The Girl Who Tempted Fortune

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  Robert is speaking with his brother Raymond when I enter the queen’s presence chamber. I note the fierce tension in his shoulders and Raymond’s stricken expression as he leans towards him, their voices low. A private conversation about their stubborn mother, no doubt, who insists on traversing the volatile city so she can sleep in her own house.

  I glance around the room. Most of the queen’s councilors are already here, mingling with her ladies-in-waiting while they wait for Queen Joanna to appear and lead them into her privy chamber. Raymond breaks off what he is saying and comes over as soon as he sees me.

  “Thank God you are safe!” His voice is hushed, pitched only for my ears.

  I smile and pat his arm.

  “No, Mother, do not dismiss my concern. You must stay at court until this is resolved. I cannot have you travelling through these streets.”

  “I am well, Raymond,” I say. And then, because I feel his hand on my arm trembling, I relent. “I will not distress you and your brother again,” I promise him. “I will send for my things.” I had already made the decision when Giovanni stood ready to die for me, but I prefer the appearance of conceding to another’s fear.

  Raymond nods, blinking in relief. He is seneschal of Joanna’s court, a man proven in battle like his brother. His tender heart is a side of him only those he loves may see. He takes a deep breath and straightens, becoming again the court seneschal.

  The door to the queen’s bedchamber opens. My granddaughter Sancia stands in the frame, looking about the room. She sees me and calls out formally, “my Lady Philippa, Her Majesty the Queen would speak with you.”

  I smile at her as I cross the room, noting the swell of her gown. She will have to go into confinement this autumn. I wish she was already safely tucked away in her husband’s summer residence, away from Naples and all this upheaval. She smiles back at me and steps aside so I may pass through the door.

  Joanna is standing in the window alcove with her back to the room, gazing out. The window faces the inner courtyard but at the angle she is standing she can see the front gate and further, beyond the moat and grounds to the narrow streets of Naples. From here she will not be able to see the anger on her peoples’ faces, but she can hear through the half-open window the low, bitter rumble of voices in the distance, so different from the normal cheerful bustle of Naples’ streets. I cross the room and curtsey low before her, drawing her gaze from the window.

  “There is no need of that between us.” She gestures for me to rise.

  My knees creak in agreement as I rise but I will make no concession to my age when I am at court.

  Joanna turns back to the window. “They are so angry. Why are they so angry?”

  We are alone in the room so I put my hand on her shoulder. She leans, very slightly, into my touch. I have known her all her life, this fair-skinned, yellow-haired beauty, not yet twenty and ruler of the most celebrated kingdom after France itself. Her love of Naples is second only to her love of God, and her people have always returned that love. This rift in her kingdom is tearing her apart.

  “It is not their own anger you are hearing, Your Majesty.”

  Her mouth twists in a bitter smile. “A message from my cousin, the Duke of Taranto. What more can I do to pacify Lord Robert?”

  “You have given him lands and titles already.”

  “I will never marry him.” She looks out over her city, her voice low and fierce. “Surely you do not advise it?” She glances at me, her eyes narrowed.

  “I do not.” He would have us murdered, every one of Joanna’s friends and advisors. He would murder her the day after their wedding if he could, to be the sole monarch of Naples.

  Her face clears at my agreement. I cannot resist the urge to stroke her cheek. So much like her grandfather in his youth, my beloved Prince Robert.

  “Louis is not at all like his brother.” Joanna smiles. Handsome, blond, and amusing, Louis of Taranto, the Duke of Taranto’s younger brother, has always been her favorite. I look steadfastly out the window. Somewhere, outside of the city, the two brothers’ armies are battling for power even as we speak. Louis is very much like his brother.

  “He has promised he will protect my advisors. They will be his advisors when we marry.” Her voice is quiet, as though she fears the walls will hear us.

  Does she, also, believe her husband’s murderers are among her favorites? Prince Andrew had threatened to execute most of her court and councilors as soon as he was crowned, a good enough reason to want him dead. Does she wonder if I or my sons were involved? I do not need protection, I want to say, shunning any association with the gruesome murder. But I hold my tongue. I have just walked through the outraged city. The innocent do need protection here.

  “Then we must pray for Louis’ victory,” I say calmly.

  She nods, accepting my advice. Louis will receive the funding he needs.

  “And Charles?” A bitter topic, for she loves her sister Maria, as do I.

  “He is with Lord Robert,” I tell her flatly. Then, to soften the truth she must hear, I add, “The Duke of Durazzo is not a man to listen to his wife.”

  She turns back to the window. “What have they made my people believe?”

  I consider everything I saw and heard today. She must know where she is vulnerable. “That you are to blame for the long delay in prosecuting those responsible for the foul murder of your husband. That you are protecting those involved. Lord Louis has lost favor because of his hated mercenaries.”

  “They are not saying I was involved?” she whispers, her face pale.

  “They stop short of it.”

  She grips my hand. “What am I to do?”

  “What you have always done, Your Majesty. Reach out to those who support you. Negotiate with those who do not. Accept your God-given duty to rule the Kingdom of Naples as your Grandfather intended. Protect your people from themselves.” This last makes her smile, as I intended. I would like to leave her with that smile, but there is one more warning I must deliver. The face I saw in the crowd, a face she trusts and should not. I open my mouth but before I can speak, the door to Joanna’s bedchamber opens again.

  Joanna glances over my shoulder. “Ah, you have come to tell me my councilors are waiting. Escort me, then.”

  I turn to see Hugo del Balzo hold out his arm to her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Autumn, 1298

  Trapani, Sicily

  “Philippa!” my sister’s voice called.

  I frowned down at the warm river. I had slipped away from the other girls doing the foreign soldiers’ laundry to be alone for a while. If I stayed quiet, Anya might not see me. Mama would have to do herself whatever task she had sent Anya to fetch me for. I stepped backward nearer the shrubs on the shore and beat the soldier’s uniform as quietly as possible with the wide smooth rock I had retrieved from my hiding place under the bushes. The rough material lay heavy between my hands, clouding the river water with a week’s dust and sweat. I wrinkled my nose.

  Robert of Anjou arrived months ago with his smelly army to take Sicily for his father, King Charles II of Naples. So far they had captured the port town Catania and moved inland to our little town, Trapani, where they set up their military encampment.

  I have heard he has yellow hair and blue eyes and skin so fair you could nearly see through it. I tossed my head—that!—for his foreign looks. We did not want a French King in Sicily. When the traitor, King James II of Aragon, sold Sicily to Robert of Anjou’s father three years ago, we would have none of his foreign French ways. Instead we offered our fealty to James of Aragon’s younger brother, Frederick III. He will never allow this young crown prince of Naples to claim us! I gave the uniform a satisfying smack with my stone.

  “Philippa,” my sister called again from the riverbank.

  I held up the uniform to see if it was clean enough. Whatever outcome we prayed for, we were practical in Trapani. The citizens of Catania, many of whom had lost fathers, sons, and husbands in the
battle, might resent Prince Robert’s few victories, but those of us who lived beside his temporary encampment could recognize a profitable situation. An army must eat. Someone must catch the fish and raise the chickens, cook their meals and wash their clothes. Prince Robert, wishing not only to subdue us but to rule us, kept to a minimum the violence an army generally visits on a conquered town. They paid a fair price for our fish and farm goods, respected our women for the most part, and paid for their drinks. And there was no denying the charm and dashing figure of the twenty-year-old prince and the young wife who could not bear to be separated from him and so had accompanied him on campaign. The tale was too much for many of our village girls, who sought their own romance among his men—until their handsome soldier left them with an empty promise and a swelling belly.

  It could be worse, my mother said. Princess Violante’s presence ensured a certain amount of decency among Robert’s men, more than we had expected. She was, after all, Violante of Aragon, the sister of our King Frederick. We were her people. If she could fall under the spell of this French prince, how could we not?

  I stopped my scrubbing and looked down into the water, trying to catch my reflection. I was lighter-skinned than most Sicilians, with thick, dark hair and darker eyes. Since my son’s birth my figure had filled out into that of a woman, although my skin was now once again firm and tight. Men looked twice at me behind my husband’s back.

  “Philippa!” This time it was my mother’s voice calling my name. I straightened quickly. Why would she come herself to fetch me? There was something strange in her voice, it sounded sad and frightened and eager, all at the same time.

  The skin on my back prickled. I shivered despite the hot sun beating down. I became intensely aware of the hard brilliance of the light on the river, the warm water lapping at my knees where I stood with my skirts hitched up to my thighs, the soft mud of the riverbed squishing between my toes. The scent of the woods and the moist air rising from the water in the heat of the sun were poignantly sweet to me. The chatter of the other girls, the ones I had left to steal a few moments alone with my thoughts, echoed softly over the water like music, mingling with the birdsong in the treetops. Precious, all of it. I wriggled my toes and swirled my fingers through the river water as if to memorize the feel of home, of standing here in my river, careless and contented, a simple fisherman’s daughter.

  “Come, Philippa,” my mother scolded from the bank, having known exactly where to look for me. “Anya will finish the laundry.”

  I waded up out of the river, leaving the soldiers’ clothes floating in the water. I passed my sister without a word, handing her my smooth rock to beat them with, as though I was handing my old life over to her. My mother watched me.

  “Your son is fine,” she said, turning to lead me along the path toward our village.

  I flushed and bit my lip. But why should I be worried about Antonio? He was a strong infant, and my mother-in-law worried enough for us both.

  My mother walked quickly, without speaking. I let my skirts down as I followed her, the strange dream-state that had overcome me in the river, gone now. There was no reason to think this summons any different than a dozen others this summer, when I was needed to assist her with a birthing. My mother was the best midwife in Sicily. She had been teaching me since I was a child to find and prepare the herbs that eased a birth and cooled a fever, and teas that strengthen and revive a woman. When my woman’s courses began I started going with her to the birthings.

  This was no different, I told myself, wishing I had not given Anya my stone, becoming a little annoyed. My mother always knew when a woman was going to have her child, before she was sent for. She could have told me this morning to expect a summons when I passed her hut. I went over in my mind the wives and foolish girls I knew who were with child, but none of them was near her time. An early birth, then? I thought of my friend Elina. She wasn’t at the river today. I hurried to catch up with my mother.

  “Once I’ve delivered the babe and cut the cord, I must tend to the mother. You know what to do,” she said, before I could speak.

  “Swipe out his mouth clear of mucus with my finger, and see that he cries,” I answered immediately.

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Press gently on his chest, or place him on his stomach and rub his back.” I had done this many times, yet my voice shook as I recited it. Always, the moment she handed me the tiny infant, silent and weary from his struggle into life, my heart filled with fear that this one might not live. For that brief moment my pounding heart was the only noise I could hear and my hands shook so that I feared I would drop the slippery babe. Then I would hear the tiny wail, turning my terror to sudden joy.

  “You mustn’t tremble!” My mother stopped and faced me, her voice fierce. “Your hands mustn’t shake! You must be as confident as I am, firm of voice if you speak at all. No one may see your fear!”

  She had told me this before, but never so fiercely. It was our job to calm the women, to shore up their courage as much as to bring forth their babes. I nodded, but my mother grabbed my shoulders and shook me roughly.

  “No one must see a moment’s doubt in you, nor a speck of fear in your eyes. Your life depends on it!”

  I gaped at her, stumbling backward as she let me go. My life depended on it?

  “You’re so young,” she murmured, regarding me as I caught myself and straightened.

  “I’m a woman grown and a mother myself!” I answered hotly, and with some bitterness as well. I had not wanted to marry Guilio. He was nearly as old as my father, and what did I care if he owned two fishing boats? My mother had supported me; for once she had stood up to my father, saying I was too young. “Thirteen summers is long enough for me to feed and clothe her!” he roared, striking my mother across the side of the head so hard she fell against the wall. He glared at me. “You’ll never be hungry, girl. And he’ll choose another if I ask him to wait.” I did not hide the mutiny in my eyes, but I did not bother arguing. Clearly Guilio had offered him money.

  I loved my baby, though, my dear little son, no older than the new moon. I hated to leave him with my mother-in-law, but Guilio insisted I go back to doing the soldiers’ laundry as soon as my bleeding stopped. I saw Guilio’s house—our house—as we approached the village. Would I have time to feed Antonio before—

  “Pay attention!” my mother snapped. “This’s your chance, daughter. This is it, if you dare to take it!”

  I knew at once what she meant, and grew still. How often had she quoted to me the words her mother’s mother said when I was born: This girl will travel far from home and rise high above her station. She will be mother to a queen—

  Always she stopped abruptly, with a frown, as though there was something more; something she would not have me know.

  I never told my mother her grandmother’s prophecy was foolish, that she must have suffered the weakness of mind that those who live too long are subject to. Of course the prophecy was ridiculous. My husband would not leave this village, nor ever allow me to, and even if I were not married, the daughter of a fisherman will never be the mother of a queen. So I had not worried myself over the unspoken end of the prophecy.

  Nor did I now. I only stood there, thinking of the possibility of escaping my life...

  I pulled myself to my full height—I am tall, as tall as any woman in Trapani, and not yet full grown—and looked my mother in the eye. “I’m not too young,” I said. “And I’m not afraid.” I added that because I was afraid and needed to hear myself deny it. Guilio would beat me if he learned I was even thinking of taking his son and leaving him. And if I was still alive after he tired, my father would finish the job. But was it possible? Could I escape?

  My mother made a small gesture, something between a nod and a shrug, and began walking again. I had to hurry to keep up. Whoever needed us was not to be kept waiting.

  As we neared my parent’s hut I saw a horse. At least this soldier was acknowledging his pater
nity. Perhaps he would even marry the girl—

  Two men came round the side of the hut, one of them leading a second horse. I stopped short when I realized they were wearing royal livery. They caught sight of us, or rather of my mother. The older one snapped his fingers and reached for his horse’s reins as the younger swung up into his saddle. My mother hurried forward, murmuring something about herbs and healing, and ducked into the little hut. I stood there gawking until the mounted man, with an impatient gesture, stretched out his arm for me.

  I looked around foolishly, hoping to see another woman from our village. Only my mother? Only my mother and me, barely out of girlhood? Only the two of us to midwife a royal birthing? For that was surely who we were being summoned to attend. Everyone knew the wife of the conqueror, Robert of Anjou, was with child.

  Had they not sent for a doctor? Had they not thought to bring a royal midwife on campaign with them? I have only been a woman for two summers, assisted my mother at six births, seven if you count the stillbirth... the blood drained from my face. If the queen’s babe—

  The young man frowned. I swallowed, raised my chin, and stepped forward, lifting my hand for him to grasp. He pulled me up onto his horse. I kept going, straight over the other side, and grabbed at him. He laughed as he reached back to steady me. I straightened, stiff and angry, letting go of him at once and holding the saddle instead. The horse stamped and blew out a snort of air as if it, too, was laughing.

  My mother, holding her basket of herbs in one hand, allowed the other soldier to swing her up behind him. She settled gracefully, her knees tightening against the horse’s sides as though she had always ridden. I tried to squeeze my legs against the beast beneath me, but who would have thought a horse’s back was so wide? I held tight to the saddle. The horse’s hair was soft against my calves where my skirt had ridden up. I thought it would be coarse, like the mane and tail, but it was as soft as a rabbit’s skin, and warm.

  With a sharp kick the men wheeled their mounts into a gallop and it was all I could do to hang on. Beneath me I felt the great beast’s muscles bunched, tight and hard, its hooves pounding against the ground tearing up clods of earth as we raced into town and along the narrow streets. I gripped the saddle till my fingers cramped, swearing to myself that if I did not fall off and get trampled I would never climb onto a horse again.