The torture continues until Bertrand del Balzo and his committee of jurists announce they have uncovered multiple plots against Andrew’s life, and confessions enough to condemn us all. We are uniformly divested of our titles, robbed of our lands and wealth, and sentenced to death. Our guard gleefully tells us the news as soon as it is made public.
My son Robert and the Count of Terlizzi are the first to be executed. From a small window in my cell I watch my son, bound in iron chains, being dragged across the courtyard and prodded up onto a prison cart. The guard attaches his wrists to the pole in the center of the prisoner’s cage on the wagon bed, forcing him to stand where all can see him. Terlizzi, similarly bound and nearly fainting with fear, is hoisted into a second cart. An executioner climbs up into each prison cart, hauling the tools of his trade: whips and knives, branding irons and a pail of red-hot coals. Already I can hear the howling of the crowds lined along the streets of Naples, waiting with their hands full of stones and rotting fruit to throw at the prisoners while the executioners flay and burn them. This gruesome parade will wind all through Naples before they reach the place where they will be executed.
“They are being taken to the beach outside Castle dell’Ovo, where a great pyre has been built on which to burn them,” our guard gloats. He rubs his hands imagining it, which is all he can do since he must stay to guard our prison and will miss all the fun.
I watch the carts leave, Terlizzi already screaming while my Robert endures his approaching death with grim stoicism. He looks up at the castle wall just before they pass out of sight. I hope he sees the face of one who loves him behind the iron bars of my tiny window before he plunges into the sick mass of hatred that Naples has become.
When he is gone Sancia falls against my shoulder, sobbing. I hold her, staring dry-eyed out the window, hanging on to the last sight of my son. I do not allow myself to weep, for if I once begin, I fear I will never stop.
I am denied even the comfort of knowing he had a Christian burial. We learn that the bodies were pulled half-burned from the pyre, the hearts and lungs torn out and eaten, and the rest cut into pieces and dragged by hooks through the mud and sewers of Naples. When their flesh was gone, the bones were taken by craftsmen to form dice and knife handles. “And that will teach the black-skinned son of a slave to aspire above his station,” our guard finishes his account with a satisfied smirk. “And to conspire against a royal prince,” he adds as though it were an afterthought.
A week later my younger son Raymond and Nicholas of Melizzano suffer the same ignoble death and mutilation of their remains.
My husband Raymond, dead five years now of a fever, was buried in the church near our home, after a magnificent ceremony with almost regal rites. His position as royal seneschal of the kingdom was given to his son. And now that son, and his brother, the seneschal of the court, are fallen so low they are not even given the meanest Christian burial. It is the poison of envy and prejudice that has done this.
Nightmares plague me day and night until I no longer know what is real and what is only in my mind.
Raymond comes to me, as young and confident as the day I first saw him, when he looked across his kitchen at me and smiled the way a man smiles when he sees something he wants.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him. “Have they accused you, also?”
“Grandmother, I have been here all along,” Sancia says. I feel her unwind the bandage and examine the burns on the tender sole of my foot. I wince as she pours a little wine upon it, a trick I taught her to avoid infection, but otherwise I ignore her, gazing at my Raymond.
“They cannot accuse me,” he says, laughing. “I have escaped them!”
“I lost it all,” I tell him. “Everything we built together. Every manor and castle, and all our lands. All our titles, all our money, all my jewels and dresses. Even our home is gone, taken from me...” Tears leak from my eyes. I have never allowed myself to weep in front of him, but I am old and weak now and full of pain. I cannot stop my tears.
“Do not fret, Grandmother.” Sancia murmurs, tying the bandage again. She begins examining the wounds on my arms and legs, pouring a few drops of the precious wine onto the worst ones. We used up our herbs and medicines long ago.
“What did I tell you? For people like us there are only two places in society: at the very top, or at the very bottom,” Raymond warns me, as he did in life. His face is stern.
“I could not protect them,” I continue, accepting his blame. “It has all gone, all our strength and our wealth, and I have nothing with which to keep them safe...”
“Shhh, shhh. I am here with you, Grandmother.”
Raymond is fading. I stretch out my arm toward him. “Our sons are safe with me,” he calls, his voice reaching me from a great distance. And there—I can see them—standing in his shadow, tall and whole. Charles, our third son, is with them, dead at seventeen from a wound sustained on military campaign with his father, so long ago. Raymond could not prevent the blow that sliced his thigh to the bone and for all my skill in healing I could not draw out the poison that had spread while the wound festered all the long ride home.
“Look to the living,” Raymond calls to me as his image dissappears. “Not everything is lost.”
I feel the cool touch of a damp cloth as Sancia gently wipes my brow. I look up to see her bending over me, a worried frown creasing her brow. “You must eat something, Grandmother,” she says. “Please, let me feed you.”
For her sake I nod. She fetches a bowl and a spoon. I try to eat the lukewarm fish stew she spoons into my mouth, but after a few swallows my throat seizes. I turn my head aside, closing my mouth.
“Some small ale?” she asks, putting the bowl down and lifting a mug to my lips. I take a sip and swallow with difficulty.
“We have not seen Beatrice lately,” I mumble.
“She left, Grandmother.” Sancia says, holding the cup up again for me to drink. “Remember? She came to tell us she was leaving Naples to find sanctuary with her family.”
I nod although I do not remember. I let Sancia coax me into one more swallow of ale. Only half of it goes down, the rest dribbling out the side of my mouth. I close my eyes.
She leaves me to rest. I do nothing but rest, and yet I am always tired.
Two little girls with golden hair run smiling toward me along the garden path, as pretty as any flowers in the kingdom. A third child follows behind them laughing, their constant playmate. She is dark-haired and dark-eyed with nut-brown skin. She is trying too hard to keep up, her little face pinched, her eyes darting left to right, anxious even at play. I wonder if I have made a mistake, but I do not go to her, or comfort her, or acknowledge the uneasiness she hides. She must learn to ignore the cruelty of the other children, jealous of her closeness to the little princesses. She must learn to live in this aristocratic court with her brown skin. When she trips and falls I wait for her to get up, resisting the urge to go to her as I would if one of the princesses fell. She gets up slowly, her face scrunched up with the effort not to cry.
Are you hurt, Sancia? I ask, kindly but not so sympathetic that it will loosen the tears she is holding back.
“Are you hurt Sancia?” I repeat.
“Not very badly this time, Grandmother.”
I open my eyes. Sancia, all grown up, is standing beside my bed, patting my hand. For a moment I am disoriented, until I remember where I am and everything comes back. I groan, remembering my sons. Sancia grips my hand making me focus on her. She looks bruised and tender but she does not stand as though she is in great pain. Her swollen belly pushes against her kirtle. Perhaps they felt pity, the jurists overseeing our torture, eliciting our ‘confessions’. More likely they had already received the false confessions and names they needed from the others. I close my eyes as despair rolls over me again.
“Grandmother,” Sancia says. “You must live, Grandmother. I cannot go on without you.”
I look at her dully.
“And I m
ust live.” She takes my hand and places it on her belly. I feel a solid little kick. “He is alive, Grandmother. My son’s life has begun.” She holds my hand there a while longer. With every quiver of movement under my palm I feel my own life quickening, my heart reviving. The room comes into focus. Sancia’s breathing and my own fill the silence. I grit my teeth against the pain in my body and the grief of my loss. But I do not move my hand.
“Robert,” Sancia says. The infant kicks as though he knows his name already, startling smiles from us both. My face feels stiff, as though my very skin resists the act of smiling, but little Robert kicks again, insisting on his right to make us smile.
I sit up with Sancia’s help and force myself to eat. My granddaughter has been strong for both of us long enough. Perhaps Queen Joanna will rescue us yet, as she hopes. Most of Joanna’s former courtiers have been executed by now. I cannot understand how she has managed to keep us alive. But alive we are, so perhaps she has some power still. I straighten my back and raise my chin.
“You must send for a priest.”
“Grandmother, you are not dying!”
“Not for me, Granddaughter.” I nod at her belly. “Your child has quickened. He is alive. He cannot be baptized yet, but we will have a priest bless him and commend him to Our Lord’s mercy.”
Sancia pales. “You believe he will die.” She puts her hands protectively over her womb.
“I think it is less likely if Bertrand del Balzo knows he has been committed to the care of Our Savior, who said: It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones. I want a priest and a witness, and I shall quote Saint Luke when the blessing is finished. That will make those jurists think twice before inflicting harm on an infant God has quickened to life.”
She grasps my hands, her lips curving into a smile which I have not seen there for many weeks now. I bless my poor dead King Robert for the many lengthy religious lectures he forced his nobles and advisors to sit through, earning him the name Robert the Wise. If I had not learned Latin and memorized my Scriptures at his court it would have been a miracle. And now, those weary hours may save my granddaughter’s life.
Our guard relays Sancia’s request to the jurists, who cannot deny us a priest. Two of the jurists serve as witnesses, at my request. Sancia and I kneel in turn and murmur our confessions, and are blessed. Then Sancia, in a clear, carrying voice, asks the priest to bless the quickened child. I smile to myself at the jurists’ surprised expressions. Hah! They had thought the request would be for me. The priest lays his hand reluctantly on Sancia’s womb. I pray fervently for the infant to kick, and am gratified to see the priest’s face when he does. To his credit, and my relief, he performs the blessing and commends the infant to Our Savior. Then it is his turn to look surprised, and a little offended, when I quote Scripture. But when I ask, “Those are Our Lord’s words, are they not, Father?” he nods confirmation. I turn to the jurists, one frowning while the other stands with his stupid mouth hanging open, and thank them most humbly for bringing the priest to us. The frown turns into a glare; the other blinks, snaps his mouth shut, and inclines his head to the priest. They know full well the message we have sent them and their committee, for none can deny that the child is innocent of any treason.
We have no money now, but our guard, despite his jeering, is honest. He has been paid in advance by Beatrice and he sees that we have food. I suspect he has been told he must keep us alive for whatever hideous death they are planning, but I do not give voice to that thought. Instead I tell myself that we will live to see little Robert born and Louis of Taranto, God willing, will have beaten his brother’s army by then. I only wanted to safeguard Sancia, but now I realize I must see my grandson born. I cannot be sure any other midwife will be sent when Sancia’s time comes.
The days pass slowly. I try to remain cheerful for Sancia’s sake. I pretend we are shut in an ordinary woman’s confinement, for it is near the time for her child to be born.
The bread is stale and the ale is thin and the cheese is hard, but none of them is as difficult to force down my gullet as hope, and yet I force it down, and smile, for the sake of Sancia and her baby. And there is also Maroccia, I remind myself, safe outside of Naples with her father, the Count of Marcone.
I have lost all track of time. Our little window tells us night from day but I had not the foresight to scratch it on the wall and now it would be meaningless without a reference point. I am desperate for news of what is happening in Naples, but our guard, knowing he is torturing us, ignores my questions.
One day we are surprised to have a visitor. Blanche, Beatrice’s former maid, enters our cell, her face strained with fear. With good reason, for it is dangerous to visit convicted traitors. She is carrying a loaf of fresh bread; the smell of it makes my mouth water. But it is the basket of fruit over her other arm that I can barely tear my eyes away from.
“Giovanni bade me come,” Blanche whispers, her eyes darting round the cell, looking everywhere but at us. We must be a sight, with no water to bathe ourselves or wash our hair, barely enough to keep our hands and faces clean, with no change of clothes for weeks now and the wounds from our torture still raw.
“How good of you to come. Thank you for the fruit.” I strive desperately for something normal to say for the sake of the guard no doubt listening at the door. “Is the queen safe? And the little prince?” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “The Duke of Taranto entrenched in Castle Nuovo, the queen his prisoner.” She places the basket on our table and says more loudly, “It is my Christian duty to exhort you to repent your hideous crimes.” She lowers her voice again: “My brother gave me this for you.” She slips a letter out of her bodice and onto the table. I recognize the writing as Joanna’s and snatch it up with a shaking hand. Sancia maintains the conversation with Blanche while I scan it quickly.
I have word that Louis of Hungary intends to attack the Kingdom of Naples. To prevent this and appease his anger over his brother’s murder, Pope Clement is sending his legate, Cardinal Bertrand de Deux, with instructions to prosecute even members of the royal family, should he judge them guilty. He proposes to have Charles Martel taken to Avignon to be placed in the Pope’s care.
There is neither signature nor royal seal, nor anything to show the letter has come from Queen Joanna. This and the desperate tone of the abrupt message tells me all I need to know of her state of mind. The very possibility of losing her son will have Joanna wild. My heart sinks at the clear warning that she cannot protect us much longer.
I retrieve my ink and quill from their hiding place and set them on the table. My hand shakes as I turn Joanna’s note over to write my answer on the back of her vellum. My own supply is finished. That will send a message also.
Blanche and Sancia stand between the table and the door, shielding me from sight in case the guard comes in. I would only have an moment to hide everything, not nearly enough time, and the ink would be wet, but Blanche’s brother told her to wait for an answer and I cannot fail Joanna. I write as quickly as I can, praying for enough time.
The best defense against foreign attack is a stable kingdom unified around a clear line of succession. Naples would be well-advised to follow the example of King Robert the Wise sixteen years ago.
I dare not take longer. The guard will wonder why Blanche is taking so long to deliver her fruit, and open the door. I cap the jar of ink, scoop it and my quill into the sachet and slide it under the mattress. I blow on the vellum and wave it to dry the ink before rolling it and handing it to Blanche. She tucks it into her bodice and we all sigh with relief.
“What of Louis of Taranto?” I whisper.
“He is still waiting with his troops on the hill overlooking Naples.” She shrugs. “No one knows what he is waiting for.”
The latch to the door alerts us that our guard is coming.
“What month is it?” I ask quickly as she ties on her
cape.
“In two weeks it will be September.”
We have been locked in Castle Capuano since March 16th—five long months. That evening I begin scratching the days off on the wall of our cell.
Three weeks later I wake to hear all the bells in Naples ringing. It is already mid-morning, I judge by the light coming in through our little window. When our guard enters with our midday meal I ask what is happening. He hesitates, the expression on his face conflicted between the pleasure of keeping us in ignorance and the eagerness of being the one to share important news. I take a bite of the stale bread, feigning indifference.
“Today,” he says gravely, preening with importance, “the little Prince Charles Martel has been given his title, Duke of Calabria, and named heir to the throne of Naples in a ceremony presided over by Cardinal Bertrand de Deux on behalf of His Eminence, Pope Clement VI. All the nobles in the kingdom have come to bow before him and swear homage to him as their future king. And you,” he sneers, “did not even know of it!”
I, who was once the queen’s chief advisor, he means. I make myself appear dismayed, for I want him to enjoy telling us news. But inside I am smiling. Joanna has taken the advice I gave her. Sixteen years ago, when Joanna was four years old, her grandfather King Robert unified the kingdom by holding a formal ceremony of succession for her. Charles Martel, now two years old, son of the Hungarian Prince Andrew, is now the legal and proclaimed heir to one of the greatest kingdoms in Europe.
I hope the Neapolitans are re-united around their queen by this proof of a stable succession, not to mention the delight of a lavish ceremony. No doubt Joanna threw coins generously during the parade to the Cathedral of Santa Chiara, and had little Charles Martel throw some, also. I hope the Hungarians are mollified by having their prince’s son receive his due. I hope Pope Clement takes note of Joanna’s wise statesmanship. I hope Duke Robert of Taranto chokes on his frustration and rage.
The Girl Who Tempted Fortune Page 22