana chuckles – she chuckles often. ‘Well, that first letter did not inspire a reply for some time, did it?’
She is right. It was not until Christmas that his answer came.
My dearest Yolande – may I call you so?
In view of the distance that separates us, and will continue to do so for some time, let us know one another through our letters.
I am pleased to be able to give you good news. The people of Provence have sworn loyalty to me and accepted me as their sovereign. No, do not think me a hero or a conqueror.
This past autumn, I made my official entry into Aix, the capital of Provence, and now I am recognized throughout the country as the people’s rightful sovereign. So, my dear future wife, this too will be your territory to reign over with me.
Now my indefatigable and brave mother has turned her attention to my other certified inheritance, Naples and Sicily. Will my struggles never cease so that I may come home and marry you?
Reading Louis’ letter, Yolande too wondered how long it would take for him to marry her. And what was he like? She was bursting to know. Her mother, who had eyes and ears everywhere, had managed to make some significant discoveries, and reported her findings:
‘Louis, at thirteen, is already a young man: tall, strong, confident, his ambitious mind firmly fixed on his objective. He has learnt from his mother’s skill and tenacity in reclaiming part of his father’s inheritance; he has watched her use charm and diplomacy to regain the loyalty of Provence. Now, with a large navy recruited from his faithful sovereign state, he has set sail for Naples.’ But until Louis could reconquer the rest of his legitimate inheritance, their marriage would have to wait.
During the years that followed, her mother spoke often of Louis as she shared Marie de Blois’ correspondence with her. Yet Yolande longed for more details. How did he manage, this lad with fire in his veins and a will of iron? Who advised him in Naples? Who were his companions? After years spent in and around that large territory – most of the lower half of the Italian peninsula – surely there must be much to tell her? How did the people look? Dress? Eat? What flowers grew? What birds flew in the sky? Did they have songbirds? Good horses? Music? Troubadours or their like? Was the famous Bay of Naples as beautiful as the poets claimed? The mighty volcano, Vesuvius, was it erupting? Would Louis come for her? Or was she to be sent for? Would they marry in Naples? She bombarded him with letters full of questions, but none came back from Louis, only from his mother to hers.
Then one day, about three years after her father’s death, she heard her mother calling her name in a way that she felt was important.
‘A package has arrived for you from Naples!’
At last! Anxiously, she tore it open. A letter, a long letter, from Louis:
‘My dearest future wife,’ it began. ‘Finally, after nine years of constant skirmishes and intermittent fighting, my enemy here, a cousin of mine called Ladislaus de Durazzo, as the Italians call the Duras family, the s
enior branch of the Anjous, has defeated my forces in a definitive battle.’ She sat stunned. ‘I am coming home, there is no more I can do here for the time being. We shall marry at last and I will show you my other beautiful territories of Anjou, Guyenne, Maine and Provence – you will especially love Provence. Wait for me.’ And he signed himself: ‘Your Louis.’
She had smiled bravely at her mother and said in a small voice, ‘How wonderful – I shall be married at last.’
But Juana knew her heart – and she could not hide some of her disappointment from her faithful governess. Her knight in shining armour had failed to bring her a kingdom, one that she had taken very much for granted. Aragon’s right to Naples and Sicily was in her blood, just as much as Louis d’Anjou’s rights to that kingdom were in his blood. Complicated as it seemed when she was betrothed, she had long ago learned to understand the situation between Aragon and Anjou. The last queen of Sicily, Giovanna II, a frightful harridan, had named an Aragon cousin as her heir, but disinherited him in favour of another cousin, Louis D’Anjou, before dying herself. Yolande even knew the story that it was the disinherited Ladislaus Duras, or Durazzo, who was said to have smothered Queen Giovanna between two feather mattresses, so that there would be no mark on her body. He then claimed the throne of Sicily, but died, and Louis I inherited the kingdom. It was indeed a most complicated story and the conflict continued between the Durazzo heir and her Louis’ father until he mysteriously died in that faraway kingdom. As soon as he was able, her Louis II went back to Naples and spent the next nine years following his betrothal, fighting to hold onto what he considered was his. And now, after all those years, he was on his way back and she as to appear pleased to marry the loser of her adolescent dreams? Neither the warm looks from her mother nor the excitement of the wedding preparations could lift her mood. Not even her little girl-dwarf Pepita – no matter how much she tried to make Yolande smile as she rubbed her back and shoulders, brushed her long hair into a plait that reached down to the back of her knees or wound it around her head to make a crown – could stop her thinking hard about her destiny.
Yolande had followed every move of the two protagonists through Louis’ mother’s letters for the past nine years, and she had never doubted his ultimate success. He sounded so positive, so strong in his character and beliefs, so sure of his right to this kingdom, that she had convinced herself he would win. She had often imagined herself there with him in Naples, secure in their position as king and queen. During his time on the Italian peninsula he had won a number of battles, and then, like a thunderclap, had come the final, unexpected defeat. Was it over, or was his return home no more than a respite? Was their planned marriage merely a means of acquiring reinforcements – through her substantial dowry – for yet another attempt at regaining his Italian kingdom?
She realized that she did not know this man at all. Was he still the bold, fearless, young god she had believed in for so long? Or was he a loser, someone she could not admire?
Chapter Two
The leaves are still golden and falling gently as they reach Perpignan, Yolande’s last stop on home soil. To her surprise, she is not nervous now; instead she feels a strange and agreeable expectation – or is it just the beauty of the season and the light wind making her favourite mare skittish?
Yolande has heard so much about Aragon’s city of Perpignan as a centre of excellent craftsmanship, and of its complicated history as it passed continually between Aragon and France, that she gazes fascinated about her and almost forgets why she has come. But as the Princess of Aragon enters France, she is fast reminded by the appearance of her bridegroom’s younger brother, Charles d’Anjou, Prince of Tarente, who has come to be her escort across Languedoc. He arrives with a large suite of elegant courtiers on fine horses – horses always catch her eye – and the French courtiers follow his lead in paying her their respects.
‘Greetings, fine princess, my soon-to-be sister-in-law,’ he begins with an impish smile and a low sweep of his multi-plumed hat as he bends over the neck of his magnificent steed. He rights himself with a jolly laugh. When he bows almost lower to Juana with a more mischievous grin, Yolande is delightfully surprised and barely stifles a laugh. Juana catches her eye and gives Yolande her most knowing look – if her bridegroom is as handsome and has half the merry wit of his brother, she will be fortunate indeed. Charles is a lively companion and chats away without stopping while riding beside her. He is about her age and she cannot help but be entertained.
‘What a fancy little dancing mare you have, my Princess Yolande – may I try her?’
‘Certainly not,’ she replies firmly, ‘I am sure you would gallop away with her and I would be left with that great warhorse you are riding!’
He laughs, and whacks her mare so hard on the rump with his whip that she leaps and charges off, with him keeping up alongside, still laughing – to the astonishment of Yolande’s suite, unaccustomed to seeing their princess treated in such a fashion.
‘Ha!’ he shouts as they gallop, ‘You think this mount of mine is not up to yours? Just watch me beat you to that great oak in the distance!’ And to Yolande’s profound displeasure, he does indeed arrive first. ‘Never judge by appearances,’ he chortles, pulling up. ‘This charger of mine may be built to carry armour, but also to let me escape when I need!’
The way he glances at her from under his long dark lashes is most disconcerting for Yolande, his smile always hovering, a tease of some sort in his eyes. Juana can see that her charge is somewhat taken with this young French prince, until her stern look brings the girl back to her senses.
They are heading towards Arles, the old capital of Provence, where the wedding ceremony will take place. Yolande has heard much about this city, which was important in Roman times and is still full of their ruins.
‘Tell me about Arles,’ she asks Charles, and he does, with such enthusiasm that she makes a mental note to visit all the Roman sites here – the amphitheatre, the circus and the great triumphal arch. ‘Perhaps your brother will bring me back here some day – there is so much more for me to see.’
Her progress has slowed as the crowds grow thicker. Everywhere she stops, Yolande is hailed as a queen – she rather enjoys that, waving graciously and acknowledging the greetings, while her equerries toss coins to the children lining their route.
Her mother has made a huge effort with her trousseau. Yolande’s bright-coloured skirts almost touch the ground, and she wears a matching hat with a large brim trimmed with coloured ostrich feathers, pinned on with a sparkling jewel. This Spanish princess, an expert horsewoman, has brought a number of horses with her of pure Arabian blood, as well as the larger Andalusians with their strong, thick necks, flaring nostrils, long manes and tails. All are somewhat friskier than the ambling mares most ladies ride, and naturally she is aware of the admiring looks that greet her, especially from Charles d’Anjou.
‘Ah-ha, my beautiful soon-to-be-queenly-sister, I see you intend to sweep our streets with your skirts before deigning to set your pretty foot down on foreign soil,’ he jokes as he rides up alongside on one of his great chargers, which is snorting and blowing and even nipping the neck of her mare.
‘Are all you French lords as forward and flirtatious as your horses!’ she protests, in mock horror.
‘My lady, I am but your humble servant, on my knees forever before you. My back is yours to step on to mount your own fiery steed whenever you require,’ he answers with sham modesty.
I must not forget my place, she repeats to herself over and over as they ride.
Their huge cavalcade stops at a large inn, and, together with the nobles of both countries, Yolande changes into a more ceremonial costume; their mounts are equally finely adorned. After all, she is a princess of Aragon, about to marry a royal French duke and receive the title Queen of Sicily. The Pope himself crowned her Louis in Avignon and no lost battle will remove that honour from him.
To Juana’s distinct disapproval, Charles d’Anjou is
already a great favourite with the young ladies of the Aragonese suite, and they chatter and giggle in his presence as if going to a carnival. Yolande tries to remain serene and play her gracious part, but her future brother-in-law’s joking with her ladies until they almost cry with laughter makes it difficult.
‘Why, whose is that gorgeous hat?’ she hears him call as he snatches one from a demoiselle and puts it on his own head. ‘My, don’t I look as elegant as any one of you?’ and he hides half his face behind a stolen fan, to muffled shrieks.
Yolande’s escort of several young ladies-in-waiting, her demoiselles, fuss about her as she dresses. She likes her outfits to be made from the most beautiful imported brocades and silk velvets in a multitude of colours, but she insists on simple styles. And so there is little for her ladies to do – no ribbons to tie or flowers to attach which would keep them busy pinning or stitching. The bodices of her dresses are laced taut to show off her tiny waist – the more so with her shoulders padded wide and the sleeves fitting tight. Her necklines are high and edged in a white frill, and her hats have feathers floating down her back, dyed in colours to tone. Yolande believes in first impressions, and if her clothes are kept to a sharp silhouette all in one suitable, flattering colour, and worn with a good jewel and hat, she considers the impact greater than a display of ribbons and frills.
Once outside, she can hear shouts of ‘Brava!’ from the crowds, and others calling out ‘Look at her hat!’ and they throw flowers in her path as she bows to left and right.
As they near their destination, Yolande’s swollen cavalcade stops at a small chateau prepared for her arrival. Shown to her suite, which she barely notices in her nervousness at the prospect of this first meeting with her future husband, she calls to Juana:
‘Dearest, help me choose what to wear, please.’
After a number of false starts, they choose a dress of butter-yellow taffeta with two darker shades of yellow for her petticoats. Her fitted waistcoat is of pale mustard velvet with yellow taffeta sleeves, puffed at the shoulder and then tight from just above the elbow. Yolande is attaching a jabot of white lace at her neck when Juana approaches with the jewel case. ‘Wear the ruby,’ she urges. The Queen of Aragon has given her daughter some lovely jewels, and Juana pins the ruby brooch on to the jabot at the front. A large-brimmed white felt hat trimmed with long white ostrich feathers completes her outfit. Her blonde hair is twisted simply into a thick coil at the nape of her neck.
Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The Page 2