Castel Nuovo, Naples
1343
The morning after the wedding, Jeanne slowly crept out of bed, making sure not to awaken Andrew, his boyish face meshed into the pillow. Tugging her dressing gown closer against her body, Jeanne shivered slightly as her bare feet touched the marble tile. Putting on her slippers as quietly as possible, Jeanne crept out of her chambers, walking slowly down the vacant halls of the Castel Nuovo, trying to piece together the day before, now a whirl of distant sounds and even more distant people. She was thankful that it was early, before the sun had even risen: not even the servants would be awake at this time, and no one would dare bother her. Running her hand across the walls of the castle, she sighed as she felt the rough texture of the fresco that decorated the hall, celebrating the victory of her ancestors or something else entirely that was lost upon her.
Marching forward as time often did, Jeanne thought it funny that the castle was filled with frescos celebrating a variety of triumphs for the Angevin dynasty, created so that great victories could be forever remembered, yet instead they were forgotten, not even the scribes knowing why they existed. Would her own triumphs be added to these walls, and in hundred, or two hundred years time, would her descendents walk the halls just as confused as she was now? She tried not to laugh bitterly at the idea that she might have ‘triumphs.’ She was supposed to be the demure consort; Andrew was the one who would be painted and plastered all over these walls, assuming the will of her grandfather held. Part of her hoped that it wouldn’t… but she had already been pushed into the marriage by the council. Why would they press for the marriage if they weren’t intending on honoring the will, setting up Andrew has her co-ruler? She shook her head violently; Andrew harbored no ambitions, it was obvious. It was also obvious that Jeanne’s position had changed. Even if things remained murky, it still remained that she her father’s eldest child, and had a substantial claim to the throne, even if her grandfather preferred to pass it over in favor of what he believed to be the legitimate heir—the King of Hungary, and thus, one of his many sons.
Jeanne had never let herself be pushed around. She wasn’t about to start now. Andrew didn’t have what was needed to be a king—he lacked all the charisma and attitude that a proper king needed. It wasn’t his fault of course, and Jeanne was determined not to blame him. He knew he had his faults and seemed to have no intention to push for her crown: if he did, it was because of some outside force, not because he legitimately desired. She had seen him stammer before the council: to her it was a natural act, to give a speech and be applauded, knowing exactly what to do without being told. He needed to be coached and walked through everything. He wasn’t strong, he wasn’t assertive. He was just a meek little boy. It was only the night before that it had become obvious to why Agnes and Margarete had plied her with the advice they had.
In the eyes of everyone, Jeanne was no longer a little girl. She was a woman. Just as Andrew was now a man. But what did that even mean? What did it mean to be a woman, or to be a man? Was that all it took, two awkward bodies pressed together for a short time? Jeanne sighed, trying to forget the memories of the night before. Just as Andrew was not suited to reign over her kingdom, he was not suited not to reign over her heart. Jeanne knew that something great had occurred the night before… or at least, something that was supposed to be great. Instead she had dealt awkward caresses, fumbling hands, and general confusion. Although she knew she was no longer a virgin (the unbearable pain still flashed in her mind), she knew that the brief moment she had shared with Andrew had been flawed, imperfect, and an embodiment of everything that was wrong with him. Recalling when the satin curtains drawn around their shared bed, Jeanne remembered that as soon as the Archbishop had finished his prayers and left the room, the chamber fell quiet. Sitting meekly next to her, he had been content to lay back and fall asleep until shouts from his grooms in Hungarian scared him into crawling on top of her.
The Queen of Naples’s mind flashed back to the frenzy that the room had been in, talking in hushed whispers, stilting their laughter over how their future ‘king’ could not even manage to make a woman out of his wife on the first night. Jeanne found it odd that their insults did not spur him forward—it was the screams of his own servants, perhaps their demands that had forced him into action. What had been quiet laughter soon turned into roars, the shouts of his servants becoming even louder. She could tell how nervous he was, despite his face being veiled in the darkness, hands moving over her bodice, unsure what even to do. Had they been alone and Jeanne not surprised at Andrew’s sudden boldness, she would’ve screamed at him to get off her. But without him even saying anything, she could sense his humiliation and sense of desperation, eager to avoid being further degraded by both the barons and his servants. So she said nothing. She did nothing, giving herself to him, letting him think that for once he had done something right, that he was finally a man. But he wasn’t. He was still just that stupid little boy. He would never be a man, and he would never be king. He would never be king as long as she reigned.
She shuddered slightly as she continued to pace the halls, recalling some of the greater details of the previous night. Andrew had done nothing right; after a few minutes, the screams and shouts from the other side of the curtains desisted, and the room was soon emptied, leaving Jeanne and Andrew alone. Jeanne wasn’t even sure why they had been present, finding it humiliating herself that people might hear (if not witness) what would be one of her most private moments. The room emptied, Jeanne growled as she touched her lips, remembering the chaste kiss Andrew had placed upon her lips before pulling away, turning over and falling asleep. Pleased with himself! She had him a favor: she had given him a gift and protected him from any further humiliation. He had taken some kind of enjoyment from it, causing her to scowl further. Why had she been nice to him then? Because she felt sorry him? She did, maybe just a little… but that gave him no right to enjoy what she had done! There was not even a word of thanks… and no doubt, if Margarete was right, he would be expecting her to do that again with him. She refused to even consider it.
The advice of Agnes and Margarete rang clear in her ears. If Andrew did not satisfy her, then she would have to find someone who did: and she would. It had nothing to do with the physical union that Andrew had offered her. She found the act revolting; Andrew’s ineptitude and lack of basic courtesy had made her consider never doing it again. Andrew did not satisfy her as a partner. He didn’t understand her jokes, her charm, or her quick wit. Obsessed with the hunt and sojourning to Aversa, he didn’t share her love of the theater. While on paper they seemed a perfect match, he the demure young prince and she the loud outspoken queen, in reality it was impossible. It had nothing to do with being unsatisfying physically (even if he was). He didn’t satisfy her mentally. And it was what she craved. Someone quick and witty, capable of making her think and making her chase them through the fields. She needed someone who she could really love. Someone who could truly be her king.
While Margarete and Agnes laughed, prodding her to take a lover to jilt Andrew, she knew she could never do that. She was rude and sometimes cruel to her new husband… but she wasn’t sure she could be the woman to take a lover behind his back, allowing him to happily go away on his hunt, unaware that he was being cuckolded by the man who usually accompanied him. She could lie to Andrew, of trivial and meaningless things, but she wasn’t sure she could hide something as terrible as that. She regretted the wedding now more than ever, burying her face into her knees as she began to sob. She could honestly say that she hated Andrew now. Like always, it was never his fault… but simply his presence. It had been easier when their wedding had been but a plan, a distant day in the future, something that could be avoided. Now it had come and gone, and he wasn’t that shy boy she poked fun of. He was her husband. And she hated him. She hated him because he now prevented her from ever being happy. From ever being in love. Simply because of his existence!
She felt like a monster for having these thoughts, for thinking of putting her happiness before her ‘God given’ husband. She felt even worse because Andrew was the exact opposite—his dreams were coming true. He seemed to genuinely love her, enough to want to get married: not for the crown, as she had assumed, like any ambitious person would marry her for, but because he loved her. She had lied about her own feelings, finding it easier to feign affection for him than state her true feelings. It only made things worse. He was in love, and he felt that she loved her as well. Life was perfect for him, even as she was miserable! She loathed him, more by the hour! She wished he could be erased, sent home packing, replaced by someone charming, perhaps Philip of Burgundy, or Charles of Navarre, those handsome princes who had been hers, before she had been snatched away and betrothed to him! Anyone would do—anyone except for him. She deserved someone better! Not someone who cowered in fear when she looked at them funny…
She was trapped. All the wishing in the world couldn’t change her fate. Sighing deeply, she wiped away her tears, not wanting to be caught by any of the servants sobbing. Despite how impossible it seemed to change things, she was determined to not give up! Even if it took her one hundred years, she was going to find a way to end this marriage! She refused to merely accept the fate she had no choice is making—she didn’t care about her grandfather’s will, she didn’t care about Andrew, and she didn’t care what anyone else thought! She would reign as queen, alone! She would have her marriage annulled and Andrew the one sent packing! She would find a prince that suited her and marry him! She would carve out her own story, and refused to be anyone else’s chess piece!
She was Jeanne d’Anjou, great-great granddaughter of Charles d’Anjou, the great conqueror of Sicily from the Hohenstaufen! He had always been determined, as was she. Had he given up when King Louis of France forbade him from accepting the Sicilian throne? Had he turned his back on his ideals when he was forced hand back Hainault to its proper ruler, and when Provence rose in rebellion? No! He aimed to take Naples and Sicily as his rightful patrimony, and just as he had succeeded, Jeanne would as well. Even as he schemed to restore the Latins to Constantinople despite the hopeless situation, Jeanne would fight to have her marriage annulled. She was an Angevin! The blood of great statesmen and knights flew in her veins. She was as resolute, strong, and courageous as him or any other man! Looking up from her spot on the bench, Jeanne’s eyes caught the portrait of Charles, the very man she sought to emulate. Just as he had done great things, she intended to do the same. She would follow in his footsteps, carving out her own future, and perhaps one day her own grandchildren or descendents would look upon what she had done with pride. In an act of familial piety, Jeanne rose up, falling down before the portrait, placing her hands in prayer, staring up at the massive picture before her. Mumbling a rosary, she looked forth with great determination.
“Like you, I too will do great things. And no one will stand in my way.”
Indeed, quite dreary. One can see why Agnes would lie to her, although no doubt for her no benefit, not hers.
