While the Neapolitans were holding out against their enemy at the Porta
Capuana, a strange scene was being enacted at the other side of the
town, a scene that shows us in lively colours the violence and treachery
of this barbarous age. The widow of Charles of Durazzo was shut up in
the castle of Ovo, and awaiting in feverish anxiety the arrival of the
ship that was to take her to the queen. The poor Princess Marie,
pressing her weeping children to her heart, pale, with dishevelled
locks, fixed eyes, and drawn lips, was listening for every sound,
distracted between hope and fear. Suddenly steps resounded along the
corridor; a friendly voice was heard; Marie fell upon her knees with a
cry of joy: her liberator had come.
Renaud des Baux, admiral of the Provencal squadron, respectfully
advanced, followed by his eldest son Robert and his chaplain.
"God, I thank Thee!" exclaimed Marie, rising to her feet; "we are
saved."
"One moment, madam," said Renaud, stopping her: "you are indeed saved,
but upon one condition."
"A condition?" murmured the princess in surprise.
"Listen, madam. The King of Hungary, the avenger of Andre's murderers,
the slayer of your husband, is at the gates of Naples; the people and
soldiers will succumb, as soon as their last gallant effort is
spent--the army of the conqueror is about to spread desolation and death
throughout the city by fire and the sword. This time the Hungarian
butcher will spare no victims: he will kill the mother before her
children's eyes, the children in their mother's arms. The drawbridge of
this castle is up and there are none on guard; every man who can wield a
sword is now at the other end of the town. Woe to you, Marie of Durazzo,
if the King of Hungary shall remember that you preferred his rival to
him!"
"But have you not come here to save me?" cried Marie in a voice of
anguish. "Joan, my sister, did she not command you to take me to her?"
"Your sister is no longer in the position to give orders," replied
Renaud, with a disdainful smile. "She had nothing for me but thanks
because I saved her life, and her husband's too, when he fled like a
coward before the man whom he had dared to challenge to a duel."
Marie looked fixedly at the admiral to assure herself that it was really
he who thus arrogantly talked about his masters. But she was terrified
at his imperturbable expression, and said gently--
"As I owe my life and my children's lives solely to your generosity, I
am grateful to you beyond all measure. But we must hurry, my lord: every
moment I fancy I hear cries of vengeance, and you would not leave me now
a prey to my brutal enemy?"
"God forbid, madam; I will save you at the risk of my life; but I have
said already, I impose a condition."
"What is it?" said Marie, with forced calm.
"That you marry my son on the instant, in the presence of our reverend
chaplain."
"Rash man!" cried Marie, recoiling, her face scarlet with indignation
and shame; "you dare to speak thus to the sister of your legitimate
sovereign? Give thanks to God that I will pardon an insult offered, as I
know, in a moment of madness; try by your devotion to make me forget
what you have said."
The count, without one word, signed to his son and a priest to follow,
and prepared to depart. As he crossed the threshold Marie ran to him,
and clasping her hands, prayed him in God's name never to forsake her.
Renaud stopped.
"I might easily take my revenge," he said, "for your affront when you
refuse my son in your pride; but that business I leave to Louis of
Hungary, who will acquit himself, no doubt, with credit."
"Have mercy on my poor daughters!" cried the princess; "mercy at least
for my poor babes, if my own tears cannot move you."
"If you loved your children," said the admiral, frowning, "you would
have done your duty at once."
"But I do not love your son!" cried Marie, proud but trembling. "O God,
must a wretched woman's heart be thus trampled? You, father, a minister
of truth and justice, tell this man that God must not be called on to
witness an oath dragged from the weak and helpless!"
She turned to the admiral's son; and added, sobbing--
"You are young, perhaps you have loved: one day no doubt you will love.
I appeal to your loyalty as a young man, to your courtesy as a knight,
to all your noblest impulses; join me, and turn your father away from
his fatal project. You have never seen me before: you do not know but
that in my secret heart I love another. Your pride should be revolted at
the sight of an unhappy woman casting herself at your feet and imploring
your favour and protection. One word from you, Robert, and I shall bless
you every moment of my life: the memory of you will be graven in my
heart like the memory of a guardian angel, and my children shall name
you nightly in their prayers, asking God to grant your wishes. Oh, say,
will you not save me? Who knows, later on I may love you--with real
love."
"I must obey my father," Robert replied, never lifting his eyes to the
lovely suppliant.
The priest was silent. Two minutes passed, and these four persons, each
absorbed in his own thoughts, stood motionless as statues carved at the
four corners of a tomb. Marie was thrice tempted to throw herself into
the sea. But a confused distant sound suddenly struck upon her ears:
little by little it drew nearer, voices were more distinctly heard;
women in the street were uttering cries of distress--
"Fly, fly! God has forsaken us; the Hungarians are in the town!"
The tears of Marie's children were the answer to these cries; and little
Margaret, raising her hands to her mother, expressed her fear in speech
that was far beyond her years. Renaud, without one look at this touching
picture, drew his son towards the door.
"Stay," said the princess, extending her hand with a solemn gesture: "as
God sends no other aid to my children, it is His will that the sacrifice
be accomplished."
She fell on her knees before the priest, bending her head like a victim
who offers her neck to the executioner. Robert des Baux took his place
beside her, and the priest pronounced the formula that united them for
ever, consecrating the infamous deed by a sacrilegious blessing.
"All is over!" murmured Marie of Durazzo, looking tearfully on her
little daughters.
"No, all is not yet over," said the admiral harshly, pushing her towards
another room; "before we leave, the marriage must be consummated."
"O just God!" cried the princess, in a voice torn with anguish, and she
fell swooning to the floor.
Renaud des Baux directed his ships towards Marseilles, where he hoped to
get his son crowned Count of Provence, thanks to his strange marriage
with Marie of Durazzo. But this cowardly act of treason was not to go
unpunished. The wind rose with fury, and drove him towards Gaeta, where
the queen and her husband had just arrived. Renaud bade his sailors keep
in the open, threatening to throw any man into the sea who dared to
disobey him. The crew at first murmured; soon cries of mutiny rose on
every side. The admiral, seeing he was lost, passed from threats to
prayers. But the princess, who had recovered her senses at the first
thunder-clap, dragged herself up to the bridge and screamed for help,
"Come to me, Louis! Come, my barons! Death to the cowardly wretches who
have outraged my honour!"
Louis of Tarentum jumped into a boat, followed by some ten of his
bravest men, and, rowing rapidly, reached the ship. Then Marie told him
her story in a word, and he turned upon the admiral a lightning glance,
as though defying him to make any defence.
"Wretch!" cried the king, transfixing the traitor with his sword.
Then he had the son loaded with chains, and also the unworthy priest who
had served as accomplice to the admiral, who now expiated his odious
crime by death. He took the princess and her children in his boat, and
re-entered the harbour.
The Hungarians, however, forcing one of the gates of Naples, marched
triumphant to Castel Nuovo. But as they were crossing the Piazza delle
Correggie, the Neapolitans perceived that the horses were so weak and
the men so reduced by all they had undergone during the siege of Aversa
that a mere puff of wind would dispense this phantom-like army. Changing
from a state of panic to real daring, the people rushed upon their
conquerors, and drove them outside the walls by which they had just
entered. The sudden violent reaction broke the pride of the King of
Hungary, and made him more tractable when Clement VI decided that he
ought at last to interfere. A truce was concluded first from the month
of February 1350 to the beginning of April 1351, and the next year this
was converted into a real peace, Joan paying to the King of Hungary the
sum of 300,000 florins for the expenses of the war.
After the Hungarians had gone, the pope sent a legate to crown Joan and
Louis of Tarentum, and the 25th of May, the day of Pentecost, was chosen
for the ceremony. All contemporary historians speak enthusiastically of
this magnificent fete. Its details have been immortalised by Giotto in
the frescoes of the church which from this day bore the name of
L'Incoronata. A general amnesty was declared for all who had taken part
in the late wars on either side, and the king and queen were greeted
with shouts of joy as they solemnly paraded beneath the canopy, with all
the barons of the kingdom in their train.
But the day's joy was impaired by an accident which to a superstitious
people seemed of evil augury. Louis of Tarentum, riding a richly
caparisoned horse, had just passed the Porta Petruccia, when some ladies
looking out from a high window threw such a quantity of flowers at the
king that his frightened steed reared and broke his rein. Louis could
not hold him, so jumped lightly to the ground; but the crown fell at his
feet and was broken into three pieces. On that very day the only
daughter of Joan and Louis died.
But the king not wishing to sadden the brilliant ceremony with show of
mourning, kept up the jousts and tournaments for three days, and in
memory of his coronation instituted the order of 'Chevaliers du Noeud'.
But from that day begun with an omen so sad, his life was nothing but a
series of disillusions. After sustaining wars in Sicily and Apulia, and
quelling the insurrection of Louis of Durazzo, who ended his days in the
castle of Ovo, Louis of Tarentum, worn out by a life of pleasure, his
health undermined by slow disease, overwhelmed with domestic trouble,
succumbed to an acute fever on the 5th of June 1362, at the age of
forty-two. His body had not been laid in its royal tomb at Saint
Domenico before several aspirants appeared to the hand of the queen.
One was the Prince of Majorca, the handsome youth we have already spoken
of: he bore her off triumphant over all rivals, including the son of the
King of France. James of Aragon had one of those faces of melancholy
sweetness which no woman can resist. Great troubles nobly borne had
thrown as it were a funereal veil over his youthful days: more than
thirteen years he had spent shut in an iron cage; when by the aid of a
false key he had escaped from his dreadful prison, he wandered from one
court to another seeking aid; it is even said that he was reduced to the
lowest degree of poverty and forced to beg his bread. The young
stranger's beauty and his adventures combined had impressed both Joan
and Marie at the court of Avignon. Marie especially had conceived a
violent passion for him, all the more so for the efforts she made to
conceal it in her own bosom. Ever since James of Aragon came to Naples,
the unhappy princess, married with a dagger at her throat, had desired
to purchase her liberty at the expense of crime. Followed by four armed
men, she entered the prison where Robert des Baux was still suffering
for a fault more his father's than his own. Marie stood before the
prisoner, her arms crossed, her cheeks livid, her lips trembling. It was
a terrible interview. This time it was she who threatened, the man who
entreated pardon. Marie was deaf to his prayers, and the head of the
luckless man fell bleeding at her feet, and her men threw the body into
the sea. But God never allows a murder to go unpunished: James preferred
the queen to her sister, and the widow of Charles of Durazzo gained
nothing by her crime but the contempt of the man she loved, and a bitter
remorse which brought her while yet young to the tomb.
Joan was married in turn to James of Aragon, son of the King of Majorca,
and to Otho of Brunswick, of the imperial family of Saxony. We will pass
rapidly over these years, and come to the denouement of this history of
crime and expiation. James, parted from his wife, continued his stormy
career, after a long contest in Spain with Peter the Cruel, who had
usurped his kingdom: about the end of the year 1375 he died near
Navarre. Otho also could not escape the Divine vengeance which hung over
the court of Naples, but to the end he valiantly shared the queen's
fortunes. Joan, since she had no lawful heir, adopted her nephew,
Charles de la Paix (so called after the peace of Trevisa). He was the
son of Louis Duras, who after rebelling against Louis of Tarentum, had
died miserably in the castle of Ovo. The child would have shared his
father's fate had not Joan interceded to spare his life, loaded him with
kindness, and married him to Margaret, the daughter of her sister Marie
and her cousin Charles, who was put to death by the King of Hungary.
Serious differences arose between the queen and one of her former
subjects, Bartolommeo Prigiani, who had become pope under the name of
Urban VI. Annoyed by the queen's opposition, the pope one day angrily
said he would shut her up in a convent. Joan, to avenge the insult,
openly favoured Clement VII, the anti-pope, and offered him a home in
her own castle, when, pursued by Pope Urban's army, he had taken refuge
at Fondi. But the people rebelled against Clement, and killed the
Archbishop of Naples, who had helped to elect him: they broke the cross
that was carried in procession before the anti-pope, and hardly allowed
him time to make his escape on shipboard to Provence. Urban declared
that Joan was now dethroned, and released her subjects from their oath
of fidelity to her, bestowing the crown of Sicily and Jerusalem upon
Charles de la Paix, who marched on Naples with 8000 Hungarians. Joan,
who could not believe in such base ingratitude, sent out his wife
Margaret to meet her adopted son, though she might have kept her as a
hostage, and his two children, Ladislaus and Joan, who became later the
second queen of that name. But the victorious army soon arrived at the
gates of Naples, and Charles blockaded the queen in her castle,
forgetting in his ingratitude that she had saved his life and loved him
like a mother.
Joan during the siege endured all the worst fatigues of war that any
soldier has to bear. She saw her faithful friends fall around her wasted
by hunger or decimated by sickness. When all food was exhausted, dead
and decomposed bodies were thrown into the castle that they might
pollute the air she breathed. Otho with his troops was kept at Aversa;
Louis of Anjou, the brother of the King of France whom she had named as
her successor when she disinherited her nephew, never appeared to help
her, and the Provencal ships from Clement VII were not due to arrive
until all hope must be over. Joan asked for a truce of five days,
promising that, if Otho had not come to relieve her in that time, she
would surrender the fortress.
On the fifth day Otho's army appeared on the side of Piedigrotta. The
fight was sharp on both sides, and Joan from the top of a tower could
follow with her eyes the cloud of dust raised by her husband's horse in
the thickest of the battle. The victory was long uncertain: at length
the prince made so bold an onset upon the royal standard, in his
eagerness to meet his enemy hand to hand, that he plunged into the very
middle of the army, and found himself pressed on every side. Covered
with blood and sweat, his sword broken in his hand, he was forced to
surrender. An hour later Charles was writing to his uncle, the King of
Hungary, that Joan had fallen into his power, and he only awaited His
Majesty's orders to decide her fate.
It was a fine May morning: the queen was under guard in the castle of
Aversa: Otho had obtained his liberty on condition of his quitting
Naples, and Louis of Anjou had at last got together an army of 50,000
men and was marching in hot haste to the conquest of the kingdom. None
of this news had reached the ears of Joan, who for some days had lived
in complete isolation. The spring lavished all her glory on these
enchanted plains, which have earned the name of the blessed and happy
country, campagna felite. The orange trees were covered with sweet white
blossoms, the cherries laden with ruby fruit, the olives with young
emerald leaves, the pomegranate feathery with red bells; the wild
mulberry, the evergreen laurel, all the strong budding vegetation,
needing no help from man to flourish in this spot privileged by Nature,
made one great garden, here and there interrupted by little hidden
runlets. It was a forgotten Eden in this corner of the world. Joan at
her window was breathing in the perfumes of spring, and her eyes misty
with tears rested on a bed of flowery verdure; a light breeze, keen and
balmy, blew upon her burning brow and offered a grateful coolness to her
damp and fevered cheeks. Distant melodious voices, refrains of
well-known songs, were all that disturbed the silence of the poor little
room, the solitary nest where a life was passing away in tears and
repentance, a life the most brilliant and eventful of a century of
splendour and unrest.
The queen was slowly reviewing in her mind all her life since she ceased
to be a child--fifty years of disillusionment and suffering. She thought
first of her happy, peaceful childhood, her grandfather's blind
affection, the pure joys of her days of innocence, the exciting games
with her little sister and tall cousins. Then she shuddered at the
earliest thought of marriage, the constraint, the loss of liberty, the
bitter regrets; she remembered with horror the deceitful words murmured
in her ear, designed to sow the seeds of corruption and vice that were
to poison her whole life. Then came the burning memories of her first
love, the treachery and desertion of Robert of Cabane, the moments of
madness passed like a dream in the arms of Bertrand of Artois--the whole
drama up to its tragic denouement showed as in letters of fire on the
dark background of her sombre thoughts. Then arose cries of anguish in
her soul, even as on that terrible fatal night she heard the voice of
Andre asking mercy from his murderers. A long deadly silence followed
his awful struggle, and the queen saw before her eyes the carts of
infamy and the torture of her accomplices. All the rest of this vision
was persecution, flight, exile, remorse, punishments from God and curses
from the world. Around her was a frightful solitude: husbands, lovers,
kindred, friends, all were dead; all she had loved or hated in the world
were now no more; her joy, pain, desire, and hope had vanished for ever.
The poor queen, unable to free herself from these visions of woe,
violently tore herself away from the awful reverie, and kneeling at a
prie-dieu, prayed with fervour. She was still beautiful, in spite of her
extreme pallor; the noble lines of her face kept their pure oval; the
fire of repentance in her great black eyes lit them up with superhuman
brilliance, and the hope of pardon played in a heavenly smile upon her
lips.
Suddenly the door of the room where Joan was so earnestly praying opened
with a dull sound: two Hungarian barons in armour entered and signed to
the queen to follow them. Joan arose silently and obeyed; but a cry of
pain went up from her heart when she recognised the place where both
Andre and Charles of Durazzo had died a violent death. But she collected
her forces, and asked calmly why she was brought hither. For all answer,
one of the men showed her a cord of silk and gold....
"May the will of a just God be done!" cried Joan, and fell upon her
knees. Some minutes later she had ceased to suffer.
This was the third corpse that was thrown over the balcony at Aversa.
----