"Is there aught to fear, Aluisi?--Thou seemest overgrave," the Lady
Beata asked anxiously as her son came late, one evening into her private
boudoir in their suite in the palace; he looked unusually weary and
depressed.
"There is always much to fear," he answered, with no brightening of his
anxious face in response to his mother's smile.
"But not now--surely not now! She hath won the heart of the
people--these fetes were a triumph--they almost gladdened her. And now,
poor child, she hath the little one to bring her comfort."
"Aye, Madre mia; she hath perchance won the love of the simple folk; but
it is a powerless love."
"Aluisi!--thou art not like thyself to scorn it."
"I may well be not like myself in so strange a land," he answered
bitterly. "But I know not scorn; nor hopeless trust, neither."
His mother watched him wondering, as he, who was usually so
self-contained, strode impatiently about the chamber, as if its limits
fretted him.
"A few cries of loyalty--a group of peasants kneeling--make a pretty
showing--a tribute to bring her comfort--but it is the chaff before the
wind, when danger cometh. And she hath never spoken of the many fiefs
from which they came not--withheld by command of their jealous nobles.
This peasantry hath no initiative--no aggressiveness. How wouldst thou
that they should save her when danger cometh?"
"What danger, Aluisi?"
"The ever-present danger from without and within," he answered
despondently. "One knoweth not from whence the first blow shall come."
She was silent for a moment, seeking how she might pursue the theme
without further irritating him.
"If the peasants are powerless," she said, "the burghers are strong. And
they came in throngs to the coronation."
"Aye, Mother; they are our hope: I thank thee for thy word."
A silence fell again between them, and his face grew less anxious.
"The burden is heavy for thee," she said, as he came and stood near her
low couch. "It will ease thee to speak of it, if thou mayest not dismiss
it. It is not this last attempt of Carlotta that troubles thee? _That_
hath been crushed?--without renewal?"
He gave a short laugh.
"One knoweth not," he answered, with an attempt at playfulness that
showed no color of mirth. "These two hours have I been within. Cornaro
was with me. Another _mahona_ may have chanced to land, coming from
Africa with some other Valentine to do Carlotta's bidding and assert her
claim to this uneasy crown of Cyprus; _this_ Valentine of Montolipho,
poor youth, having no longer a brain to work her schemes.--But danger
from within is less easy to quell."
She had never seen him so uneasy: but she tried to control her
apprehension since he needed all her strength.
"What saith Andrea Cornaro? Doth he share thy fear?" she asked in a low
even tone.
"We spoke together but now of his Grace, the Archbishop, who verily wore
a face that boded no good to the child nor his mother--even as he held
him in baptism that day--sealing him with the sign of the Holy
Cross!--And to-day, in Council--verily Cyprus hath need of a new
Council----" he broke off suddenly.
"The Archbishop is not of the Council, Aluisi!"
"But his brother, the Count Carpasso, is more to fear," he cried
wrathfully. "They are men of one mind and both creatures of that
treacherous King of Naples. If Janus had had more wit, he would have
left Gioan Peres Fabrici to this day, bargaining for his cargoes of
grain, instead of naming him to the Council of the Realm and lavishing
the honors of the kingdom upon this faithless favorite."
"Faithless--my son? It is an evil word."
The quiet interruption arrested the angry flow of his speech.
"I pray that he be not found faithless," he said more quietly, "when he
hath a chance to prove his quality. But one would think a man so favored
of the King would seek, at every turn, to prove his loyalty before the
Queen--in which I find him not overanxious."
"It is thou, perchance, who art overanxious, from the greatness of thine
own loyalty, and the burden it hath brought thee."
"Aye--am I!--Where there is cause for mistrust it maketh cowards of us,
when faith were better. Thou knowest, gentle Mother, that this Valentine
confessed, before his death, that he but heralded a larger craft sent
from Rhodes, with knights and gentlemen and letters favoring _Carlotta_!
And Gioan Peres Fabrici, Captain of our galley, sent with speed by
prayer of us of Venice to bring them hither to confess themselves,
_found them not_. He returned, _with speed_--and _found them not_. What
thinkest thou, my Mother? Is it my judgment that is gone from too great
anxiety?--Or may a valiant captain not see a brigantine armed upon the
water?--a ship--a brig, scarce smaller than his own, perchance--that he
should let them slip?"
"Why should he let them slip?--And Valentine may not have spoken truth."
"One speaketh truth, or naught--with death so near. And for thy
question--I know not why----" He seemed to be evolving knotty reasons,
as he sat, with stern brows, deep in thought. With an effort he roused
himself and went on with his tale.
"But yesterday, in Council--for Cornaro and I, we had discussed the
matter of the royal residence together, thinking it suited not with the
Queen's dignity to remain longer in the fortress--a most mournful palace
for one so young and who hath need of some distraction about her to keep
her from oversadness. But Rizzo, being Chief of Council, would hear
naught of the Queen's return to the Palace. Fabrici also spoke against
it."
"It is strange:--but they gave no reason?"
"They gave a reason--one of their own making: that there was a matter
of more moment before the Council; that the Queen's pleasure might
wait."
"Aluisi! What saidst thou?"
"Cornaro lost patience and answered roundly: that he, being by his late
Majesty created Auditor of the realm, and by him greatly trusted--it
behooved him as much to uphold the Queen's dignity as to have his word
in the choice of the residence and aught else pertaining to the costs of
the royal household. And that the Chamberlain of the Queen--I having
upheld the demand made by him--was like to know what best might suit her
Majesty."
"And then?" the Lady Beata questioned, much agitated.
"'Ye are like to know what best might suit Her Majesty--_both being of
Venice_,' Rizzo made answer; and _dismissed the Council_."
Neither of them spoke for a few moments.
"How will Andrea accept this insolence?" the Lady Beata questioned.
"There _is_ more--far more than that for anxiety," Aluisi said,
dismissing her question with an impatient gesture. "I would that the
Queen and the child were here--in their own palace--or that we were
there. The question hath turned to one of larger import than the good
pleasure of the Queen; or the wisdom of holding the Queen and the Prince
Royal in a fortress, when the land is not at war--as if her own people
might not be trusted with her life. But the argument did not touch the
Council--not more than the whim of us--_of Venice_"--he spoke bitterly.
"Before, it was expedient. _Now_----"
"Now?" his Mother urged.
"There may be some scheme behind it, and I would we were there. She hath
none of her own beside her, if trouble should come."
"She hath Dama Margherita--who loveth her well."
"Dama Margherita," Bernardini echoed, and a feeling of peace came over
him.
But the Lady Beata sat pondering, in troubled silence. What could it
mean? Caterina had taken up her residence in the fortress before her
illness; it had been thought wise, although it had not been publicly
declared. A few of her maids of honor and Lady Beata, Chief Lady of her
Court, had gone with her. But before the baptism, her suite had returned
to the palace, that all might be as usual for the reception of the royal
guests; the Queen had lingered from day to day, partly that she might
escape the crowd and keep more quiet until the festivities were over.
But now--was it of her own choice? Why did she not return?
"And now--what wilt thou do?" the Lady of the Bernardini asked at
length, turning towards her son, failing to see what course of action
might be wisest. "May we not go to her to-night?"
"It is too late: the gates are closed; it could do but harm to rouse
them for us to pass, with no cause but our anxieties to offer. But
to-morrow, we will compass it.
"Meanwhile I have done what may be done to bring hither more who are of
our ways of thinking; for who should care for her, if not we '_of
Venice_?'" It was evident that the thrust rankled. "I saw our Consul
yesterday, who seemed not overanxious from what I told him--therefore _I
told him not all_--I trust he hath not been tampered with by this most
wily 'Council to the Queen!' but before the night had fallen, I sent a
letter of warning to Mocenigo who, with his fleet, will be at anchor off
the coast of Rhodes--to pray that he will come, or will send our
Provveditore Vettore Soranzo to await the need."
His Mother grasped his wrist--her eyes dilating. "It must be long before
they can come," she said, in a whisper.
"Not many days," he answered reassuringly; "and I have sent by a trusty
Cypriote who will make full speed to bring me back the message that
meaneth large reward for him. My warning must reach Mocenigo before any
message sent from Cyprus to Venice might get to him again."
"Is there aught else that may be done?"
"I have given command to put my fastest brig in trim, and to-morrow she
will sail with merchandise for Venice; all day she hath been lading in
the port. The message in my special cypher, known only to the Secretary
of the Ten, is ready here." He drew the missive from his breast, as he
spoke, replacing it instantly. "Marco Bembo will sail with it on the
morrow, which he may well do without suspicion, having come hither for
the ceremonies now over. The brig will leave the port with all due
tranquillity; and afterward will make all possible speed."
"There could be nothing more," she said rising; "thou hast thought of
all."
"I thought also to have some one watching--ready to appeal to the
burghers, if need should be: and I have sent but now a most secret
message by my own trusty squire to his Eccellenza, Mutio di Costanzo, to
tell him what hath chanced. He being Governor and Admiral of Cyprus,
hath so great power that it should not be left for the Queen's Council
to reach him first--if there should be scheming. Being Vice-Roy of
Nikosia, he will have the will of the citizens for his following--if
need should be. And his loyalty is sure: it was he, who with our _bailo_
of Venice received Caterina's oath of allegiance, after the death of
Janus; and he will not fail her."
"Thou hast a right to thy weariness," his Mother said, laying her firm
white hand with a weight of tenderness for a moment on his head. "Thou
mindest me of thy father--so full of carefulness to be before in any
cause that he held dear. I would thou wert not lost to Venice--it was my
hope for thee--thou wouldst have been a power in her Councils."
"We would not be false to our own for any fancied glory that might be
possible for us," he answered more lightly than he had yet spoken: but
he knew that his Mother's ambitions for him were not fulfilled in this
mission to Cyprus--that she had sacrificed her heart's desire for him.
He caught her beautiful white hand and spread it tenderly out upon his
own--a hand that it had taken generations to fashion--made to command,
yet knowing when to yield--modelled with exquisite lines of grace,
goodness, courtesy, power--a hand of character, yet with delicate
flushes of pink in finger tip and palm, with a touch as tender as
strong.
"It is too hard for thee, Madre mia, away from thine old home," he said
tenderly. "There is room in the brig for thee to-morrow, if thou wilt:
and Marco for thine escort."
She shook her head: "It would be harder to live without my boy," she
said resolutely. "Now think on sleep, of which thou hast need--and----"
She half-framed the name of Margherita, yet would not utter it.
He smiled at the wistful look in her face; for he understood. "Nay,
Madre mia; such thoughts are not for me. I am a general in an alien
camp, with scarce wit enough for my tangled duty."
Then he bent his knee, and kissed her hand, in knightly fashion of the
time, as doing her reverence, whom in his heart he loved, and left
her--a little comforted by his long confidential talk.
But the Lady Beata stood for a while motionless where her son had left
her, before the long window that faced the splendid peristyle of the
palace. Between the great spaces of the columns she saw the Piazza
beyond them flooded with moonlight--white and still and absolutely
deserted. There were no human sounds save the monotonous tread of the
sentinels pacing to and fro before the palace; and across the Piazza,
those of the guard before the closed entrance of the Fortress of
Famagosta where their Queen and the infant Prince were in residence,
echoed them back. From the Duomo San Nicolo shone the faint twilight
glimmer of the tall candles that were ceaselessly burning about the
tomb of Janus--each pale flame wafting a prayer for absolution from the
broken heart of the Queen, who before her illness had brought them daily
with her own hands: and far down upon the shore was dimly heard the
ceaseless flow of the waves, keeping rhythmic beat to the passing
moments in the mystery of the night.