I note del Balzo’s expression when Joanna leaves him to speak to Robert. He cannot bear that my son’s position as seneschal of the Kingdom of Naples is higher than his as seneschal of Provence.
Charles of Artois approaches me. “I hear you were delayed by the disorder in our city?” he asks quietly.
I am not surprised that he has already learned of my morning’s adventure. My sons trust him. Charles of Artois is the closest thing to an ally our family will ever have among the proud Neapolitan lords. The bastard son of King Robert the Wise, he knows what it is to be an outsider, to depend upon the benevolence of others and have to earn whatever position he achieves. Like us, he lost two strong supporters in the death of King Robert three years ago, and his wife, Queen Sancia, last year. His name and his son’s name, like ours, have been linked to Andrew’s death, only in their case I suspect it is accurate.
“It was disconcerting,” I acknowledge. “I had not realized the situation had gone so far.”
He nods thoughtfully. “It may be wise to leave the city.”
“Wiser to remain.”
“Yes. There is danger either way for those of us too close to the throne and yet not close enough.”
I bend my head. He is closer than we are to safety, with half a royal bloodline. As he well knows. “God will protect the innocent,” I answer mildly.
“I would like to see Him kept busier than that.”
I allow myself a huff of amusement.
“Councilors,” Joanna says. She leads us into her privy chamber. My sons follow close behind her with Hugo del Balzo behind them, his mouth pursed as though he has just eaten something foul. I enter last, watching the other councilors, who they speak to, who they sit beside. Allegiances change at times like this. The guards close the door behind me.
Joanna sits at the head of her council table, a signal that the rest of us may be seated.
Prepare yourself!
The room lurches beneath me before I have time to see who has spoken. I grab the back of my chair. An earthquake, I think, my heart pounding, my throat frozen silent. But when I look about the room, dizzy and shaken, no one else appears to be affected. Their attention is focused on my son Raymond, who is rising from his chair to speak. I swallow and sink down onto my seat. The two words still ring in my ears, spoken in the harsh accent of Catania, on the island of Sicily. Impossible. No one here but I has ever been to Catania, and I abandoned my childhood accent long ago.
That is how I know it is my great-grandmother, speaking to me from the grave. My mother warned me of her prophecies. I never met her and would not recognize her voice, but it is just as I have imagined. And I, the most composed, most stoic of courtiers, who never gives away anything I do not wish to have noted, I shiver as I take my seat, overcome with a sense of doom.
Raymond glances at me without pausing in his speech. He is a sensitive one, my Raymond, always aware of others. I have no doubt he has noted my pale face and indrawn breath, but he makes no sign of it, allowing me to regain my composure with dignity. I straighten my back and raise my chin. Let come what will, I will meet it as I always have. My other son, Robert, shifts in his chair, his attention fixed—pointedly?—upon his brother.
We three are once more among Queen Joanna’s councilors, reinstated after the birth of her son to our former wealth and positions: Raymond as seneschal to the court, Robert as grand seneschal of the kingdom of Naples, and I as Queen Joanna’s oldest, most trusted advisor. Secure once again.
“We must act now, before the situation gets out of hand, to ensure the safety of the citizens of Naples,” Raymond is saying.
He is introducing his new law, a positive action, but I am still caught in the echo of that spectral warning and open to nameless fears. I recall my great-grandmother’s prophecy at my birth, as my mother told it to me. A shudder sweeps through me before I can prevent it. No, I realize as my heartbeat resumes, I did not move. It is all happening inside me, this creeping sense of dread that chills me to the soul. Why now? Why is she speaking to me now?
My son’s forceful voice brings me back to the council room. His every move and expression exude confidence and strength. I bask in it, pull some of it into myself. We trained our boys well, their father and I.
But he is gone and I am aging; I imagine things, my thoughts wander. I am prey to foolish fears. I have known worse crises than this in my sixty long years. Was I not certain that we were lost, our family ruined, when Pope Clement VI ordered our exile from court last year and Queen Joanna complied? Yet I hid my fear and denied Clement’s accusation that I and my family had “provoked mischief” between Queen Joanna and her husband Andrew. We refuted it calmly, and not overmuch, as though it was too foolish to bear much discussion. Which it was; that pup Andrew needed no help in debasing himself, may God forgive me for speaking ill of the dead.
And here we are once again in the most vaunted positions in the kingdom, secure in Queen Joanna’s affections. I dismiss the premonition. It is foolish and the chill that stays with me is only a symptom of my aged bones.
“I have therefore issued a decree prohibiting any man to bear arms in public within the city,” Raymond finishes, laying his royal decree upon the council table with a flourish.
Joanna, of course, has already seen it; she is watching her councilors to see their reactions, as I taught her. “Let nothing surprise you,” I told her, when as a young child she began attending her grandfather’s council meetings. Since then, with a face as stoic as any great statesman, she has weathered many surprises. None, however, from me and my family, who serve her more faithfully than Pope Clement VI serves God.
I make my own survey of the councilors’ faces.
Catherine of Valois, mother to Joanna’s warring suitors, has taken up the decree and is reading it carefully. Trying to determine how to turn it to her advantage, as always. Our goals are the same for now: to keep Joanna secure in her crown and marry her to Louis, Catherine’s favorite son. Oh, we are not allies. She is the Empress of Constantinople and the sister of the King of France, while I am the daughter of a fisherman. Even worse, my husband was a slave before King Robert elevated him; our children and grandchildren look nothing like these fine French aristocrats. No matter how high we have risen in Naples’ cosmopolitan court, no matter that our son is now Count of Eboli and our granddaughter the Countess of Marcone, for Catherine of Valois we will always be what we were born. Well, she is not alone in that. So we are not allies, but today we are not enemies, for I, too, would see Joanna wed to Louis. Because it is true that he has sworn to protect Queen Joanna’s intimates when she marries him, and innocent though we are, I and my family may need his protection.
On Raymond’s left the Count of Terlizzi, marshal of the realm, nods vigorously in support of Raymond’s decree. Like Joanna, he has already seen it. I would be ashamed if any son of mine did not know to prepare his allies and surprise his enemies.
Beside Terlizzi, Nicholas of Melizzano, having glanced at Joanna first, allows himself a careful nod of agreement. His expression gives little away, but there is a bead of sweat on his forehead. He knows he is balanced on a sword. He has ever been Joanna’s man, and Andrew threatened him many times because of it. An impulsive man, easily frightened and prone to sly reprisals, he was certainly part of the conspiracy to murder Andrew. He thought Joanna wanted it also, and he was partly right, but more than partly wrong. For now Joanna is being accused of the crime by her Hungarian in-laws, and here in Naples she is accused at the very least of harboring the murderers. A teeter to the left or the right, and Melizzano will be dispensable.
Across the table, Catherine favors Terlizzi and Melizzano with a single scornful look. I feel it as much as see it from where she sits two seats up from me. Utterly predictable, all three. I am briefly amused.
Hugo del Balzo sits across from Catherine. I have been watching him most carefully, with no inclination at all toward humor. His face is bland as he looks at my son; only a tiny narrowing o
f his eyes and a slight flare of his nostrils, gone in a second, reveal his true feelings.
“There are mercenaries in the streets,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair. He glances at Joanna. The mercenaries are Louis’ army, paid for by Joanna, to fight his brother the Duke of Taranto’s legitimate soldiers. Joanna meets del Balzo’s look coolly. “Men will not part with their weapons when the streets are not safe,” he finishes, as though he meant no more. He looks at Raymond directly. Again that slight flaring of his nostrils. “How will you enforce such a decree?”
Charles of Artois glances at me quickly. His look is meant as a warning. He can afford to give it, for he has royal blood; King Robert acknowledged him and none can deny it.
I have already seen the danger, but what can I do? What can Raymond do? He is seneschal of the court, it is his duty not only to make laws, but to enforce them.
“I will ride out myself, with the queen’s men, and see that it is obeyed,” my son says.
For a second time I feel the room sway beneath me. I press my arms hard against the table, willing myself still. It is the hardest thing I have ever done, keeping my mouth closed, swallowing the cry of protest. Oh my son! My son, Raymond!
Hugo del Balzo slowly smiles.
CHAPTER FOUR
Autumn, 1298
Trapani, Sicily,
Little Charles wanted to feed whenever he was awake. My Antonio was a placid babe, content to wait for his milk, but this little prince was furious for my breast as soon as he awoke. His little red face and pummeling fists made me laugh, and the sudden easing after his first few desperate gulps filled me with a tenderness I tried to hide. This was not my child. Princess Violante watched us jealously, her breasts bound, waiting to grab him from me as soon as he stopped suckling. I reminded myself that I had my own Antonio waiting for me as she took Charles from my arms, his eyelids drooping over those huge blue eyes, his little body relaxed and satisfied.
I tried not to watch her cuddle him, tried not to think of the ache in my own arms, reminded myself that I was a mother, too. But that only made it worse, for I could not hold my own child, I was not there with him to see the daily changes as he grew. Was he smiling now? Was he beginning to babble baby talk? My mother-in-law had found a neighbor to nurse him alongside her own newborn. Was my son gazing up at her, reaching to touch that other woman’s cheek while she fed him, the way Charles patted mine?
My mother came daily to check on Princess Violante and baby Charles. When I had been there five days, I took her aside while the princess played with Charles. “It’s time I returned to my son,” I told my mother. She had warned me never to speak of Antonio in front of anyone, so I had to whisper, huddled in a corner with her. “You must find another woman to wet-nurse the prince.” I glanced over enviously to where Princess Violante sat holding her son.
“He’s a beautiful child,” my mother observed. “You’ll miss him.”
“I miss my own son!”
“Antonio is happy and healthy.”
“He needs his mother.” I took a deep breath to still the tremble in my voice.
“Guilio’s bought him a new swaddling cloth, soft and warm, to wrap him in. He commissioned Giovanni the carpenter to build a cradle. Your son lives like a little prince.”
The extravagance left me speechless. I knew how pleased Guilio was to finally have a son, but a cradle?
“The head cook for the camp has ordered his servants to buy their fish from your father and your “uncle” Guilio. That’s why your son lives this way.”
“Uncle?”
“I told the princess your husband was lost at sea,” she said in a low voice only I could hear.
My mouth fell open. “Why would you tell her that?”
“So you wouldn’t be sent home to him.”
I wondered how Guilio would like being thought my uncle. Then I pictured him selling his entire catch to the royal cook and boasting about it to the other fishermen. He liked it very much, I was sure.
“What are you whispering about?” Princess Violante demanded from across the room.
“Only a little family news, Your Majesty,” my mother said smoothly. “Philippa’s brother has got engaged, her father’s bought his own boat. We owe you much for your generosity to our family.”
“How nice that you, at least, are doing well.” The princess’s expression was sour with pain and weariness. She nodded to the nurse to take Charles. My mother hurried to her side, murmuring how well she was doing, how brave she had been, how proud she must be of her fine, handsome son, until the princess’s frown cleared.
“My lord husband will be happy.” She smiled, pleased with herself. When my mother handed her a mug of healing herbs she drank it down without a fuss. “He will be pleased with you and your daughter, also, for saving our lives. Yes I know how close—” she broke off with a shiver. “But every day I am stronger.” She handed my mother the empty mug. “The prince will hear what you did. You will both be rewarded.”
She was like that, unpleasant and generous alternately. Royals are always that way, my mother had warned me. I must be careful, consider their pleasure in everything I said and did. As if my mother had known a lot of royalty. But she was right about this one. She glanced at me now. I looked away. I did not want a reward, I wanted Antonio, my own little boy, to cuddle whenever I pleased.
My mother’s right eyebrow arched, the only change in her steady gaze. I sighed.
As if I had ever lived such a life. I could cuddle my son when the house had been cleaned and Guilio’s fishing nets untangled and his clothes washed for the next day, if I was not too tired. I could play with our child when I had finished the soldiers’ laundry I must take in and had fetched our daily water and cooked my husband’s meal. I could hold Antonio as long as I wanted in the night to keep him from crying while Guilio slept. Now I understood why Guilio had not sent word ordering me home to work myself to exhaustion for him. I was here, making him a rich man. He would not welcome me home while there was money to be made.
Violante would soon leave her confinement and Charles would go to the day nurse. He would stop needing to feed so often; then I would be able to slip away to see my son. I smiled at Princess Violante, and offered to comb her hair while her lady read to her. I knew how she liked it combed now, and had learned how to braid it up from watching her lady’s maid. My mother nodded, satisfied, and left.
A few days later we received news that Prince Robert had lost a skirmish. He was coming back to the castle to regroup and allow his men a brief rest. A flurry of activity followed throughout the encampment as unused tents were readied for weary men and cots prepared for the wounded. Extra supplies were purchased, fish and game salted. The cook came to the door of our tent himself to enquire of the princess which delicacies the prince favored. The preparations revived her, even if she could only have her maid relay her instructions while she was still bleeding. No man wished to be emasculated by the strength of her feminine element at this time.
I helped Violante’s maid wash and comb out her hair. Even with the extra attention it was thin and dull. We wiped the princess’s sweat away with rosewater and put her into a clean night robe, and I braided up her hair, hiding it under a clean white cap. The princess supervised all this attention, looking into her glass anxiously, changing her cap and collar several times, never content with what she saw. Nor would I be if I was her, but I lied for her sake, most convincingly. I had learned from her maid how to make myself agreeable. I watched now as her jewels were brought to the tent and held up against her neck and ears to determine which would look prettiest with her gown. I memorized the name of each stone.
Neither the maid nor I mentioned what we were both thinking while we primped Violante to please her husband: that Prince Robert had another woman come to his tent at night when he was in camp. Childbirth is a lengthy business, and a man is a man. I pitied Violante, who had faced down death so bravely and had so few natural assets to combat this. But she had
one.
“Hold your baby when he comes,” I suggested. “The prince will find you the most beautiful woman alive with his son in your arms.”
She looked at me and I feared she would take it wrong, but then she smiled and clapped her hands for him. The nurse lifted Charles from his cradle and put him in her arms, sound asleep and bound to his swaddling board. It was an uncomfortable armful but she looked down at Charles, her face flushed with love, and she was indeed a pretty sight when Robert of Anjou came into the room.
I curtsied as the door opened, like all the other women except the princess. They kept their heads bowed so I did also, wondering how long we must stay like this. Prince Robert swept by us as though we were furniture, straight to his wife’s bedside. “Un autre fils!” he cried, and though I did not understand the foreign words his joy was obvious.
I looked up, unable to help myself, and saw him present her with a new chain for her neck. It gleamed golden in his hand, with blue stones—sapphires, I reminded myself, having seen them in the brooch she was wearing. He took the infant from her so she could have her maid clasp the jeweled band around her neck. I looked up fully then, still crouched in my curtsey.
He stood by the princess’s bed, his profile to me as he looked down at his son. He was taller than any man I knew, his body taut with muscle, powerful. No wonder he was unconcerned about coming into his wife’s birthing chamber. The idea that this young prince, whose very presence radiated virility, could be emasculated was absurd. His head was bent down to his son’s face, murmuring words in that musical language of his as a woman might do to her child, but nothing about this hardened soldier was womanish.
The Girl Who Tempted Fortune Page 4