A MEDIÆVAL NIGHTMARE
Pact Between Charles and Andrew of Hungary—Joan’s Homage to the
Papal Legate—Andrew Ignored—Arrival of Andrew’s Mother—Andrew
Upheld by the Pope—His Reprisals—“The Man Must Die”—The Queen’s
Conspiracy—Last Meeting of Charles and Andrew—The Hunting
Expedition—The Banquet in the Monastery—The Murder—Tempest
Breaks Over Joan’s Head—An Evil Blow at Charles—Trial of Andrew’s
Murderers—A Nightmare of Cruelty and Fear.
To judge from the sequence of events, it would appear almost certain
that, in his amazing marriage with Princess Maria, Charles of Durazzo
must have had the assistance—or, at least, the tacit approval—of Andrew
of Hungary; and that, in return for this, Charles had promised Andrew
that he would take his part and support him against the faction of
the Queen. Certain it is, at all events, that, immediately after the
marriage of Charles and Maria, the party of Andrew, his Hungarian
barons and soldiers, redoubled in arrogance towards the Neapolitans,
and their excesses of violence and rapine which, erstwhile, had been
subjected to an intermittent restraint, now became such as to evoke
not only complaints, but threats as well on the part of the unfortunate
people. Andrew himself, however, took no notice of such protests, but
appeared, rather, to approve the outrages committed by his underlings.
And as certain was it in the opinion of his enemies that the time
was come when they might strike him with propriety as well as with
impunity.
On August 31, 1344, Queen Joan came, surrounded by her friends, to the
Church of Santa Chiara, there to do homage for her crown to the Papal
legate, Cardinal San Martino de Monti; for the kingdom of Naples,
having been bestowed by the Pope upon the House of Anjou after the
deposition by them of that of the Hohenstaufen, was considered as a
fief of the Church.
By this ceremony the claims of Andrew of Hungary to a share in the
throne were formally ignored, and the single sovereignty ceremoniously
confirmed to Joan; for her husband was in no way admitted to join with
her in the act of homage, nor was there any reference to him by word
or deed from first to last; thereafter, his position in the realm was
that of its first subject and nothing more. In fact, he was simply
the Prince Consort of Naples. During the ceremony—for he, like Joan,
had come to it with a numerous armed retinue—the followers of the
husband and wife not only kept up a brisk exchange of threats, but had
actually to be prevented by repeated energetic commands from drawing
their swords then and there. When it was over, and Andrew had returned
to the Castel Nuovo, his heart on fire with rage and humiliation
and disappointment, his first act was to despatch a message to his
mother, Elizabeth of Poland, informing her of his resolution to depart
forthwith from the country which offered him nothing but deception and
betrayal.
Many months passed away, however, without either his carrying out his
avowed intention or any answer reaching him from his mother; for, had
he meant what he said in the letter, the letter would never have been
written at all; but he would have gone himself instead of sending
it. So he had hesitated in his choice of a course of action; and,
hesitating, was lost.
In place of a return letter, his mother came to fetch him away with her
on the vessel in which she had sailed from the port of Danzig; and no
sooner was it known what she had come to do than there went up a sigh
of thankfulness from all the Court, most especially from those who by
her advent saw themselves delivered from the detestable necessity of
assassinating the Hungarian Prince in order to insure their own safety
from his jealousy and resentment. At once, too, the friends—or, rather,
the party—of Joan set themselves to convince the Queen of Poland of
their amiable intentions towards her ungracious son by overwhelming her
with all manner of undesired civilities and entertainments. But nothing
could procure them the confidence of the terrified mother, or turn her
from her purpose of removing Prince Andrew from their midst.
The only person, though, who expostulated with Queen Elizabeth for
her project of withdrawing her son from Naples was his courageous and
resolute tutor, the Dominican, Father Robert, who implored her to have
patience and courage for a little while until he should have received
from the Pope, who was then living at Avignon, an answer to the
entreaty despatched so long before and in which Prince Andrew’s claims
to be the King of Naples—in accordance with the wishes of the deceased
King Robert—had been submitted to the judgment of the Holy Father with
an entreaty that he would ratify them.
But all that Father Robert could obtain from the thoroughly terrified
Elizabeth was a delay of three days, at the expiration of which time,
unless a favourable answer had been received from the Pope, she would
set sail once more for Danzig, taking Prince Andrew with her.
Not until the evening of that momentous third day, as she was
completing her preparations for departure, did the Dominican come
hurrying into Elizabeth’s presence, having in his hands a sheet of
parchment from which swung a seal upon a cord.
“Now, God be thanked!” he cried, proffering her the parchment. “You see
for yourself, Madam—the Holy Father consents, and your son is King of
Naples and of Jerusalem! And, if I may say so, I think it is owing to
me more than to any one else!”
And he went on to explain to the delighted Elizabeth how, without
mentioning it to any one, he had taken on himself the responsibility of
promising that certain laws prejudicial to the Church in the Kingdom
of Naples should be abolished if the Pope would confirm the crown to
Andrew of Hungary. At this juncture Andrew himself entered the room and
was informed of the change in his situation by being hailed as King of
Naples by the Dominican. At once the young man’s whole nature leapt out
to grasp the splendour of his new power in an outburst of revengeful
exaltation over those who had hitherto insulted and belittled him. Now,
as he swore, they should indeed have reason to tremble for their former
boldness, their contempt and defiance of him!
A few days later Queen Elizabeth sailed away from Naples, her head
still full of forebodings; try as she would, she could not shake off
the fears that beset her so increasingly for the safety of her son whom
she was leaving behind with none but a handful of foreign adherents in
the midst of a Court and of a people bent, as she felt certain, upon
his destruction.
But these misgivings were in no wise shared by Andrew of Hungary,
who now proceeded without loss of time to carry out his intention of
punishing his seditious subjects.
The first of those upon whom his hand fell was one of the chief
Councillors of the Kingdom, a certain Andrew of Isernia, who had been
chiefly concerned in persuading Queen Joan—who had looked upon him as a
father—to set at naught the provisions of King Robert’s will and to let
herself be proclaimed the sole ruler of Naples to the detriment of her
husband.
In passing be it said that, instead of at once making public the
Pope’s recognition of him as King of Naples, with, of course, absolute
rights of life and death over its people, Prince Andrew had chosen to
keep the fact of his kingship a secret for a little time in order the
better to enjoy the grim jest of his opponents’ ultimate discomfiture
when they should learn of his real power over them. Nevertheless,
in the meantime, he had not been able to resist tasting the fruits
of sovereignty in the shape of an “hors d’œuvre” to his banquet of
reprisals; with the consequence that Andrew of Isernia was found dead
one morning, near the Porta Petruccia of the city, bathed in blood,
with a score of sword wounds on his body.
The news of Isernia’s murder was brought to Joan by Bertrand of Artois,
who had learned also of Andrew’s confirmation as King by the Pope, as
well as of the fact that a list of persons to be summarily dealt with
had been drawn up by the Hungarian; and, supremely, that his, Bertrand
of Artois’, name was the first upon the list.
This last item it was that finally removed any lingering scruples
from Joan’s heart; for she loved Bertrand with all the passionate
recklessness of her fiery nature, and the thought that his handsome
head should roll upon the board of a scaffold maddened her against
Andrew.
“That decides it,” she is said to have declared to her lover. “The man
must die.”
And, when he left her, Bertrand of Artois went out to gather
together the others who were also of his conspiracy in the Queen’s
service—Robert of Cabano, and the Counts of Terlizzi and Morcone;
Charles of Artois, the father of Bertrand himself; Godfrey of Marsano,
High Admiral of the realm and Count of Squillace; and the Count of
Catanzaro. With these men were allied several women—notably Catherine
of Taranto, Empress of Constantinople, mother of that Louis whose
beauty was splendid like the sun; Filippa, the mother of Robert of
Cabano and of his sisters, the Countesses of Morcone and Terlizzi;
those two dusky beauties themselves; and finally Donna Cancia, the
laughing girl-demon and bosom-friend of the Queen.
To these was joined that same Tommaso Pace, valet to Prince Andrew,
with whom the notary, Master Nicholas of Melazzo, had of late
maintained the closest of relations in obedience to the orders of
Charles of Durazzo. No wonder, then, that within an hour after the
conference of the plotters Charles of Durazzo was in possession of
every detail of it, as well as of the names of the plotters themselves.
Now, before the actual ceremony of Andrew of Hungary’s proclamation
as King could take place, it was unavoidable that a few days should
be devoted to making all suitable preparations for that event; for,
so soon as Isernia’s killing had become known, Andrew had caused it
to be announced that the murder was not a murder at all in reality,
but merely a legal execution duly carried out by the person—a certain
Conrad de Gotis—empowered to do so by Andrew himself as King of Naples
by favour of the Pope. The unrest and uproar caused by this news in the
city were such that Andrew had thought it prudent to retire thence into
the neighbouring country until the time were come when, as crowned and
anointed King, he should be endowed with a real and efficient majesty,
the which he was as yet very far from possessing. In this intention,
therefore, he had given out that he would go with the Court for a while
upon a hunting expedition into the district between Capua Aversa.
Charles of Durazzo received a personal invitation from Prince Andrew to
join him and the others of the party, but declined on the ground of his
wife’s being extremely indisposed; this, the last meeting on earth of
the two men, took place on the 19th of August in the year 1345, towards
evening in a hall of the Castel Nuovo; it is said that, in declining
Andrew’s invitation, Charles begged him to accept a very fine falcon
from among those for which his perch was justly celebrated. The falcon
presented by Charles to Andrew may have been a jer-falcon; but I cannot
help thinking that, in all likelihood, the bird was a peregrine from
the cliffs between Sorrento and Amalfi. With Charles was also Nicholas
of Melazzo, from whom he had just been receiving the details of the
Queen’s conspiracy; and Charles, as he himself understood triumphantly,
was thenceforth to be master of the situation in the Kingdom of Naples.
The dawn of the next day saw a numerous cavalcade pass out from the
gate of the Castel Nuovo and file slowly down through the city and
so out into the misty lowlands towards Melito, where the sport was
to begin. The illustrious company was headed by Andrew of Hungary
in person, and beside him rode Queen Joan on a white palfrey; whilst
close behind them pressed the throng of those who had sworn to return
to Naples only when Andrew should have ceased to breathe. Never before
had Andrew shown himself so gay, so responsive to all the delights of
life and friendship as on that morning; although he knew that he, as
well as the men who rode behind him, had death in his heart—the death
of many among those very men who were now preparing to consummate their
treachery by murdering him. But they, like Andrew of Hungary, were loud
in talk and laughter, exchanging jests incessantly amongst themselves
and even, now and again, with their victim himself as he turned in his
saddle and threw back to them a challenge of wits.
Of all that festive throng two alone rode silent and preoccupied. Both
were women. One of them, the Queen, kept her eyes fixed steadfastly on
the landscape before her, from which the vapours were being rapidly
scattered and dispelled by the sunrise, so that none might read her
thoughts; whilst the other was an elderly German called Isolda, once
the nurse of Andrew and now his mother’s ambassador, who, like Queen
Joan, was too occupied with her own reflections to pay attention to
what was going on about her. For old Isolda’s heart was heavy with
an indefinable presentiment of some evil that threatened her beloved
foster-child; and her powerlessness to analyse or to avert it was
frightful to the faithful soul of her.
And so the August day grew to its full, hot and windless, and drew on
to afternoon and sank to airless evening, whilst hawk after hawk soared
into the grey-blue sky all a-quiver with the heat, after heron and
duck; or, else, hung poised there, hovering a little before swooping
down upon crouching hare or rabbit or partridge. But the main feature
of the sport was the hunting of wild boars with hound and spear; at
which Andrew of Hungary is said to have been an expert.
At dusk the royal party bent its way towards the town of Aversa, there
to pass the night in the monastery of San Pietro a Maiella, a house of
Celestine monks; for there was at hand no other building capable of
sheltering so many persons and their horses. The choice of a fitting
asylum for the Queen and her Consort and their followers was the
business of the Grand Seneschal, Robert of Cabano; and he it was who
undertook the necessary arrangements; by his orders a bed was prepared
for Joan and her husband in a room at the end of a corridor on the
third floor of the monastery and about sixty feet above the ground.
That night, the monks having retired long before to their cells, the
great refectory of the monastery rang with the jests and laughter of
the royal supper-party. Wine flowed in abundance; and none drank more
deeply than did Andrew of Hungary; until Robert of Cabano rose and said
that a draught of the same wine ought by rights to be given to each
of the Hungarian sentries posted outside the monastery to compensate
them for keeping their cheerless watch outside in the darkness. Which
proposal was carried out with loud applause, in which the sentries who
had been called into the hall to drink the health of the royal pair
joined heartily, so that the place echoed to the thunderous shouts of
“Long live their Majesties, the King and Queen of Naples!”
This feasting and good-fellowship was prolonged to a late hour, until
at length the conspirators became impatient of Andrew’s wakefulness,
and Bertrand of Artois remarked pointedly that the chances were against
any of them rising betimes in the morning after sitting up so late the
night before. To which Andrew answered scornfully that, speaking for
himself, an hour or two of sleep was amply sufficient, and that in this
he hoped he was not alone. But when the Count of Terlizzi expressed a
doubt of Andrew’s being able to set an example of early rising under
the circumstances, the Prince gave a challenge to all present, to be up
as soon as he in the morning; after which he withdrew with the Queen to
their apartment, and silence soon fell over all the building.
Towards two o’clock there came a knock on the door of the royal
bedchamber, followed by a second and a third; at the last of which
Andrew sprang out of bed, calling out that he was awake and was coming
at once. It is said that Joan, who had not closed an eyelid, was minded
to warn her husband of his danger, but thought better of it and kept
silence whilst he drew on his clothes and, going to the door, opened
it—to find himself confronted by a group of men, including his valet,
Tommaso Pace, who had knocked on the door, and Nicholas of Melazzo.
On the instant that Andrew showed himself, Bertrand of Artois, as some
say, seized him by his long hair and tried to pull back his head; but
he contrived to free himself, exclaiming, “This is a base jest!” Then,
perceiving that the intentions of the group were really hostile, he
endeavoured to retreat into the room for his sword, but was prevented
from doing so by Nicholas of Melazzo, who thrust his dagger for a bolt
through the staples of the door, whilst others, led by Bertrand of
Artois and Robert of Cabano, flung themselves upon the Prince like a
pack of wolves, trying to pull him down. But Andrew, now fighting with
all his strength, threw them off, and fled from them, shouting loudly
for help, and looking for an avenue of escape.
There was none, however, to be found; and at length, turning and
twisting from his assailants, Andrew slipped and fell; so that Bertrand
of Artois, the nearest of them, was enabled to grapple with him, on
the floor, calling for a certain rope with which to strangle him. This
rope, which was of silk twisted with gold threads, they had had made
on purpose to kill the Prince with, because of a talisman that he was
said to have received from his mother and that was held to render him
invulnerable by steel or poison. It seems to me probable that Robert
of Cabano had the rope ready in his hands and that, between them, he
and Bertrand of Artois contrived to place it about the Prince’s neck;
for, as Gravena tells us, when Robert of Cabano saw that one of their
lot, the Count of Terlizzi, was turning away from the horrid scene, he
made him take hold of the rope and help them to draw it tight; saying:
“What are you doing, my brother-in-law? Here, take hold—the rope
is long enough for each of us to put a hand to it. What we want are
accomplices, not witnesses!”
And so, between them all, they dragged Prince Andrew to a balcony
overlooking the garden of the cloister, and, lifting him up, threw him
over, so that he was hanged. And when they knew that he was dead they
let go of the rope; and the body fell down into the moonlit garden; and
they went away to their beds.
But the din of the murder had awakened Andrew’s old nurse, Isolda, who
now, looking out of her window, saw him lying there and thought that he
was asleep. Going to the Queen’s room, the door of which was fastened
on the inside, she called out to Joan, saying that the Prince was
asleep in the garden. To which Joan only made reply, “Let him sleep,”
and would not speak further. Then Isolda went and awakened the monks
and made them go with her into the garden to where Andrew lay on the
grass; and, when she saw that he was dead, she rent the night with her
lamentations. And two of the monks knelt down by the corpse, one at the
head and the other at the feet, and said the Penitential Psalms for the
repose of the Prince’s soul, while two other monks went up to the door
of the Queen’s room and asked of her through it:
“Oh, Queen, what are your commands that we should do with the dead body
of your husband?”
But she would not return any answer to them; so they went away again,
very greatly affrighted and troubled in spirit. And later they sent
others of their company once and twice on the same business; but
Joan either would not or could not speak with them, until at last the
townspeople of Aversa gathered about the monastery gates, began to howl
and to murmur amongst themselves, calling the Queen a murderess and
saying that she was afraid to look upon the face of her dead husband.
Nor did she show herself at all to them; but, later in the day, was
borne out of Aversa and so back to Naples in a closed litter guarded by
horsemen.
And now, at last, the tempest which had been brewing for so long in
silence broke into lightning over the head of Joan.
Charles of Durazzo, who as husband to the heir to the throne, was now,
next to Joan herself, the most considerable person in the kingdom—and,
further, by reason of all he knew, far the most powerful—now took the
chief direction of its affairs.
After leaving the body of Andrew of Hungary where it lay exposed
for two whole days to the battering of the elements—for the weather
had suddenly turned wet and gusty—at the foot of the monastery wall
at Aversa, in order thereby to arouse to the full the compassion of
the populace that flocked to behold it, as well as to arouse their
indignation against the murderers, Charles ordered the remains to be
brought in state to the Cathedral of San Gennaro in the city. There
having rallied to him the dead Prince’s Hungarian barons, together with
the Count of Altamura, he met the funeral procession and caused the
coffin containing the body to be placed upon a catafalque, by which he
took his stand.
“Oh, people of Naples, gentle and simple alike, behold your King,
miserably strangled by his murderers!” he cried, drawing his sword and
laying it upon the coffin. “I appeal to you to help me avenge him!”
And immediately the vast church rang and echoed with the roar of those
to whom he addressed himself.
“Vengeance!” they bellowed, forgetting in their desire for savagery
how, but a short while before, they had groaned beneath the insolent
brutality of that same Andrew of Hungary. “Vengeance, vengeance,
vengeance!”—and from out the sombre interior of the Cathedral the
roaring gushed in a flood of terrible sound, filling all the streets
with its clamour for blood. And, when the funeral was over, and the
coffin had been put away in the place prepared for it in the left
transept of the building, Duke Charles withdrew once more to his own
palace, well pleased with what he had done, there to apply his energies
to the work in hand.
Now it so happened that several of those who had conspired with
Joan to make an end of her husband had lost no time in claiming the
various rewards that they deemed to be due to them from her. Filippa
Cabano and Robert, her son, as well as her daughters of Terlizzi
and Morcone and their husbands, redoubled in arrogance and in the
daring of their clamour for honours and money; whilst Cancia, their
lascivious instrument and the handmaid of their Sovereign, now secured
from punishment by that Sovereign’s impotence even to protest against
her shamelessness, turned the Castel Nuovo into a place without a
name. But of all Joan’s fellow-conspirators the one who asked her the
most staggering price was her aunt, Catherine of Taranto, Empress
of Constantinople, who asked that she should consent to announce
her betrothal to Robert of Taranto, the Empress’ eldest son. To this
insolent demand Joan could only summon sufficient strength to reply
by asking a delay of three days, in which to make up her mind upon
the subject; which delay was granted her, the Empress only stipulating
that Prince Robert, in the meantime, should be allowed to take up his
quarters in the Castel Nuovo and to see and speak with Joan at least
once a day.
No sooner, though, did it reach the ears of Charles of Durazzo that
Robert of Taranto was installed in the Castel Nuovo as a preliminary to
his betrothal to the Queen than the Duke flung himself on to a horse
and galloped furiously to the castle. On entering Joan’s presence, he
spoke briefly and to the point. To begin with, she must create him
Duke of Calabria in his own right, thereby acknowledging him to be
the heir to the throne as the husband of her sister. And, as to Robert
of Taranto, Charles absolutely forbade her to marry him or any other
man without his express permission; threatening that, if she dared to
do otherwise, he would reveal to the whole world his knowledge of her
participation in the murder of Andrew of Hungary. This he did because
he had no intention, whatsoever, of allowing her to marry again and so
providing, possibly, a direct heir to the throne other than his wife
and himself. And again, Joan, helpless to refuse beneath her burden of
remorse and of terror both for herself and for others, had no choice
but to temporise as best she could.
There was now no other course open to her than that of an explanation
upon the subject of her situation with the Empress of Constantinople.
The latter, however, on learning of Duke Charles’ opposition to the
marriage of her son to Joan, declared her resolution of striking him a
blow that should assuredly wound him frightfully both in his affections
as well as in the esteem of the public before whom, she assured Joan,
he would be eternally dishonoured by it in the event of his refusing to
listen to the voice of reason.
First of all, advised the Empress, Charles must be made acquainted with
the fact that his veto of Joan’s espousal to Robert was without reason;
for, in very truth, Joan was expecting shortly to become the mother
of Andrew of Hungary’s posthumous child, who, in the natural course
of things, must eventually succeed to the throne of Naples. Should
Charles, however, in the face of this persist in placing obstacles
in the way of Joan’s marriage to Robert, then the blow of which
mention had been made—albeit the Empress had not divulged its nature,
precisely—should be launched upon him. Furthermore, added the Empress,
she herself would at once inform Charles of Joan’s expectation of soon
becoming a mother.
Joan, it must be added, had told her aunt of Charles’ knowledge of the
persons primarily responsible for Andrew’s death; so that the Empress
should realise the peril that menaced her at the Duke of Durazzo’s
hands.
Undeterred, though, by learning of his power over her, Catherine of
Taranto betook herself immediately to the Palazzo Durazzo and boldly
faced the arch-schemer. In wickedness and courage she was a match for
him, and he knew it; so he received her news of the Queen’s condition
with smooth words very delicately barbed and very poisonous. Thanking
the Empress with every show of respectful gratitude for the honour
that she had conferred upon him by coming thus in person with the
all-important and all-welcome news; for himself he asked only the title
of Duke of Calabria, which alone could enable him to watch over Joan’s
interests properly and those of her child. Should the Queen, he added,
see her way to complying with his request, then he should no longer
feel it his duty to bring all the accomplices of her husband’s murder
to justice; since, if Andrew of Hungary’s progeny were, in time, to
occupy the throne, the murder itself would be rendered in a measure of
no effect. In the event of Joan’s refusal, however, the enquiry already
instituted in regard to the King’s assassins would be prosecuted to
the bitter end without respect for any one whosoever—an eventuality
which as Charles pointed out to the Empress, with a diabolical smile,
might be very unpleasant for several of their mutual friends. By which
she was made to understand that Charles was perfectly aware of her own
share in that detestable transaction.
In answer, the resourceful Empress, careful to appear suitably
frightened by Charles’ hints, declared her willingness to do all she
could to promote his wishes, begging only a little time in which to
bring the Queen round to a more yielding frame of mind; a favour that
Charles could not help but grant her. And so they parted, with the
mutual assurance of a complete understanding.
On returning to the Castel Nuovo, the Empress, having reported what
had passed to the unhappy Joan, withdrew to consider her own plan of
action in the struggle with Charles of Durazzo. At length, she hit upon
a scheme so truly infernal as to claim preëminence over anything that
had preceded it in the long list of her iniquities. She would strike
her enemy to the heart; she would kill his intellect and break him as
surely as with an iron bar upon the wheel, through the one person that
he loved and venerated in all the world—his widowed mother, the saintly
Duchess Agnes of Durazzo.
Now it chanced that, during those days, Agnes of Durazzo lay sick of a
lingering and mysterious malady, the nature of which it was beyond the
ability of her physician to determine. In all probability the Duchess’
disease was one of an internal tumour; be that as it may, it was in
every symptomatic particular only too well adapted to the unspeakable
purpose of the Empress, who forthwith set herself to disseminating
rumours destructive to the reputation of the good and gentle Duchess.
Not satisfied with this alone, moreover, she contrived by a hellish
stratagem to deceive even the Duchess’ doctor, so that he believed
himself justified in imparting his opinion to Charles of Durazzo, in
person.
So that mad horror, as of a lost soul, took possession of Charles,
and the desire of the Empress that his mind should become the prey of
devils was fulfilled.
The luckless, blundering physician he dismissed curtly from his
presence after their interview. An hour later the unfortunate man was
discovered in a back street of Naples, stabbed to death,—but not before
he had written out, by Charles’ orders, the recipe of a certain draught
to be administered to his illustrious patient; which thing was done in
the evening of the same day.
Shortly afterwards, Charles was hastily summoned to his mother’s
bedside from the room in which he had spent the rest of that awful day
alone with his thoughts after parting from the doctor. On entering that
of his mother, her attendants withdrew, leaving the fast-dying woman
alone with the son who had destroyed her in the interests of the family
honour.
What passed between them no man may say with any certainty; all that
is absolutely sure is that, when a few minutes had gone by, the scream
of a man in intolerable agony of soul rang out through the stone
corridor; and the Duchess’ servants, rushing to her room, found her
lying dead in the arms of her stricken son, who himself was entreating
her frantically to come back to him, sobbing as though his heart would
break, and imploring the mercy of Heaven for his misjudgment of her.
From that hour there was something very dreadful in the look of the
Duke of Durazzo, as though he were afraid of his own thoughts and were
for ever struggling to free himself from their compulsion. The only
person who understood a little of what was in his mind was, doubtless,
the Empress of Constantinople, and, when she saw that the man was
for the first time in all his life the prey of a hideous remorse, she
became gradually afraid for herself and for her first-born, Robert of
Taranto, for whom she was plotting to secure the hand of the Queen.
Towards the end of the time agreed upon between Joan and the Empress,
for the former to make public her betrothal to Robert, who was still
living in the Castel Nuovo, and while the whole town was lamenting the
mysterious death of the beloved Duchess Agnes of Durazzo, there came
to pass a thing which utterly set at naught all the calculations of the
Empress and of her eldest son.
It so happened that one day Robert of Taranto had gone out riding
with Charles of Durazzo, whom the astute mother of Robert had, since
the demise of Duchess Agnes, persuaded her son to conciliate by
every possible means in his power. Now both Robert and his mother had
overlooked, or were in ignorance of, the surpassing love that Louis
of Taranto, the youngest of Robert’s two brothers, had for some years
borne to Joan; which love Louis had kept in check to the best of his
ability while Andrew of Hungary lived. But, now that Joan was a widow
and the prize of any man bold enough to snatch it from the rest, Louis
of Taranto felt no hesitation in doing so when the opportunity offered.
Therefore, it came about that, on his return to the Castel Nuovo,
Robert found himself shut out. Despite his clamour to be admitted,
as he termed it, “to his own house” and his threats to exact bloody
retribution from the sentries within for keeping him waiting, he
received no attention from anybody until his mother came out to him,
trembling and confused, to say that in his absence his brother Louis
had effected an entry into the castle and had compelled Joan to go
through a form of marriage with him.
The effect of the news upon Robert may be easily imagined. After
staring, speechless, at his informant for a few minutes, there broke
from him a cry of rage and, turning his horse, he tore off at a gallop
towards the Palazzo Durazzo. Here he found Duke Charles in the company
of the Duchess Maria and informed them as well as he could, for fury,
of what had taken place. It ended in Charles’ promising him that he
would leave no stone unturned to prevent the necessary confirmation
by the Pope of the union of Louis with the Queen; and that, so long as
he, Charles of Durazzo, lived, no such confirmation should be put into
practice.
That same day he wrote to the Pope at Avignon asking for a Papal
enquiry into the murder of Andrew of Hungary and laying before the Holy
Father the names of those implicated in it; thus he hoped to obtain
the deposal of Joan from the throne and the reversion of it to himself
as husband of the next rightful heir, Maria of Anjou; also to insure
the destruction of the Empress of Constantinople as a participant in
Andrew’s death.
It was long before the Pope’s answer reached him, and, when at last
it did, it was rather disappointing. For Clement VI replied with
a Bull dated June 2, 1346, addressed to Beltram des Baux, Count
of Monte Scaglioso and Chief Justice of Sicily, bidding him draw
up a charge against the murderers of King Andrew—who were formally
anathematised—and to punish them with the utmost severity. A secret
codicil to the Bull, however, expressly forbade the Chief Justice to
proceed against or in any way to implicate in his handling of the case
either the Queen herself or any of her relatives. So, to avoid causing
still more lamentable disorders in the already distracted kingdom, any
such malefactors of the Blood Royal, added the Pope, would be dealt
with later by himself, alone, as the Supreme Head of the Church and
Suzerain lord of the Kingdom of Naples.
The Count of Monte Scaglioso showed himself no laggard in discharging
the duty thus entrusted to his zeal and ability.
Within three days from the reception of the Papal Bull he was able to
announce that the trial of the late King’s murderers would be held on
the following day in the great hall of San Luigi in the Castel Nuovo,
the same vast apartment in which Pope Celestino V had abdicated the
Pontificate in 1294. In the hall were seats for all the principal
nobles of the kingdom round about that of the Chief Justice himself.
The two accused persons were both men—Tommaso Pace, King Andrew’s
valet, and Nicholas of Melazzo, the confederate of Charles of Durazzo
and the same who had played the part of Judas as well as that of “Omri
who slew his master.” Both were brought from their prison to the Castel
Nuovo to undergo a preliminary torture that should make them confess
their guilt at once and so save the time and trouble of their judges.
On the way from the prison to the palace the accused passed by Charles
of Durazzo, to whom the wretched notary whispered, it is said, a
promise to reveal nothing of what had formerly passed between them on
condition that Charles would provide for the other’s widow and orphans;
to which the Duke assented with a nod of the head.
And Nicholas of Melazzo kept his word; for, during all the torments
to which he was presently subjected, he held his mouth and played the
man. But with the valet it was very different; no sooner did Tommaso
Pace feel his arms being dislocated at the shoulder in the torture
known as that “of the Cord” than he shrieked for mercy, swearing to
tell everything and imploring to be conducted before his judges. And
now there ensued the first of a series of hellish scenes that were to
follow each other in the drama of mediæval reprisal, that nightmare of
cruelty and fear.
As the two prisoners were being taken from the cell where they had
been tortured to the hall of San Luigi, up a narrow, winding stairway,
the Count of Terlizzi, who was bringing up the doleful procession with
several of his men-at-arms—he having been present at the torturing of
both the accused, and being in terror of what Tommaso Pace might be
about to reveal—suddenly sprang upon the valet (who was walking behind
Nicholas of Melazzo and their gaolers) and with the help of one of his
soldiers dragged him back into an embrasure of the stairway and there,
taking him by the throat, forced him to put out his tongue, which they
cut out with a knife. Then, pushing the fainting wretch before them,
they rejoined the procession; but not before Pace’s howls had drawn
the attention of Charles of Durazzo, who, like Terlizzi, had been
a witness of what had taken place in the torture-chamber. So struck
was he by the horrid energy of Terlizzi’s act, and understanding its
purport as he did, Charles fell for an instant beneath the spell of
the very danger which he had so laboriously created for the removal of
Joan and Louis of Taranto from his path. It may be that there rang in
his ears, together with the miserable valet’s inarticulate protests,
the words of the Psalm—“he hath digged a pit for others and is fallen
into it himself”; at any rate, he glanced at Nicholas of Melazzo
and, halting the procession, drew him aside to where they could speak
without being overheard. And Nicholas, reading the half-formed purpose
in his face, once more whispered his promise of secrecy. Whereupon
Charles, recovering his courage, promised on his part to take care of
the notary’s family, adding a command that Nicholas should name every
person concerned in the King’s assassination to the Chief Justice,
excepting Charles himself, and the Queen and the members of the royal
family.
This command Nicholas obeyed implicitly; but when the Chief Justice
began to question Tommaso Pace for a confirmation of the notary’s
evidence, the mutilated valet could only open his mouth and point to
where his tongue had been.
Nevertheless, the Chief Justice ordered the immediate arrest of such
of the conspirators as were present in the hall of San Luigi—Robert of
Cabano and the Counts of Morcone and Terlizzi, the last of whom had
thus gained nothing by his barbarity upon Tommaso Pace. Of the other
conspirators, Filippa Cabano and her two daughters, together with Donna
Cancia, were thrown into prison immediately afterwards; and the rest,
the Lords Mileto, Catanzaro, and Squillace, being warned in season,
saved themselves by flight; old Charles of Artois and his son Bertrand
being still secure in their fortress of Sant’ Agata of the Goths, near
what was probably the real site of the Caudine Forks and from which,
centuries later, the last Father of the Church, St. Alphonsus Liguori,
was destined to take his episcopal tide as Bishop of Sant’ Agata; where
he died in the year 1788.
And, when Nicholas of Melazzo had concluded his testimony, he was
sentenced, with his accomplice, Tommaso Pace, to be dragged at the
tail of a horse throughout the town and then hanged by the neck in
the Mercato, the great market square, in which square Conradin of
Hohenstaufen and Frederick of Baden had been decapitated by order of
Charles I of Anjou in 1268, after the battle of Tagliacozzo. It was in
this same square of the Mercato that Masaniello’s rebellion broke out,
in the Seventeenth Century; and here took place also the execution of
the misguided Liberals in 1799.
The sentence upon the notary and the valet having been forthwith
carried into effect, the other prisoners were on the following day
taken out of the Castel Nuovo and conveyed on to a galley in the bay,
their hands tied behind their backs and having each a hook passed
through their tongue to prevent them from calling out any mention
of some forbidding name in passing to the crowd. When they had been
tortured on the galley—a precaution for which the Count of Monte
Scaglioso would seem to have been answerable—and their depositions
against one another duly written down and signed, needless to say they
were, one and all, condemned to be burned alive.
The next morning the crowd (composed mainly of descendants of the
slaves of the long-ago Romans) filled all the ways from the prison to
the Mercato, where on the side towards the Church of Sant’ Eligio—the
usual spot on which executions usually took place being before the
other Church in the piazza, the ancient Church of Santa Croce—was
erected a huge pile of wood and many bundles of twigs about a number of
posts with staples to them. This was the pyre.
From an early hour the populace had been swarming the city, tossed
and churned hither and thither by its ravening for blood—no matter of
whom—and by its impatient excitement for the gratification of its lust
of cruelty. At last, however, its waiting was rewarded and there went
up to the heavens a roar of pleasure as the prison-gates were thrown
open and the spectacle began of the procession to the Mercato. I need
not describe it, save to say that all along the way the condemned, each
in a separate cart, were tortured in a revolting manner with scourges,
razors, and red-hot pincers, so that several succumbed to their
sufferings before reaching the pyre intended for them. Amongst those
who died thus was Robert of Cabano, Grand Seneschal of the Kingdom,
and the only one of them all who refused to utter the least sound by
which to betray his torments to the mob. And when, finally, the dying
unfortunates were all made fast to the stakes and fire was put to them,
that same mob rushed over the intervening soldiers, extinguishing
the flames and seizing the still palpitating bodies, tore them in
pieces for the sake of the bones, with which to make whistles and
dagger-handles.