The Girl Who Tempted Fortune

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  March 11, 1346

  Queen Joanna’s Court, Naples

  On the second day of the siege we awaken to see the mob outside our castle walls has dwindled. Those who remain stand there sullenly, their enthusiasm waning. But at mid-morning they suddenly recover, renewing the vigor of their jeers and curses as more and more people join them. We gather at the windows to see why. My son Raymond is being half-dragged, half-carried through the crowd. I wince at the sight of the good citizens of Naples hurtling mud, stones, and spittle at him as he passes.

  He is thrown to the ground in front of the gate, just beyond reach of the arrows of our guards stationed in the castle turrets and along the walls. In a loud voice del Balzo proclaims Raymond guilty of regicide by his own confession. My son is laid out on a rack of hot coals. He is prodded with red-tipped iron spikes. He screams in anguish while I watch helplessly. The terrible smell of my son’s roasting flesh fills the air.

  I run to the privy and am violently ill. When I emerge Sancia is weeping in the chair where her Uncle Robert thrust her after pulling her away from the window. “Is he dead?” she sobs.

  “Pray God he is free of this world,” I cry.

  Robert shudders. “He was still... moving when they carried him away.” He presses his lips tightly together.

  They do not want him dead yet. A swell of dizziness overtakes me. I may be ill again. I clench my teeth and sink onto the chair beside Sancia’s. “You did not see?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Good.” I thank God I am old and do not have many years left, for I will see my Raymond’s burning body as long as I may live. I close my eyes. Without intending to, I rock in my chair. The weight of an arm around my shoulder stops me. I look up at Robert, standing beside my chair. His cheeks are damp. The little brother who followed him everywhere, who wanted to be just like him, is beyond his protection now. I stand and fold him into my arms, this hardened soldier, this skillful royal advisor, this grand seneschal of the Kingdom of Naples—my weeping son.

  If they did not mean to kill Raymond, why do this? A threat? A show of power? If so, it has backfired, for the councilors’ expressions are grim. They will be more determined than ever not to be captured.

  “It was not meant for us,” Robert murmurs, divining my thoughts. He gently moves against my embrace. I let him go reluctantly.

  “For the queen?” I ask. But the queen has not been seen. They torture her man in front of her castle, the seneschal of her court, and she does nothing, says nothing? Does not even appear? They will guess now that she is not here. They will believe she has abandoned us to them. I glance at Robert. He is watching the royal guards stationed with us. They look around, frowning and uncertain, avoiding our eyes. Fear grips me. “If they abandon us...”

  “Not for the queen,” Robert says. “They did this for the people of Naples.”

  I look out the window from where I stand, loath to move any closer. “Ah...” I nod.

  A siege is long and dull. The common people will not remain vigilant for days while nothing happens. They have stores to mind, farms to tend, children to provide for, wives demanding they return home. They want to put their feet up in the evening. A righteous anger, however hot, cannot compete with a hot dinner. Not day after day.

  Now, with the scent of fresh blood in their nostrils, they are passionate again. The siege has revived. No food or drink will get into this castle. My son was tortured because the mob had thinned; a piece of fresh meat to keep the dogs attentive.

  I clench my hands until my nails dig into my fists. This is no spontaneous uprising of the citizens of Naples. It has all been staged by Robert of Taranto and Charles of Durazzo. Most of these “honest citizens” are their vassals, pressed into service for their lords. During the day their numbers swell as the townspeople join them, hoping for another show to break the routine of their lives, convinced the cause is noble. After all, it has been sanctioned by the church.

  I am certain I will never sleep again, and do not go to my bed, but when the day finally wanes and the shadows lengthen across the room my eyelids close, my head lolls against the back of the armchair.

  ***

  I am standing in the market when the church bells begin to ring. Every church bell in all of Naples. I look up, alarmed. On every face I see the same expression. Someone has died. People begin to cross themselves. They drop whatever purchase they were considering and hurry toward the Basilica San Lorenzo Maggiore. I see them whispering Holy Mary’s name and praying for King Charles as I run to the church with them. “Not Prince Robert!” I whisper. “Holy Mary Mother of God, anyone but Prince Robert.”

  All around me people are weeping, “He is dead! The prince is dead!”

  But it is not Prince Robert. It is ten-year-old Prince Louis, dead of a hunting accident. I fall to my knees on the steps of the church at the priest’s words. Louis! Dear little golden-haired boy who played hide-and-find in the garden with me!

  “Papa will always find you, Louis,” Robert had promised him. No one will find him now; he is lost to us all forever. I weep on my knees on the steps of the Basilica.

  “Louis,” I sob...

  “Louis!” My own voice startles me. I struggle half-way between sleep and waking.

  “Death to all traitors!”

  Traitors? My eyes fly open.

  Loud shouts and the clash of weapons can be heard through our window as Louis of Taranto’s mercenaries engage in skirmishes with Robert’s and Charles’ men.

  “They are coming to rescue us, Grandmother!” Sancia cries, standing at the window. “Louis of Taranto is coming for us!”

  I try to collect my thoughts, to understand who has died. It cannot be little Prince Louis. He died years ago, in the summer of 1310...

  “No! Do not leave! Keep fighting!” Nicholas of Melizzano shouts at the window. The others in the room slowly grow quiet.

  My son Robert comes over to me. “They have deserted us,” he says bitterly.

  I nod, having returned to the present. It is not little Prince Louis who is dying now, but my own son. And we are all in danger of sharing his fate. Our would-be rescuers have withdrawn. Joanna is not inside the castle waiting for rescue; Louis of Taranto has nothing to gain by expending his forces for us. And now our enemies know it, for he would never withdraw otherwise.

  “Have extra guards placed on all of our chambers at night,” I tell him. “The queen’s guards, not the mercenaries.”

  “I have already given the order.” He smiles grimly.

  “Who is tasting our food? Did the queen’s taster go with her?”

  Robert nods. “A good thought,” he says. “I will see to it.”

  I slump back into my chair when he has left, closing my eyes. I am weary from my sleep being broken by nightmares, current ones and those from the past, and by my fellow councilors’ constant need for reassurance. But I am not dozing. I am alert, listening to everyone in the room. They are still a little intimidated by me, even my own son. I have been a powerful royal adviser since before most of them were born. They speak more freely when they think I will not hear. I listen to every voice, to its timbre and tone, judging the steadfastness of those here with me.

  All that stands between us and the bloodthirsty mob outside is the loyalty of the queen’s guard and Louis’ mercenaries. And all that holds them at their post is the fact that we are the queen’s council.

  Are we the queen’s councilors still, when she has left us to the wolves at her gate and sought counsel elsewhere? Sooner or later they will ask themselves this, and it will be sooner if they see any doubt in us.

  How can we not doubt? How can we not wonder if she has forgotten us? I see it in the haunted eyes and drawn faces of those around me. I wonder myself at her silence. But I know my Joanna. She is torn up about us and full of indecision. She will not abandon us. But she has no council now, save Louis, and Louis will not be counseling her to save us. He has a war to win, a
war that is going badly. And we are not an asset.

  I do not say any of this, not even to my son Robert. I straighten my back and hold my head high as though I know something they do not. I will not allow a word to be said against Queen Joanna. I listen to the voices of her council for any hint of doubt creeping in. I listen to hear who are still strong in the confidence of their position, and who might be near to breaking. I note who needs a quiet reminder that we will prevail because we are the head of the queen’s court, and who needs a sharp reminder to maintain the dignity of their position. I listen to what they say when their voices tremble, to what they particularly fear, so I can dispel it with logic or scorn, whichever will work, when we talk together in the council room. Robert follows my lead. He is counting on me to give him direction in this as I count on him to emphasize my messages. The act must continue as long as necessary. No, I will not fool myself: as long as possible. Until we have another choice to make.

  Between us we keep the councilors steadfast, or at least maintaining the appearance of being so, and the palace troops stand by their queen’s councilors. But Louis’ mercenaries are another thing. They are not loyal to the queen of Naples or to her council. They are loyal to the man who pays them, and he is not here. Even if he were, they are loyal when it suits them. This dreary, inactive, soul-destroying siege does not suit them. By the third day the mercenaries, realizing they are expendable and having looted as much from the castle as they can, announce that they cannot fight without food and ale. After three days of their gorging, both of these are growing sparse.

  On the afternoon of the third day Robert calls Joanna’s councilors into the privy chamber and closes the door. He slumps in his chair looking weary, defeated. I have never seen him this way before. He looks around the room slowly. There are fourteen of us now. Charles of Artois and his son Bertrand have not been seen for days; they must have slipped away before the mob arrived. I wish them well. At Robert’s and my insistence we have admitted to our meetings the four other people accused with us of Andrew’s murder. Sancia perches at the edge of her seat beside me, unconsciously holding her swelling abdomen as if her little hand could protect the infant she is carrying from what will come.

  “It is time to negotiate terms of surrender,” he tells us.

  “They will kill us all!” Nicolas of Melizzano cries shrilly.

  “The palace guards will continue to defend the castle even without the help of the mercenaries,” the Count of Terlizzi argues stoutly.

  “And die for their loyalty,” Robert replies. “And then we will be in no position to negotiate and they will certainly kill us all.” His statement is greeted first with silence, then a storm of argument.

  Prepare yourself!

  My great-grandmother’s prophetic voice rings in my head, a gale shaking the very foundations of the castle. I grab the table to steady myself. No one else appears physically shaken. Sancia alone notices my distress. “Are you dizzy, Grandmother Philippa?” she murmurs, her eyebrows puckered with concern.

  “Only tired,” I answer. She nods. None of us has slept much these three days.

  The prophecy is still echoing in my head. Surely my end is coming. How do I prepare myself for that? Joanna, or whoever will rule the Kingdom of Naples when all this has passed, will distribute my goods and property as she sees fit. The only decision left to me is how many others will face their end with me.

  “It is time to negotiate our surrender,” I say firmly, over the voices of those who are arguing that the guards have a duty to defend us, the castle is impregnable, that somehow, something will happen to rescue us if we can hold out. “Any other course of action will only enrage them further.”

  The room goes silent.

  “The master of the guard has offered to negotiate on our behalf,” Robert says. The others look at me. I nod. The master of the guard is a good man, he will do his best for us. At any rate, we have no choice but to trust him. Hugo del Balzo is a proud man, a self-righteous, arrogant man. He would not bargain with anyone accused of Andrew’s murder. Does a dog converse with the rabbit it intends to devour?

  Robert signals to the guard who opens the council room door. The master of the royal guard has been waiting outside for our decision. He enters with a crisp walk that is at odds with his troubled expression.

  “My Lords and Ladies.” He bows low. When he rises his face is flushed. I have known him since he was a youth. He is taking it to heart that he has failed to protect us, and failed to prevent the looting of his queen’s castle. This must be the worst day of his life. I hope it is, that there is nothing worse waiting for him, or any of us.

  I feel Sancia trembling beside me. She is not yet twenty, a half year younger than the queen. A child still, though she considers herself a woman. At the corner of my eye I see her straighten in her seat and raise her head. My heart twists at her youth and her innocent courage. Oh, let me bear the burden of the prophecy, let Fortune’s Wheel crush me, only me!

  “Do not release us to the mob outside,” Robert instructs our negotiator. “We will face trial before the chief justice of the kingdom, not before that rabble. We must be assured safe conduct to a prison befitting our rank—”

  “Castle dell’Ovo,” I interrupt. The master of the guard bows his head in agreement. Castle dell’Ovo is suitably provided with locked cells for noble prisoners. If he knows Joanna is at Castle dell’Ovo, making it the safest place in all Naples for us, he shows no sign of it.

  “I want their assurance that you and the palace guards,” Robert hesitates briefly, “and all the soldiers and servants within the castle will remain safe. We will leave, but none of their men may enter the castle and they will disperse the crowd when they have us.”

  “Thank you, my Lord. I assure you, I will do my best for you.” He bows himself out, wiping away the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  We watch from behind the curtains of the upper windows as the Dukes of Taranto and Durazzo, in company with del Balzo, ride up to the gates. The gates open to admit them, the master of the guard waiting just inside. I watch them dismount, their movements unhurried and confident. I cannot hear their words from here, and although I once could understand a conversation by watching the speakers’ lips, my eyesight is no longer what it was. I can only note the gestures, the appearance of argument, the arrogance in the movements and postures of these hard men, soldiers all, for whom death is a duty they owe the devil.

  Finally I see the master of the royal guard’s stance relax. His right hand, resting on the hilt of his sword, reaches forward to shake the hands of our enemies. In all, it has taken less than an hour, perhaps half an hour. He has not come up to discuss any counter offers with us. I frown, moving the drapes aside until I can clearly see the three men below me, poised like venomous spiders at the edge of the courtyard. What are they planning? They will not be satisfied until they have sucked us dry.

  Del Balzo looks up and sees me at the window. He smiles slowly, as patient as a spider waiting for the fly to land in its web.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  November, 1300

  Court of King Charles II, Naples

  I had been looking forward to my third Yuletide at the Neapolitan court. This time I would not be sitting in the nursery breast-feeding an infant. Even if I had no-one to give a present to, or who cared to give me one, there would be feasts and dances and music, archery and jousting tournaments, decorated ships taking elegantly-dressed nobles up and down the coast, troubadours and perhaps even a masque! I would not be a guest at these events, but I hoped I would be able to watch some of them while serving Princess Violante. Now I dreaded the festivities, for the nearer they got, the closer the time came for me to be married.

  Had I risked so much and travelled so far only to end up once again married to a man I despised? I would have been happier if I had stayed with Guilio! At least in Trapini I would not be endangering my immortal soul. Would it be bigamy if I married an infidel?

  Or something
worse?

  I searched for Raymond in the hallways, determined to convince him to stop this, but he now served in the King’s court while I stayed in the princess’s court. At last I ran into him on the servant’s stairs.

  He grinned broadly when he saw me, as if he imagined I would be happy to see him. I waved him urgently over to a landing where we could talk with some measure of privacy. As soon as we stopped there, he pulled me against him and kissed me!

  I shoved him away with a gasp and wiped my face, crying, “What are you doing?”

  “Kissing my affianced wife.” He grinned as though he had every right to do so.

  “I cannot marry you!” I had intended to use more diplomacy, but his astounding intimacy shocked me into bluntness. I glared up at him. I am a tall woman, used to looking men in the eye; he was the only man who had ever made me feel small.

  “Cannot? That is a hard word,” he said in his lilting accent. “I thought I could not survive the burning of my village. I thought I could not endure the galley prison on the pirate ship. I thought I could never be anything more than a kitchen slave for my first master,” he paused. “But he is dead, and I am here, Guard of the King’s Wardrobe, and soon to be a soldier proven in battle. As you see, I did everything I thought I could not.”

  “I will not marry you,” I hissed, unmoved by his tale of woe. I could tell one just as pitiable if I chose.

  “But you will. My master and your mistress have agreed.”

  “Keep your voice down!” I looked around. No one else was in the hall. “You must tell King Charles you do not want to marry me. Ask him to choose someone else for your wife.”

  “But I do want to marry you.” He looked me straight in the eye with a pleased smile. “I want to very much.”

  “You...” I choked on the sudden realization. “You asked for me!” I backed away from him.

  “I did.” His smile widened.

  “How dare you! I am not a prize!”