Eight days after the funeral of the old queen, Bertrand of Artois came
to Joan, distraught, dishevelled, in a state of agitation and confusion
impossible to describe.
Joan went quickly up to her lover, asking him with a look of fear to
explain the cause of his distress.
"I told you, madam," cried the young baron excitedly, "you will end by
ruining us all, as you will never take any advice from me."
"For God's sake, Bertrand, speak plainly: what has happened? What advice
have I neglected?"
"Madam, your noble husband, Andre of Hungary, has just been made King of
Jerusalem and Sicily, and acknowledged by the court of Avignon, so
henceforth you will be no better than his slave."
"Count of Artois, you are dreaming."
"No, madam, I am not dreaming: I have this fact to prove the truth of my
words, that the pope's ambassadors are arrived at Capua with the bull
for his coronation, and if they do not enter Castel Nuovo this very
evening, the delay is only to give the new king time to make his
preparations."
The queen bent her head as if a thunderbolt had fallen at her feet.
"When I told you before," said the count, with growing fury, "that we
ought to use force to make a stand against him, that we ought to break
the yoke of this infamous tyranny and get rid of the man before he had
the means of hurting you, you always drew back in childish fear, with a
woman's cowardly hesitation."
Joan turned a tearful look upon her lover.
"God, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands in desperation, "am I to
hear for ever this awful cry of death! You too, Bertrand, you too say
the word, like Robert of Cabane, like Charles of Duras? Wretched man,
why would you raise this bloody spectre between us, to check with icy
hand our adulterous kisses? Enough of such crimes; if his wretched
ambition makes him long to reign, let him be king: what matters his
power to me, if he leaves me with your love?"
"It is not so sure that our love will last much longer."
"What is this, Bertrand? You rejoice in this merciless torture."
"I tell you, madam, that the King of Naples has a black flag ready, and
on the day of his coronation it will be carried before him."
"And you believe," said Joan, pale as a corpse in its shroud, "--you
believe that this flag is a threat?"
"Ay, and the threat begins to be put in execution."
The queen staggered, and leaned against a table to save herself from
falling.
"Tell me all," she cried in a choking voice; "fear not to shock me; see,
I am not trembling. O Bertrand, I entreat you!"
"The traitors have begun with the man you most esteemed, the wisest
counsellor of the crown, the best of magistrates, the noblest-hearted,
most rigidly virtuous----"
"Andrea of Isernia!"
"Madam, he is no more."
Joan uttered a cry, as though the noble old man had been slain before
her eyes: she respected him as a father; then, sinking back, she
remained profoundly silent.
"How did they kill him?" she asked at last, fixing her great eyes in
terror on the count.
"Yesterday evening, as he left this castle, on the way to his own home,
a man suddenly sprang out upon him before the Porta Petruccia: it was
one of Andre's favourites, Conrad of Gottis chosen no doubt because he
had a grievance against the incorruptible magistrate on account of some
sentence passed against him, and the murder would therefore be put down
to motives of private revenge. The cowardly wretch gave a sign to two or
three companions, who surrounded the victim and robbed him of all means
of escape. The poor old man looked fixedly at his assassin, and asked
him what he wanted. 'I want you to lose your life at my hands, as I lost
my case at yours!' cried the murderer, and leaving him no time to
answer, he ran him through with his sword. Then the rest fell upon the
poor man, who did not even try to call for help, and his body was
riddled with wounds and horribly mutilated, and then left bathed in its
blood."
"Terrible!" murmured the queen, covering her face.
"It was only their first effort; the proscription lists are already
full: Andre must needs have blood to celebrate his accession to the
throne of Naples. And do you know, Joan, whose name stands first in the
doomed list?"
"Whose?" cried the queen, shuddering from head to foot.
"Mine," said the count calmly.
"Yours!" cried Joan, drawing herself up to her full height; "are you to
be killed next! Oh, be careful, Andre; you have pronounced your own
death-sentence. Long have I turned aside the dagger pointing to your
breast, but you put an end to all my patience. Woe to you, Prince of
Hungary! the blood which you have spilt shall fall on your own head."
As she spoke she had lost her pallor; her lovely face was fired with
revenge, her eyes flashed lightning. This child of sixteen was terrible
to behold; she pressed her lover's hand with convulsive tenderness, and
clung to him as if she would screen him with her own body.
"Your anger is awakened too late," said he gently and sadly; for at this
moment Joan seemed so lovely that he could reproach her with nothing.
"You do not know that his mother has left him a talisman preserving him
from sword and poison?"
"He will die," said Joan firmly; the smile that lighted up her face was
so unnatural that the count was dismayed, and dropped his eyes.
The next day the young Queen of Naples, lovelier, more smiling than
ever, sitting carelessly in a graceful attitude beside a window which
looked out on the magnificent view of the bay, was busy weaving a cord
of silk and gold. The sun had run nearly two-thirds of his fiery course,
and was gradually sinking his rays in the clear blue waters where
Posilippo's head is reflected with its green and flowery crown. A warm,
balmy breeze that had passed over the orange trees of Sorrento and
Amalfi felt deliciously refreshing to the inhabitants of the capital,
who had succumbed to torpor in the enervating softness of the day. The
whole town was waking from a long siesta, breathing freely after a
sleepy interval; the Molo was covered with a crowd of eager people
dressed out in the brightest colours; the many cries of a festival,
joyous songs, love ditties sounded from all quarters of the vast
amphitheatre, which is one of the chief marvels of creation; they came
to the ears of Joan, and she listened as she bent over her work,
absorbed in deep thought. Suddenly, when she seemed most busily
occupied, the indefinable feeling of someone near at hand, and the touch
of something on her shoulder, made her start: she turned as though waked
from a dream by contact with a serpent, and perceived her husband,
magnificently dressed, carelessly leaning against the back of her chair.
For a long time past the prince had not come to his wife in this
familiar fashion, and to the queen the pretence of affection and
careless behaviour augured ill. Andre did not appear to notice the look
of hatred and terror that had escaped Joan in spite of herself, and
assuming the best expression of gentleness as that his straight hard
features could contrive to put on in such circumstances as these, he
smilingly asked--
"Why are you making this pretty cord, dear dutiful wife?"
"To hang you with, my lord," replied the queen, with a smile.
Andre shrugged his shoulders, seeing in the threat so incredibly rash
nothing more than a pleasantry in rather bad taste. But when he saw that
Joan resumed her work, he tried to renew the conversation.
"I admit," he said, in a perfectly calm voice, "that my question is
quite unnecessary: from your eagerness to finish this handsome piece of
work, I ought to suspect that it is destined for some fine knight of
yours whom you propose to send on a dangerous enterprise wearing your
colours. If so, my fair queen, I claim to receive my orders from your
lips: appoint the time and place for the trial, and I am sure beforehand
of carrying off a prize that I shall dispute with all your adorers."
"That is not so certain," said Joan, "if you are as valiant in war as in
love." And she cast on her husband a look at once seductive and
scornful, beneath which the young man blushed up to his eyes.
"I hope," said Andre, repressing his feelings, "I hope soon to give you
such proofs of my affection that you will never doubt it again."
"And what makes you fancy that, my lord?"
"I would tell you, if you would listen seriously."
"I am listening."
"Well, it is a dream I had last night that gives me such confidence in
the future."
"A dream! You surely ought to explain that."
"I dreamed that there was a grand fete in the town: an immense crowd
filled the streets like an overflowing torrent, and the heavens were
ringing with their shouts of joy; the gloomy granite facades were hidden
by hangings of silk and festoons of flowers; the churches were decorated
as though for some grand ceremony. I was riding side by side with you."
Joan made a haughty movement: "Forgive me, madam, it was only a dream: I
was on your right, riding a fine white horse, magnificently caparisoned,
and the chief-justice of the kingdom carried before me a flag unfolded
in sign of honour. After riding in triumph through the main
thoroughfares of the city, we arrived, to the sound of trumpets and
clarions, at the royal church of Saint Clara, where your grandfather and
my uncle are buried, and there, before the high altar, the pope's
ambassador laid your hand in mine and pronounced a long discourse, and
then on our two heads in turn placed the crown of Jerusalem and Sicily;
after which the nobles and the people shouted in one voice, 'Long live
the King and Queen of Naples!' And I, wishing to perpetuate the memory
of so glorious a day, proceeded to create knights among the most zealous
in our court."
"And do you not remember the names of the chosen persons whom you judged
worthy of your royal favours?"
"Assuredly, madam: Bertrand, Count of Artois."
"Enough, my lord; I excuse you from naming the rest: I always supposed
you were loyal and generous, but you give me fresh proof of it by
showing favour to men whom I most honour and trust. I cannot tell if
your wishes are likely soon to be realised, but in any case feel sure of
my perpetual gratitude."
Joan's voice did not betray the slightest emotion; her look had became
kind, and the sweetest smile was on her lips. But in her heart Andre's
death was from that moment decided upon. The prince, too much
preoccupied with his own projects of vengeance, and too confident in his
all-powerful talisman and his personal valour, had no suspicion that his
plans could be anticipated. He conversed a long time with his wife in a
chatting, friendly way, trying to spy out her secret, and exposing his
own by his interrupted phrases and mysterious reserves. When he fancied
that every cloud of former resentment, even the lightest, had
disappeared from Joan's brow, he begged her to go with her suite on a
magnificent hunting expedition that he was organising for the 20th of
August, adding that such a kindness on her part would be for him a sure
pledge of their reconciliation and complete forgetfulness of the past.
Joan promised with a charming grace, and the prince retired fully
satisfied with the interview, carrying with him the conviction that he
had only to threaten to strike a blow at the queen's favourite to ensure
her obedience, perhaps even her love.
But on the eve of the 20th of August a strange and terrible scene was
being enacted in the basement storey of one of the lateral towers of
Castel Nuovo. Charles of Durazzo, who had never ceased to brood secretly
over his infernal plans, had been informed by the notary whom he had
charged to spy upon the conspirators, that on that particular evening
they were about to hold a decisive meeting, and therefore, wrapped in a
black cloak, he glided into the underground corridor and hid himself
behind a pillar, there to await the issue of the conference. After two
dreadful hours of suspense, every second marked out by the beating of
his heart, Charles fancied he heard the sound of a door very carefully
opened; the feeble ray of a lantern in the vault scarcely served to
dispel the darkness, but a man coming away from the wall approached him
walking like a living statue. Charles gave a slight cough, the sign
agreed upon. The man put out his light and hid away the dagger he had
drawn in case of a surprise.
"Is it you, Master Nicholas?" asked the duke in a low voice.
"It is I, my lord."
"What is it?"
"They have just fixed the prince's death for tomorrow, on his way to the
hunt."
"Did you recognise every conspirator?"
"Every one, though their faces were masked; when they gave their vote
for death, I knew them by their voices."
"Could you point out to me who they are?"
"Yes, this very minute; they are going to pass along at the end of this
corridor. And see, here is Tommaso Pace walking in front of them to
light their way."
Indeed, a tall spectral figure, black from head to foot, his face
carefully hidden under a velvet mask, walked at the end of the corridor,
lamp in hand, and stopped at the first step of a staircase which led to
the upper floors. The conspirators advanced slowly, two by two, like a
procession of ghosts, appeared for one moment in the circle of light
made by the torch, and again disappeared into shadow.
"See, there are Charles and Bertrand of Artois," said the notary; "there
are the Counts of Terlizzi and Catanzaro; the grand admiral and grand
seneschal, Godfrey of Marsan, Count of Squillace, and Robert of Cabane,
Count of Eboli; the two women talking in a low voice with the eager
gesticulations are Catherine of Tarentum, Empress of Constantinople, and
Philippa the Catanese, the queen's governess and chief lady; there is
Dona Cancha, chamberwoman and confidante of Joan; and there is the
Countess of Morcone."
The notary stopped on beholding a shadow alone, its head bowed, with
arms hanging loosely, choking back her sobs beneath a hood of black.
"Who is the woman who seems to drag herself so painfully along in their
train?" asked the duke, pressing his companion's arm.
"That woman," said the notary, "is the queen." "Ah, now I see," thought
Charles, breathing freely, with the same sort of satisfaction that Satan
no doubt feels when a long coveted soul falls at length into his power.
"And now, my lord," continued Master Nicholas, when all had returned
once more into silence and darkness, "if you have bidden me spy on these
conspirators with a view to saving the young prince you are protecting
with love and vigilance, you must hurry forward, for to-morrow maybe it
will be too late."
"Follow me," cried the duke imperiously; "it is time you should know my
real intention, and then carry out my orders with scrupulous exactness."
With these words he drew him aside to a place opposite to where the
conspirators had just disappeared. The notary mechanically followed
through a labyrinth of dark corridors and secret staircases, quite at a
loss how to account for the sudden change that had come over his
master--crossing one of the ante-chambers in the castle, they came upon
Andre, who joyfully accosted them; grasping the hand of his cousin Duras
in his affectionate manner, he asked him in a pressing way that would
brook no refusal, "Will you be of our hunting party to-morrow, duke?"
"Excuse me, my lord," said Charles, bowing down to the ground; "it will
be impossible for me to go to-morrow, for my wife is very unwell; but I
entreat you to accept the best falcon I have."
And here he cast upon the notary a petrifying glance.
The morning of the 20th of August was fine and calm--the irony of nature
contrasting cruelly with the fate of mankind. From break of day masters
and valets, pages and knights, princes and courtiers, all were on foot;
cries of joy were heard on every side when the queen arrived on a
snow-white horse, at the head of the young and brilliant throng. Joan
was perhaps paler than usual, but that might be because she had been
obliged to rise very early. Andre, mounted on one of the most fiery of
all the steeds he had tamed, galloped beside his wife, noble and proud,
happy in his own powers, his youth, and the thousand gilded hopes that a
brilliant future seemed to offer. Never had the court of Naples shown so
brave an aspect: every feeling of distrust and hatred seemed entirely
forgotten; Friar Robert himself, suspicious as he was by nature, when he
saw the joyous cavalcade go by under his window, looked out with pride,
and stroking his beard, laughed at his own seriousness.
Andre's intention was to spend several days hunting between Capua and
Aversa, and only to return to Naples when all was in readiness for his
coronation. Thus the first day they hunted round about Melito, and went
through two or three villages in the land of Labore. Towards evening the
court stopped at Aversa, with a view to passing the night there, and
since at that period there was no castle in the place worthy of
entertaining the queen with her husband and numerous court, the convent
of St. Peter's at Majella was converted into a royal residence: this
convent had been built by Charles II in the year of our Lord 1309.
While the grand seneschal was giving orders for supper and the
preparation of a room for Andre and his wife, the prince, who during the
whole day had abandoned himself entirely to his favourite amusement,
went up on the terrace to enjoy the evening air, accompanied by the good
Isolda, his beloved nurse, who loved him more even than his mother, and
would not leave his side for a moment. Never had the prince appeared so
animated and happy: he was in ecstasies over the beauty of the country,
the clear air, the scent of the trees around; he besieged his nurse with
a thousand queries, never waiting for an answer; and they were indeed
long in coming, for poor Isolda was gazing upon him with that appearance
of fascination which makes a mother absent-minded when her child is
talking: Andre was eagerly telling her about a terrible boar he had
chased that morning across the woods, how it had lain foaming at his
feet, and Isolda interrupted him to say he had a grain of dust in his
eye. Then Andre was full of his plans for the future, and Isolda stroked
his fair hair, remarking that he must be feeling very tired. Then,
heeding nothing but his own joy and excitement, the young prince hurled
defiance at destiny, calling by all his gods on dangers to come forward,
so that he might have the chance of quelling them, and the poor nurse
exclaimed, in a flood of tears, "My child, you love me no longer."
Out of all patience with these constant interruptions, Andre scolded her
kindly enough, and mocked at her childish fears. Then, paying no
attention to a sort of melancholy that was coming over him, he bade her
tell him old tales of his childhood, and had a long talk about his
brother Louis, his absent mother, and tears were in his eyes when he
recalled her last farewell. Isolda listened joyfully, and answered all
he asked; but no fell presentiment shook her heart: the poor woman loved
Andre with all the strength of her soul; for him she would have given up
her life in this world and in the world to come; yet she was not his
mother.
When all was ready, Robert of Cabane came to tell the prince that the
queen awaited him; Andre cast one last look at the smiling fields
beneath the starry heavens, pressed his nurse's hand to his lips and to
his heart, and followed the grand seneschal slowly and, it seemed, with
some regret. But soon the brilliant lights of the room, the wine that
circulated freely, the gay talk, the eager recitals of that day's
exploits served to disperse the cloud of gloom that had for a moment
overspread the countenance of the prince. The queen alone, leaning on
the table with fixed eyes and lips that never moved, sat at this strange
feast pale and cold as a baleful ghost summoned from the tomb to disturb
the joy of the party. Andre, whose brain began to be affected by the
draughts of wine from Capri and Syracuse, was annoyed at his wife's
look, and attributing it to contempt, filled a goblet to the brim and
presented it to the queen. Joan visibly trembled, her lips moved
convulsively; but the conspirators drowned in their noisy talk the
involuntary groan that escaped her. In the midst of a general uproar,
Robert of Cabane proposed that they should serve generous supplies of
the same wine drunk at the royal table to the Hungarian guards who were
keeping watch at the approaches to the convent, and this liberality
evoked frenzied applause. The shouting of the soldiers soon gave witness
to their gratitude for the unexpected gift, and mingled with the
hilarious toasts of the banqueters. To put the finishing touch to
Andre's excitement, there were cries on every side of "Long live the
Queen! Long live His Majesty the King of Naples!"
The orgy lasted far into the night: the pleasures of the next day were
discussed with enthusiasm, and Bertrand of Artois protested in a loud
voice that if they were so late now some would not rise early on the
morrow. Andre declared that, for his part, an hour or two's rest would
be enough to get over his fatigue, and he eagerly protested that it
would be well for others to follow his example. The Count of Terlizzi
seemed to express some doubt as to the prince's punctuality. Andre
insisted, and challenging all the barons present to see who would be up
first, he retired with the queen to the room that had been reserved for
them, where he very soon fell into a deep and heavy sleep. About two
o'clock in the morning, Tommaso Pace, the prince's valet and first usher
of the royal apartments, knocked at his master's door to rouse him for
the chase. At the first knock, all was silence; at the second, Joan, who
had not closed her eyes all night, moved as if to rouse her husband and
warn him of the threatened danger; but at the third knock the
unfortunate young man suddenly awoke, and hearing in the next room
sounds of laughter and whispering, fancied that they were making a joke
of his laziness, and jumped out of bed bareheaded, in nothing but his
shirt, his shoes half on and half off. He opened the door; and at this
point we translate literally the account of Domenico Gravina, a
historian of much esteem. As soon as the prince appeared, the
conspirators all at once fell upon him, to strangle him with their
hands; believing he could not die by poison or sword, because of the
charmed ring given him by his poor mother. But Andre was so strong and
active, that when he perceived the infamous treason he defended himself
with more than human strength, and with dreadful cries got free from his
murderers, his face all bloody, his fair hair pulled out in handfuls.
The unhappy young man tried to gain his own bedroom, so as to get some
weapon and valiantly resist the assassins; but as he reached the door,
Nicholas of Melazzo, putting his dagger like a bolt into the lock,
stopped his entrance. The prince, calling aloud the whole time and
imploring the protection of his friends, returned to the hall; but all
the doors were shut, and no one held out a helping hand; for the queen
was silent, showing no uneasiness about her husband's death.
But the nurse Isolda, terrified by the shouting of her beloved son and
lord, leapt from her bed and went to the window, filling the house with
dreadful cries. The traitors, alarmed by the mighty uproar, although the
place was lonely and so far from the centre of the town that nobody
could have come to see what the noise was, were on the point of letting
their victim go, when Bertrand of Artois, who felt he was more guilty
than the others, seized the prince with hellish fury round the waist,
and after a desperate struggle got him down; then dragging him by the
hair of his head to a balcony which gave upon the garden, and pressing
one knee upon his chest, cried out to the others--
"Come here, barons: I have what we want to strangle him with."
And round his neck he passed a long cord of silk and gold, while the
wretched man struggled all he could. Bertrand quickly drew up the knot,
and the others threw the body over the parapet of the balcony, leaving
it hanging between earth and sky until death ensued. When the Count of
Terlizzi averted his eyes from the horrid spectacle, Robert of Cabane
cried out imperiously--
"What are you doing there? The cord is long enough for us all to hold:
we want not witnesses, we want accomplices!"
As soon as the last convulsive movements of the dying man had ceased,
they let the corpse drop the whole height of the three storeys, and
opening the doors of the hall, departed as though nothing had happened.
Isolda, when at last she contrived to get a light, rapidly ran to the
queen's chamber, and finding the door shut on the inside, began to call
loudly on her Andre. There was no answer, though the queen was in the
room. The poor nurse, distracted, trembling, desperate, ran down all the
corridors, knocked at all the cells and woke the monks one by one,
begging them to help her look for the prince. The monks said that they
had indeed heard a noise, but thinking it was a quarrel between soldiers
drunken perhaps or mutinous, they had not thought it their business to
interfere. Isolda eagerly, entreated: the alarm spread through the
convent; the monks followed the nurse, who went on before with a torch.
She entered the garden, saw something white upon the grass, advanced
trembling, gave one piercing cry, and fell backward.
The wretched Andre was lying in his blood, a cord round his neck as
though he were a thief, his head crushed in by the height from which he
fell. Then two monks went upstairs to the queen's room, and respectfully
knocking at the door, asked in sepulchral tones--
"Madam, what would you have us do with your husband's corpse?"
And when the queen made no answer, they went down again slowly to the
garden, and kneeling one at the head, the other at the foot of the dead
man, they began to recite penitential psalms in a low voice. When they
had spent an hour in prayer, two other monks went up in the same way to
Joan's chamber, repeating the same question and getting no answer,
whereupon they relieved the first two, and began themselves to pray.
Next a third couple went to the door of this inexorable room, and coming
away perturbed by their want of success, perceived that there was a
disturbance of people outside the convent, while vengeful cries were
heard amongst the indignant crowd. The groups became more and more
thronged, threatening voices were raised, a torrent of invaders
threatened the royal dwelling, when the queen's guard appeared, lance in
readiness, and a litter closely shut, surrounded by the principal barons
of the court, passed through the crowd, which stood stupidly gazing.
Joan, wrapped in a black veil, went back to Castel Nuovo, amid her
escort; and nobody, say the historians, had the courage to say a word
about this terrible deed.