The Girl Who Would Be Queen Page 2

  “Will I have access to the royal wardrobe?”

  She nods. “Of course.”

  I can barely believe it. The royal wardrobe, with its silks and satins covered in jewels and seed pearls, its cloth of gold and silver, its golden, bejeweled belts and girdles. It holds almost as great a portion of the kingdom’s wealth as the royal jewels. And I will be in charge of deciding which of its treasures we will—I will—use for our masque! Everyone will have to come to me for their costumes. I will choose colors to suit their roles: dark for those playing the solemn parts, light for those who are innocent, multi-colored for the figures of jest. And when I know who will stand beside whom I will match their outfits subtly, to create a pleasing tableau, and set a mood. Some of the roles may need more than one costume, light and dark shades of the same color...

  “Maria?”

  “Yes!” I grin at my sister, who knows that I can do this better than anyone. I have an eye for such things. My wonderful sister smiles back at me.

  ***

  Later, when our ladies have undressed us and gone to their beds, and the boy is building up the fire in our bedchamber, Philippa comes in. Our maids are brushing our hair and our bed has already been turned down, ready for us.

  “Mother,” Joanna greets her with a smile. I smile without speaking. Joanna may call Philippa ‘Mother’ if she wants, but I will not. Our royal grandparents gave her the title of our ‘surrogate mother’ after our real mother—a royal princess, sister of the French King—died when we were barely out of our babyhood.

  I blush even now to think how long I called Philippa ‘mother’. Two years ago my cousin Robert of Taranto, newly returned to Naples, overheard me say “Yes, Mother,” when she called my name. He laughed out loud.

  “I thought you were a princess,” he said. “But now I learn you are the daughter of a washer-woman, who was herself the daughter of a fisherman.”

  I was confused by his words but not by his tone or his arrogant laughter. “Our Lord was a fisherman,” I replied smartly, changing Lord Robert’s sneer into a glare as our other cousins laughed at him, now.

  Afterwards, my cousin Charles of Durazzo, who is three full years older than Robert and yet never laughs at me or treats me like a child, explained to me Philippa’s background—a village girl chosen by my real grandmother, King Robert’s first wife, to wet-nurse her son, who grew up to be my father, when she discovered herself pregnant on campaign with the King.

  It is not Philippa’s background that upsets me; it is that she let me think she was a grand lady in our court. She acted a part, and I believed it, and made myself foolish doing so.

  Joanna shakes her hair loose from her maid’s brush and rises to embrace Philippa. I have to force myself not to do the same. Robert does not sneer at Joanna when she calls Philippa ‘Mother’, oh no. Joanna is the same age as Robert and she is the heir to the throne. Joanna may call a cat ‘Mother’ and everyone will find it charming, proof of her affectionate heart and humility. Everything is so much easier for Joanna!

  Philippa is not my mother, I remind myself. But she has been my nursemaid since I was two. Aside from my sister, she is the only one who loves me. I love her, I cannot deny it, and I cannot stop myself from wanting her affection.

  Philippa makes sure that all is ready and sees us into our bed. She strokes my hair back from my forehead before she leaves, as she has always done, and I close my eyes, grateful for the caress. I think she understands. I hope she does. I hope she still thinks of me as her child, even though I cannot—

  “Maria.” Joanna’s whisper breaks the silence in our room.

  I open my eyes and roll over. The oil lamps have been tamped off, but the fire still throws enough light for me to see my sister’s face. She is grinning. “I have a part for you in the masque,” she whispers.

  I feel my heart skip. But the parts for ladies have all been given. Unless she has changed her mind. Does she not want to play the part of Isolde after all?

  “What is it?” I whisper, hardly daring to hope.

  “The most important part.”

  My breath catches in my throat. I am going to play the beautiful, tragic Queen Isolde! I cannot speak for happiness.

  “Without it there is no masque. You must do it,” she whispers urgently, mistaking my silence.

  “Yes!” I whisper. “Of course, Joanna, I would love—”

  “I want you to be the sorceress who sells me the love potion.”

  Chapter Two: The Sorceress

  I do not tell anyone about my part. We have agreed to keep it secret, but I insisted that the sorceress will be rich and young and very beautiful.

  “A powerful sorceress can make herself look however she wants to others,” Joanna agreed, which is not the same thing at all, but I am mollified by the word “powerful”.

  The sorceress must wear a dark color, it cannot be helped. I choose a beautiful dark red, my favorite color, which will show off my fair skin and complement my yellow hair when we pull off our masks. It is covered in seed pearls, one of the most glorious gowns in the royal wardrobe. Our Grandmother Queen Sancia will complain of the extravagance of refitting such an expensive gown to wear to a masque; the money would be better given to her precious Franciscan friars. I am going to say it was Joanna’s idea. Joanna will back me, because I have agreed to play an unwanted part. Then our grandfather King Robert will nod and agree that royalty must put on a good show.

  I do not tell the seamstress who works on my gown who it is for. She must refit it without a model, but I have her bring the sides in and tighten the lacing so it will follow a very slender woman’s figure.

  “My Lady,” she objects, timid and stammering, “It will not fit any lady who wishes to wear it.” She would like to say that it will not adequately hide a woman’s curves, for she is old and obviously not in favor of the newest fashion.

  “It is for the masque,” I tell her, and instruct her to use the pearls from the discarded cloth for the girdle that will rest low on my hips. Then I shock her further by ordering the neck cut low to expose the top of the breasts. I may be skinny, but I am already beginning to show a woman’s curves, and I will be wearing the latest fashion from King Philip VI’s court in Paris. This sorceress will bewitch them all!

  Joanna chooses a light blue dress for the first set, when Tristan is bringing her, a virgin bride, to Ireland, and a light purple gown for when she is queen. She would have chosen richer colors, but I explain my theme of light shades for the innocent and darker for the villains. She gives me a look—we are both fair and look better in bright colors—but I quickly add that the light blue represents innocence and purity, lest any think Isolde chose her fateful passion. Joanna nods and lets the gown be fit on her for its alterations. When she stands before the dressmaker, I know it does not matter if my gown is the more flattering color or the more stylish cut; Joanna will still outshine me. She is a great beauty, whatever she wears. Fortunately, the perfect oval of her face and that thick yellow hair that shines like gold in the sun will all be hidden behind her mask.

  I have all the dresses altered to the new style, but none so daringly as mine.

  On the night of the masque, when I put on my beautiful gown assisted only by my maid—whom I have threatened to send away forever from Castle Nuovo and the court of Naples if she ever breathes a word of who is in it—I almost decide not to wear it. It is so tight everyone who looks at me will see... well, they will see me as though I were... well, they will know exactly what I look like. Exactly. And they will still know it, the next time they see me. When I slip the girdle down over my hips it, too, fits snugly, the pearls flashing against the dark red in a way that will draw all eyes down there... I giggle self-consciously. Then I catch my maid’s expression and giggle even more, and cannot stop, until I am nearly hysterical and she looks truly alarmed.

  “Shall I call one of your ladies, Princess?” she asks.

  “No!” I fall into a chair, gasping for control and wiping the
tears from my eyes. It is as much nerves as humor that has set me off. How can I wear this gown? I am not so daring as I thought I would be. But what choice do I have? I have only this one gown in the new style. I could wear one of my older gowns, which everyone will recognize and which will look loose and dowdy beside all the stylish costumes I have had refitted for the others. I stand up resolutely. I would rather be too daring than look like one of my Lady Aunts. “Bring the snood,” I tell my maid.

  To further ensure our anonymity I have had gold satin snoods made for everyone participating in the masque. (Not real cloth of gold, our royal grandparents would never condone that, even for Joanna; it is only gold-colored satin, which is quite expensive enough.) They have been designed not only to hold the lower hair, but to reach right up to the forehead.

  “There must not be a single hair showing outside your snood,” I told everyone, and Joanna agreed at once, so how could the others object?

  They still do not know I am to participate. Margherita is very concerned. She has commiserated with me so often it was almost more than I could do not to tell her. Now, as I stand in my alarmingly tight wine-red gown while my maid gathers my hair and tucks it into the gold snood, I am exceedingly glad I did not tell. I decide not to remove my mask even at the end. I will slip away before the masque is finished, and change into my blue gown, even if it is not in the current fashion, and return to the dance as myself before the others unmask themselves. In fact, I will send a note to my Lady Grandmother, telling her that I am lying down with a sick headache and will come later, when it has passed.

  We have agreed to perform the masque in silence, a mummer’s play. The chanteur, who has stayed to entertain us all through the season of Yuletide, will sing the appropriate verses for each tableau. Even during the dances between the tableaux, we are forbidden to talk, for our voices would give away our identities.

  My maid hands me my mask. I hold it against my face as she ties it securely behind my head. She hands me a glass. I look into it anxiously. The mask is beautiful. I have had the artist paint all the women’s faces identical, and do the same for the men, except that he has painted brown hair for the wicked characters and yellow for the good ones. I search the glass for any trace of myself. Will my eyes, peering through the holes, give me away? Joanna and I have always been told we have our father’s eyes, but we are not the only blue-eyed ladies in the Neapolitan court. I had the holes in the masks cut small, so it will be difficult to determine the shape of the eyes behind it, and I am satisfied. I smile behind the flawless painted face I see in the looking glass. For once I will be exactly as beautiful as my sister, save for the painted brown hair. That cannot be helped. I will not undo the effect of my tableaux for the sake of vanity. I hand the glass back to my maid. She curtsies, her mouth turned down in disapproval.

  “Tell no one who is in this costume,” I remind her as I write a quick note. “Take this to Queen Sancia. Tell her maid I have a headache, but it is nothing serious. Then come back and wait in this room for my return. Do not let anyone into my bedchamber while I am at the masque.” She curtsies again, looking even more sour.

  Joanna can get her maids to do anything, and do it eagerly. They are well-dressed, too, unlike this one. I sigh. I do not have a very big allowance.

  “If you do this for me without telling anyone, I will give you my yellow dress after Christmas.” I have had it for three years, but there is still enough material in the hem to let it down again. Nevertheless, necessity calls. My maid’s expression instantly changes to delight. Well, surprise, then delight.

  I throw a light cloak over my gown and leave the room.

  Yesterday, Joanna and I marked off a section of the great hall for the play. We had curtains hung in front, so they could be dramatically pulled back when the lords and ladies in their costumes were all arranged in their tableaux. Between sets, the curtains will be drawn and everyone will join the feasting and dancing.

  I time my arrival for just before the first of the two tableaux that include the sorceress, waiting in an alcove in the hall until the one before mine is completed and the curtains drawn closed again. Then I slip into the room and hide behind the curtains while everyone dances. I am still wearing my cloak—an old, ugly thing, I do not know why it is still in the wardrobe, with a hood that covers my head and shadows my face—when the music ends and the others assemble: Joanna as Isolde, with her two ladies-in-waiting. I move to the side, where I will be the last one revealed as the curtains open. Marguerite of Taranto and Sancia of Cabannis look at me curiously.

  It goes almost as I imagined. The curtains are pulled back, revealing Isolde and her ladies. Then I step forward and throw off my cape, holding out the little vial, supposedly filled with the love potion. A gasp goes through the hall as my costume is revealed. A feminine gasp. I do not look at the men, but they, apparently, are not affronted. Joanna, already reaching for the vial, blinks behind her mask, where only I can see it.

  At the corner of my eye I see Grandmother Sancia half-rise in her chair. I hold my breath, terrified she will disrupt the tableau, or worse, order me to reveal myself for shame. We stand frozen, my heart pounding as the chanteur, oblivious, sings the verses of our tableau. I breathe again when I see, at the corner of my eyes, King Robert lightly touch Queen Sancia’s arm, bidding her sit again. He is proud of his fashionable, cosmopolitan court. How proud would he be if he knew it was his granddaughter thus revealed, I wonder? That makes me want to giggle. I am nearly bursting with it as I wait for the chanteur to finish the verses of our tableau.

  The verses end, the curtain is pulled across again, and everyone applauds, if a little less enthusiastically than for the previous tableaux. Even then I cannot laugh, for everyone knows my giggle. I feign a coughing fit.

  Joanna whispers, loud enough for only the four of us behind the curtain to hear: “It is no surprise, Lady Sorceress, that you are coughing, exposed as you are to every draft.”

  The musicians announce the next dance and play a prelude, giving those who wish to dance time to find partners. Marguerite and Sancia of Cabannis leave, laughing. I do not know if Joanna deliberately spoke down to me as though I was one of the paid performers in order to hide my identity, but I know she is not pleased with me. I will likely have to wait till I get to Hungary before I have access to a royal wardrobe again.

  Joanna gives me a last look, her expression unreadable behind her mask, before she turns to join the dance. After a moment, I follow her.

  No one asks me to dance. I have never, since I was old enough to attend feasts and dances, been left without a partner. If they knew I was Princess Maria, I would have a dozen courtiers asking me to dance. I stand through the first one, tapping my foot as a little hint, but no one comes forward.

  The music ends, the dancers part, and there is a brief pause before the next dance begins. The room is cheery with laughter and conversation, I can see the other ladies in the masque using glances and gestures to flirt gaily behind their masks with the younger dukes and lords, protected by their anonymity. But no one comes near me. I stand in a little bubble of silence.

  Who do they think I am? A maid, perhaps, or an actress hired to play a role no lady would take? But a maid or an actress would never be given such an expensive gown. No one will imagine, not even for a moment, that it is me, little Princess Maria, not so little now. I have completely fooled them. But I do wish someone would ask me to dance!

  Then I see my cousin Andrew, the Duke of Calabria, crossing the room. Andrew does not care what others think of him, which is a good thing for him as no one thinks much of him here. He is Joanna’s husband in name, and will be in fact when our Lord Grandfather deems he has proved himself man enough to consummate the vows they made as children. Why is he coming toward me? Even if he does not know who I am, he must know I am not Joanna.

  Andrew stops before me. He is not wearing a mask. He declared he would not participate in Joanna’s entertainments years ago when he did not like what he wa
s asked to do, and has not been invited to join one since. I can clearly see the interest in his eyes when he looks at me in my low-cut red gown. No one has ever looked at me like that. I feel my face flushing and am glad the mask hides it. It is gratifying to be considered a woman at last, not a child, but I do not entirely like his expression, although I could not say why it disturbs me. When he holds out his hand to dance with me, I am surprised, for he has never paid me any attention before. I would rather not dance with Andrew, but the music is beginning again, and I will be forced to stand here, shunned, if I do not accept, so I curtsey and offer my hand to him.

  Andrew does not speak to me. Everyone has been told that the players will not speak until the last tableau has been completed and they unmask themselves. But it is more likely he simply has nothing to say; he seldom speaks to anyone other than his men. He dances adequately, however, which comes as a pleasant surprise, and the music makes me happy, light on my feet. If I were dancing with anyone else I would want to laugh with pleasure. But that would give me away, and after the reaction my costume has had, I am more than ever determined no one shall find out who is (barely) inside it.

  When the music ends I curtsey and return behind the curtain for my second tableau, the one where Isolde tries in vain to return the potion, having decided she does not want to deal in magic. As the curtain opens I raise my hands, blocking her. I turn my head aside when she falls to her knees, her hands clasped in supplication, while the chanteur sings the fateful verses.

  There is very little applause when our tableau is finished. No one likes the wicked sorceress; her beauty is tarnished by her deeds. They do not blame Isolde, which is exactly the effect we planned, but I had not realized how it would feel to be a villain, to be the one blamed when in truth I am only there by circumstance, offering not a temptation to sin but a gift of love. It is Isolde, not I, who will turn it into a wicked thing by drinking the potion with Tristan instead of her husband the King. My intentions were virtuous. I shake my head as she pleads. I am the sorceress in the story, not Maria; and the woman who stands before me, whether she is a peasant or a queen, freely chose her path. I am sorry to deny her, but one cannot take back one’s choices.