The Girl Who Tempted Fortune
Page 6
But my heart was as light as a bird and all I could see when I closed my eyes were the white sails of the Neapolitan ships in the harbor at Catania that would carry me far away.
CHAPTER FIVE
March 6, 1346
Queen Joanna’s Court, Naples
I walk with seeming carelessness toward a window overlooking the courtyard, where I can look down at my son and the soldiers assembling to go with him. Behind me Joanna’s ladies-in-waiting chatter as they play cards or bend over their needlework. I lean through the open shutters, pretending to want a little air, and let their feminine voices fade behind me.
In the courtyard Raymond is giving instructions to a dozen soldiers of the queen’s guard before they ride out to enforce his decree. “Do not attack, no matter what you hear.” His voice carries up to me.
“You mean we are to let them insult us, or Her Majesty the Queen?” one of the men demands. His unlined face is frowning, his voice high with the indignation of youth.
“We are not charged by the queen to attack her subjects,” Raymond answers sharply. “Only draw your sword if I give the sign, or if you yourselves are attacked.”
“And if they won’t surrender their weapons peacefully?” This one is older, his voice level. He watches Raymond’s face as he waits for his answer.
“Then we will take their swords by force.” Raymond pauses, looking around at his men. “Prepare yourselves for some resistance, but we will meet it together. Preferably without harming anyone.”
Or letting yourselves be harmed, I think, wishing I could call it down to him. It is not my place to correct the court seneschal; bad enough if his men catch his mother watching over him, a man of forty-two years. I should withdraw, but I cannot make myself, not even when they mount and turn their beasts toward the gate. The courtyard is suddenly loud with the neighing of horses, the jangle of bridles as they shake their heads trying to take the bit, the stamp of shod hooves against the hard ground. The swords in the men’s scabbards slap against their leather leg-guards as they wheel their horses. The gate opens noisily. Raymond twists in his saddle to glance up at me. There is humor and affection and exasperation all in that quick glance before he turns back and touches his spurs to his horse’s flanks. They canter through the gate, my son in the lead. I watch until they disappear into the twisting, narrow streets of Naples. Six of Louis’ mercenaries fall in behind them, close enough to lend assistance if needed but far enough to avoid any association with the queen’s guard. Raymond has agreed to this precaution at my insistence, but he would not agree to more than six. The mercenaries have hidden their swords under their cloaks at his insistence, and no doubt have an arsenal of knives hidden under their garments. I take comfort in those hidden weapons guarding my son and his little band.
When they are out of sight, I still stand there listening. There is a current of discontent running through this city I know so well. I hear the low grumble of its citizens arguing, shouting an insult or two to show their anger but in the end obedient to the law. It is what I expect to hear; what I hope to hear, and nothing more.
It is not only the forces of Robert, the Duke of Taranto and Charles, the Duke of Durazzo who are riding through Naples fully armed, but Louis’ mercenaries also. Robert of Taranto would have his men storm the palace and take Joanna by force if it were not for Louis and his mercenaries also riding through the city streets. There are skirmishes daily between the two forces; may God protect any honest citizen caught between them. How will Raymond convince either side to lay down their weapons inside the city boundaries? He knows it is a lost cause, I have told him so and he agreed, but how can he maintain his position if he refuses to enforce the queen’s laws? How will he keep the respect of the men he commands? Louis has promised to order his mercenaries to hide their weapons and not to draw their swords in the city. If Raymond can make Taranto’s and Durazzo’s men do the same, at least there will be fewer deadly clashes in our streets.
“Grandmother, come and sit. Uncle will be back when he is assured the new law is being obeyed. You cannot stand there the whole afternoon.” My granddaughter Sancia touches my arm, drawing my attention away. “He is the seneschal of the royal court. He will be safe in Naples; none would dare touch him.” She frowns, puzzled by my distress.
It is a trap. I do not say this out loud. She will not believe it, will think me imagining things in my age. The foolish fears of an old woman. I glance again at the window. Ah, but I thought I heard my great-grandmother’s voice yesterday—perhaps young Sancia is not far wrong. I let her draw me back into the room. Still, I do not close the window shutters and I choose the chair nearest it.
Hugo del Balzo is in audience with Joanna in her privy chamber. Right where he cannot be blamed if anything happens.
That is my secret thought, but I will blame him. If anything happens to my son, I will know he had a hand in it no matter where he hides.
Robert is in there with them. Why would del Balzo want my son with them? Del Balzo hates my family, he would not ask for one of them present, not even the grand seneschal of the kingdom, when he meets with the queen. I stare at the closed door of the queen’s privy chamber. Joanna seeks my counsel always, but I still have not voiced my concerns about del Balzo to her.
Hugo del Balzo is her appointed man as much as my sons are, and he is just back from a crusade in the Holy Land, which makes him halfway to being a saint in her eyes. She knows he has spoken against Louis, whom she loves, has even accused her of protecting those who are guilty of her husband’s murder. In her mind this makes him a man of strong principles, for she knows he is at least partially right. Joanna does not want to learn who murdered Andrew, since he was most at enmity with those closest to her. Del Balzo is speaking the truth: if she can, she will protect them, and Louis has promised to help her. But she cannot appear to be doing so. Her people would not stand for it. The pope would not stand for it. They would believe the rumors that she herself was involved in Andrew’s murder if it was apparent that she was shielding the real murderers from justice.
She knows we are innocent, I and my family. She has brought us back to court to show her trust. But if we are accused it will not matter. I who have served her all her life and her royal parents and grandparents before her, more loyally than any in her kingdom, I whom she loves, must ride out this storm on prayer and hope and whatever strength and courage I can find within myself.
“Grandmother?” Sancia has been talking to me. I have not heard her; I am too busy listening for sounds outside the window. I nod and smile anyway. She is making a little gown for the coming babe. This will be her second. She has a daughter already and hopes for a boy.
“Yes, your husband the Count will want a son,” I agree. I consider getting up and going to the window again. Will I hear anything here, inside the room? But I do not want to call attention to the window, someone might ask for the shutters to be closed. What could I say? That I must listen in case the seneschal of the court calls for his mother?
I am being foolish. My husband, if he were still alive, would chide me for it. Fear is our enemy, he told me more than once. Fear is the traitor that will open the gate to all our other enemies. We were fearless, he and I, utterly fearless, rising like cream together in the Neapolitan court, raising our children, sons to be warriors as well as courtiers, daughters who would marry well. A stalwart little army in place of relatives and ancestors and a bloodline to call on. Our own strength and boldness fuelling theirs.
Now it is only mine, and I am faltering.
How can I keep them all safe, my children and my grandchildren and now great-grandchildren? Stand fast, I want to tell them. I have a terrible dread that if one of them should fall, even one, the rest will topple like a deck of cards all leaning one on the other.
“Hold fast,” I say to Sancia.
“Grandmother?” She looks at me puzzled, frowning.
“Hold fast to your little ones,” I amend. “They grow up so quickly.”
I smile as always at mention of my great-granddaughter. I told Sancia stories of my mother, Maroccia the midwife, while she was expecting; I often think of my mother now that I am old. It was a pleasant surprise when Sancia named her daughter Maroccia. I have been told she looks like me, but it is her namesake she takes after, her complexion the same sun-kissed Sicilian shade as my mother’s. The first time I held her, she opened her eyes and looked solemnly up at me. I was surprised to see they were a deep blue. “As blue as the sea,” I murmured, looking down at my great-granddaughter and remembering my long-ago passage to Naples. “She will carry us all into the future.”
Sancia looked at me alarmed. She thought I was prophesying for her newborn daughter, and it is possible I was, although initially I thought only of the natural progression of a family.
I smile at Sancia now, returning my thoughts to the present, and promise her I will come soon. If this conflict between the royal cousins ever ends, I will go to see little Maroccia walk.
Sancia invites me to play a hand of cards. I agree, touched by her attempts to distract me. We join a table. She is gracious when I play badly and cheerfully pays when we lose. I excuse myself from another game and return to my chair by the window. Across the room the court musician begins to play for us. I am annoyed at first, for his song covers the distant noises coming through the window, but the music calms me and soon I am dozing in my seat.
I wake suddenly to the sound of cries in the courtyard. Sancia jumps up and goes to the window. I push myself stiffly to my feet and hurry after her.
It is the young knight, the one who wanted to draw his sword if the queen was insulted. He has ridden through the partly opened gate, shouting.
Blood on his livery, blood on his sword still clutched in his hand, blood on his horse. Where are the others? Where is Raymond? Where is my son? I look to the gate, willing myself to see the others galloping in behind him.
No one is there.
No one else is coming home.
The boy is still shouting. A single word, repeated: “Treachery!”
He tries to dismount and falls sideways, into the arms of a palace guardsman who has run to him.
“Treachery,” the young man moans as he is carried across the courtyard and inside.
“Summon the queen!” My voice cracks, the words coming out a thin croak. Sancia looks at me wide-eyed. I turn toward the palace guard standing stiffly at the door of Joanna’s privy chamber and take a deep breath. “Summon Queen Joanna,” I order in a voice that carries across the room. “Something has happened that she must know about.”
He hesitates, looking at the closed door.
I draw myself up to my full stature. “Summon Her Majesty! At once!”
He snaps to attention and reaches for the handle to the door, but it is pushed open from inside. Joanna strides out, Robert right behind her. He looks around the room quickly until he finds me, the alarm in his eyes increasing when he sees my face. Behind them del Balzo follows, his eyebrows arched as though he is surprised, but a tiny lift at the corners of his lips denies it.
Joanna cuts across the room toward to door of her presence chamber. She glances at me briefly as she passes. “Come!”
I would have followed anyway but now I hurry to walk with her and Robert, explaining in a low voice what I have seen as we go through to the outer chamber and down the wide stairs. Halfway down we are met by one of the guards I saw assisting the wounded boy inside.
“Your Majesty.” He bows low. His livery has red stains upon it. I look aside.
“What is it? What has happened?” Joanna demands without stopping her descent.
“One of your men,” the guard turns, trying to keep up with his sovereign, trying to catch his breath—fear? “One of the men who went out this morning with the court seneschal has returned!”
“One of them? And the others?” Joanna is nearly at the bottom of the stairs. She glances sharply at the silent guard, and hurries on. I see the young man lying on a marble bench inside the door. The guard who carried him there quickly stands at attention when he sees his queen. His livery is covered in the boy’s blood. “Bring the court physician,” Joanna snaps at a hovering servant. “You!” to the first guard, “Take two men and go out to the gate. I want the guard on it doubled.”
By now she has reached the wounded man. “Tell us what happened,” she says in a gentler voice.
“We were betrayed,” he gasps. His face is pale, his voice already weaker than it had been in the courtyard. The blood on his clothes is bright and wet. “We heard raised voices in the market square. When we got there, several men were arguing. Two of them drew weapons on each other. Lord Raymond rode toward them, urging us to follow.” He is stopped by a fit of coughing. A line of blood trickles from the side of his mouth. I wipe it away, the habit of a woman trained in healing, and urge him to continue.
“I was behind the last man. I drew my sword but Lord Raymond did not, nor the others, they were waiting for his signal. He called to the arguing men, ordered them to put down their weapons. But they ignored him, seeming to fight until he got near, then suddenly all together they turned their weapons on us! More men ran out from the market stalls where they had been hiding, cutting us off. Our men tried to draw their weapons but they were surrounded by men already armed. They dragged them down off their horses—” he is sobbing, his left side and leg soaked with fresh blood. He coughs again, a terrible, wet sound.
“Raise him!” I say. The guard beside him helps him into a sitting position, holding him up. The cough eases. “Can you continue?” I ask, trying to sound concerned, compassionate, when in fact I am desperate to hear the rest.
“Lord Raymond warned us to watch for groups of men wearing the colors of Taranto or Durazzo. But these were all dressed plainly, as simple citizens. Even the mercenaries missed it, and they were too far behind us when it happened...” His voice is weak, his eyes drift upwards.
“Lord Raymond?” Robert prompts.
“He called retreat!” The boy’s eyes are wild, his voice no more than an urgent whisper. “He ordered us to retreat but I was the only one who could. I had already drawn my sword, they couldn’t get near to pull me down—” he gasps. Blood drips steadily from his thigh onto the floor. I want to urge him to stop, the exertion is killing him. I want to scream, What happened to my son?
“Did you see what happened to Lord Raymond?” Robert asks again, calm and controlled.
“They have taken him. They... they killed the others, but took him alive. He was still yelling “Retreat!” trying to save us as they dragged him away.” He gasps for breath, staring at us wildly. “Too late! They were dead, the others are all dead!”
“Where have they taken him? Did you see who it was? Who was leading them?”
Joanna lays her hand lightly on Robert’s arm. The boy is struggling for breath and the physician has arrived.
“The Duke...” the boy gasps. “The Duke of Taranto...” He falls into a faint.
My son Robert stares at me. I stare back at him, too numb to cry out. The Duke of Taranto, Robert of Taranto, that arrogant, cruel, ruthless man has taken Raymond.
I know exactly what he wants with my son.
CHAPTER SIX
Autumn, 1298
Trapani, Sicily
I woke to the thunder of horses’ hooves. I ran to the door of the nursery tent and peered out into the darkness. The entire encampment was waking to the commotion of horses neighing and men calling and servants running in every direction. I called out to one as he ran past toward the royal tents, but he would not stop to give me the news. Light flared in the night as the cooks lit the kitchen fires. In that uneven light I saw Prince Robert surrounded by half a dozen men, commanders of his army. Even in the night he was unmistakable, with his yellow hair and fair skin and dominating height. My heart skipped faster as he strode past. I
gave a silent prayer of thanks to Saint Martin of Tours for the golden prince’s safe return from battle.
Princess Violante appeared at the opening of her tent. She gave a glad cry on seeing him. He turned and went to her. I listened shamelessly from the shadow of the nursery tent which stood beside the princess’s tent.
“We must get to our ships as soon as possible.”
“What, now? This very night?”
“As soon as we have eaten and rested our horses. King Frederick’s army is not far behind us. We will have to leave whatever is not packed.”
“Everything is packed. We can leave as soon as I am dressed and the tents taken down.”
“A true princess,” he murmured, kissing her forehead.
I touched my own forehead as though I felt his lips there while I watched him walk back to his commanders. He must be weary, having fought a battle, then riding hard to get here, but his stride was long, the muscles in his legs taut under his hose, the arm he had put around his wife...
“Wake the prince’s son and get him ready for travel!”
I whipped my hand away from my forehead and turned to see Princess Violante frowning at me. I dropped a hasty curtsey as she disappeared inside her tent.
I shook the nurse awake, surprised that she could sleep through all the din, then woke little Charles and put him to my breast. He was sleepy and drank little. I gently slapped his feet to keep him awake. When a soldier stuck his head inside our tent, demanding we leave so he could take it down, I gave up and handed Charles to his nurse. “We will be ready directly,” I told him. While the nurse bound Charles to his swaddling board I considered quickly what to wear. We would be travelling hard, then taking to open water. I did not want to soil my fine new kirtle. My hand hovered over my drab homespun robe.
Outside I heard Charles’ voice calling a command to his men. You are no longer a fisherman’s daughter! I told myself as I tossed it onto the dirt and pulled on the yellow linen kirtle. I would take nothing of my old life with me.