Behind us the best man cleared his throat. Raymond frowned, his eyes slightly narrowed as if in warning. He would keep me imprisoned here, married or not. These were his friends, here to see his will done. To see King Charles’ will done. This was none of my doing, surely God would know. With that thought my breath returned. I nodded.
“Speak up,” the priest hissed.
“I consent.”
***
I sat silently beside my husband at the head table, hidden behind my veil. Raymond’s seed pearls fell over my face like teardrops. Would that I could weep. Would that I could mourn. Whether or not the choice was mine, I had sold my soul this day.
Despite the delicacies of pastry and meats offered to me, I ate nothing. I stared at the morsels Raymond had placed on my trencher, resisting the urge to hurl them in his face. I had imagined a life at court free of any master but those I served. If I had to marry, may God forgive my sin, why not a wealthy, well-connected merchant or the third son of a Duke, instead of this shameful marriage that made me a mockery to those who had recently envied my rise. Despite its fickle nature, Fortune was not a woman. Fortune was a man, a blind, arrogant man playing with the lives of others, ignorant of the damage he does. I had never had a choice. The decisions had been made for me. Let the blame rest on their immortal souls!
But I chose to come here. For the sake of a yellow dress and the golden hair of a prince, I chose to leave my home where I had no choices left. I had had a choice today—a choice between my soul and my body. Had I confessed, it would have meant death. Whether from a swift punishment for lying to the prince and princess, and in effect to King Charles himself, or from being banished and left to starve on the streets. Swift or slow, it would have been death to admit to my lie.
I was no saint. A woman who abandons her child is not a saint. I had already chosen this life over the next; how many more times would I be called to do so? Was God thick?
My hand shifted involuntarily to cross myself at this sacrilegious thought, but perversely I held it still.
Raymond leaned toward me and said something. I heard his voice, I turned and saw his eyes anticipating my response, but I could not make meaning of the words. A jumble of sounds, indistinguishable from the babble of noise around me.
The musician had come forward—Violante’s musician. He bowed to Raymond and then to me. His eyes were courteously lowered, but his lips twisted slightly, the corners turned down. He put his bow to his instrument and began to sing a song I had not heard before. I realized, with disbelief, that he had composed it for our wedding. I listened in outrage as he extolled Raymond’s virtues and manly vigor, and predicted great victories in battle with Raymond leading the charge! But it was all exaggerated, verging on the ridiculous despite his solemn expression as he sang. Nor was I pleased when his verses turned on me, claiming for me a preposterous degree of modesty, patience, and tenderness, qualities I had never possessed. Then he sang of my Christian virtue.
The sardonic manner underlying his praise stirred something deep in me. I felt it as a dark pressure behind my eyes, a tightness in my chest, a fist gripping my throat. I pressed my lips together for fear it would spew out like vomit if I let it. I dared not speak, even to order him silent, for if I spoke I would scream. I gripped the side of the table, imagining myself rising from my seat and throwing the table over. I saw myself grabbing my chair and bringing it down on my new husband’s head, gripping a broken wooden leg and attacking the smirking priest who had asked whether anyone—whether I—dared raise an objection to this marriage, and then carrying on as though he did not see my soul on fire before him.
I found myself shaking. My husband’s eyebrows rose. He lay his hand on mine. I pulled my hand away and clasped both hands in my lap, gripping my skirts until at last the song ended. A burst of applause broke out. Did no one else hear the jongleur’s mockery? Perhaps only I, for I knew him from Violante’s court and had heard him sing sincerely. With an effort I steadied myself and governed my thoughts. He was right. I had chosen life, not virtue.
I had chosen life!
I reached for a meat pasty lying on my trencher and raised it to my mouth. It melted on my tongue, but to me it was as dry and tasteless as church bread. I forced myself to swallow it, a small communion to the wicked deity who made us love this life.
Raymond smiled. I caught it at the corner of my eye, but I had smiled and laughed and pretended to happiness for months now; there was no false happiness left in me. I tried to watch the jester juggling knives and cups, but it was all I could do to sit in my chair and hold my head up. I longed to leave, yet I dreaded the fall of night. Raymond would lead me to his bed... I shuddered and took up my wine cup to stop my thoughts, but the taste of the wine in my mouth revolted me. I swallowed with difficulty and set my cup down.
When the women—wives and daughters of Raymond’s guests—came to accompany me upstairs, I let them lead me away. I had no strength to resist, no will to object. The anger had burned out of me. We entered the bedroom. The walls were painted a light blue adorned with yellow flowers and fluttering birds. Blue for purity and yellow... yellow for the dress and the yellow hair that had seduced me to come to this land. Yellow birds and flowers to remind me of the sin that stained my soul. I stood silent and cold while they undressed me. They opened a trunk at the bottom of the bed and lifted from it a long lacey night dress. I barely looked as they exclaimed over it, admiring the fine lacework, the threads of silver, like moonbeams embroidered onto it. I felt only the shifting of air as it floated over my head and down around me. I wanted the women gone. I wanted silence, not the awkward falling away of their voices as I failed to respond. Raymond would come when they left, but for a few moments between their exit and his arrival, I would be alone. How I longed to be alone.
At last they withdrew. I closed my eyes, waiting until I heard the door close before I got out of the bed they had tucked me into. I walked, stiff and straight with the last of my willpower, to a chair by the fire. Falling into it, I pulled up my knees and curled into a ball and held myself there, silent and still. Alone and silent and still.
I did not look up when the door opened. I heard the raucous noise of revelers making bawdy suggestions for our wedding night, and then the door closed again. I heard Raymond walk across the room, felt him stop beside me. He spoke, he sat in the chair beside mine, he offered me wine from the jug on the table between our chairs, and spoke again. I ignored him, not even looking up. But I had made my choice. When he rose and put his arms around me, I made no protest. He lifted me as though I was a child and lay me on the bed and pulled a cover over me. I shivered under the warmth of it, only now feeling the coldness of the room. I heard him walk around the bed, felt it shift as he climbed onto the other side. I held myself still, waiting for him to demand his rights.
I felt his hand on my forehead, stroking the hair back from my face, as gentle as my mother’s touch. Then the hand withdrew, the bed moved as he rolled over. I heard a soft exhale of air and the lamp flame flickered out.
I waited in the darkness for him to turn to me. I trembled, for I had not been with a man in many years, and Guilio was old and quickly satisfied. It had hurt, the first time Guilio took me. Raymond was a much bigger man than Guilio.
I waited in the dark for him to turn over again, thinking of all the times I had been hurt, reminding myself how quickly the hurt faded. Raymond would not intentionally hurt me, not tonight. He was not angry with me. He had been laughing at our wedding feast. He had a huge laugh. For all that he had been through since he was stolen from his home, and all the slights he bore because of his skin color, he had a laugh that was pure happiness.
I waited in the darkness for him, and realized I was no longer shivering. How long did it take for two people lying absolutely still to warm a bed in a cold room? Was he waiting for me to do something? Say something? I turned my head a little to look at him. He lay very still.
If I was going to be hurt, I might as well ge
t it over with and leave myself some time to sleep. Did he expect me to stay up all night until he was ready? How long did it take for a man to get ready? Guilio certainly had not put this much time into it.
“Raymond?” I whispered, somewhat sharply. I was not ready to call him ‘husband’ yet.
I waited in the darkness for him to answer, and he did, with a low, deep snore.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
March 13, 1346
Queen Joanna’s Court, Naples
No one talks as we descend the castle stairway. I am filled with a sense of dread that increases with every step I take. I am an old woman. I have lived long and well. The thought of death does not frighten me as it did when I was young. It is the thought of all the slow and dreadful ways I might die that fills me with terror. Each step downward feels like a descent into hell.
And yet I would walk toward it willingly if only I could find a way to deliver my sons and my granddaughter into safety. Why did I not insist that Sancia leave when I sent my sons’ wives and families out of the city?
I thought we would all be safe here. Castle Nuovo is impregnable. And where in Christendom would Robert and Sancia find safety after their names had been written on del Balzo’s hideous list? Pope Clement VI has already condemned our family once.
Some of the councilors tremble as they walk. Nicholas of Melizzano moans under his breath, I hear the terrified sound just behind me. I glance at Robert, walking with Sancia on his arm, their backs straight despite Sancia’s extended belly, their eyes steady, staring straight ahead. I am filled with a fierce pride, followed by a tenderness that almost makes me weep. I look away, blinking, and continue downward with the cool dignity that has marked my life. Let those who would harm us tremble, for they endanger their souls with the sin of envy.
The master of the guard awaits us in the front hall at the base of the stairway. A half-dozen palace guards stand by him, ready to escort us outside to where del Balzo is waiting. They look anywhere but at us.
Louis’ mercenaries lounge about the room. Their insolence is a show; they are fully armed, waiting here to make sure the Dukes of Taranto and Durazzo keep their word and do not order their men to storm the castle when the doors open to cast us out. We are all aware that Louis and the bulk of his mercenaries have been taking a beating while we have been locked in the castle. The men he left here can expect no help from them if these disloyal dukes renege on their agreement. Nor can we, the hostages to del Balzo’s dubious honor. It is one of the reasons I have found the terms of our surrender disturbingly generous.
I descend the last step to stand beside the master of the guard. His eyes are troubled, his mouth turned downward. Perhaps he, too, is having second thoughts about the speed of the negotiations. When he came to us, his face wide with relief, to tell us the terms of our surrender, he accepted our praise humbly, satisfied with himself. Del Balzo, Charles of Durazzo, and Robert of Taranto had all pledged that we would be taken to Castle dell’Ovo directly, and remain there in safety for the chief justice of the kingdom to examine. He would investigate the charges against each of us, not these three false men.
“You have done well by us,” I murmur. “Whatever follows is not on you.” He nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows his emotion. I remember when he came to court as a boy, his older cousin’s page.
The castle doors open slowly. We stand in their shadow, unmoving, until my son draws in his breath and leads us out. It is a dull day, the sun hidden behind gray clouds. A cold wind blows off the sea, making me shiver. This is the third time I have been cast out of Castle Nuovo. Will I ever enter it again? The wind on my face tastes of salt and grief. I am reminded of Lot’s wife, looking over her shoulder as she fled her home for an uncertain future. I do not look back.
The throng surrounding Castle Nuovo has doubled in number. It seems all of Naples has come to watch our surrender. Their shouts of condemnation and brutal suggestions for our punishment assault our ears as we walk out through the castle doors.
“We will never reach Castle dell’Ovo alive!” Nicholas hisses, giving voice to all our fears.
“That foul mob will not touch you,” the master of the guard assures us. “You will be taken down the coast to Castle dell’Ovo by sea, in Hugo del Balzo’s own galley.”
There are murmurs and sighs of relief from the others, but I do not share them. I have never trusted del Balzo. Queen Joanna’s presence was all that kept him in line. Robert of Taranto was arrogant and cruel even as a boy, and Charles of Durazzo... I would have trusted him once despite his ambition, but years of frustration as Joanna overlooked him, promoting and rewarding others instead, have made him bitter and angry. Together these three men have goaded each other and all of Naples into this thinly-disguised rebellion against their rightful monarch.
And we are caught in the middle of it. They dare not touch a queen anointed by God and the Pope, but we, her closest advisors and councilors, whom she has trusted and rewarded over them time and again, we have become the objects of their envy and spite. Especially my son and granddaughter, their dark skin standing out amid the olive complexions around them, proclaiming them base-born intruders in this royal court.
The master of the guard, a brave man, steps ahead of us to where del Balzo and the two dukes wait with their men. “I entrust these noblemen and ladies to your care under the terms of our agreement for their surrender,” he says firmly. Robert of Taranto inclines his head, stone-faced. Del Balzo smiles.
The threats and jeers of the crowd have increased in volume. We walk without speaking to the sea, huddled together for protection, glad of del Balzo’s armed soldiers surrounding us. As we board the rowboats that will take us to his galley, waiting as close as it can come to the rocky shoreline, I see my companions’ shoulders slump with relief. Del Balzo and the Dukes of Taranto and Durazzo have kept their word: we have not been turned over to the mob despite their shouts for immediate justice. Castle dell’Ovo is only a half-mile up the coast, we will soon be there and at least temporarily safe.
We set sail, passing beyond the grounds of Castle Nuovo toward Castle dell’Ovo. The crowd, seeing us escaping on the galley, becomes more enraged. They rush to the shore where those in front hurtle rocks and shells at us, but we are beyond their reach. Nicholas of Melizzano smiles at the Count of Terlizzi as the sun breaks through the clouds. I put my arm around my granddaughter and look away from the raging faces of my fellow citizens, into the sinister whisper of the wind and the salt spray of the waves slapping at our ship.
Two of Hugo’s men grab my son Robert’s arms and haul him roughly toward the front of the ship. Before I can reach for him others grab my arms, and Sancia’s, and drag us after him. The galley slows to a stop. An anchor is thrown overboard. I look for my son and cry out in horror. He is being strapped to a large rack at the front of the galley, in clear view of the shore and the watching crowd, who roar their approval.
“Is this the way you keep your word?” I demand of Hugo del Balzo. He says nothing, watching calmly as his men wind the lever extending the rack. Robert’s face is beaded with sweat, his eyes closed in pain, but he presses his lips together, bearing it silently.
“It is,” del Balzo answers me at last. “Did I not promise to prevent the citizens from storming Castle Nuovo in their righteous anger? I am drawing them away by providing an alternative.” He looks at me, his eyes glittering. “They must be satisfied, one way or another.”
“That is what you tell yourself you are doing? Satisfying them?”
“Not me,” he says, with a smile that chills my blood. “You and your son and your granddaughter.” He nods at one of the soldiers, who immediately pulls his knife from its sheath. Sancia screams as the sharp blade slices through the lacing of her kirtle. A second thrust cuts the neck of her undershift and tears down through the fabric. She grabs for the falling garments, holding them to her chest, but the men peel her hands away and tear the fine cloth off her. Weeping she stands naked and exposed,
her pregnancy making her shame all the greater.
I glare at del Balzo but before I can speak the point of a blade cuts down my back and with a ripping of cloth my own garments are torn away.
A cheer rises from the beach at the sight of our humiliation. I feel the hot rush of shame, the urge to cover myself. Then I look at my beautiful granddaughter. I straighten my back and raise my head and stare silently at the crowd on the beach, daring them to look at us, an innocent young wife pregnant with her unborn child and an old woman the age of their grandmothers. The shame is theirs.
The frenzy on the beach decreases. Del Balzo frowns. My stalwart defiance and Robert’s silence do not make a good show. No matter how they stretch the rack, my son will not scream.
“Take him off and flog him,” del Balzo snaps. “Lash him to the mast where they will see him bleed.”
His men untie Robert’s arms and legs and lift him off the rack. As they carry him to the mast del Balzo points to Sancia: “Her next.”
I promised myself no matter what they did to me, I would remain silent and stoic like my courageous son. Let our courage and endurance illuminate his baseness and spoil the pleasure of those watching. But when he points to Sancia and utters those words my resolve disappears.
“No!” I cry, struggling against my captors, my desperation so great I break free and lunge toward him screaming every invective I know, as vulgar as a peasant. His men grab me again before I can reach him. He stands there smiling as Sancia is dragged to the rack. Robert roars behind me, but his hands have already been tied to the mast. He swings his feet wildly and hits one of his guards in the knee, taking him down. Two others leap to secure his ankles to the mast.
“My baby!” Sancia shrieks, struggling as they heave her onto the vile contraption. “For the love of God have mercy on an unborn child!”
The younger of the pair holding her hesitates, looking to del Balzo. Receiving a glare from his master he pulls her arm upward and shackles her wrist to the top of the rack. Her other arm is already secured. Poor Sancia arches her back, kicking her feet in a vain attempt to prevent them from stretching her, crying all the time for mercy on her innocent babe.
The Girl Who Tempted Fortune Page 17