Queen Of Four Kingdoms, The (2 page)

‘Your Majesties! We know you are aware of our mission, and we thank you for the welcome you have extended to our suite.’

Nods and smiles were exchanged.

‘We have travelled some hundred and twenty leagues from distant Anjou in western France on behalf of our widowed duchess, the Lady Marie de Blois. Our mission, and we believe yours, sire, is to bring to an end the long conflict between Aragon and Anjou over the kingdom of Naples and Sicily.’

More nodding, and serious faces.

‘Our duchess sees the betrothal of her only son, our new Duke Louis II, to your daughter, the Princess Yolande, as a means of achieving peace and securing thereby our joint interests.’

Then they were all smiling as Yolande’s mother stroked her long blonde curls, kissed her forehead and asked Juana to lead the princess off to bed. Everyone seemed happy with the outcome of the ambassadors’ visit.

In fact, Louis II d’Anjou was not the only candidate for Yolande’s hand in marriage. Her breeding and her substantial dowry made her a desirable match, as did her beauty, which the trouvères and poets had lauded since her childhood.

It was on her fifteenth birthday that two ambassadors from Richard II of England came to Aragon to press their king’s suit on Yolande. She was naturally delighted with this illustrious proposition, but when the King of France heard of it, he was not pleased at all. His choice of consort for the English king was his own six-year-old daughter, Isabelle. Since the English were always interested in forging a closer union with France to increase their holdings there, they readily accepted Charles VI’s offer and forgot about the princess of Aragon.

A year later, when Yolande was sixteen, the sudden death of Aragon’s king out hunting changed everything. Her beloved father, who had made her youth such a pleasure, was no more, and his younger brother, her uncle Martin, inherited the throne of Aragon. After her father’s death, the subject of the Angevin embassy came up again in conversation at court.

‘Darling child, come, sit by me,’ her mother had invited, patting the cushion next to her while stroking her small grey
levrette
, Mignon, curled up on her other side. And she had told to her again about what Yolande already knew through and through – how her marriage must be a part of the matrimonial game of chess played by the royal houses of Europe – arranging unions between their children to the mutual gain of their territories. That although these could be increased through conquest, it was better to win them peacefully, through alliances sealed by the dowry and the connections of a princess. These were the real bargaining tools of power. And despite her beauty and character, for all that she was the daughter of the king, in this game Yolande was a pawn. These things she had known from her infancy.

‘Dearest child,’ her mother had said again, and Yolande knew that whenever Maman began a conversation like that, the explanation would take time and not please her. ‘You are the only one left of our three girls, and were always the most spirited. Have you not heard it said time and again that Aragon is the first power in the Mediterranean?’

Hesitantly, Yolande had nodded.

‘Our other kingdom of Naples and Sicily has been beyond our control for too long because of Anjou – whose sovereign dukes have continually challenged our right to rule there. Your union with their young Duke Louis would solve this problem to the benefit of both our houses.’ And there she had paused, sensing that the girl had heard enough for the time being.

Stroking her hair, she told her soothingly, ‘My darling, I know how happy you are at our court, but if and when you leave, you might find an even greater paradise than the one you have here. And if not, you have enough experience to create one for yourself.’

As she rides alongside Juana, Yolande smiles a little sadly at the memory. There is no one else in her entourage she wishes to talk to as much as Juana, and chooses to pass these golden autumn days in her familiar company.

Many years ago, Juana’s father died while trying to save the horses when a fire broke out at the stables in Saragossa. In her distress, her mother took her own life, and their child was brought into the castle household. Intelligent and honest, it was not long before Juana made herself useful. When the king married, Juana was appointed to attend his bride, and following Yolande’s birth, her good sense and ability put her in charge of the nursery, which would soon house three little girls. They all adored her and she was totally devoted to them and to their parents. With the king and queen often occupied with affairs of state, it was Juana who cared for the children when they were ill, Juana in whom they confided their secrets and who was always their ally, even in their mischief-making – provided it did not go too far.

When first one, and then the second of Yolande’s younger sisters came down with smallpox, it was Juana who nursed them night and day, ignoring the danger to herself. When they died, her grief was heartbreaking. She had refused to allow Yolande to stay in the same house, which probably saved her life, and thereafter she devoted herself to Yolande’s daily care. It is no wonder that the princess has always trusted her more than anyone else. Juana is the only person to whom she feels able to voice her deepest concerns.

Now, as the two of them travel further and further from home, Juana’s Catalan way of speaking is soothing, and her chatter fills the hours as their procession winds its way through deep forests with occasional rays of sunlight breaking through the trees. Only when they come to open ground do they spur their horses to a canter or gallop. How Yolande loves to race the spirited grey Andalusians she is bringing with her to France. People gape at the sight of the proud, arched carriage of their heads, their thick manes flying in their riders’ faces, their long, full tails streaming behind. The princess and Juana are accustomed to long journeys on horseback, opting to ride rather than use litters or carriages when travelling.

No matter how tightly Yolande ties on her hat, it will slip back around her neck when she breaks into a fast canter or gallop. The exhilarating feeling of the wind in her loosened hair has he close her ears to Juana’s admonitions, her calls to tie her hat and think of her complexion. As she spurs on her horse, the girl cannot help wondering whether she will ever be able to ride with such abandon again.

*

Early each morning when the mist slowly lifts and the sun breaks through, Yolande can hear the birds calling and listens to the snorting and shaking of the horses being prepared for another pleasant day’s ride. Around midday they find a shady place to sit and refresh themselves with water mixed with a little wine and bread with cold meat. She stays with Juana, a little apart from the others, blankets on the grass and cushions against a tree for comfort. She loves looking up at the red, yellow and gold of the leaves mingled with the dark evergreens overhead – it is her favourite time of year. The air has a special scent, a mix of pine and the fresh smell of leaf decay.

Their route is well planned and not too tiring. Every evening they halt at sunset, spending the night at a welcoming castle or manor. Sometimes, after washing and changing their clothes, the Princess of Aragon will appear before the local people; at other places they just eat and sleep. A number of their hosts have arranged for singers to entertain them while they dine, everyone acknowledging Yolande as the grand lady she is, and as the queen she will become on her marriage.

What will it be like, this new kingdom of hers? And the household she will join? Yolande knows that her mother considers Marie de Blois, her future mother-in-law, to be a lady like herself, shrewd, yet caring for her country and her children. Her husband died long ago, fighting on the Italian peninsula, leaving her all those great lonely castles, huge estates to administer – so much responsibility on her shoulders to preserve the inheritance of her two young sons. And as if that was not hard enough, a cousin of her husband’s – Charles de Duras – actively encouraged the great cities of Provence to turn against the Anjous, their acknowledged rulers.

Yolande has heard, Marie de Blois left Anjou and rode to Avignon to consult with Pope Clement VII. It was a courageous act, and it succeeded – the Pope confirmed the sovereign rights of Yolande’s betrothed, Louis II d’Anjou, to Provence, Naples and Sicily. Next, and without hesitation, Marie de Blois pawned her jewels and her silver, and with the proceeds she raised a substantial army. When she realized it would still not be strong enough for a definitive victory against Charles de Duras, she used her head. Famous for her charm, she travelled throughout Provence with Louis, wooing the towns, ensuring their loyalty to her son. And where charm failed, she used her money. A good lesson: charm first, and if that fails, bribe!

As for her husband-to-be – Yolande’s thoughts are both full of him, and shy away from him: he is too large a presence in her mind.

One evening after supper, Yolande and Juana sit before the fire in their cosy rooms at the old stone inn where they are spending the night. Juana knits. She sees Yolande draw a piece of paper from her bag, something she always carries: it is the draft of the first letter she ever wrote to Louis, with Juana’s help. With a gentle little nudge of her foot to make Juana look up, Yolande begins to read:

My lord, my dearly betrothed husband-to-be, my lady mother has told me of your difficulties in your land of Provence and of the efforts your good mother has made on your behalf to regain your inheritance. What a splendid and inspiring lady she must be and how I look forward to knowing her – as I do you, my lord. Please write and tell me of your struggles in the south of France, a place I know little about. If you will allow, I would like to write to you of my life here in Aragon so that you may know something about me, but mine is as nothing in comparison with the excitement and dangers of your life. Your devoted bride-to-be, Yolande d’Aragon.

Juana chuckles – she chuckles often. ‘Well, that first letter did not inspire a reply for some time, did it?’

She is right. It was not until Christmas that his answer came.

My dearest Yolande – may I call you so?

In view of the distance that separates us, and will continue to do so for some time, let us know one another through our letters.

I am pleased to be able to give you good news. The people of Provence have sworn loyalty to me and accepted me as their sovereign. No, do not think me a hero or a conqueror.

This past autumn, I made my official entry into Aix, the capital of Provence, and now I am recognized throughout the country as the people’s rightful sovereign. So, my dear future wife, this too will be your territory to reign over with me.

Now my indefatigable and brave mother has turned her attention to my other certified inheritance, Naples and Sicily. Will my struggles never cease so that I may come home and marry you?

Reading Louis’ letter, Yolande too wondered how long it would take for him to marry her. And what was he like? She was bursting to know. Her mother, who had eyes and ears everywhere, had managed to make some significant discoveries, and reported her findings:

‘Louis, at thirteen, is already a young man: tall, strong, confident, his ambitious mind firmly fixed on his objective. He has learnt from his mother’s skill and tenacity in reclaiming part of his father’s inheritance; he has watched her use charm and diplomacy to regain the loyalty of Provence. Now, with a large navy recruited from his faithful sovereign state, he has set sail for Naples.’ But until Louis could reconquer the rest of his legitimate inheritance, their marriage would have to wait.

During the years that followed, her mother spoke often of Louis as she shared Marie de Blois’ correspondence with her. Yet Yolande longed for more details. How did he manage, this lad with fire in his veins and a will of iron? Who advised him in Naples? Who were his companions? After years spent in and around that large territory – most of the lower half of the Italian peninsula – surely there must be much to tell her? How did the people look? Dress? Eat? What flowers grew? What birds flew in the sky? Did they have songbirds? Good horses? Music? Troubadours or their like? Was the famous Bay of Naples as beautiful as the poets claimed? The mighty volcano, Vesuvius, was it erupting? Would Louis come for her? Or was she to be sent for? Would they marry in Naples? She bombarded him with letters full of questions, but none came back from Louis, only from his mother to hers.

Then one day, about three years after her father’s death, she heard her mother calling her name in a way that she felt was important.

‘A package has arrived for you from Naples!’

At last! Anxiously, she tore it open. A letter, a long letter, from Louis:

‘My dearest future wife,’ it began. ‘Finally, after nine years of constant skirmishes and intermittent fighting, my enemy here, a cousin of mine called Ladislaus de Durazzo, as the Italians call the Duras family, the senior branch of the Anjous, has defeated my forces in a definitive battle.’ She sat stunned. ‘I am coming home, there is no more I can do here for the time being. We shall marry at last and I will show you my other beautiful territories of Anjou, Guyenne, Maine and Provence – you will especially love Provence. Wait for me.’ And he signed himself: ‘Your Louis.’

She had smiled bravely at her mother and said in a small voice, ‘How wonderful – I shall be married at last.’

But Juana knew her heart – and she could not hide some of her disappointment from her faithful governess. Her knight in shining armour had failed to bring her a kingdom, one that she had taken very much for granted. Aragon’s right to Naples and Sicily was in her blood, just as much as Louis d’Anjou’s rights to that kingdom were in his blood. Complicated as it seemed when she was betrothed, she had long ago learned to understand the situation between Aragon and Anjou. The last queen of Sicily, Giovanna II, a frightful harridan, had named an Aragon cousin as her heir, but disinherited him in favour of another cousin, Louis D’Anjou, before dying herself. Yolande even knew the story that it was the disinherited Ladislaus Duras, or Durazzo, who was said to have smothered Queen Giovanna between two feather mattresses, so that there would be no mark on her body. He then claimed the throne of Sicily, but died, and Louis I inherited the kingdom. It was indeed a most complicated story and the conflict continued between the Durazzo heir and her Louis’ father until he mysteriously died in that faraway kingdom. As soon as he was able, her Louis II went back to Naples and spent the next nine years following his betrothal, fighting to hold onto what he considered was his. And now, after all those years, he was on his way back and she as to appear pleased to marry the loser of her adolescent dreams? Neither the warm looks from her mother nor the excitement of the wedding preparations could lift her mood. Not even her little girl-dwarf Pepita – no matter how much she tried to make Yolande smile as she rubbed her back and shoulders, brushed her long hair into a plait that reached down to the back of her knees or wound it around her head to make a crown – could stop her thinking hard about her destiny.