The King of Hungary, his black flag ever borne before him, started for
Naples, refusing all offered honours, and rejecting the canopy beneath
which he was to make his entry, not even stopping to give audience to
the chief citizens or to receive the acclamations of the crowd. Armed at
all points, he made for Castel Nuovo, leaving behind him dismay and
fear. His first act on entering the city was to order Dona Cancha to be
burnt, her punishment having been deferred by reason of her pregnancy.
Like the others, she was drawn on a cart to the square of St. Eligius,
and there consigned to the flames. The young creature, whose suffering
had not impaired her beauty, was dressed as for a festival, and laughing
like a mad thing up to the last moment, mocked at her executioners and
threw kisses to the crowd.
A few days later, Godfrey of Marsana, Count of Squillace and grand
admiral of the kingdom, was arrested by the king's orders. His life was
promised him on condition of his delivering up Conrad of Catanzaro, one
of his relatives, accused of conspiring against Andre. The grand admiral
committed this act of shameless treachery, and did not shrink from
sending his own son to persuade Conrad to come to the town. The poor
wretch was given over to the king, and tortured alive on a wheel made
with sharp knives. The sight of these barbarities, far from calming the
king's rage, seemed to inflame it the more. Every day there were new
accusations and new sentences. The prisons were crowded: Louis's
punishments were redoubled in severity. A fear arose that the town, and
indeed the whole kingdom, were to be treated as having taken part in
Andre's death. Murmurs arose against this barbarous rule, and all men's
thoughts turned towards their fugitive queen. The Neapolitan barons had
taken the oath of fidelity with no willing hearts; and when it came to
the turn of the Counts of San Severino, they feared a trick of some
kind, and refused to appear all together before the Hungarian, but took
refuge in the town of Salerno, and sent Archbishop Roger, their brother,
to make sure of the king's intentions beforehand. Louis received him
magnificently, and appointed him privy councillor and grand proto
notary. Then, and not till then, did Robert of San Severino and Roger,
Count of Chiaramonte, venture into the king's presence; after doing
homage, they retired to their homes. The other barons followed their
example of caution, and hiding their discontent under a show of respect,
awaited a favourable moment for shaking off the foreign yoke. But the
queen had encountered no obstacle in her flight, and arrived at Nice
five days later. Her passage through Provence was like a triumph. Her
beauty, youth, and misfortunes, even certain mysterious reports as to
her adventures, all contributed to arouse the interest of the Provencal
people. Games and fetes were improvised to soften the hardship of exile
for the proscribed princess; but amid the outbursts of joy from every
town, castle, and city, Joan, always sad, lived ever in her silent grief
and glowing memories.
At the gates of Aix she found the clergy, the nobility, and the chief
magistrates, who received her respectfully but with no signs of
enthusiasm. As the queen advanced, her astonishment increased as she saw
the coldness of the people and the solemn, constrained air of the great
men who escorted her. Many anxious thoughts alarmed her, and she even
went so far as to fear some intrigue of the King of Hungary. Scarcely
had her cortege arrived at Castle Arnaud, when the nobles, dividing into
two ranks, let the queen pass with her counsellor Spinelli and two
women; then closing up, they cut her off from the rest of her suite.
After this, each in turn took up his station as guardian of the
fortress.
There was no room for doubt: the queen was a prisoner; but the cause of
the manoeuvre it was impossible to guess. She asked the high
dignitaries, and they, protesting respectful devotion, refused to
explain till they had news from Avignon. Meanwhile all honours that a
queen could receive were lavished on Joan; but she was kept in sight and
forbidden to go out. This new trouble increased her depression: she did
not know what had happened to Louis of Tarentum, and her imagination,
always apt at creating disasters, instantly suggested that she would
soon be weeping for his loss.
But Louis, always with his faithful Acciajuoli, had after many fatiguing
adventures been shipwrecked at the port of Pisa; thence he had taken
route for Florence, to beg men and money; but the Florentines decided to
keep an absolute neutrality, and refused to receive him. The prince,
losing his last hope, was pondering gloomy plans, when Nicholas
Acciajuoli thus resolutely addressed him:
"My lord, it is not given to mankind to enjoy prosperity for ever: there
are misfortunes beyond all human foresight. You were once rich and
powerful, and you are now a fugitive in disguise, begging the help of
others. You must reserve your strength for better days. I still have a
considerable fortune, and also have relations and friends whose wealth
is at my disposal: let us try to make our way to the queen, and at once
decide what we can do. I myself shall always defend you and obey you as
my lord and master."
The prince received these generous offers with the utmost gratitude, and
told his counsellor that he placed his person in his hands and all that
remained of his future. Acciajuoli, not content with serving his master
as a devoted servant, persuaded his brother Angelo, Archbishop of
Florence, who was in great favour at Clement VI's court, to join with
them in persuading the pope to interest himself in the cause of Louis of
Tarentum. So, without further delay, the prince, his counsellor, and the
good prelate made their way to the port of Marseilles, but learning that
the queen was a prisoner at Aix, they embarked at Acque-Morte, and went
straight to Avignon. It soon appeared that the pope had a real affection
and esteem for the character of the Archbishop of Florence, for Louis
was received with paternal kindness at the court of Avignon; which was
far more than he had expected: when he kneeled before the sovereign
pontiff, His Holiness bent affectionately towards him and helped him to
rise, saluting him by the title of king.
Two days later, another prelate, the Archbishop of Aix, came into the
queen's presence,--
"Most gracious and dearly beloved sovereign, permit the most humble and
devoted of your servants to ask pardon, in the name of your subjects,
for the painful but necessary measure they have thought fit to take
concerning your Majesty. When you arrived on our coast, your loyal town
of Aix had learned from a trustworthy source that the King of France was
proposing to give our country to one of his own sons, making good this
loss to you by the cession of another domain, also that the Duke of
Normandy had come to Avignon to request this exchange in person. We were
quite decided, madam, and had made a vow to God that we would give up
everything rather than suffer the hateful tyranny of the French. But
before spilling blood we thought it best to secure your august person as
a sacred hostage, a sacred ark which no man dared touch but was smitten
to the ground, which indeed must keep away from our walls the scourge of
war. We have now read the formal annulment of this hateful plan, in a
brief sent by the sovereign pontiff from Avignon; and in this brief he
himself guarantees your good faith.
"We give you your full and entire liberty, and henceforth we shall only
endeavour to keep you among us by prayers and protestations. Go then,
madam, if that is your pleasure, but before you leave these lands, which
will be plunged into mourning by your withdrawal, leave with us some
hope that you forgive the apparent violence to which we have subjected
you, only in the fear that we might lose you; and remember that on the
day when you cease to be our queen you sign the death-warrant of all
your subjects."
Joan reassured the archbishop and the deputation from her good town of
Aix with a melancholy smile, and promised that she would always cherish
the memory of their affection. For this time she could not be deceived
as to the real sentiments of the nobles and people; and a fidelity so
uncommon, revealed with sincere tears, touched her heart and made her
reflect bitterly upon her past. But a league's distance from Avignon a
magnificent triumphal reception awaited her. Louis of Tarentum and all
the cardinals present at the court had come out to meet her. Pages in
dazzling dress carried above Joan's head a canopy of scarlet velvet,
ornamented with fleur-de-lys in gold and plumes. Handsome youths and
lovely girls, their heads crowned with flowers, went before her singing
her praise. The streets were bordered with a living hedge of people; the
houses were decked out; the bells rang a triple peal, as at the great
Church festivals. Clement VI first received the queen at the castle of
Avignon with all the pomp he knew so well how to employ on solemn
occasions, then she was lodged in the palace of Cardinal Napoleon of the
Orsini, who on his return from the Conclave at Perugia had built this
regal dwelling at Villeneuve, inhabited later by the popes.
No words could give an idea of the strangely disturbed condition of
Avignon at this period. Since Clement V had transported the seat of the
papacy to Provence, there had sprung up, in this rival to Rome, squares,
churches, cardinals' palaces, of unparalleled splendour. All the
business of nations and kings was transacted at the castle of Avignon.
Ambassadors from every court, merchants of every nation, adventurers of
all kinds, Italians, Spaniards, Hungarians, Arabs, Jews, soldiers,
Bohemians, jesters, poets, monks, courtesans, swarmed and clustered
here, and hustled one another in the streets. There was confusion of
tongues, customs, and costumes, an inextricable mixture of splendour and
rags, riches and misery, debasement and grandeur. The austere poets of
the Middle Ages stigmatised the accursed city in their writings under
the name of the New Babylon.
There is one curious monument of Joan's sojourn at Avignon and the
exercise of her authority as sovereign. She was indignant at the
effrontery of the women of the town, who elbowed everybody shamelessly
in the streets, and published a notable edict, the first of its kind,
which has since served as a model in like cases, to compel all
unfortunate women who trafficked in their honour to live shut up
together in a house, that was bound to be open every day in the year
except the last three days of Holy Week, the entrance to be barred to
Jews at all times. An abbess, chosen once a year, had the supreme
control over this strange convent. Rules were established for the
maintenance of order, and severe penalties inflicted for any
infringement of discipline. The lawyers of the period gained a great
reputation by this salutary institution; the fair ladies of Avignon were
eager in their defence of the queen in spite of the calumnious reports
that strove to tarnish her reputation: with one voice the wisdom of
Andre's widow was extolled. The concert of praises was disturbed,
however, by murmurs from the recluses themselves, who, in their own
brutal language, declared that Joan of Naples was impeding their
commerce so as to get a monopoly for herself.
Meanwhile Marie of Durazzo had joined her sister. After her husband's
death she had found means to take refuge in the convent of Santa Croce
with her two little daughters; and while Louis of Hungary was busy
burning his victims, the unhappy Marie had contrived to make her escape
in the frock of an old monk, and as by a miracle to get on board a ship
that was setting sail for Provence. She related to her sister the
frightful details of the king's cruelty. And soon a new proof of his
implacable hatred confirmed the tales of the poor princess.
Louis's ambassadors appeared at the court of Avignon to demand formally
the queen's condemnation.
It was a great day when Joan of Naples pleaded her own cause before the
pope, in the presence of all the cardinals then at Avignon, all the
ambassadors of foreign powers, and all the eminent persons come from
every quarter of Europe to be present at this trial, unique in the
annals of history. We must imagine a vast enclosure, in whose midst upon
a raised throne, as president of the august tribunal, sat God's vicar on
earth, absolute and supreme judge, emblem of temporal and spiritual
power, of authority human and divine. To right and left of the sovereign
pontiff, the cardinals in their red robes sat in chairs set round in a
circle, and behind these princes of the Sacred College stretched rows of
bishops extending to the end of the hall, with vicars, canons, deacons,
archdeacons, and the whole immense hierarchy of the Church. Facing the
pontifical throne was a platform reserved for the Queen of Naples and
her suite. At the pope's feet stood the ambassadors from the King of
Hungary, who played the part of accusers without speaking a word, the
circumstances of the crime and all the proofs having been discussed
beforehand by a committee appointed for the purpose. The rest of the
hall was filled by a brilliant crowd of high dignitaries, illustrious
captains, and noble envoys, all vying with one another in proud display.
Everyone ceased to breathe, all eyes were fixed on the dais whence Joan
was to speak her own defence. A movement of uneasy curiosity made this
compact mass of humanity surge towards the centre, the cardinals above
raised like proud peacocks over a golden harvest-field shaken in the
breeze.
The queen appeared, hand in hand with her uncle, the old Cardinal of
Perigord, and her aunt, the Countess Agnes. Her gait was so modest and
proud, her countenance so melancholy and pure, her looks so open and
confident, that even before she spoke every heart was hers. Joan was now
twenty years of age; her magnificent beauty was fully developed, but an
extreme pallor concealed the brilliance of her transparent satin skin,
and her hollow cheek told the tale of expiation and suffering. Among the
spectators who looked on most eagerly there was a certain young man with
strongly marked features, glowing eyes, and brown hair, whom we shall
meet again later on in our narrative; but we will not divert our
readers' attention, but only tell them that his name was James of
Aragon, that he was Prince of Majorca, and would have been ready to shed
every drop of his blood only to check one single tear that hung on
Joan's eyelids. The queen spoke in an agitated, trembling voice,
stopping from time to time to dry her moist and shining eyes, or to
breathe one of those deep sighs that go straight to the heart. She told
the tale of her husband's death painfully and vividly, painted
truthfully the mad terror that had seized upon her and struck her down
at that frightful time, raised her hands to her brow with the gesture of
despair, as though she would wrest the madness from her brain--and a
shudder of pity and awe passed through the assembled crowd. It is a fact
that at this moment, if her words were false, her anguish was both
sincere and terrible. An angel soiled by crime, she lied like Satan
himself, but like him too she suffered all the agony of remorse and
pride. Thus, when at the end of her speech she burst into tears and
implored help and protection against the usurper of her kingdom, a cry
of general assent drowned her closing words, several hands flew to their
sword-hilts, and the Hungarian ambassadors retired covered with shame
and confusion.
That same evening the sentence, to the great joy of all, was proclaimed,
that Joan was innocent and acquitted of all concern in the assassination
of her husband. But as her conduct after the event and the indifference
she had shown about pursuing the authors of the crime admitted of no
valid excuse, the pope declared that there were plain traces of magic,
and that the wrong-doing attributed to Joan was the result of some
baneful charm cast upon her, which she could by no possible means
resist. At the same time, His Holiness confirmed her marriage with Louis
of Tarentum, and bestowed on him the order of the Rose of Gold and the
title of King of Sicily and Jerusalem. Joan, it is true, had on the eve
of her acquittal sold the town of Avignon to the pope for the sum of
80,000 florins.
While the queen was pleading her cause at the court of Clement VI, a
dreadful epidemic, called the Black Plague--the same that Boccaccio has
described so wonderfully--was ravaging the kingdom of Naples, and indeed
the whole of Italy. According to the calculation of Matteo Villani,
Florence lost three-fifths of her population, Bologna two-thirds, and
nearly all Europe was reduced in some such frightful proportion. The
Neapolitans were already weary of the cruelties and greed of the
Hungarians, they were only awaiting some opportunity to revolt against
the stranger's oppression, and to recall their lawful sovereign, whom,
for all her ill deeds, they had never ceased to love. The attraction of
youth and beauty was deeply felt by this pleasure-loving people.
Scarcely had the pestilence thrown confusion into the army and town,
when loud cursing arose against the tyrant and his executioners. Louis
of Hungary, suddenly threatened by the wrath of Heaven and the people's
vengeance, was terrified both by the plague and by the riots, and
disappeared in the middle of the night. Leaving the government of Naples
in the hands of Conrad Lupo, one of his captains, he embarked hastily at
Berletta, and left the kingdom in very much the same way as Louis of
Tarentum, fleeing from him, had left it a few months before.
This news arrived at Avignon just when the pope was about to send the
queen his bull of absolution. It was at once decided to take away the
kingdom from Louis's viceroy. Nicholas Acciajuoli left for Naples with
the marvellous bull that was to prove to all men the innocence of the
queen, to banish all scruples and stir up a new enthusiasm. The
counsellor first went to the castle of Melzi, commanded by his son
Lorenzo: this was the only fortress that had always held out. The father
and son embraced with the honourable pride that near relatives may
justly feel when they meet after they have united in the performance of
a heroic duty. From the governor of Melzi Louis of Tarentum's counsellor
learned that all men were wearied of the arrogance and vexatious conduct
of the queen's enemies, and that a conspiracy was in train, started in
the University of Naples, but with vast ramifications all over the
kingdom, and moreover that there was dissension in the enemy's army. The
indefatigable counsellor went from Apulia to Naples, traversing towns
and villages, collecting men everywhere, proclaiming loudly the
acquittal of the queen and her marriage with Louis of Tarentum, also
that the pope was offering indulgences to such as would receive with joy
their lawful sovereigns. Then seeing that the people shouted as he went
by, "Long live Joan! Death to the Hungarians!" he returned and told his
sovereigns in what frame of mind he had left their subjects.
Joan borrowed money wherever she could, armed galleys, and left
Marseilles with her husband, her sister, and two faithful advisers,
Acciajuoli and Spinelli, on the 10th of September 1348. The king and
queen not being able to enter at the harbour, which was in the enemy's
power, disembarked at Santa Maria del Carmine, near the river Sebeto,
amid the frenzied applause of an immense crowd, and accompanied by all
the Neapolitan nobles. They made their way to the palace of Messire
Ajutorio, near Porta Capuana, the Hungarians having fortified themselves
in all the castles; but Acciajuoli, at the head of the queen's
partisans, blockaded the fortresses so ably that half of the enemy were
obliged to surrender, and the other half took to flight and were
scattered about the interior of the kingdom. We shall now follow Louis
of Tarentum in his arduous adventures in Apulia, the Calabrias, and the
Abruzzi, where he recovered one by one the fortresses that the
Hungarians had taken. By dint of unexampled valour and patience, he at
last mastered nearly all the more considerable places, when suddenly
everything changed, and fortune turned her back upon him for the second
time. A German captain called Warner, who had deserted the Hungarian
army to sell himself to the queen, had again played the traitor and sold
himself once more, allowed himself to be surprised at Corneto by Conrad
Lupo, the King of Hungary's vicar-general, and openly joined him, taking
along with him a great party of the adventurers who fought under his
orders. This unexpected defection forced Louis of Tarentum to retire to
Naples. The King of Hungary soon learning that the troops had rallied
round his banner, and only awaited his return to march upon the capital,
disembarked with a strong reinforcement of cavalry at the port of
Manfredonia, and taking Trani, Canosa, and Salerno, went forward to lay
siege to Aversa.
The news fell like a thunder-clap on Joan and her husband. The Hungarian
army consisted of 10,000 horse and more than 7000 infantry, and Aversa
had only 500 soldiers under Giacomo Pignatelli. In spite of the immense
disproportion of the numbers, the Neapolitan general vigorously repelled
the attack; and the King of Hungary, fighting in the front, was wounded
in his foot by an arrow. Then Louis, seeing that it would be difficult
to take the place by storm, determined to starve them out. For three
months the besieged performed prodigies of valour, and further
assistance was impossible. Their capitulation was expected at any
moment, unless indeed they decided to perish every man. Renaud des Baux,
who was to come from Marseilles with a squadron of ten ships to defend
the ports of the capital and secure the queen's flight, should the
Hungarian army get possession of Naples, had been delayed by adverse
winds and obliged to stop on the way. All things seemed to conspire in
favour of the enemy. Louis of Tarentum, whose generous soul refused to
shed the blood of his brave men in an unequal and desperate struggle,
nobly sacrificed himself, and made an offer to the King of Hungary to
settle their quarrel in single combat. We append the authentic letters
that passed between Joan's husband and Andre's brother.
"Illustrious King of Hungary, who has come to invade our kingdom, we, by
the grace of God King of Jerusalem and Sicily, invite you to single
combat. We know that you are in no wise disturbed by the death of your
lancers or the other pagans in your suite, no more indeed than if they
were dogs; but we, fearing harm to our own soldiers and men-at-arms,
desire to fight with you personally, to put an end to the present war
and restore peace to our kingdom. He who survives shall be king. And
therefore, to ensure that this duel shall take place, we definitely
propose as a site either Paris, in the presence of the King of France,
or one of the towns of Perugia, Avignon, or Naples. Choose one of these
four places, and send us your reply."
The King of Hungary first consulted with his council, and then
replied:--
"Great King, we have read and considered your letter sent to us by the
bearer of these presents, and by your invitation to a duel we are most
supremely pleased; but we do not approve of any of the places you
propose, since they are all suspect, and for several reasons. The King
of France is your maternal grandfather, and although we are also
connected by blood with him, the relationship is not so near. The town
of Avignon, although nominally belonging to the sovereign pontiff, is
the capital of Provence, and has always been subject to your rule.
Neither have we any more confidence in Perugia, for that town is devoted
to your cause.
"As to the city of Naples, there is no need to say that we refuse that
rendezvous, since it is in revolt against us and you are there as king.
But if you wish to fight with us, let it be in the presence of the
Emperor of Germany, who is lord supreme, or the King of England, who is
our common friend, or the Patriarch of Aquilea, a good Catholic. If you
do not approve of any of the places we propose, we shall soon be near
you with our army, and so remove all difficulties and delays. Then you
can come forth, and our duel can take place in the presence of both
armies."
After the interchange of these two letters, Louis of Tarentum proposed
nothing further. The garrison at Aversa had capitulated after a heroic
resistance, and it was known only too well that if the King of Hungary
could get so far as the walls of Naples, he would not have to endanger
his life in order to seize that city. Happily the Provencal galleys had
reached port at last. The king and the queen had only just time to
embark and take refuge at Gaeta. The Hungarian army arrived at Naples.
The town was on the point of yielding, and had sent messengers to the
king humbly demanding peace; but the speeches of the Hungarians showed
such insolence that the people, irritated past endurance, took up arms,
and resolved to defend their household gods with all the energy of
despair.