Hagios Johannes, the holiest man in Cyprus, stood waiting in the vast,
empty presence-chamber of the young Queen; for, since the sudden death
of Janus, there had been no court-life in this palace of Potamia, and
the gloom hung most heavily over the more sumptuous halls of ceremony.
Hagios Johannes--_the holy John_--they called this prior of the House of
Priests from Troodos--the Mountain of the Holy Cross--after the name of
the earlier Saint who had made the spot famous for the holiness of his
living, for his boundless charity and the wisdom of his judgments, so
that the people had gone to him in ceaseless procession with their sins
and woes in the days of primitive Christianity in Cyprus, and had
returned to their peasant homes the stronger to endure and to renounce.
Johannes the Lesser, this one called himself--being truly great and
devout of heart, so that his vision was wise and true as that of Hagios
Johannes the Greater.
A curtain at the further end of the audience-chamber parted to admit a
stately figure in mourning-robes, as the Lady Beata of the Bernardini
advanced to meet him, bringing the message that the Queen would receive
him in an inner cabinet.
"She is very worn and tired, most Reverend Father, and in years so near
to childhood that the nobility and strength of her resolve are
marvellous. And the comfort that she seeketh of thee she doth most
sorely need."
The eyes of this strong and faithful friend gleamed with unshed tears as
she turned them upon the prior, in tender appeal.
But to Hagios Johannes all courts were strange; the life of his mountain
overflowed with possibilities of ministration which busied all his
powers, and it was the first time that he had ever entered any of the
palaces of the luxurious Kings of Cyprus--of which, perhaps, this summer
palace of Potamia was the most sumptuous. The long corridors of precious
marbles, with intricate carvings and gleamings of gold and mosaic
displeased him, though he had no knowledge of their worth or beauty; but
he stood aghast at the magnificence of the audience-chamber, and the
huge Assyrian bulls which guarded the entrance gave a hint of pagan
power and oppression which instantly angered him.
The appeal of the gracious Lady Beata but roused his indignation.
He was a stern, wild figure with his flowing beard, his long hair
falling straight and unkempt about his brown throat; and his sombre
monk's garment was wrought on breast and shoulders with a salient cross
of natural thorns--the symbol of those monks of Troodos--the Mountain of
the Holy Cross; and the Lady Beata trembled for the interview that was
to be, as he answered her rudely:
"The dwellers in palaces of ivory have naught to do with wild men of the
mountains who live close to nature and care only for suffering humanity.
I have Christ's work to do; let others bring her rose-leaves and honeyed
words."
She laid a gentle, detaining hand upon him as he thrust aside the
curtain of the inner chamber.
"Most Reverend Father, are not the words of our Lord and Saviour, as
well for those who suffer in palaces, as for the wanderers and poor upon
the earth?
"Are not the wounds of the spirit as deep in anguish as those of the
physical man?
"May not the burdens of rulers be greater than those of the ruled?--Have
compassion upon our Queen!"
"Christ knoweth not kings," he answered her, as he shook off her light
touch--"save only those who bow to Him: and the mighty among
men--aye--even he who calleth himself His Vicar upon earth--are puffed
up with pride and know in their hearts no virtue in this--His sacred
symbol." He pressed his rough hand hard against the thorns upon his
breast as he spoke. "Hath not he--this false and sumptuous Vicar--but
now asserted that we, of the Holy Greek Church have no part in the
Communion of the Holy Catholic Church on earth? Did Christ call the
Latins only?" he ended fiercely.
It was a grievance that rankled; and Hagios Johannes had not learned the
gracious art of self-control, being accustomed to feel that whatever he
thought or wished was good--his hatred as well as that which appealed to
him--since he honestly sought nothing for himself, despising riches and
station from the depths of his soul, with an open scorn for the great
ones of earth and an imperious assertion of his own methods and
judgments which he would have denounced in any earthly ruler, however
wise. He never dreamed himself an autocrat over that continuous stream
of pilgrims who made their way into the House of Priests on Troodos:
they were chiefly peasants, rude in ways and understanding, whose
accustomedness to absolute methods and short words made their obedience
the swifter; and the few more learned ones who came to consult him knew
that in his heart he was faithful and seldom treasured the offense
against him--though they may have decried his wisdom. But these came
more rarely as his absolutism grew upon him, and the prophet of the
mountains came down to the cities of the plains only to see the luxury
of them--the sin and godliness of them, and to denounce them, in
unmeasured words.
Within his soul, although he did not confess it to himself, the
generations of men were separated by a wide impassable gulf--the rich
and ruling class, the godless, on one side; the poor, the suffering and
lowly--the to-be-saved,--on the other, and none ever passed across the
deep abyss. He would have challenged any man who counted _him, Father
Johannes_, in his hempen garment studded with thorns, among the rulers
of men!
The youthful Queen, weary and worn indeed from the perplexities and
struggle of the two long nights and days that had elapsed since she had
sent her Councillor on his quest of "the holiest man in Cyprus," rose
from her couch as the prior entered and advanced to meet him with a
gracious reverence.
But he, unconscious of any rudeness, spoke at once, without turning his
eyes upon her, and offering no homage.
"I am a plain man from the Mountain of the Holy Cross, your Majesty; I
know naught of the ways of Courts. The matter should be great that
calleth me from my work. Let it be presented, that I may be dismissed."
She was almost too weak to stand, and the rebuff smote her to the quick;
her lip trembled slightly, but she only stretched out her hand to her
beloved friend, drawing her close and leaning lightly upon her shoulder,
that she might feel the support of loving companionship in her great
need.
Father Johannes had been vaguely conscious of some movement in the
chamber and involuntarily he turned towards this royal lady whom, as
yet, he had never seen, but whose urgent summons had roused his
indignation.
She looked so young and fair and simple in her heavy folds of
mourning--so worn from vigil, with the lines of anguish and of a strange
strength written in her white girl-face--that she might have been the
vision of some youthful saint, wearing the rough cross of Troodos upon
her breast, beneath her robe: and for a moment, the holy man was
startled--did such heavenly visions, in truth, visit the palaces of the
great?
There was a moment of stillness in which his wonder grew.
The breeze blew faintly in through the great arched openings, behind
which rose the mountain chain that led to his own Troodos; there were
the groves of pine, darkly green, below the hills, with their deep
solitudes for prayer and meditation between the vast gnarled trunks; and
the group of the two noble women before him--severely simple--was a
vision of love and womanly grace and spiritual need; the younger one,
all pleading and pain, clinging to the elder who closely enfolded her,
her face strong in the strength of love. It was not like any life that
he had ever seen--this holy man, whose personal life had been solitary
and whose knowledge of human love, as it is known in happy homes, had
died long years ago with the passing of the mother who had borne him in
her heart. It might be that he needed such a vision to redeem his spirit
from the harshness which sin and pride in high places, and want and
crime and poverty of spirit among ignoble ones, had made him grow to
think the whole of life!
He was very weary and his vision was not clear; for the previous day had
been a solemn fast, and he had walked far and long since the early
morning, that he might be the less delayed. He felt like kneeling where
he stood--if perchance it should be a vision!--But he only bowed his
head and waited--and his weakness passed.
The younger one--the maiden with that strange mystery of pain and
strength in her white face, was coming towards him.
"Father," she said, "hath none offered thee refreshment? Thou must
indeed be weary, for the way is long. Zia, let us be served here--in
sight of the great forest that will seem like home to our good Padre."
"Nay, nay," he interposed quickly, with an effort to shake off this
incomprehensible spell and return to his wonted mood of protest, "for I
have never banqueted in the palace of a Queen--your Majesty."
"Let it be brought," Caterina said, turning to the Lady Beata, "a simple
meal; for I myself have need, having tasted nothing since the long vigil
of the night--being too sore from my great perplexity." For she divined
that she must be alone with the prior to melt his mood, which grieved
her; but she had not the less faith in his judgment for his hatred of
royalty, and at all costs she had the grace to crave for truth in the
questions she would ask of him.
"My Father," she said with winning gentleness when they were alone, "we
will speak together as father and daughter--it will be better so, for I
was not born to Majesty, and I have sent to ask of thee thy counsel, for
life is difficult. And for my hospitality--is it not offered to the
pilgrim in thy House of Priests of the Troodista? Hath not our Lord
Himself commanded the giving of the cup of water?"
He was startled at her learning: surely it was rare that women out of
holy orders had such knowledge of Christian traditions. He looked at her
reverently, still wondering, and would have spoken to excuse his rough
speech, but that he knew not how to frame a thought so strange and new.
She motioned him to a seat where a table had been spread under the deep
arches that looked toward the forest. There were wines and fruits in
tempting chalices of rainbow glass and low baskets of ivory and
chiselled silver, cooling with snow from the mountain; figs from
Lefcara; _caistas_, golden and delicious, emitting a fragrance of
glorified nectarine that rivalled the perfume of the wine itself;
pomegranates--the gift of a goddess to the thirsty Cyprian land,
planted, as was well known, by the royal hand of Aphrodite herself, each
fruit holding a fair refreshment for a torrid Cyprian day in its
sparkling, semilucent, ruby pulp: ortolans from the sea-coast, steeped
in wine.
The table was a slab of oriental alabaster, polished like a jewel,
upheld by griffins with outthrust tongues curiously contorted and
entwined. But beyond the silken curtains of the palace-windows the
forest and the hills, with a wandering breath of coolness from the
mountain-breeze, drew and welcomed him, with some faint, new perception
of the oneness of God's earth.
She had banished with a glance the maiden who stood waiting with her
lute to give the customary accompaniment to the meal, and they were
quite alone.
He crumbled his bread and swallowed his wine like a hungry man, drawing
the wild, purple figs nearer, unconscious of the dainties which she did
not press upon him, while he tasted the familiar food--the food which
his Lord Christ had blessed to man's uses. So, also, the luxury of the
service passed unnoticed, as he fixed his eyes on the distant darks of
his own forest, with the "Troodista" rising on a peak far, far
away--that haven of distressed souls to whom he was a father of
consolation. Her fingers toyed with the fruit that lay untasted before
her, while the difficulty of speech struggled within her. Yet he felt,
subtly, as he kept his eyes upon the hills, that he was in sight of the
shadow of a soul in pain, and he waited--for once, oblivious of the
distance between a palace and a convent.
"Thou art born a Greek, my Father?" she questioned. "Thou art a priest
of the Greek Church--which my people love?"
The commanding habit of a lifetime was strong upon him and again his
resentment rose to quench the softer mood which was possessing him, and
of which he was afraid.
"I knew not that I had been summoned from my work for Christ to answer
of myself," he said sternly. "If thou hast need of counsel, tell it
quickly."
Again her lip quivered at the hurt, but she put it aside bravely, as she
rose and moved backward for a pace further into the shadow. "I ask it
for my people's sake--I being their Queen," she said, "and knowing that
my people are rather Greek in feeling, I would do naught to hurt them."
How tenderly the words "my people" fell from the lips of this young,
Venetian woman, who seemed almost a child--had their imperious Grecian
Queen, Elena Paleologue ever so uttered them? Had she not named a boy to
the highest See in the gift of their church--with no thought of
fitness--but solely that he might be put aside lest he come between her
and her greed of domination? Had she not plotted murder and whatever
else might lie between her and the accomplishment of her will? His heart
melted within him, and he rose and followed Caterina into the chamber.
"The most Holy Father of Rome hath of late been prejudiced against the
King--my husband--and I sought for one who might give me counsel,
unprejudiced."
If she had been a wily diplomat she could not better have wielded the
prior's mood than by this unconscious utterance.
"So help me God, I will strive to help thee in counsel," he answered
fervently. "But are there not men, set apart as Councillors for the
realm, to aid one so young in the ruling of her kingdom?"
"Aye, Father," she admitted sadly, "but it is to steady mine own
judgment _to judge of theirs_--that I have sent for thee. The question
is not for Court Councillors, but for one who hath no part nor lot in
this matter--who is often in meditation on holy matters, and hath won
wisdom."
He made a motion of deprecation, but she went on speaking in her clear,
even voice, still questioning: "Thou knowest well the history of the
kings of Lusignan?"
He bowed his head in assent.
"And the history of the life of the King--my husband?" She dwelt on the
word with inexpressible tenderness--the slight pause that followed it
was like unuttered music.
Did she know? Was it possible that she knew? he asked himself.
But the question came again.
"And the provisions of his will--for myself and for--for others?" A wave
of color had flushed her cheek and brow.
He looked at her searchingly, seeking for words that might best comfort.
"I know them," he said, "the provisions of the will having been told me
by your Majesty's messenger: and I, being a Greek, and the friend of the
people, that which toucheth them, toucheth me. My daughter, the sins of
the race descend from father to son, and are in the blood; and there
hath been no loving care of holy women about his childhood--which should
be remembered and win forgiveness."
"It is no question of forgiveness," she answered proudly, "of which I
would speak with thee--_that_ lieth between our Holy Mother in Heaven
and the souls of those who suffer." She seemed to dismiss the subject
with an imperious wave of her slight hand. "It is a question of human
judgment in which that of a holy man may avail, but in which this
knowledge is necessary--else had it not been spoken of."
She paused for a moment to gather strength, while the old man watched
her in growing wonder--so young--so wronged--so tender--so brave--so
strong to endure!
Hagios Johannes the elder had been known through the long years of his
canonization as _Lampadisti_, the _illumined_: and as the prior
listened, he prayed with fervor that the wisdom of his sainted
predecessor might descend upon his soul.
"My Father," she resumed with a great effort, "I knew not of this
history of the last of our Kings of Cyprus, until my marriage had been
made.... I knew not of any right of Carlotta, being _own_ daughter to
the King, the father of my husband"--again that tremulous pause of
unuttered music--"to contest the crown with him, until I learned it in
Cyprus, these few weeks past."
Her head drooped lower, but she went on resolutely. "I knew not, until I
came to Cyprus--for they who knew and should have told me, held the
knowledge from me--that any might question the right of Janus--my
husband--to this kingdom of Cyprus--he being only son to the King. For I
knew not that his mother was _not_ the Queen, until I came hither."
She paused again to gather strength, lifting her guileless great eyes to
his, in agonized appeal, while he watched her dumbly.
"And now, my Father," she said, throwing back her head with sudden
vigor, and with the dignity of a great resolve, "this is my question,
which hath come to me in the watches of the night and will not be
denied, and for which I have summoned thee. I--being wife to Janus, who
hath been crowned King of this people--and I, with him, crowned Queen;
and by his will left Queen of Cyprus--with Council, appointed by him, to
help me rule; shall I, a Christian woman--a Venetian and _not_ a
Cyprian--his widow--_hold this kingdom against Carlotta_, who is
daughter to the King, the father of my husband--and to the rightful
Queen, Elena--his father's lawful wife?"
He was dumbfounded and could not answer her at once; but while he sought
for words he bowed his head in mute reverence.
"My daughter," he said at length, "hath this question been put to thee
by any men of Cyprus?"
"Nay, Father; but it hath come to me in these sad nights, because I fain
would do the _right_--that which is well for my people: and life is very
difficult."
"My people," again, uttered with the accent of a mother who folds her
child to her heart--it was a revelation; but he must probe more deeply
before he could answer her.
"And this palace--and all the palaces of this estate?" he asked slowly,
as if he could not comprehend her. "Thou wouldst renounce this splendor
when none hath asked it of thee?"
"I would even bear the weight of it, if it be _right_," she said,
"though rest were sweeter."
"Thou wouldst be free, perchance, to seek thy home in Venice?"
"Nay, nay!" she exclaimed, shrinking from him--"never Venice
again--since she hath sent me hither, knowing all, and told me not. I
cannot go back to Venice!"
He pondered gravely.
"Then what is thy will, my daughter?"
"To do the right!" she cried vehemently; "out of my own great sorrow to
expiate the wrong! May it not be, my Father, if I shrink not from the
right at any cost?"
"I will consider," he said, "since thy will is strong for this
sacrifice."
"Sacrifice!" she cried, in her amazement breaking all reserve. "Oh,
Father! To call _this_ 'sacrifice,' when the very light of life is gone
from me! He was so beautiful and gracious--with such a light in his
eyes--and I thought--oh, I _thought_ we were so happy! And now--oh, God,
it breaks my heart--I _loved_ him!"
"Daughter----"
"May not the suffering of one atone for another's sin?" she questioned
feverishly.
"Nay--leave that thought, it is too heavy for thee: and not revealed to
men, that they may declare it."
"Pray for him, Father! Thou wilt pray for him--thou and all those who
come to thee. There will be many, many prayers and God will hear. For
his people loved him--none could stay from loving him, he was so
winsome. Mother of Mercies, thou wilt take my anguish for his
atonement!--_Oh I suffer!_"
The words came in a low moan, wrung from her unaware. Father Johannes
caught the small hands which she had flung out before her clenched, in
her passionate struggle for control, and with faltering motions of
unaccustomed gentleness, he soothed her until she had grown quieter and
he could unclasp them. Then he spoke strange words, out of a great
compassion:
"Christ knoweth; for He is Love--and He will save!"
"There is more," she gasped with her spent voice--"but I dare not name
it--the thought of it is torture. But it is not true; Madonna mia! it
_is not_ true!"
The strong man could bear no more; he groaned in spirit and ground his
hands against his breast--his lip curling with scorn at the pain of his
own torn flesh. "Tell it!" he commanded; "it _cannot_ be true."
She looked at him, hope dawning in her stricken face. "The words they
speak--they who are his enemies--that he had forsworn his faith: it is
not true."
"It is the very machination of the Evil One!" he thundered. "I know the
slander and the man who fathered it, for spite. And may Heaven forgive
its maker--for he hath need--standing high in the holy place of Earth. I
_know_ it is not true!"
He looked his faith into her eyes until he had banished her terror, and
she put out her wan hand, grateful, for his assurance.
Then he turned from her abruptly and wandered away to weigh her
question, looking into the depths of the great forest while he pondered
and prayed to be enlightened. He must have sight of his own solitudes if
he would keep his judgment free, and though she called to him, timidly,
thinking he had forgotten her, he made no answer, being not yet ready.
Surely, it could not be God's will that so fine a spirit should resign
her claim to their uneasy crown!
It was long before he returned to her side, for the shadows were
lengthening and a crimson light flamed in the West.
"Daughter," he said with deep solemnity, "it hath come to me with full
light in answer to thy question, that thou, being crowned Queen and
consecrated in the Duomo of Nikosia, together with King Janus, thy
husband--whom this people loved--and decreed by him to hold this realm,
which--for the first time in many years, and by his hand, is now united
under one sovereign, that thy duty biddeth thee hold and rule it against
all other claimants--were it even Carlotta who hath once been called its
Queen.
"Rule thou this people with the fear of Heaven in thy true heart--so God
shall make thee wise!"
She came slowly, as to a heavy task, and knelt before him, with clasped
hands, kissing the crucifix which he held out to her; the red light
streamed through the arches with a fierce illumination.
"Father--and Janus!" she cried--"hear my vow!
"To do for my people as Heaven and the Madonna shall teach me: to bear
them in my heart and seek their happiness; to live for them alone! And
if harm hath been--oh God, if harm hath been done--to nerve me to the
more strenuous duty, that wrong may be forgiven!"