The Girl Who Tempted Fortune

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  I pulled away and stared at him without speaking.

  “Sooner or later he would have heard of our rise in fortune. But you are safe now.” He stretched out a finger and idly stroked the back of my hand lying on the chair arm beside his.

  Did I even know this man? He thought his skin gave him away, but he was wrong. Nothing gave him away. He was as calculating and ruthless as any aristocrat. I drew my hand out of his reach. “Are you willing to do anything?”

  Raymond straightened and leaned toward me. How tall he was, and strong. The muscles in his arms and chest moved under his white shirt.

  “Anything is a very broad term.”

  “It is.”

  “One day, Philippa, you will give me strong sons and daughters as beautiful as you. Do I truly need to explain this to you?”

  I looked unwavering into his eyes, my face expressionless.

  “Our children will never see the mud huts of Trapani or Africa. They will be raised in wealth and luxury.” He waved his arm to indicate the manor around us. “But do not fool yourself. Everyone who looks at us, all these new friends who fawn on me, they will always see a fisherman’s daughter and an African slave. They will be waiting for something—anything—a rumor, a slip-up, a loose thread from our past, to pull us down again. I will not be caught like my father, trusting and unprepared, unable to protect my wife and children! So yes, I will do what is necessary to keep you and our family safe.”

  Raymond reached for my hands, twisted in my lap. His eyes held me, daring me to be as honest as he. I had not felt grief at the news of Guilio’s death—why should I? He had bedded me as a wife, but treated me as a servant and a pawn. He would have been willing to ruin me for a good price. Raymond was right about him. Guilio was as greedy and dangerous as the lords King Charles had sent Raymond and his men to subdue.

  The first time I saw Prince Robert on his war horse in Sicily, I thought that he looked every bit the warrior, a natural leader of men.

  Raymond did not look the part when he rode off to his first battle, but I saw a similar look on his face to the prince’s: proud and confidant.

  When they rode back, they were his to a man. Now I understood his steward’s words. All my life, with my father, with Guilio, at Castle Nuovo and here, I had kept one eye on the back door. I woke in the night planning my escape route. And now this man, this leader of men, the greatest warrior in the kingdom whether he looked the part or not, had sworn to keep me safe. And I believed him.

  He smiled as though he knew the moment I yielded. I let my hands uncurl inside his. Had he not provided for my son and my mother, and even for Guilio’s daughters? I offered him a tentative smile.

  Raymond leaned across the little table between us and cradled my face in his huge hands once again. I raised my chin as he leaned toward me, warm where his palms cupped my face, my mouth parting even before his lips touched mine. His to a man, I thought, surrendering. I, who had never surrendered to anyone.

  He lifted me and carried me to our bed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  October, 1346

  Castle Capuano, Naples

  “Philippa, Philippa,” the little princesses cry, running to me with arms outstretched, anticipating my embrace. “Philippa...” Their cries recede. No, not Philippa... they do not call me that, they call me...

  “Grandmother!”

  I open my eyes to find Sancia shaking me. “You must wake up, Grandmother, we have a visitor.”

  I close my eyes again. She pulls the blanket aside, urging me to sit up. I shiver. Why is it so cold in here, and damp? I open my eyes to demand a fire, and everything, the dirty, dark cell, my conviction, my poverty, my pain, my grief, comes back to me.

  “Grandmother,” Sancia says again. Her voice is flat. Ever since her son was stillborn, she has been like a ghost. And I have been no better, the two of us slipping deeper and deeper into despondency.

  I should not have encouraged her to hope. What chance did the infant have, born into this filthy, stinking, jail cell, of a mother tortured and half-starved throughout her pregnancy? Perhaps it is best he died, for his father has shown no interest in claiming his son or his wife again and has left Naples. At least he took little Maroccia with him. I sigh and let Sancia help me off the cot and onto a chair.

  I hear coins clinking at the door as the guard is bribed to keep silent, and then a woman enters our cell. Her cape and hood hide her face. When she pushes back the hood I am shocked to see Princess Maria, Joanna’s younger sister.

  “Philippa!” she runs to me as though nothing has happened between us since she was a child princess under my care. I return her embrace. Even if she knew about our torture in her husband’s dungeon, there was nothing she could have done. Charles of Durazzo is not one to listen to the pleas of his young wife. And she was in confinement, I remember now. I hold her at arm’s length. “Maria...?”

  “Oh, no,” she shakes her head. “The baby is well. Another little girl.” She smiles sadly, then raises her chin, a gesture I recognize. “A healthy, beautiful little girl.”

  “That is good, Maria,” I say. There is nothing to be gained by telling her of her husband’s role in our suffering.

  She bites her lip. So she would do as a child when she was troubled. How young she is, only seventeen. I wait. She could never keep anything in, little Princess Maria, unlike her sister Joanna who listened to advice but always kept her thoughts to herself.

  “What am I to do?” she cries. “My husband has learned that Joanna wrote to Pope Clement to arrange a marriage between her son and a princess of France. Charles wanted... that is, he hoped...” she stumbles to a stop.

  Is it possible she can feel no regard for my circumstances, no impulse to ask what she might do for me? She bites her lip, watching me, her face pale and anxious. Ah yes, only too possible.

  “You and Charles have three suitable daughters,” I say wearily.

  She nods eagerly. “Just so! And Charles is furious! I think...” she lowers her voice to a choked whisper. “I am afraid he may have... have written to King Louis of Hungary... to offer his support. If they attack us!”

  Sancia gasps. I find myself leaning back, away from Maria. I, a convicted traitor, putting distance between myself and a real one.

  “What shall I do, Philippa?” she whispers, wringing her hands. “I wept and begged him not to, but he would not listen. I told him I would leave him—” She breaks off, her hand stealing over her mouth with remembered horror. “He... he said he would kill me if I tried.”

  “You should not have come here, Princess. It is not safe.” For her or for us.

  “He is out dining and drinking. He will come home late and fall into his bed stinking of wine.” She wrinkles her nose. “I cannot tell Joanna. She is practically a prisoner at Castle Nuovo. But what shall I do if Charles betrays Naples?”

  I shake my head. “Go home to your husband. You must not be discovered missing. If you hear of anything... anything imminent... from Hungary, you must get word to Joanna. Or... send a message to Louis of Taranto and his soldiers on the hill. They will have to be warned. If you hear of anything definite.”

  Sancia and I do not speak of her visit after she has gone. We are shaken by what we have heard. Princess Maria has never been strong or steadfast, but a traitor to her country? I must get word to Joanna of Charles of Durazzo’s betrayal, but I have no way of reaching her.

  I wait impatiently, praying for Blanche to visit us again soon. When she does, it is all I can do to sit quietly sipping a cup of the wine she has brought us while she and Sancia exchange pleasantries until the guard leaves. As soon as the door closes I retrieve my writing supplies, whispering that I have a message for Queen Joanna.

  “I have news for you, also,” Blanche says, her voice hushed. “Catherine, Empress of Constantinople, died this morning.”

  I straighten in surprise. “Catherine of Taranto? Dead?”

  Blanche nods. “This very morning, after a brief illness
. The news has not been made public yet. My brother got word secretly to me and ordered me to come at once and tell you.”

  The last of Joanna’s former council, Countess of Taranto, Empress of Constantinople, Robert and Louis of Taranto’s mother, dead. I shake my head, speechless. I need time to sit and absorb the news. Joanna will be in shock, her last and greatest ally—most of the time—now gone. But how long will the guard leave us alone?

  I unwrap my writing materials and use my dinner knife to cut off a piece of my last sheet of vellum. Quickly I write: Organize a state funeral for your noble aunt. Be sure to lock the Castle gates. I think a moment and add: Beware! C.D. has promised his full support to Hungary. I underline the word full. She already knows Charles of Durazzo is no friend of hers, but now she will understand that all the Neapolitan nobles allied with him—his full support—are not to be trusted if Louis of Hungary invades Naples.

  A week later, our guard enters the cell chuckling. We act nonchalant as we take the pot of thin stew he has brought for our supper, not asking what has amused him, or what might be the cause of the church bells ringing throughout the city. He hands me half a loaf of stale bread to go with the stew, and I set it aside for tomorrow. His offerings are erratic. Sancia thanks him. He stands waiting for me to question him, but I do not give him the opportunity to thwart our curiosity.

  “You hear the bells?” he finally cannot help asking, annoyed.

  “Yes,” I reply without even a glance his way. “What is it to us?”

  “Nothing!” he roars. “Except that your last ally has died. The Empress of Constantinople. Her funeral ceremony was today at San Domenico.”

  I look shocked. Sancia drops her spoon onto the table and puts her hand to her cheeks. It is a good performance and the guard looks smugly satisfied.

  “And you find her death amusing?” I say, hoping to rouse him into spilling more news. I must know whether Joanna followed my counsel.

  “I do not!” He draws in a phlegmy breath. “What I find amusing is how little our clever queen needs your advice. For when Duke Robert of Taranto rode out with his men to join the procession behind his mother’s casket, Queen Joanna had her palace guards evict the rest of the Duke’s retainers, unprepared and leaderless, and lock the gates of Castle Nuovo behind them!” He begins to chuckle again until the phlegm catches in his throat and makes him cough.

  “A clever move,” I agree, trying to look surprised rather than delighted. My suggestion worked! Joanna is freed of her unwanted suitor at last.

  “How did Duke Robert take it?” Sancia asks innocently.

  “Purple!” the guard guffaws. “His face turned bright purple! He screamed and beat at the gate! But there was nothing he could do.” He rids himself of the phlegm on the floor of our cell.

  I drop all pretence and laugh at the thought of Robert of Taranto’s helpless rage. I have not laughed this hard in many months and sound, no doubt, a little hysterical. The guard’s smile turns nervous. He leaves, shaking his head at the crazy old woman.

  I do not care. I laugh, wiping tears from my eyes at the same time. With one stroke Joanna has unified her country, secured the succession to the throne, taken steps to gain a valuable ally in France, and regained her sovereignty and freedom.

  Even sick and rotting in this cursed cell, I have proven myself an accomplished councilor. I feel my confidence returning and straighten my back, holding my head high. Queen Joanna is not beaten, and neither are we.

  At the end of the month our guard informs us that four sisters from the nearby convent of Poor Clares have moved into Castle Nuovo with the queen. “Much better companions for a righteous queen than you and your ungodly family,” he sniffs. I ignore the insinuation, the old accusation that we led Joanna astray, sowing discord between her and her husband. Instead I am pleased to hear the approval in his voice. Joanna is regaining her people’s support. No one can question her virtue now, surrounding herself with such holy women, not even her spiteful Hungarian relatives.

  It is a wise move, connecting her with Queen Sancia, her saintly grandmother, in her people’s minds. Queen Sancia was named the protector of the Spiritual Franciscans and their sister order, the Poor Clares, with their shorn hair and coarse grey robes. Queen Sancia, whose devout faith none questioned because she had three sisters of the Holy Order as her personal attendants. And now Joanna has four. I smile at Joanna’s cleverness. She is a pious young woman—how could she not be, raised by such a grandmother—but she has also learned that the appearance of virtue is as important as virtue itself.

  That night I dream of my son Robert. Not as I last saw him, going to his death bruised and burned with his head held high, unafraid. I dream of happier times, of Robert’s birth.

  “You have a son.” The midwife wipes him clean, swaddles him, and puts him into my arms. He has not cried. His eyes are open, gazing around as though in wonder, completely relaxed in my arms. He is so beautiful, this dusky little boy with his cap of black hair already beginning to curl and long, dark lashes framing his wide brown eyes. When did I stop seeing dark skin as ugly? He is not so black as Raymond and I almost regret it, for Raymond’s dark body is as mysterious and fascinating to me as the night sky. But our son’s lighter shade is proof that he is mine as well as his father’s.

  The door opens and Raymond enters. He ignores the protests of the midwife and my female attendants, smiling broadly at me as he crosses the room with his giant strides. I smile back, not at all surprised. Lesser men may fear losing their manhood in the presence of a woman at her full powers, but my husband, this giant of a man, all taut muscle and formidable strength, moving with an assurance that commands any room he enters, laughs at such feeble superstitions. I hold out his son to him like a battle prize and his smile erupts into a laugh of delight.

  He has not brought me jewels or other baubles, as men bring their wives to thank them for their labor. Everything he owns is mine; so he told me the night we consummated our marriage. This infant is a gift to both of us.

  Raymond stands beside my bed gazing down at our son. His laughter is gone, his face serious, tight with emotion.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I will never let him be afraid,” Raymond vows.

  Robert blinks up at Raymond and purses his tiny mouth as though considering his father’s promise. I think of Raymond’s terrifying childhood, the abuse he must have suffered as a child slave, of the many times I was beaten at home, or feared I might be cast out penniless when I first came to Naples. I reach out my hand. Raymond clasps it as we stare down at our perfect son. I cannot trust my voice. I squeeze Raymond’s hand and he tightens his grip in a wordless oath between us.

  This child will never learn to be afraid.

  ***

  I wake smiling from my dream. For a moment I can still feel Raymond’s hand gripping mine. We were more than husband and wife, more than lovers. We were a little island unto ourselves, surrounded by those who would tear us down. I bore Raymond two more sons and a daughter, and each one strengthened our bond. We were each other’s only family; kin and blood and dynasty, lineage and line. Surrounded by those who had had all that for generations, who were born a link in a long, unbreakable chain, we only had each other, the six of us. But we were enough.

  I lie still on the cot, my eyes shut, reliving the past. The day I returned to Castle Nuovo and presented myself to Queen Sancia, determined to help my husband raise up our family. I had a new green kirtle made, with seed pearls sewn around the neck and down the length of the sleeves, and wore my most expensive jewelry. I was older than most ladies-in-waiting, but Queen Sancia was a serious young woman and appreciated my maturity, and I had not forgotten all I had learned as Violante’s primary attendant at Castle Nuovo.

  Raymond and I advanced together, he to ever-higher military commands as he proved himself a fierce warrior and a capable strategist, and I to greater positions of trust as mistress of the queen’s jewels and lotions, and later her trusted advisor.
When young Charles, his father’s only heir, married Marie of Valois, I performed the same services for her. Ah, our glory days, in the sophisticated and learned court of King Robert and Queen Sancia, as our family grew and our wealth and lands increased, and our titles and position rose in the Neapolitan court. My Raymond achieved the highest post in the kingdom, the seneschal of the Kingdom of Naples, and when he was given that title, I was equally honored and promoted...

  I sigh. That was the year Prince Charles died, in November, 1328, of a sudden fever. The little prince my mother brought into the world and handed to me to keep alive while she saved his mother, Princess Violante. The infant I wet-nursed so long ago, little more than a girl myself, and so earned my passage to Naples. Perhaps it was the stories of how I saved his life by breathing my own life into his mouth, or healed his fever on the ship, that earned me my appointment, on his death, as guardian of his two-year-old daughter, Joanna, the heir to the throne of Naples.

  When her mother, Marie of Valois, died three years later in 1331, I was honored once again. I was named surrogate mother to the two little princesses.

  Every time Joanna and her little sister ran to me, calling “Mother, Mother” in their lisping, childish voices, I knew that my great-grandmother’s prophecy was real. Every time I reprimanded them for unbecoming behavior in a royal princess, and heard Joanna’s contrite, “I am sorry, Mother,” or little Maria’s unrepentant “yes, Mother,” with her bottom lip pushed out, I knew that my great-grandmother’s prophecy would all come true. However often I denied it and told myself no prophecy is binding, I knew in my heart it was all bound to happen, including the terrible ending my mother whispered in my ear.

  I open my hand, releasing the memories.

  “You are awake,” Sancia says. “I have saved some bread to break your fast.”