The next day a court seamstress came in to measure me—Violante’s personal maid needed a better wardrobe than a wet-nurse, and I had little time to acquire it. As I stood being measured I remembered my mother altering the hem of my first court dress, the yellow linen one I still treasured. I wished she could see me now.
I had two new kirtles and three under-shifts as soft and white as clouds by the time I accompanied Princess Violante into her confinement.
No matter how many children a woman may have borne, no matter how young and healthy or mature and experienced she may be, she always enters her confinement with fear in her heart and a prayer on her lips. Men never expect to die in battle, I am told. Filled with visions of glory and flanked by their comrades-in-arms, they think only of the enemies they will kill. But a woman goes into childbirth alone, no matter how many companions sit by her bed, and the enemy she must overcome is her own frail body.
When the day came for the princess to enter her confinement, Violante gripped my arm so tightly her fingers would leave bruises. As we walked together into the darkened room, I could not blame her. I would have liked someone to lean on too, for I was as terrified as she, having promised her safety. Whether she had told anyone or not, I felt the weight of that promise. Death had attended her bedside when Charles was born and only my mother had kept him at bay. I wished I could ask about Louis’ birth, but what if his, also, had been perilous? Why had I not simply told Princess Violante the truth? Even my great-grandmother could not always see the future. Surely sometimes she had been wrong?
And if she was never wrong?
This girl will travel far from home and rise high above her station. She will be mother to a queen—
If Violante died in her confinement, Prince Robert would be free to marry again.
My heart pounded in my ears, hot and dizzying. I stumbled.
Violante’s hand on my arm caught me. She gave me a sad, apologetic smile and loosened her grip, as though she thought she had caused my misstep.
I did not want Violante to die! My great-grandmother was wrong about me!
Besides, even if Violante died, Louis, and after him Charles, would inherit the throne before any child of mine. Which proved the prophecy was false.
As if Prince Robert would ever be allowed to marry me! His wife must bring with her an alliance for Naples. A royal lady’s maid, however exalted my sudden new position might seem to me, was no more suitable a bride for a crown prince than a Sicilian laundress.
And yet I had been dreaming... Childish things! Wicked things! I saw that now, faced with the possibility of Princess Violante’s death.
The princess moaned, holding her enlarged belly. I gently helped her onto her bed and plumped the pillows for her to lean against. She looked around at her ladies-in-waiting and the three mid-wives who had accompanied us into this room. She smiled graciously as though she was holding court. She was not a strong woman, but she was never a coward.
I laid the little bag of herbs I had brought with me on a table in the corner. I thought no one had noticed, I did not want to worry the princess, but when I returned to her side she nodded at them and murmured, “Thank you, Philippa. Whatever happens, you have been good to me.”
I flushed. I had not been good to her. I had flirted with her husband, and tricked her into thinking Charles had a fever so I could cure it, and lied to her about seeing her future. I had imagined she might die, and I had been secretly glad for just a moment, thinking Prince Robert might turn to me. That moment of gladness shamed me more than anything I have ever done.
I straightened my back and raised my chin and swore to myself that I would do whatever I had to, to bring Princess Violante safely out of this room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
March 8, 1346
Queen Joanna’s Court, Naples
We have chosen to sit in the queen’s council chamber, my son Robert and I, Charles of Artois with his son Bertrand, and all of Joanna’s councilors who are still here in Castle Nuovo. I would prefer to stand in the courtyard and hear more quickly the news from the messengers dashing through the city to keep us updated, but it would make us appear weak and frightened to stand so desperately waiting for news.
We are weak and frightened. These councilors, who once looked to me for wisdom and leadership, now listen to no one but argue endlessly among themselves. And I, who so often brought them to order for Joanna, and could still do so, instead sit numb with dread.
Queen Joanna’s absence has been kept secret—she left in the night, her face hidden by the hood of her cape—but secrets have a way of being found out. I suspect the guards are already wondering why they have not seen Queen Joanna in her presence chamber. Her lack of visible presence here could be enough to embolden her citizens to revolt.
We hear boots bounding up the stairway, a rattle at the outer door. All argument ends abruptly. We wait, frozen in our seats, for the latest news. When the door of the council chamber bursts open the messenger sees twelve of the highest-ranking men and women in the kingdom, saving only the queen, all turned toward him, white-faced and silent.
Momentum has already carried him inside the room and down into a bow, but there he stays, immobilized. The queen’s top advisors stare round at each other, barely breathing in fear of what he will tell us. The young soldier’s face, pale with whatever he has just witnessed and must recount, grows paler still at the sight of our terror. His eyes dart round the room.
“The queen is resting,” I say, forcing a calm tone of authority into my voice. “We will pass on your report when she returns. Rise and tell us what you have seen and heard. Spare nothing.”
Robert nods at the two guards. With a casual gesture of his hand he bids them close the door and resume their stations, one outside, the other just inside the room. The kingdom is safe, its rightful government in control, our words and motions proclaim. The rest of the councilors straighten, breathe, take a gulp of wine, but no one speaks, no one’s eyes move from the young man whose message is all we care about right now.
“The citizens have been incited to a frenzy. I have heard they intend to storm the castle.”
The young man’s words are greeted with gasps and exclamations of dismay around our table. Robert snaps his fingers at the guard just inside the room. “Tell the master of the guards to take up the drawbridge, to close the outer doors and bar them at once! And double the guards on the walls. Tell him just to watch for now, but to put his men on alert. And inform the mercenaries to be ready.” He turns back to the messenger as the guard hurries out. “Now, tell us exactly what you saw and heard.”
I regain my courage in that moment. My son’s command, his steady self-control, his leadership all fill me with pride. This is what he must be like in battle, I tell myself. And then the soldier begins his report.
“When I arrived, they had dragged Lord Raymond up onto a platform in front of Santa Chiara.”
I nod to myself. So everyone will see the cathedral behind them, a silent ally to their evil acts.
“A notary stood beside him, reading his testimony aloud for everyone to hear—”
“Who else was on the platform?” Robert interrupts. The Count of Terlizzi frowns at my son, impatient to hear the testimony, the names Raymond gave them. But Charles of Artois nods. We need these names too, the names of our enemies.
“Robert, Duke of Taranto, Hugo del Balzo, Charles, Duke of Durazzo and his two brothers—”
“The Duke of Taranto’s brother, Philip?” Charles of Artois interrupts.
“No, Lord Philip was not with them.”
Charles glances at my son. Louis of Taranto has told us his younger brother sides with him, and his mother also, Catherine of Valois, the matriarch of the Taranto family. Robert catches Charles of Artois’ look. His chin dips, a tiny gesture of agreement over these allies.
“The testimony,” Terlizzi says in a tight voice.
“He confessed to participating in the murder of Prince Andrew, and gave the
names of the others involved.”
I press my lips together, disgusted. Everyone knows Raymond was in bed at the time. Everyone with eyes must know his tongue had been cut out when he gave this false testimony. The councilors ignore my silent protest. It does not matter what is known, it only matters what is believed. “How many were in the square?” I ask.
“Hundreds. Perhaps thousands. They spilled out into every adjoining street.”
And they all believed this charade? I do not ask it aloud. The look on his face, horror and pity and fear as he stammers out his story makes it unnecessary. And guilt? Is it guilt that tints his cheeks and turns the corners of his mouth down? Did he, too, find the spectacle so persuasive that even now, in front of us, he finds himself wondering and cannot meet our eyes?
“The notary read the seneschal of the court’s testimony?” Robert asks.
“Yes, my Lord.” The young man nods.
“And who confirmed its accuracy?” the marshal of the realm asks, following my son’s lead.
“The prisoner.”
Robert looks at the young soldier coolly.
“The seneschal of the court, Lord Raymond,” the soldier quickly corrects himself. “He nodded after each name was called, for all to see.”
Terlizzi and Melizanno and a few others around the table groan.
Rubbish! I am filled with rage. Never! Never in this life would Raymond convict the innocent. And never would he convict his own family, innocent or not.
“He was being tortured,” Robert says.
“Yes, my Lord. They had a pail of hot coals and a pincer on the platform. After each name was called...” the young man trails off, possibly remembering Robert and I are this “prisoner’s” family.
“They applied the burning pincers to his body,” I finish grimly. “And when they did, his head jerked up, and fell back to his chest.”
“Yes!” the soldier nods. His eyes widen. “He...he was not nodding.”
“No.” I let my scorn be heard in my voice.
“The names,” Nicholas of Melizanno says. “Whose names did he give?” There is an edge of panic to his voice. I have no doubt that he, at least, is guilty of the crime my sons have been accused of.
The young soldier glances at my son. Robert nods. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and takes a breath before continuing: “Lord Robert, Count of Eboli and grand seneschal of the kingdom.” His eyes flick toward me and quickly away. “Lady Philippa, advisor to Her Majesty the Queen. Lord Charles of Artois. Lord Bertrand of Artois...”
I look around the room. Charles of Artois left a short while ago, after the messenger told us the names of those involved in this heinous inquisition. Now his son Bertrand quietly leaves.
“Lady Sancia, Countess of Marcone...”
Sancia? What is Sancia to them? A young mother, one of Joanna’s ladies-in-waiting. How can she be in their way, she has no power at court! I am sick with anger. It is her background they despise, her rise from what they see as the basest of breeding to Countess of Marcone and friend of the queen. That someone of her origins should be greeted at court as their equal infuriates them. She puts on no airs, her parents have taught her the need for humility, but she is what she is. I have fought them all my life, these and others like them, with the subtle power of the courtier. They care only for appearance and bloodline, not intelligence and ability. Oh, give me a sword and a strong male body and I would cut them down myself!
I should have ordered Joanna to take Sancia with her! I should have confronted Louis! I did not know Sancia had been named an accomplice. Did he?
“The Count of Terlizzi, Marshal of the Realm,” the soldier continues, “Nicholas of Melizanno...”
Everyone in this room is named, and several others elsewhere in the castle. Robert of Taranto wants Joanna friendless and alone when he marries her, with no one to support or advise her but him. Charles of Durazzo would add her name to the list if he could, and thus make way for his wife, Joanna’s younger sister Maria, to take the throne. And Hugo del Balzo? That one simply enjoys torture and murder for its own sake, and the more bodies the better. He is enjoying his role of investigating Andrew’s murderers. God keep us from falling into his hands.
As Raymond has. I shudder with grief.
Robert sends the young soldier to the kitchen to eat and rest, and tells him to have the cook send platters of food to us.
When the door opens we hear a distant clamor outside the castle. It rises as we listen, cries and shouts and chanting. We hear the sound of pounding boots below as guards rush to reinforce the walls. In no time there is a crowd of furious citizens raging right outside the castle walls!
“Stop!” Roberts cries when a number of councilors leap up. “Do not let them see you at the windows. Our soldiers will take care of them, along with Lord Louis’ mercenaries. We are well-defended. Castle Nuovo cannot be breached.”
The assault continues into the night. We eat little, huddled and frightened in our absent queen’s chambers while our own citizens, crazed with bloodlust and lies, battle against foreign mercenaries for the privilege of butchering us. The messengers who bring us reports look haunted—civil war is an ugly thing, painting hideous grimaces onto familiar faces—but they do not look afraid. Spears and daggers in the hands of shopkeepers are no match for trained soldiers shooting crossbows and pouring rocks, tiles, boiling oil, and whatever other ballistics come to hand down on them from the castle walls. Inevitably a messenger comes to tell us the throng has withdrawn.
Withdrawn but not dispersed. They surround Castle Nuovo and there they stay, out of range of our soldiers’ arrows, waiting for hunger and thirst to do what they cannot.
“We are at siege!” Nicholas of Melizzano gasps when we are informed of this development. He flops back into his chair panting, his face so pale I expect him to faint like a woman.
Robert stands, motioning to the marshal of the realm to come with him.
“Where are you going?” Nicholas cries, his voice sharp with fear. As if my son would desert us.
“Wait here,” Robert says.
I glance at him and receive a barely perceptible nod. While he is gone I rise stiffly and go into Joanna’s presence chamber. There is nothing to be done. No amount of discussion will solve this, and the chairs are more comfortable here. Sancia comes to sit beside me.
“You have heard?”
She nods.
“It was all show. He told them nothing.”
“I know he would never name me. Name any of us.” She wipes her eyes, takes a deep breath. “Maybe Melizanno.”
I chuckle. It comes out forced and we fall silent. I am so weary with worry my eyes close.
When Robert returns, his face is grim. “Louis’ mercenaries were already there, looting the kitchen supplies and getting drunk. I have locked up as much as I could.”
“They are looting the castle.” I have been hearing noises outside the queen’s rooms for a while now, drunken voices, the crash of things breaking.
“I cannot stop them. There are too many.” His face looks anguished. “The queen’s guard, at least, is loyal. They will not let them in here, or in the wardrobe room. And the royal jewels are well-guarded...”
“You have done all you could. Queen Joanna should be here. Or Louis.”
“We can last several days. It is an undisciplined mob of citizens, not a well-trained army. They will come to their senses soon.”
Louis’ mercenaries roam the castle like pirates looking for plunder. How long will their interest in protecting us last when supplies become scarce? They are not defending their own castle against a foreign invader. Their lives are not in danger if the walls are breached. This enemy does not want the castle or its defenders; they only want us.
We wait to see which undisciplined mob will tire of the game first.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Autumn, 1299
Court of King Charles II, Naples
Princess Violante’s infant, a tiny gir
l, died at birth. Violante nearly followed her but I would not allow it. I had the midwives pack her opening with a poultice of sage leaves to staunch the bleeding. I fed her teas of comfrey root and motherwort to close her womb, valerian and yarrow to help her rest, fennel to prevent jaundice and burdock and vervain to lower her fever. I ordered hot broths and organ meats from the kitchen and forced her to swallow them. I would have made her eat the afterbirth, my mother did that once with a woman who was dying, but at court I would be branded a witch for something so bizarre. The court physicians watched my every move for something they could object to, but who could protest against teas and broth?
When she asked for her baby I told her the infant was sleeping, that she could hold her when she was stronger. I knew she would hate me later for this lie, but I also knew she would die without it. I made her ladies-in-waiting leave the room with their tear-stained faces, and ordered the court physicians to maintain my falsehood or I would tell Prince Robert they had let his wife die. Outraged, they demanded I leave the room. But I am my mother’s daughter; I drew myself up to my full height and looked them straight in the eyes and said nothing. And that put an end to that.
When Violante was strong enough to learn the truth, I was the one who told her. I also told her that Louis and Charles needed their mother, Prince Robert needed a wife, and Naples needed its future queen—in that order. Prince Robert might find another wife and Naples another queen, but no one else could ever be Louis’ and Charles’ mother. I told her that bluntly, in all its harsh kindness, and she nodded because I spoke true. She asked me about my son and I told her everything I remembered, speaking about him as though he were dead, for dead to me he was. We mourned her daughter and my Antonio together in that dark room while she waited for her bleeding to stop. Then we walked out, her holding my arm as tightly as when we walked in, as full of sorrow as she had then been full of fear. I brought her out as I had promised myself I would, but it was a different woman who left that room with me.
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