CHAPTER ONE.
THE LETTER
The hard, perfect turquoise of the summer sky was fading into the
glowing purple of evening and the first stars glittered golden above
the vast calm of the Adriatic Sea; silver olives were changing into
gray, and the white foam of wild cherry trees was slowly dimmed by the
encroaching dusk; a few late swallows were abroad, and over the grass
and flowers of the meadows faint butterflies chased each other.
There, under the shade of the chestnut trees, within close distance of
the coast, were a number of tents, men, horses and baggage; a small
but splendid encampment.
It was the night of June 3, 1343, and this the train of Andreas of
Hungary, on his way to Naples to join his unseen wife, Giovanna,
granddaughter of the King.
They had been traveling many days, and now, near the end of their
journey and among surroundings more beautiful than any their sterner
land could show, were taking their ease here on the shores of the
Adriatic.
The Hungarians walked under the trees in couples and whispered
together; a little overawed by the magnificence of these meadows and
the wonder of the sea, and the Italians, their guides and escorts,
lounged along the grass, laughing, jesting, and cursing the increasing
heat.
As the night closed in, and the scattered groups became lost in the
gathering shadows, a man made his way through the confusion of the
camp to the tent lying in the center, above which the royal banner of
Hungary fluttered lazily in the Italian night.
A soldier kept guard at the entrance, but he saluted and moved aside,
for the newcomer was Konrad of Gottif, and the Prince’s dearest
friend.
Brusquely and without ceremony, Konrad lifted the tent flap and
entered; a couple of pages were polishing a huge gilt and steel
helmet, and a white hound slept beside them; beyond this heavy
curtains concealed the rest.
“Is the Prince within?” demanded Konrad; he was a large, rough man,
and his voice deep and uncouth.
The pages sprang up, between them dropping the helmet, which rolled
glittering to Konrad’s feet.
“Ah, careless fools!” he scowled, and pushing past them, without
waiting for their speech, he raised the curtain at one corner; he
stood silent a moment, staring at the scene within.
The tent was hung with tapestry of a peacock-green gold, and from the
center of the roof a bronze lamp was suspended by a heavy chain; this
gave a dull yellow light, and showed coffers, rugs, armor, and weapons
piled against the sides; it showed also a young man lying along a low
couch covered with lynx and bear skins, resting his head in his hands
and gazing at a girl who sat in the center of the silk rug that was
spread over the floor.
He was not above twenty, and of a large, powerful make; his regular
features wore an expression cold and haughty, his smooth, heavy, fair
hair was cut straight above his hard blue eyes and hung on to his
purple velvet coat behind; on his head was a gold net cap that bore in
front a great tuft of the breast plumage and two trailing tail
feathers of the golden eagle.
His huge limbs, stretched along the bear skins, were clothed in hose
of a parti-colored, dull pink and white; a cluster of wild roses was
pinned into the embroidery at his breast, and the hands that showed
above the sumptuous fantasy of his sleeves were singularly well-shaped
and white.
The girl sitting doubled up under the lamp was slight and slender as a
child; she wore the faded clothes of the peasantry of the Marches, and
by her side was a great basket of oranges and lemons, many of which
had rolled across the floor.
Konrad dropped the curtain behind him and advanced into the tent;
Andreas of Hungary looked up and the golden plumage on his brow
shimmered as he raised his head.
“Good even, Prince,” said Konrad, with a scowl at the girl. “I have to
speak with you----”
Andreas slowly sat up on the couch.
“On what matter?” he said, and there was a shade of annoyance in his
cold eyes. “Hippolyta--” he looked in the direction of the girl
indifferently, “is helping me to better my Italian--and telling me of
Naples--and of Giovanna.”
“I also,” answered Konrad, “have to speak of Naples--and of Giovanna.”
He pronounced the last word with so much quiet meaning that Andreas
looked at him curiously; Hippolyta, the peasant girl, sat motionless
and smiled from one to the other.
“Of Giovanna, my wife?” asked Andreas slowly.
Konrad crossed the tent and flung himself on to a carved chest at the
far end.
“Send the girl away,” he said briefly, with his eyes on the floor.
Andreas frowned, and hesitated, looked from the man to the maid and
said at length:
“Get thee gone, Hippolyta.”
She rose instantly, emptied the fruit on to the floor, and picked up
the basket.
“Come to-morrow,” said Andreas sullenly. “And I will pay thee.”
She looked at him and laughed, flinging back the black hair from her
eyes; then she came lightly to his couch and kissed his hand; he moved
heavily and watched her erect figure disappear through the dark
curtains, then he glanced at Konrad with a slow impatience.
“You could have spoken before the little fruit-seller,” he said in his
curious unanimated way. “She amuses me.”
Konrad looked the Prince straight in the eyes. “And I have not come to
amuse you, Andreas.”
The Prince stared sullenly.
“You have something to say of Giovanna?”
“Yes,” said Konrad earnestly. “But, first, because I am so much older,
and your friend, and your brother’s friend, I will be plain and honest
with you--this marriage of yours is pure policy--is it not?”
“What else? I have not seen my wife,” answered Andreas heavily.
“And it is not Giovanna you desire, but the throne of Naples?”
The Prince’s eyes flashed a little.
“By Christ, I am the nearer heir,” he said, and clenched his hand
beside him. “I am of the elder branch, and she, my cousin and my wife,
is but the grandchild of a usurper--you know this, Konrad?”
“And the King, her grandfather, knows it--and as some atonement for
his stolen throne, he brings about this match--to give you back your
right and heal the rift and bring all differences within the circle of
a wedding ring----”
“Yes,” answered Andreas slowly.
“The King,” said Konrad, impatiently, “is crazy with age--to think to
reconcile himself with Heaven in this manner----”
Andreas moved on his couch.
“Why?” he demanded. “He, King Roberto, is dying, they said, and the
sole heir he leaves, this Giovanna--well, she is a child and my
wife--I shall be King of Naples and Sicily--Jerusalem and Provence.”
Konrad looked at him curiously.
“And she?”
Andreas raised his blue-gray eyes haughtily.
“The woman, Giovanna?”
“Yes,” said Konrad briefly.
“Why, if I care for her, she can be my Queen--if I dislike her, I
shall send her to Hungary or into a convent and rule alone.” He
glanced at his friend under lowering brows. “She will do well to
please me; I do not love my uncle’s race.”
“And you think she would take that meekly, Prince?”
“She is a woman,” he answered scornfully. “What should she oppose to
me?”
Konrad straightened himself on his seat.
“By Christ, Prince, take care,” he said. “For you walk into that you
do not dream of--” he drew a thick folded letter from his pocket--“I
intercepted this package--it was being taken by a peasant to Giovanna
at Naples--it is sent by this San Severino who is escorting you to
Naples--it shows how much you may trust the Italian witch.”
Andreas stared at him with the bewilderment of a slow-witted man
struggling to comprehend something unexpected and sudden.
“A letter to Giovanna?” he said frowning.
“From San Severino--evidently her spy--Andreas, listen.” Konrad
unfolded the letter.
“Her spy?” echoed Andreas.
Konrad nodded laconically.
“It is inscribed to Madonna Giovanna, Duchess of Calabria, at the
Castel Nuovo, Naples, and it is dated to-day.”
Andreas drew his scowling brows yet closer together.
“Well, read it,” he said heavily.
Konrad of Gottif spread the letter out in the red lamplight and
commenced:
Madonna: As the Prince will enter Naples so soon, this is the end of
the letters I shall write you. I have told you all I could gather of
the Prince, and my first verdict needs no amending; he is rough, rude,
cold and brutal; he may, I think, give trouble. For all the pains that
have been taken to educate him befitting his destiny, teaching him the
Italian and the polite arts, he remains uncouth and sullen, and though
you dislike him upon report, you will dislike him more upon
acquaintance. Believe me, Madonna, far from being fit to be your lord
and the sharer of your throne, he is hardly worthy to be your lackey.…
A fierce exclamation from Andreas interrupted the reader.
“Hear the rest,” said Konrad grimly, and he continued:
In your last letter you say that you already dislike and despise
him--but, Madonna, you should fear him also; he comes with full intent
to seize your throne; both he and his Hungarians boast of his greater
right and make much of the fact that he is of the elder branch, and
that his grandfather was the just heir to the throne your grandfather
holds; King Roberto’s act in bringing about this marriage has in no
way pacified him, he intends to make himself sole and undisputed
master of Sicily and Naples; this, Madonna, is the temper of the
Prince, and he is supported and upheld by his brother, the King of
Hungary; you ask me how the matter lies with regard to King Roberto’s
wishes as to your sister Maria’s marriage with this King. I think
neither the King nor his subjects are desirous of it, though he
pretends to consider it.
Madonna, as last words, I can but say that Andreas, your husband,
comes to rob you of your rights, that on the death of the King, he and
his faction will hasten to make themselves supreme in the kingdom and
consign you to obscurity or the convent. But, Madonna, you have what
he can never gain; the love of the people, so be of good cheer, having
faith in Raymond de Cabane, and
Your servant,
Octavio San Severino.
Konrad dropped the paper and gazed at the Prince. “What do you make of
that?” he asked in a low voice.
Andreas sat motionless; his face was flushed, the veins in his
forehead swollen; his eyes fixed on the letter in Konrad’s hand; he
grasped tightly the bearskin on the couch.
“Will you go?” said Konrad earnestly. “Will you--not--even now--turn
back to Hungary?”
“Turn back?” repeated the Prince, and under his scowling brows his
eyes burned fiercely.
“Yes--turn back--you walk into a trap--you see the nature of this
woman and the temper of her friends.”
Andreas tossed the golden plumes on his brow.
“Do you think that I am afraid of these Italians? I?”
Konrad straightened himself on his seat.
“I think, Andreas,” he said earnestly, “that you will be a fool if you
go to Naples.”
Andreas was silent; there was nothing to be gathered from his sullen
face.
“You have with you three hundred men,” continued Konrad. “You will be
a foreigner--Giovanna is in her own land--every man will be against
you; when the King dies you will stand alone--you will sink to the
position of her subject----”
“Silence!” cried Andreas suddenly. “I am going to Naples.”
Konrad rose.
“Then you go to play a game where the odds are so against you that you
can never win.”
The Prince’s breast heaved; the color darkened in his face.
“No Neapolitan witch shall keep me from my kingdom,” he said thickly.
“She has the country behind her,” said Konrad.
Andreas of Hungary rose from his couch, showing the splendid make and
strength of his great figure; he began pacing the room with something
of the slow, heavy movements of the tiger; his head hung forward on
his breast and the lamplight caused his hair to glisten like threads
of gold.
Thunderously, under his breath, he began venting his wrath.
“By God’s Heaven!” his chest heaved with rage; his words came
unsteadily--“By Christ, they write so of me--she sets her spies on
me--she of the usurper’s brood--but I will win my crown in spite of
her--she--a sly Italian wench--” He stopped suddenly before Konrad.
“Who is Raymond de Cabane?”
“Plainly your enemy,” was the grim answer. “More I do not know.”
“I will sweep him from Naples--I will clear the land of them,” he
lifted his hard, angry eyes. “I will be the King and she shall know
it.”
He paused a moment, struggling with slow utterance, then he flung
himself along the couch again. “Where is San Severino?” he demanded.
“Somewhere in the camp, Prince.”
Andreas drew his dagger and laid it along the bear skin.
“Send him to me,” he said briefly.
Konrad eyed him curiously and made no movement to obey.
“To what purpose?” he asked.
“To prove I am the master,” answered Andreas heavily. “Send him to
me.”
“Andreas,” said Konrad. “Ye are violent and headstrong. Think a moment
before you see this man now.”
Andreas swore heavily.
“Am I your prince? Are you not bound to obey me?” he raised himself,
thundering wrath. “Send this Italian to me--and bring my guards up
without my tent.”
Konrad lifted his shoulders.
“You are resolved?” he asked, and his eyes dwelt with a curious
half-tenderness on the splendid youth.
“On what?” said Andreas fiercely.
“Oh, going on to Naples--to what awaits you.”
The Prince glanced at his dagger lying beside him. “If it were Hell’s
mouth,” he answered sullenly.
Konrad folded the letter and put it in his doublet. “To each his
fate,” he said, and lifted his shoulders.
“Send me San Severino!” cried Andreas violently, “or by God’s Heaven,
Konrad, I will go and find him.”
“You are master,” was the answer. “But remember afterwards I told you
it was folly.”
And the Lord of Gottif left the tent.
When he was alone, the Prince shouted for his pages, then flung
himself along the couch again, with his head in his hands and his blue
eyes staring at the bare dagger lying between his elbows.
Lying so, he ordered the pages to bring more lights and clear away the
lemons and oranges strewn over the floor.
“And bring me my sword,” he commanded fiercely, “and put it behind
that coffer--and wait without, not entering, whatever happens--until I
call.”
They had lit two other swinging lamps, and the tent was bright with
light; they brought the Prince’s sword and laid it carefully behind
the coffer; between them they could barely carry it, so massive and
heavy a weapon it was. Andreas watched them moodily and, when they had
gone he stared at a golden orange left on the gorgeous carpet, and
frowned.
Octavio San Severino, entering with a light step and observant eyes,
found him so, and paused with his hand on the arras.
“Good even, Prince,” he said.
Andreas turned a slow glance on him; saw him quite alert, a blaze of
blue satin and silver, and was silent.
San Severino marked everything--the naked dagger on the bearskin; the
sullen flushed face of the boy lounging on the couch, the expression
of the clear blue-gray eyes staring at him furiously.
He smiled and shifted his girdle carelessly so that his dagger lay
nearer his thin fingers.
“How do you like our Italian nights?” he said.
“Sit down,” answered Andreas heavily.
Octavio San Severino obeyed; he sank into a carved chair under a lamp
and the light ran in and out of his blue clothes like a golden liquid;
both his teeth and his eyes gleamed overmuch, and he had the air of
keeping a constant watch upon himself.
Andreas of Hungary fondled the bare weapon before him; he took his
gaze from the man to whom he spoke. “I want to ask you of my wife, San
Severino,” he said awkwardly.
San Severino laughed, and at the sound of it the young Prince sat
upright on his couch and the eagle plumes danced angrily.
“By God’s Heaven, why do you laugh, San Severino?” he cried thickly.
The Italian was sober in an instant.
“For pure idleness,” he said. “Now what shall I tell you of Giovanna
d’Anjou?”
Andreas was still staring at him intently, angrily. “Tell me with what
thought she waits me,” he demanded.
San Severino made the slightest movement of his hand on the arm of his
chair and his eyes narrowed.
“Why, how should I know?” he said. “How I, Prince?”
Andreas leaned slightly forward. “Tell me what her welcome will be to
me in Naples?”
San Severino answered easily:
“What should her welcome be to her cousin and her lord?”
“So she is meek and tender?” sneered Andreas. The other man looked at
him straightly.
“She is very beautiful and Italian--she is of royal blood--she does
not lack for pride,” for a second his voice was touched with scorn,
“she is well loved in Naples.”
A tense silence fell. San Severino was sitting on the alert for all
his easy appearance. The Prince appeared to have sunk into a moody
self-absorption, then suddenly he spoke:
“Who is Raymond de Cabane?”
Again the Italian’s hand tightened on his chair, for he knew now that
Andreas had seen his letter. Very quietly he answered:
“The Conte d’Eboli--the Captain of the King’s Guard in Naples.”
“And what else?” demanded Andreas.
“A favorite of the old King--a powerful man.”
“A noble--of a fine family?” questioned the Prince.
San Severino laughed again.
“His father was a negro slave,” he said, “who rose to Major Domo to
the King, and his mother was a Catanian washerwoman who nursed Madonna
Giovanna’s father.”
Andreas scowled. “And is such scum among her friends?” he cried.
San Severino rose.
“Who told you that much?” he asked quietly.
“You!” flung out Andreas. “By God’s Heaven--you!”
There was no change in San Severino’s face. “You have seen my letter,”
he said. “Well, it told you the truth----”
Andreas rose heavily to his feet and picked up the dagger from the
bearskin.
“We are too near Naples, my lord,” cried the Italian, quick and
scornful. “This should have been in Austria.”
“You insolent spy,” muttered the Prince, and his chest heaved with
passion.
San Severino smoothed his glittering blue sleeve. “You are not in your
brother’s kingdom,” he remarked. “So take care, Prince.”
“I’m master here,” said Andreas passionately. “Master enough to have
you hanged----”
San Severino lifted his dark brows.
“This is boy’s talk,” he mocked, “all your Hungarian boors would not
dare to touch me, and you are foolish, Prince, to insult me--in Naples
you may be glad of a friend.”
Andreas reddened furiously.
“Hound, I shall be King in Naples.”
San Severino looked at him gently. “I do not think so; if you were
wise you would not go to Naples.”
The Prince clutched his dagger until it seemed that he must break it
in his grip.
“Why do you dare say that to me?” he cried.
San Severino moved slowly toward the entry. There he turned and looked
at the magnificent, furious figure by the couch. “Because of
Giovanna,” he said. Then, as he despised this barbarous foreigner and
held himself safe under the protection of Naples, and as he was by
nature, malicious, he added: “And because of Raymond de Cabane----”
In his ponderous way Andreas came a little nearer, a splendid figure
in the purple color with the golden hair and golden plumes.
“Why do you use that name to me?” he asked, and he spoke with more
dignity than the Italian had yet seen him use.
“Because you will do well to beware of him,” smiled San Severino,
amused at this boy fumbling in his ignorance.
The Prince flung away his dagger and folded his arms over his great
chest. The Italian felt easier, though the blue satin concealed armor.
“Tell me,” said Andreas slowly, “more of this man.”
“You will soon know,” laughed San Severino. “By Christ, I am sorry for
you, Prince.”
Andreas looked at him out of narrowed eyes. “Tell me,” he said, “of
this man.” His self-control was small; he struggled painfully and
obviously with surging fury; his breath came in short pants, his face
flushed and paled. To San Severino, who knew of no passion he could
not control, this was amusing. He emphasized his mockery.
“Raymond de Cabane is a great man--a very great man. He will most
likely marry the Queen’s sister, Madonna Maria.”
Andreas of Hungary became red in the face, and his eyes were
extraordinarily bewildered.
“Maria?” he asked clumsily, “why do you insult me--my cousin to wed a
negro’s son----”
“If he is useful to Madonna Giovanna,” said San Severino quietly. “If
this is the reward he asks for--all perhaps he cares to ask for--why
not?”
“She is my brother’s betrothed!” cried Andreas, flushing and panting.
“Do you make a mock of me--do you wish to goad me?”
“Prince, neither--therefore I will suffer the Conte d’Eboli to speak
for himself.”
Andreas was striding about with clenched fists.
“By God’s Heaven, you had better leave me,” he broke off, muttering
under his breath.
San Severino smiled, lifted his shoulders and noiselessly slipped out
of the tent.
The Prince, sore and stung, came to the entrance, caught back the
arras with an angry hand, and gazed after him.
And without to the starlit Adriatic the soldiers toasted:
“Giovanna! Giovanna of Naples!”
CHAPTER TWO.
HIPPOLYTA’S AMULET
Andreas of Hungary stared on the floor. In a vague manner his
untaught mind felt the tragedy and pity of it all. He was not given to
reflection, and his short life had taught him neither philosophy nor
worldly wisdom, but he had a fierce sense of being entrapped, enmeshed
by circumstances. He felt the world mocking at him, and a great
bitterness arose in his soul.
He told himself that he loathed the Italians and hated Italy. He
thought of Hungary and his adored brother with wild longing, yet at
the same time he clenched his hands and swore thickly that he would
not turn back, he would be King in Naples yet. Rightfully it was his
heritage, as his brother, succeeding to the crown of Hungary through
his mother, had forfeited his claim. On that point Andreas was fixed
and stubborn. He was King, even now, of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusalem;
not this Italian girl. He cursed King Roberto for his schemes of
atonement. He cursed this dishonoring alliance. He wished he might
have come to his kingdom by the sword, not by this loathsome marriage.
“Go back.” His friend and his enemy had said that, both with a note of
warning. “Go back.”
For a moment he contemplated it. Why should he remain to be mocked,
insulted by such as San Severino and his mistress?
Yet he was the King, before God the King. He had set out to take
possession of his throne, and he would not return beaten to
Hungary--no, not if all Naples stood against him.
He swore it passionately, finding a rough comfort in the resolve. The
old King was still living, the power was not yet in the woman’s hands.
He would go to Naples and claim his rights, flouting her and her
minions.
Angrily he rose to his feet and went moodily back to the other part of
the tent with his great head hanging.
Back to her old place crept Hippolyta, the peasant girl. She was
laughing and throwing the solitary orange up in the air and catching
it in nimble brown hands.
“I have been singing to your soldiers,” she said. “And now I must go
home, but I came first for my money, as I cannot be here to-morrow.”
Andreas sank on to the couch. She laughed and threw up the orange
until it struck against the lamp, and sent it quivering on its chain.
Andreas looked at her awkwardly and pushed the thick fair hair off his
forehead.
“What is Raymond de Cabane like?” he demanded abruptly. “You have seen
him?”
“Oh, yes! In processions in Naples. He is the Captain of the Guard, so
he always rides with the two princesses. He is a large man and always
finely dressed.”
He longed to ask her something of Giovanna and what the people said of
her, but shame tied his tongue, so he stared in a troubled manner on
the floor.
Outside some of his Hungarians were playing a wild native melody, and
the low music floating in from the night filled the tent.
“It is very sad,” said Hippolyta, listening, and she sighed, and her
head dropped on her bosom.
Andreas rose like a goaded man and paced to and fro, the eagle
feathers fluttering on his brow. Thoughts of home and of a future wild
and stormy rose with the music to disturb him. He struggled with tears
and loneliness, curses and exceeding bitterness.
Hippolyta, the peasant, rose also, forgotten by him, and standing
erect in her faded brown clothes, listened to the Hungarian melody.
“It is terrible,” she said under her breath, and put her hand over her
heart.
The Prince walked to and fro, unheeding, and his jewels flashed
somberly.
Presently, as the music faded into a pause, he sank into the chair
under the lamp and put his hand over his eyes.
Hippolyta, very pale, with all the laughter gone from her, crossed to
him and stood a little away from the chair, looking at him intently.
The music rose into a wild dance measure. She threw herself on her
knees before Andreas and caught his beautiful hand.
He glanced at her with bewildered blue-gray eyes.
“Do not go to Naples,” she said under her breath.
He started, and the color left his face.
“Why do you say that?” he asked fearfully.
“I do not know,” she gazed at him earnestly. “I heard it in the
music--it is terrible--do not go to Naples!”
Andreas broke from her and shouted for his page.
“Curse the music!” he cried. “Why will they play to-night?”
No one came in answer, but Hippolyta, cowering by the chair, repeated:
“Do not go to Naples.”
Andreas of Hungary laughed in a wild, unhappy way.
“Some one--Henryk--Konrad--told you to say that to me.”
The girl rose, trembling.
“By Christ, they did not--by Christ, I know not why I spoke--it came
to me to say it--when I heard the music and looked at you. I grew full
of horror and I heard those words----”
Andreas lifted his hand.
“Do not repeat them,” he said, suddenly gloomy again. “I am going to
Naples--God’s Heaven! am I a coward? And what should I fear in
Naples?”
Hippolyta glanced at him curiously.
“This Raymond de Cabane,” she began timidly, “will not be your
friend----”
He swung round on her fiercely and thundered out:
“God’s name--why?” so passionately that she shrank before him.
“Because he holds the power you come to take,” she murmured.
“Oh, get you gone,” cried Andreas, still angry. “When I am in Naples I
will manage this man--yea, and all of them--get you gone.”
She fell to silence. He stared at her and his eyes grew troubled.
“You are a good wench,” he said awkwardly. “Call the page and I will
give you your money.”
“Prince,” she answered, “you do not know what they are in
Naples--Christ! what they are!”
He turned away from her.
“What do you know of them?” he asked.
“My brother is a soldier at the palace. Sometimes I go there--” She
broke off. “But you are a strong man and you have your Hungarians.”
“I shall rule Naples,” said Andreas grandly. “I shall be King.”
The peasant girl looked at him with admiration. “Will you?” she
whispered.
“Yes,” answered the Prince vehemently. “I shall be King when Robert
dies.”
Hippolyta looked troubled and dissatisfied. She knew something of
Giovanna, Duchess of Calabria, even though it was by vague report. She
knew something, too, of Raymond de Cabane and the fierce court the old
saintly King kept in check, and she gazed wistfully at Andreas of
Hungary, who was the most splendid thing she had ever seen, not
excepting the blazing Raymond, or Giovanna’s magnificent cousin, Carlo
di Durazzo.
“I wish you would not go to Naples,” she repeated simply and
earnestly.
Andreas was sullen again. He paced about heavily and would not answer.
Hippolyta, watching him timidly, was startled by the entrance of one
of the pages.
He knelt to the Prince, and handed him a little roll of parchment. A
runner from Naples, he said, had brought it with orders that it was to
be given secretly to Andreas.
The Prince took it quietly.
“Give the girl a gold piece,” said Andreas. And as the boy left the
tent he broke the seal of the parchment.
It was inscribed with but one line. He stared at it a moment, then
with a shaking hand crumpled it up.
“What news from Naples?” asked Hippolyta, eagerly watching him.
He gave her a strange look.
“Go back to your home, girl,” he said a little wildly. “It is late.”
He took the money the page brought him and gave it her. In silence she
knotted it into the end of her kerchief; in silence and timidly she
made toward the entry.
Andreas roused himself from his absorption. “Good night, Hippolyta.”
She turned and saw him standing lonely in his splendor, with the
flickering light over his brooding face, and she gave a quick sound.
“Prince,” she hesitated a second, then drew from her bosom a little
cross of ashwood, hanging on a gold ribbon--“this is an amulet--my
grandmother made it--it is a good amulet--will you wear it--in
Naples?”
She held it out to him, and her brows met in an eager frown.
“Neither poison nor sword can touch you if you wear this,” she said.
“There were two. My brother lost his and wanted this, but my
grandmother gave it me for my sweetheart when I have one--and as I
have no sweetheart, I’ll give it to you, Prince.”
“Think you that I am in danger from sword or poison?” asked Andreas.
She turned her head away.
“Oh, take it, Prince.”
Their hands touched as he took it from her palm. He thanked her
gravely and hung the gold ribbon round his neck.
“Wear it always,” murmured Hippolyta, “and the Saints guard you in
Naples.”
Without looking round at him, she was gone, and the arras had fallen
into place behind her. Presently, still with the parchment in his
hand, Andreas went to the entrance of his tent and looked out again
upon the night.
Moonlight and torchlight mingled showed the white blossoms of the
chestnut among their great leaves and the gorgeous tents against the
background of the sea.
Close by a little group of men, Italians, lay along the grass, their
bright dresses appeared curiously dim, color behind the veil of the
moonlight. One was singing. Andreas in the shadow of his tent,
listened, and between the song was always the low murmur of the
Adriatic.
The grapes have withered in the sun,
The loving cup is broken,
The guests departing one by one
The last farewell have spoken.
Birenice! Oh, Birenice!
I loved you once, I’d love you twice
Would you return, oh, Birenice!
Through the pearl-hued meadow came the ragged gold of torchlight; a
party of horsemen were approaching from the further tents. The singer
continued softly, and the ivory neck of his lute gleamed as it fell
from his fingers beside him.
The stars are risen on the dusk,
My finished feast.
Rich blows the perfume of the musk,
And incense of the East.
Dead are the roses round my feet
Youth and you once made sweet,
Birenice, oh, Birenice!
I loved you once--I’d love you twice
Would you return, oh, Birenice!
Most for your blue Venetian eyes,
I held you dear.
And those locks where fire lies
Above the pearls within your ear--
The singer broke off abruptly. The horsemen were passing the little
group under the chestnuts, and the Italians lazily stared after them
and lazily laughed.
The newcomers were Hungarians. They swept up to the Prince’s tent with
a clink of the harness of man and horse. Henryk of Belgrade, who led
them, pulled off his velvet cap at the sight of Andreas. “How long is
this to last, Prince?” he asked, drawing up his massive horse. “We
have been three days resting in these meadows.”
The torchlight showed them Andreas from head to foot. He raised his
eyes.
“March for Naples when you please, Henryk of Belgrade,” he said
sullenly.
“I have your permission, Prince? It would be wiser--they say the old
King is dying.”
Andreas of Hungary glanced down the line of his countrymen, and his
eyes flashed under his frowning brows, his young breast heaved as he
answered: “To Naples, by God’s Heaven, with the dawn to Naples!”
With glittering, mailed hands raised in salute, filling the blue night
with light and motion, the Hungarians galloped away across the meadow.
And the Prince smoothed out the crumpled parchment and stared at it
again in the moonlight.
It bore these words:
Do not come to Naples.
Maria d’Anjou.
CHAPTER THREE.
THE ENTRY INTO NAPLES
The midday sun burned in the blazing white streets of splendid
Naples, and on the air, heavy with the perfume of the orange groves of
Sorrento, fell the tolling of the bells from all her three hundred
churches, summoning the people to recite the prayers for the dying,
for the old King was upon his death-bed.
And to the sound of those bells Andreas of Hungary entered Naples.
“A bad omen,” said Henryk of Belgrade, as they rode through the gates
of the city. “They should be triumphal bells, my lord.”
“They should be,” answered Andreas, “for I am come into my kingdom.”
He rode a little ahead of the others, and as he spoke glanced
haughtily round on the surging people who filled the streets, all
making their way to the Castel Nuovo to learn the news of their dying
King.
No one had been sent to meet the Prince, and San Severino and his
Italians, having in the confusion fallen behind, Andreas drew up at
the corner of the street impeded by the crowd and uncertain of his
way. The Hungarians behind him scowled at the throng and complained
loudly of their reception.
“They do us honor!” cried Konrad of Gottif. “Is this the way their
future King is received?”
The Italians turned to gaze at and gather round the cavalcade of
strangers blocked in the narrow street, and Andreas on his great white
war horse with scarlet and leopard skin over his chain armor and
fluttering red plumes above his closed visor, overawed them by the
splendor of his appointments and the magnificent pomp of his carriage.
He, reining in his struggling horse, raged inwardly with fierce
mortification. This his entry into Naples! They could not even keep
the streets clear for him or notify the people of his approach, and
San Severino’s malice had made him lag behind.
“They can think of nothing but the old King,” said Henryk of Belgrade,
leaning forward to speak to the Prince, “but we must make our way to
the palace, or Giovanna will be proclaimed alone.”
The street was rapidly becoming impassable. The swarming citizens
mingled with the Hungarians, and men and horses were blocked together
between the white houses.
Andreas tried in vain to force a passage through the crowd. His
rearing animal knocked a man down, and there rose a wild angry shout
answered by curses from the Hungarians.
The Prince’s fury broke beyond control.
“Let me pass, churls,” he said heavily. “Do you not know me--by God,
do you not know me?” He lifted his visor, and his fair, regular face
with the sullen blue-gray eyes gazed down haughtily upon the crowd.
“I am Andreas of Hungary, and when the breath is out of the old man’s
body I shall be your King--make way for me or, by God’s heaven, I will
ride you down.”
They shrank against the houses to right and left, making way for him
in silence, but when he had passed they muttered insults and jeers at
his soldiers, amply repaid by the Hungarians, and saying little for
the good feeling with which the Neapolitans regarded the foreigners.
Konrad of Gottif shouted above the press of men and horses:
“The Castel del Nuovo! Show us the way, dogs!” and he leaned from his
rearing steed and struck the man nearest him with his gauntlet.
A muffled, angry cry rose from the crowd. They swayed to and fro and
women leaning from the windows cursed and cried out against the
Hungarians.
The heat was terrible. The glare of the white houses, the golden
glitter of the sea showing between them, here and there the burnished
sweep of the turquoise sky, was unendurable, blending. The armor of
the horsemen blazed like fire where the sun caught it, and the steel
plates on the horses’ harness grew too hot to touch.
“I have never known such heat in Buda,” said Henryk as they made slow
confused progress.
They struggled into a wider street, still with the surging crowd about
them and the tolling bells of the three hundred churches in their
ears. To the right was a street sloping to the shore, and they caught
a glimpse of the bay, too dazzling to be looked upon; the coast
beyond, and the huge Vesuvius clad in the purple haze of heat.
Through the crowd came a monk in a black robe. Andreas leaned sideways
from his horse and clutched him by the shoulder.
“Which way to the palace?” he demanded.
“The way the crowd goes,” said the monk. “The other side of the
palazzo,” and he shook himself free.
The Hungarians groaned under the weight of their armor and the blaze
of the sheer sun on their helms. Only Andreas appeared not to heed it,
but with raised visor and steady eyes guided the superb white horse
through crowded Naples. They passed a market under the beautiful front
of Santa Chiara which rose glittering into the blue. The fruit-sellers
had abandoned their wares, and golden oranges from Pausilippo, lemons
lying in their leaves, olives, cherries, and grapes lay neglected on
the stalls in the shadows of the church whose bells were clanging the
wild dirges of the dying.
Andreas raised his eyes to the steeple whence the sound came and
shuddered.
“Jesu!” he murmured, and his mailed hand traced the sign of the cross
on his breastplate. They made easier progress now, for the streets
were wider and the crowd scattered before them. Andreas urged his
horse, and at a hand-gallop dashed into the Grand’ Palazzo on the far
side of which rose the towers of the Castel Nuovo with the flaunting
_fleur-de-lis_ banner of Anjou waving above its ramparts.
Many people were assembled here. The drawbridge of the palace was
down, but the walls and the gates were crowded with soldiers, and a
thin but constant stream of people was passing into the palace; the
officers of the crown and the nobles of the Kingdom summoned to attend
the death-bed of Roberto d’Anjou.
The Hungarians thundered across the great square and drew up their
panting horses before the gates of the Castel Nuovo to the murmured
wonder of the crowd.
The guard challenged them.
“A fine welcome this to Naples,” said Andreas bitterly. “I am
Hungary.”
The Italian officer stared at him.
“Madonna Giovanna’s husband?” he asked.
“Your King,” answered Andreas with a flushed face. “Stand aside----”
Konrad of Gottif galloped up to the Prince’s side. “Fool!” he cried
furiously. “This is Andreas of Hungary, whom you should have been at
the gates to meet.”
The soldier lifted his shoulders.
“The King is dying--it is all in confusion.” He swore it. “Per Bacco,
all in confusion. Perhaps you were not expected so soon, Prince.”
“My herald arrived here last night,” said Andreas, and the angry red
in his face deepened.
The Italian was indifferent. He told the Prince and a few of his
friends to enter, but informed the Hungarians that they must go to the
Castel del Obo, where the soldiery were quartered.
Andreas, with an angry heart, submitted to what he could not help, and
after some further parleying in the glaring sun, he and a handful of
his men were allowed to enter the palace.
As they crossed the shadowed waters of the moat the Prince spoke.
“Konrad of Gottif,” he said thickly, “they wish to humiliate me, to
insult me.” He struck his hand on the saddle and his breast heaved.
“By God’s Heaven, I am the King,” he added.
They rode into the courtyard, where they were unnoticed among the
assembled horsemen, and no heed was taken of their shouts for the
seneschal and his servants.
Every one was absorbed in his own affairs. It was clear that the
Prince was neither expected nor remembered in the general confusion.
Andreas leaped from his horse, and flinging the reins to one of his
own men, ascended the crowded steps that led into the palace. Konrad
of Gottif and Henryk of Belgrade accompanied him. They entered the
great hall, where the nobles forming the council of the Kingdom were
gathered and men whispered together in little groups.
After the dazzle without, the darkness here was difficult to pierce.
The high placed windows admitted little light, and the rich somber
painted walls, the gloomy arched ceiling, the subdued converse and
quiet movements, all offered a contrast to the brilliant, noisy sunlit
streets.
Andreas took off his helmet and leaned against the wall within the
door as if he were faint.
A page came out of the throng and asked him his business.
The Prince put his hand to his forehead, where the helmet had left a
red mark, and answered in a low voice:
“I am Andreas of Hungary; take me to the King.”
The boy stared, and Konrad of Gottif repeated the demand in rougher
tones. By now many had turned to stare at the splendid young knight in
the scarlet and leopard skin.
“My lord, you cannot see the King,” faltered the page.
Andreas lifted his blue-gray eyes.
“Take me, then,” he said firmly, “to the Duchess Giovanna, my wife.”
“I will go and seek her,” answered the page.
“Their insolence!” frowned Henryk, then at sight of the Prince’s face,
“what is the matter, my lord?”
“Nought, Henryk--I--I feel sick--it is the sun, I think--on my
helmet,” and he put his hand to his forehead again.
The whisper had circled the hall that this was the future Queen’s
husband who stood so quietly against the wall, but they were
Giovanna’s courtiers, and they made no movement to welcome the Prince
who had arrived with so little state. As he stood alone, ignored with
his two Hungarians, only one man crossed the hall to speak to him.
This gentleman was resplendently dressed in black and silver, and of a
pleasant, soft appearance.
“You are the Prince of Hungary?” he said in a lazy voice. “You arrive
at a critical time, my lord, but welcome to Naples! I am Carlo di
Durazzo, Madonna Giovanna’s cousin and your own.”
“Yours is the first welcome I have had, my lord,” answered Andreas,
glancing round the hall, “and seems to be the only one.”
The Duke di Duras smiled.
“The King will not last the day,” he said as if he had not heard. “At
least they say so.” And he turned into the crowd again.
Andreas stood silent, with downcast eyes until the page returned.
“Will you come with me, good my lord?” said the boy.
“Well,” answered Andreas heavily, “well--” He glanced at Konrad of
Gottif, and there was a sick look in his face; then he turned and
followed the page through the whispering, staring crowd.
They ascended a quiet stairway, traversed a short corridor, and paused
before a closed door.
The boy opened it softly and Andreas entered. It was a large dark room
with a low ceiling beamed and painted, a quiet room of the rich color
of smooth wood with a fine carved chimney-piece. There was little
furniture, and that very simple. To the right was a window bearing in
the center of its diamond panes the blue and gold of the Anjou lilies;
the sun shining through them made them flame like jewels and cast
their doubles in yellow and azure on the polished floor. Seated on a
chair by the window was a lady who turned her head sharply as Andreas
entered.
“The Prince of Hungary, Madonna,” said the page, and crept out.
Andreas paused, staring across the silent room at the woman, who rose
slowly and looked at him.
She made an impression on him of glowing color; in the strands of her
rich chestnut hair, in the light of her blue eyes, in the curves of
her full mouth, in her proud carriage was magnificence and splendor.
She wore a gown of wine-colored velvet that fitted close to her
slender figure, and over her breast that heaved behind her lawn
chemise lay the reflection of the golden lilies in the window.
“So you are Andreas of Hungary,” she said, and her voice was low and
gentle.
“Yes,” he answered abruptly. “And you--” he frowned, “you are
Giovanna,” he said sullenly.
Her glowing eyes considered him.
“No. I am Maria d’Anjou, her sister.”
Andreas slowly flushed.
“Her sister!--then you--sent me--” he began awkwardly.
“Hush!” she raised her hand, and the quivering of the reflections on
her breast showed that she trembled. “I sent you a warning, yes; but
do not speak of it. If I had seen you, I should not have sent it. You
are not the manner of man to be politic.”
“Should I then have been politic to have stayed outside Naples?”
demanded Andreas.
Maria d’Anjou lifted her grave, troubled eyes.
“By Jesu, yes,” she said softly.
Andreas came toward her, his mailed tread ringing in the quiet.
“Oh, hush!” she whispered. “The King is dying within,” her slender
pearl-decked hand pointed to a closed door opposite. “Presently we
will go to him, but now he will have none with him but the priests and
Giovanna.”
Andreas gazed at the door.
“Giovanna is in there?” he said.
“Yes, she was always the King’s favorite. She reads to him his Latin
prayers.”
The Prince folded his arms and stared moodily at Maria.
“Madonna, why did you send me that warning?” She sank into her chair
and her head drooped into her hand.
“Because Naples hates this marriage, because Giovanna hates it. Do you
not understand?”
“So my reception told me,” he interrupted hotly.
“And because your coming makes for war and misery--and woe,” finished
Maria slowly.
“But I am the King,” said Andreas.
She raised her splendid head and looked at him mournfully. Her jeweled
hands glittered in her velvet lap and the sunlight played in her
gorgeous burnished hair. He, looking on her beauty and being unused to
speaking to women, grew abashed and moved away. Then it occurred to
him that she was to be his brother’s wife, and he looked at her anew,
jealously, to see if she was worthy.
“You are to marry Ludovic?” he said bluntly.
“God knows,” she answered quietly. “They talk of it.”
“You should be proud,” flashed Andreas.
“I am unhappy,” she said. “I cannot be proud when my heart aches,” and
she gave a little sigh.
“Why are you sad, Madonna?” he asked curiously.
“Oh, so many things.” The tears started to her beautiful eyes. “If you
have a heart and live long in the court of Naples, you will know. I
have no one to talk with--I--I--see terrible things.” She rose to her
feet and her wet eyes flashed. “Yesterday the Conte Raymond flogged
his footboy to death--out there in the courtyard--because he had
stolen from him. He was a little boy and he cried bitterly. I could
not sleep for the thought of it, and I am very tired to-day.”
“It was a vile deed,” said Andreas fiercely.
Maria leaned her head against the mullions.
“Such things are common. Last week they burned a woman in the Palazzo.
From my chamber I could see the smoke and the people hurrying. What
can I do? Prayers take so long to reach Heaven. I think God is very
far away. I wish I was dead.”
She said this so simply and quietly, so much as if a commonplace
expression of a commonplace thought that Andreas gave a little start
of horror.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Eighteen,” said Maria d’Anjou. “And in all my life I have had no
pleasure.”
“When I am King,” answered Andreas, “I will rule well in Naples. They
shall not do these things.”
“You?” she said mournfully. “You will have no power. They--will
prevent you interfering----”
“Of whom do you speak?” asked Andreas proudly.
“Of Giovanna,” she answered in a low tone. “Of Giovanna, and the Conte
Raymond and Carlo, and Luigi of Taranto--” Her beautiful blue eyes
lifted with an expression of terror. “I am afraid of them.”
“Afraid?” echoed Andreas.
Maria d’Anjou looked fearfully round.
“I want to die,” she said slowly. “But I do not wish to
be--murdered--do you understand? I am a coward--I could not face dying
in the dark--or being mangled--” She paled, and with trembling fingers
crossed herself. “Jesu save me from murder,” she murmured.
Andreas gazed at her in horror. She was so regally, proudly splendid,
so young, so soft and fair, that the hideous incongruity of her words
made him think that she was mad.
“God preserve us!” he cried. “It is a vile place where maids live in
dread--of--of murder----”
She laughed in an infinitely sad manner.
“Murder!” she said in her lovely, faint voice. “But there is
worse--yea, even than that.”
The young man paled and drew a little away from her.
“Of what are you afraid?”
A look of weary loathing crossed her face.
“Of Raymond de Cabane,” she said slowly. “I pray God to give me to
Ludovic of Hungary that I may be free of him----”
She made a passionate movement of her hand to her bosom and turned her
head away sharply.
“Oh, my heart,” she said brokenly, bitterly. “My tired heart.”
Andreas was stammering some words, when the inner door softly opened
and a tall Franciscan appeared.
Maria d’Anjou rose with a pale, composed face.
“The King’s soul passes,” said the monk, “and he would see you.”
In silence Andreas of Hungary and Maria d’Anjou crossed the threshold
of the King’s chamber.
CHAPTER FOUR.
GIOVANNA
It was a small room, carefully shrouded from the daylight by a
velvet curtain. Before the window an alabaster lamp cast a faint glow,
making golden _fleur-de-lis_ that were powdered over the dark purple
wall hangings to glitter dully, and throwing a great shadow round the
canopied bed that occupied the center of the chamber.
Andreas turned his eyes there and crossed himself. The old King lay
stiff and straight on the heavy embroidered coverlet. He wore the garb
of a Franciscan, round his waist was rope, and on his breast a large
silver crucifix. A doctor and a monk supported him up on the tasseled
pillows, so that his head was raised and he could gaze round the room.
The atmosphere was close, stifling, with incense and lack of air. To
Andreas the strange glimmering light, and heavy perfume, the silence,
brought a sense of awe and bewilderment.
There were three other people in the room. One, a huge man who stood
erect and motionless by the head of the bed with folded arms and
composed face. Andreas knew him. There was no mistaking the coarse,
dark, blunt features, the fierce bloodshot eyes, the powerful figure,
the Oriental’s immobility.
This was Raymond de Cabane, of whom San Severino had spoken, and
Hippolyta, and Maria d’Anjou. Andreas advanced to the foot of the bed
with a sense of confusion upon him, as if the incense had drugged him,
and then he noticed a girl seated on a stool at Conte Raymond’s feet,
leaning forward with her face hidden in the bedclothes.
She wore a gown of primrose-colored velvet, and where it fell away at
the arms and throat it showed a vest of brilliant turquoise. Her hair,
very long and curly and of a soft auburn tint, hung over her shoulders
and the coverlet. In her lap lay an open missal of gorgeous tints.
Standing behind her was a man of noble appearance, very plainly
attired. His self-contained face bore some likeness to the girl, and
his close hair was of the same auburn hue.
Maria d’Anjou crept to the opposite side of the bed and sank on her
knees. Andreas clasped one of the wooden angels that uplifted the
canopy and stared at the dying man.
Complete silence, only the distant tolling of the bells reaching this
chamber like a muffled echo.
Then the King opened his faded blue eyes.
“Giovanna,” he whispered.
The girl in the primrose velvet raised her head and turned her eyes
toward the dying man. Andreas had felt his breath catch at the sound
of the name, and he gazed at her eagerly, but he could only see a pure
delicate profile. She appeared to be unaware that he had entered.
“My lord?” she said softly.
“Did you finish the prayers?” murmured the King.
“I have read from cover to cover,” answered Giovanna, in a faint
melodious voice. “Shall I read them again, my dear lord?”
He shook his head feebly.
“I wrote them, did I not?” he asked.
“For your brother, the Bishop of Toulouse,” said Giovanna.
The King muttered something under his breath:
“Everything is very strange… there is a lamp burning in a great
darkness… and lilies, little glimmering lilies of Anjou… Giovanna, I
have been a good King, I have ruled well and wisely,” he put out his
hand and clutched her arm. “Where is your husband?… there is a wrong
to be righted there… Anjou, Anjou, I die in penitence, Jesu!--Jesu!”
His head sank to one side and his eyes closed.
“You have been a saintly King,” said Giovanna.
He opened his eyes again. He could hardly breathe for the weight of
the crucifix on his breast. “I founded churches,” he muttered, “and
hospitals, dear Lord, and convents, and I forgave my enemies, take me
to Heaven, O God”--he beat his breast feebly--“I have not sinned, lo,
I die in humility--” He suddenly paused and struggled up. “Who is that
at the end of my bed?” he said, and his voice was like that of a
healthy man, “in scarlet and a leopard skin?”
All eyes were turned to Andreas.
“Charles Martel!” cried the King. The crucifix slipped from his breast
on to the coverlet. He clutched at his monk’s robe with trembling
hands as if it stifled him. “My brother, Charles Martel!”
Maria sprang up and put her arms about the old man, but Giovanna gazed
at her husband.
“The grandson of Charles Martel, my good lord,” said Andreas,
uplifting his noble head.
“Andreas of Hungary!” cried Giovanna.
The old King lay helpless in Maria’s arms.
“I am a usurper,” he mumbled fearfully. “It was Charles’s kingdom, it
belonged to him and his sons; it was sin--Jesu forgive it----”
Andreas heard him.
“I am my father’s heir,” he said in his splendid young voice. “And by
God his grace King of this realm. God remember to you, Roberto of
Anjou, that you at last made reparation.” And he bent his head and
crossed himself.
Roberto of Anjou writhed under the Franciscan garb. “He is right--he
is right,” he murmured. “He is the King--holy Virgin, forgive, Jesu
forgive me, I am a miserable sinner--a usurper----”
Giovanna rose and leaned across the bed.
“Have a heed what you say,” she whispered. “Think of me, am I not your
heir--am I not the Queen to be?”
“As his wife,” gasped the King. “Have I not… seen to that?”
“In my own right,” flashed Giovanna. “My lord, you wrong me----”
The King caught her hand.
“Andreas,” he called faintly, “Andreas----”
The young man came slowly to the bed beside Giovanna.
“Call the court, Raymond,” whispered the King, “for I am surely near
the end.”
The Conte Raymond left the chamber, and the doctor raised up the dying
man still higher and forced a draught down his throat, while the monk
sprinkled him with holy water. Andreas turned to the woman beside him.
He saw a pale, soft face and a pair of brilliant violet eyes gazing at
him with pride and aversion.
“This late reparation,” muttered the King, “this just reparation--but
I have righted the wrong--God will remember that to me.… Andreas, give
me your hand----”
The Prince obeyed in silence, and the King’s thin fingers clasped his
hand with that of Giovanna.
“Husband and wife,” the King said. “King and Queen--Anjou, Anjou… love
one another--so is the rift healed… the elder branch… Charles was the
elder branch…”
His faint voice died away. He sank back into the pillows.
Andreas felt Giovanna’s hand in his, cold, unresponsive, lifeless. The
touch of her was strange and curious. He shuddered to feel her limp
fingers in his while her violet eyes were the eyes of an enemy. He
turned his head from her and gazed at the King in his miserable garb
of penitence, muttering remorse for that usurpation of thirty-three
years ago, crying out to God and his Saints to forgive.
The door was opened softly, a splendid silent crowd entered, as many
as the chamber would hold, and Raymond de Cabane came back to his
place.
The oppressive heat, the heavy incense, the silence and the gloomy
light gave the scene an air of terror and unreality. The gorgeous
dresses of the courtiers appeared grotesque, and the lilies glittered
unnaturally on the dark walls.
The vice-chancellor of the Kingdom came to the front of the crowd and
advanced into the center of the room. The lamplight fell over his
embroidered robe, and the great seals of the parchment he carried
shook with the trembling of his hands.
He bowed to the dying King, who was muttering prayers, and commenced
to read the will of Roberto of Anjou. His voice sounded hard and
abrupt through the hush:
“Roberto of Anjou, by God his grace, King of Naples, Sicily,
Jerusalem, Provence, Alba, Grati, Giordano, and Forcalquier, declares
as his successors to all his Kingdoms, his illustrious nephew, Andreas
of Hungary, and his wife, Giovanna, Duchess of Calabria.”
The vice-chancellor paused and the old King muttered in satisfaction:
“So is the wrong righted… I have done well.”
But Giovanna withdrew her hand from that of Andreas of Hungary.
“And moreover,” continued the passionless voice, “he names Maria
d’Anjou, youngest sister of the Duchess of Calabria, his heir in the
county of Calabria, Grati, and Giordano, to be held in direct fief
from the King and Queen.
“He also wills for private reasons that the above-mentioned Maria
shall contract marriage with the illustrious Prince Ludovic, called
the Triumphant, reigning King of Hungary. These things are for the
glory of God and the peace of the Kingdom.”
In the silence that fell, the King’s voice was heard faintly from the
great bed.
“Have I not made amends? Andreas of Hungary, have I not made amends?”
The young man turned slowly: “God take you to himself, Roberto of
Anjou, for you have made reparation, even if it come late.”
“Giovanna,” murmured the King, “obey and love your lord as you have
swore… peace… for Naples… Maria you… shall bind the factions closer…
now, let them take the oath to Andreas and Giovanna…”
One after another the magnificent nobles came to the bedside. The
Bishop of Cavaillon, vice-chancellor; Philip de Sanguineto, Seneschal
of Provence; Godfrey of Marsan; the Count Squillace, admiral of the
Kingdom; Charles d’Artois, the Count of Arie; Carlo di Durazzo, Duke
de Duras, the barons and officers of the kingdoms knelt and took the
oaths of homage and fealty.
Andreas and Giovanna stood motionless by the bed of the dying King, he
grave and troubled, she with lowered lids, very pale.
It was the turn of Raymond de Cabane. Slowly he came from his place to
the bedside. Andreas watched him. San Severino’s words rang in his
ears. He instinctively moved a step back. The whole place became
horrible, loathsome. He conceived a wild desire to break away into the
daylight, to escape from this atmosphere of gloom and death.
Raymond de Cabane passed him where he stood, obviously and with
contempt, and sank on one knee before Giovanna.
The color rushed into the Prince’s face. He stared, slow to catch the
full meaning of the action. And Raymond de Cabane, glancing round,
said in a loud voice:
“To you alone, Madonna, I pay my homage.”
There was a moment of terror, of expectancy. Maria rose from the other
side of the bed. “The King!” she cried. “Shall he die in anguish
because of your insolence?” And her fierce blue eyes cast scorn on
Raymond.
But Giovanna was bending over the bed.
“The King is dead,” she said in a shaking voice.
The Franciscan bent his head.
“The King is dead,” he assented.
Giovanna turned and looked at Raymond de Cabane. “Now,” she whispered,
as if she gave a signal.
In a moment the silence was broken into a riot of sound. All the
passions repressed by the presence of the dying man burst forth now
that he was dead.
“Long live Giovanna, Queen of Naples!” shouted the Conte Raymond, and
the cry was echoed round the room: “Long live the Queen of Naples!”
Maria d’Anjou, flushed and gorgeous, came out from the dark shadows of
the bed.
“My lords,” she said, her sweet voice very cold, “do you forget
already the will of the King. You must also say long live Andreas of
Hungary!”
There was no response, nor did they take any heed of her. Raymond de
Cabane tore roughly aside the velvet curtain that shrouded the window,
and a broad shaft of sunlight fell across the chamber and over the
dead old man on the great bed. Andreas fell back against the wall and
put his hand over his eyes as if the glare blinded him, but Giovanna
stood revealed brilliant in vivid color, erect in the center of the
chamber. Conte Raymond de Cabane took her by the hand and led her on
to the balcony. An immense crowd filled the public square below, a sea
of upturned faces gazed at the palace.
“People of Naples, the King is dead!” shouted Raymond. “Long live the
Queen!”
He pointed as he spoke to the slender figure of Giovanna, who stood
with her shadow behind her on the white wall of the palace, and her
auburn hair fluttering back from her face.
A thousand throats shouted:
“Giovanna, Queen of Naples!”
She stared down on the dazzling town and the shouting people, then she
shrank away into the window.
“Take me from this chamber, Conte,” she said.
She laid her long fair hand on his satin sleeve and went with him from
the room. The courtiers rushed after, and the sound of their feet was
heard in the corridors without like thunder.
Andreas of Hungary and Maria were left alone with the dead man and the
monk.
“Alas! Alas!”
Maria d’Anjou looked at the Prince with wide, frightened eyes. He
stood quite still. It had all happened so suddenly. In the shaft of
sunlight the Italians had swept past him like a train of colored fire.
He had had but a glimpse of Giovanna’s white bosom and auburn hair
among the press before she had gone, clinging to the Conte Raymond’s
arm. He stared stupidly before him.
“What are you going to do?” asked Maria. “You see what they mean to
do----”
He started. His glance fell on the dead King beside him.
“By God’s Heaven, old man,” he muttered bitterly, “your atonement was
too late.”
“He is dead,” said Maria. “But we are living and we have to deal
with--Giovanna.”
The name roused him.
“Where is she gone--my wife?” he looked vaguely round.
“Oh, command yourself,” said Maria, seeing his bewildered look. “You
stand alone… Think how you must act----”
She turned away abruptly and entered the next room. Andreas followed
her.
“Princess,” he implored, “speak to me--for I know not what to do.”
She looked over her shoulder at him as he closed the door on the dead
King.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said brokenly. “Do something--do something.”
She dropped into her old place by the window and wrung her hands in
her lap.
The King’s slow passions were roused to fury. He began to grasp, to
realize in its full purport what had occurred. He paced about
fiercely.
“I will appeal to the Pope at Avignon,” he said. “I will write to my
brother.”
“Do something, do anything,” entreated Maria d’Anjou in a tone of such
sorrow and despair that he stayed his wrath to look at her.
“How does it touch you, Madonna?” he asked.
“It means,” she answered, “everything to me--the Conte Raymond----”
He caught at the name savagely. “Ah, the Conte Raymond--I’ll have the
Conte Raymond strangled.” He looked at her, the reflection of the
golden lilies burned in his waving fair hair. She returned his gaze
with an expression of anguish, of hopelessness.
“Don’t you understand?” she said with an effort. She clenched her
hands in the velvet folds of her gown. “He is serving for me----”
“I know,” said Andreas. “I heard.”
She bent her head.
“For me and my possessions… Giovanna has promised me to him. He can
serve her--he is powerful--the day she is crowned Queen, alone,” her
eyes lifted as she stressed the word--“he takes his wretched
reward----”
“She shall never be crowned Queen save as my wife,” vowed Andreas.
“God save me from the Conte Raymond,” said Maria earnestly. “I say
that prayer every night, even though my heart mocks--fool, it must
be!” She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. Andreas gazed at her in
horror.
“He has served the Queen well,” she said hurriedly. “Therefore some
say he loves her--it is a lie--latterly I have had some hope in your
coming, but I saw how powerless you would be, and then--I grew afraid
for you--as I have been afraid so long for myself, and I warned you.”
“My wife,” cried Andreas. “I must see my wife.” He beat his brow with
his clenched fist and strode up and down the room. “I will appeal to
the Pope--to Ludovic--but first I will see my wife----”
Maria watched the scarlet and leopard skin in and out of the shadow as
he paced to and fro, and her face was pale and weary.
“They will not let me go to Hungary--they laugh at the King’s will,”
she said.
“Giovanna--where is Giovanna?” cried Andreas, unheeding. “By God’s
Heaven--does she think I am to be insulted so?”
He strode to the door and wrenched it open.
“She will not see you,” cried Maria.
“She shall,” he replied. “She shall.”
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE CONTE RAYMOND
He made his way through the thronging courtiers, thrust aside the
servants, and struck himself upon her chamber door.
One of her women opened to him, and without a word he passed her.
“Where is the Queen?” he demanded.
From the inner room came her low voice: “Who is it, Sancia?”
“The King,” he answered, and entered the chamber where she sat. She
was alone, seated by the foot of her bed, with sunshine strong over
her primrose velvet gown. She had an ivory mirror on her lap and a
comb in her hand. On a table beside her was an open casket of pearls
and a heap of white roses.
She looked up when he entered and slightly flushed. “Why, this is
mannerly,” she said.
Her quiet, her words, the fact that this was her bedchamber, abashed
him for a moment. He stood awkwardly by the door.
“What do you want with me?” asked Giovanna, laying down the comb. “If
you had waited I would have seen you presently--now, as you see, I am
dressing my hair.”
He stared at her sullenly.
“If my welcome and your behavior had been of another kind,” he said,
“you had been spared this----”
Her violet eyes gave him a sidelong glance.
“You should have looked for your welcome, Lord Andreas, to those who
invited you.”
She picked up the white roses and began twisting them together; his
blood fired at her tone; he came heavily into the room.
“I am your husband,” he said. “Before God and man your husband, and
King of this realm of Naples.” He stood by the post of her bed and his
eyes challenged hers. “You defied the King’s will,” he continued, “you
insulted me before your minions--I have had a cur’s welcome to
Naples--by God, there must be an end of it!”
She would not look at him; her head was bent over the roses she played
with; he could only see the white lines of her neck and the waves of
her undressed auburn hair, that shone with a thousand threads of gold.
“You were a fool to come,” she said quietly.
“I came for my heritage,” he answered stormily.
“The saints know, for no love of you or yours.”
She laughed a little, still without looking up.
“No man could say we were wedded for love,” she said. “Certainly I did
not think you came for that--” The way she spoke was to him a
profanation of a sacred and unknown thing.
“I have not come to talk of love,” he said roughly.
She turned now and looked him up and down with mocking violet eyes.
“No?” she said, in a very scornful manner. “What have you come to
speak of?”
Her face dimpled into a contemptuous smile. Her beauty and her
self-possession were as goads to Andreas. He raged to have a man to
deal with.
“You have treated me badly,” he said confusedly, and bit the ends of
his thick yellow hair.
She was fixing two of the white roses on to the bosom of her blue
vest.
“What do you want, my cousin?” she asked carelessly, and she glanced
at him again with a contained amusement--as if she thought him a fool
who might be humored into submission.
“My kingdom,” he answered heavily.
The violet eyes darkened. “Ah, yes,” said Giovanna, “you wedded me for
that--I was to be your footstool to the throne of Naples--I
understand----”
“And I,” interrupted Andreas; “I read San Severino’s last letter to
you.”
She gave a little start, but her clear gaze did not falter.
“Well,” she answered. “Well, then you know, cousin, that I shall hold
what I have--that I am Queen here, with no man’s hand over me.”
“I know you are an usurper--the heiress of the younger branch----”
Giovanna smiled. Her fair white hands fingered the pearls in the case
beside her.
“You must say that to my council, cousin, and to the people of
Naples.”
The air of indifferent disdain brought the color to his cheeks. “I
shall not go there for justice,” he cried, with blazing eyes. “Nor
will I tamely bear the wrong--I shall appeal even to the Pope at
Avignon and to Ludovic my brother.”
Giovanna gave him a quick look; the name of Ludovic the Triumphant
carried terror.
“You will do that?” she said.
At this, the first sign of flinching she had shown, his awe of her
fled; he came up to the table standing between her and the sunlight.
“I am Charles Martel’s grandson,” he said, “and the son of Carobert of
Hungary--and my house, by God’s Heaven, is not one to be ruled by
women.”
She sat very still, but her narrowed eyes gave him hate for hate,
scorn for scorn.
“Why, you are but a foolish woman,” said Andreas, with a heaving
breast, “and of what use are women to rule? I am King of Naples, by
God His Grace, and if you or your minions do dispute it--I will bring
the arms of Ludovic like a thunderbolt into your midst--yea, I will
make Naples the vassal of Hungary, and cool your pride within a
cloister.”
Giovanna, very pale, laughed bitterly.
“You are gallant, cousin.” She was breathing hard, and the slender
fingers clutched tightly at the strings of pearls. “You are very
chivalrous--this is a knightly manner in which to speak--to--me.”
“To you!” repeated Andreas, frowning. “Have I not reason to speak so
to you, who have given me this welcome to my kingdom and my
home--you--my wife?”
“Leave that word alone,” answered Giovanna, speaking very quietly.
“Between you--and me--it has no meaning, no, nor ever will have; sweet
Virgin! I will never be a wife to you--I will not put my head under
your yoke--I do not need you beside me--I can live alone, rule
alone--husband! you will never be that to me, cousin.”
Red in the face, he passionately answered her: “You might go down the
wind for me…” He trembled in his utterance. “By God’s Heaven, I do not
want you… you are not desirable to me--I want no wife,” he struck his
hand fiercely against the post of the bed, “you need not fear that I
shall woo you. I come for my Kingdom.”
Her pride was strong. White-lipped she answered him: “Oh, I am fair
enough to break your heart an’ I cared to try----”
He strode away from her, tossing the hair out of his eyes.
“I would not lift my hand to touch you, so indifferent you are to
me--but, if you thwart me, I will bring you to your knees, proud
witch.”
Giovanna’s violet eyes were blazing like stars.
“Leave my chamber,” she said hoarsely. “I am Queen--yea, if you had a
thousand armies at your back, I am Queen.”
Andreas swung round to look at her.
“Do you defy me?” he asked.
She rose. She had infinitely more control than he, and she exercised
it now, though it cost her an effort.
“You--and all you can do,” she said quietly. “I also have my friends.”
“Yea, such as Raymond de Cabane!” he cried. “To whom you pay a
shameful price, and San Severino.”
“So you have been speaking to Maria,” said Giovanna. “She, of course,
will champion you--she will be the Conte Raymond’s wife.”
“She is my brother’s betrothed, by the King’s will, and I will not see
her marry another man.”
“Let King Ludovic come for her,” returned Giovanna. “And you, cousin,
leave me.”
His blue-gray eyes were dark with wrath; the leopard’s skin rose and
fell with his angry breathing.
“My messengers shall ride to-day to Avignon. I’ll rouse the world.
I’ll see Naples ashes and this palace with not one stone upon the
other before I forego my rights----”
Giovanna broke into sudden passion. “Leave my presence--do you wish me
to have you put without my doors?”
Andreas of Hungary laughed magnificently, in the confidence of his
pride and strength. “You have no men would dare to touch me,” he said.
“But as I have no more to say, I will go--you will not see me here
again.”
He went from her chamber, and Giovanna sank into the chair, trembling.
“Sancia!” she called. “Sancia!”
The waiting-woman entered with a soft step. She was a golden-haired
Italian, with a lovely arch face.
“You may finish my hair now,” said Giovanna faintly. “I must see Conte
Raymond.”
“Madonna, he is waiting without.”
Sancia was arranging the white roses in the coils of the Queen’s
auburn hair.
“Sweetheart,” asked Giovanna, suddenly, “what do you think of
Andreas?” She picked up the mirror as she spoke and gazed into it.
“Madonna, I think he is splendid.”
“Taller than the Conte, is he not?” said Giovanna musingly. “He has
beautiful hands--I should like to see him out of his armor.”
“Why doth he wear a leopard’s skin?” asked Sancia, curiously. “It is a
strange fashion.”
“Yes,” assented the Queen, moodily. “He is a fine knight, but he does
not know much about women. Sancia, he might have won me despite them
all--to be his friend, at least--if he had been wise enough to be
foolish and a little flattering.” She smiled, and put the mirror down.
“But now he has made of me a very bitter enemy--tell the Conte I am
coming, Sancia.”
A little after, with her face as pale as the roses in her hair, she
entered the antechamber. Raymond de Cabane was there, standing before
the wide-open fireplace, his arms crossed on his breast, his face,
save for the restless glitter of his black eyes, calm and passionless.
Giovanna went slowly to the table in the center of the room and seated
herself there.
“I have seen Andreas,” she said briefly. “If we bring things to an
open rupture, he will appeal to Avignon--what shall we do?”
“It is no matter,” answered Raymond, in a deep, unmoved voice. “We
have more friends than he at Avignon. I think he is a fool, too.”
The Queen laid her slender hands along the table and gazed at them. “I
think so,” she said quietly, and turned her heavy wedding ring about
on her finger.
“And I have won the first move,” remarked Raymond de Cabane. “You have
been proclaimed throughout Naples, despite the will.”
“Yes,” answered Giovanna.
“I come nearer my reward,” said the Conte, and his eyes flashed.
The Queen looked at him curiously. “You are very steady in your
desire,” she answered. “Conte--are you so fond of her?”
“My feelings are no part of the bargain, Madonna--you are to give her
to me, and Alba, and Giordano.”
Giovanna shrugged her shoulders.
“Conte, I was merely curious. One hears so much of love--in the
poets--sometimes one wonders--” She looked at him sideways--“if one
has ever met it or ever will--or ever will!”
“Maybe you will find it in your own heart one day, Madonna,” said
Raymond de Cabane.
Queen Giovanna looked at him steadily, rather mournfully.
“Why, it would be as impossible as the stars stooping to the meadows,
for me to love any man I have ever seen,” she answered. “I am in love
with power, and glory, and this splendid crown of Naples, Conte--but
Maria! I risk something to give her to you--she is promised to this
Ludovic of Hungary.”
Raymond de Cabane lifted his head a little. “I think he is not eager
for the alliance,” he said quietly. “In any case, what does it matter?
She is mine!”
She watched him curiously. “Maria desires it,” she replied, “and
Ludovic might fight.”
“Well,” he said stubbornly, “I could fight Ludovic of Hungary for
her--or any man, king or commoner.” Fire flashed for a moment into his
black eyes, and the dusky color came into his swarthy cheek. “Stand
you but my friend, Madonna,” he added, “as you have sworn.” He
breathed heavily.
“When you have fulfilled your promise,” she put in quickly, “I am not
yet safely Queen. The day that I am crowned in Santa Chiara, you may
draw up your marriage contract.”
He swore it, with a great passion underlying his quiet: “You shall be
crowned.”
“Despite of Andreas?” she asked him.
“Despite of everything!”
At that the Queen suddenly laughed. “You are curious,” she said; “I do
not think you love her.”
He gave her no pleasant glance. “Love her?” he echoed. “Hath she not
Alba and Giordano?”
“Yet,” smiled Giovanna, “you made this bargain with me before the
King’s will was known--and always has the bourne of your desires and
the height of your rewards been Maria, Maria----”
His heavy eyes flashed under the light mockery of her tone.
“I always knew that she would be an heiress,” he answered.
Giovanna leaned back in her chair; the white rose above her brow shone
against the carved wood; her white hands lay idly among the folds of
her vivid gown, over her bosom the azure vest rose and fell evenly and
her full lids were lowered till the bronze lashes touched her cheek.
“Maria hates you,” she said.
Raymond de Cabane stood very still. “I know,” he answered abruptly.
“It makes no difference?” asked Giovanna.
He came a step into the room. “Madonna! have we come to talk of these
things? I serve for my reward--like every man; let it end at that.”
She suddenly rose and pushed back her chair; her violet eyes swept
over him.
“Very well,” she said; “it is a question of policy, is it not? And you
will manage the council, my cousin Carlo--the people, this Hungarian
faction----”
“And your husband,” finished the Conte Raymond.
“My husband,” she repeated, steadily. “And you will send an ambassador
to Avignon to win the Pope?”
“All this,” said Raymond, “for the hand of Maria d’Anjou.”
Queen Giovanna’s look was one of mingled contempt and half-admiring
wonder; she crossed slowly to her chamber door.
“There is no more, Conte; I have trust in you.”
Raymond glanced at her abruptly.
“You shall be crowned within a month, Madonna.”
With an air of resolution and that veiled fierceness that was his
usual bearing, he left the room.
Queen Giovanna stood with her hand on the door-handle, staring after
him with disdainful violet eyes.
CHAPTER SIX.
MARIA
“There is a moral in everything,” said the dwarf, “and the moral of
a garden is, ‘don’t build a house.’” And he blinked up at the blue
sky, tempered by the thousand blossoms of an acacia tree.
It was mid August, and the gardens of the Castel del Nuovo were
flowering from end to end; everywhere roses, lilies, gladiolas,
myrtle, citron, chestnuts, the dark line of cedars and the gray-green
of poplars.
There, under a trellis covered with vines and white and purple roses,
was a marble seat, set against the low wall that looked over the town
and Bay of Naples; a marble pavement was underfoot, beautifully
checked with the waving, delicate shadows of the grapes and roses and
strong flecks of pure sunlight. The dwarf, dressed in a becoming
purple, sat with crossed legs and ate great red plums with relish.
Carlo di Durazzo, Duke di Duras, lounged on the marble seat and gazed
from the shade into the sunlight. He was clothed in satin of a golden
color and his shoes were the hue of rubies. He looked at Naples, the
white houses with the sloping pink and blue roofs, with the palms
between, then the bay shimmering from purple in the front where the
boats were drawn along the beach, to opal by the distant line of
Sorrento, and he said, without turning his head:
“With your leave, messer, if there is a moral in everything, what is
the moral of the marriage of the Queen?”
“That the man who marries without seeing his wife will die without
seeing his funeral,” answered the dwarf.
The Duke turned his pretty face.
“Certainly, Andreas is a fool,” he assented. “But he is troublesome,
perhaps dangerous, and I propound to you, messer, what will the Queen
do with him?”
A little breeze wafted some of the acacia blossoms on to the dwarf’s
lap; he played with them as he answered:
“Can the Queen do anything with nothing?” he asked. “Surely he is
but--as one might express it--a cipher--even the figure nought.” And
he sucked a plum with great gravity.
“Nevertheless,” said the Duke, “he has his envoys at Avignon, and
there is always Hungary.”
The dwarf’s little red eyes twinkled.
“The illustrious and mighty Conte Raymond has also his envoys at
Avignon,” he answered. “And I have a presentiment that His Holiness
will decide for the cause that is uppermost.”
“You are a gentleman of exceeding wisdom,” said the Duke. “But I wish
you would not eat so many plums; they are very bad for you.”
The dwarf selected another.
“They are really very nice,” he remarked, “will not your magnificence
try one? But as I was saying, the Pope----”
“The Pope,” said Duras, “would certainly call this gluttony, which is
one of the seven deadly sins.”
“Well,” answered the dwarf, “when I am sick, I will practice patience,
which is one of the seven deadly virtues, and so I shall be equally
balanced between Hell and the Angels--as I was saying, the Pope is not
likely to decide for Andreas, our illustrious and unfortunate
King----”
The Duke laid an elegant hand on the warm marble wall and watched how
the sun struck fire out of the emerald ring he wore.
“I am sorry for Andreas,” he remarked. “My cousin Giovanna humiliates
him very cruelly.”
The dwarf nodded.
“Silvestro, the King’s page, told me that the other day when the Queen
revoked his order to free a Hungarian prisoner and shut the council
doors in his face when he came to protest, he went to his room and
sobbed in a helpless agony of rage, cried like a child, Silvestro
said.”
“It is remarkably foolish to take things so heavily,” said Duras.
“But, after all, he is only a barbarian.”
The dwarf lifted his hunched shoulders. “But a barbarian has feelings,
magnificence. They say that he and the Queen have not spoken together
since the day of his arrival. I saw them meet yesterday; he was going
hunting----”
“He always is--the poor youth has nothing else to do,” interrupted the
Duke.
“Well, he was going hunting, he was waiting in the hall, and there was
Konrad of Gottif with him and a couple of dogs; they were talking
together when of a sudden in came the Queen with a great company of
ladies. Andreas grew red in the face and made as if he would avoid
them, but they were upon him before he could leave the room. The Queen
stopped and her eyes just traveled over him, and ‘Going hunting, my
lord?’ she said, and the ladies behind her stared at him as if he had
been a boor from the fields.
“‘Yes,’ he answered, and he colored more fiercely up to the roots of
his hair.
“The Queen laughed, making it plain she despised him for an awkward
boy.
“‘An’ you are not more successful in the hunt than you are in
politics--or love, my lord,’ she said, ‘we need not weep the prey you
chase,’ and she laughed again, throwing her arm around the Countess
Terliggi’s neck, who said: ‘But herons are more easily caught than
thrones or hearts, my Queen.’ And at this all the ladies laughed and
swept out of the room. The King stood silent until they had gone
(though he showed in his face how he had been struck), then he burst
out to his friend:
“‘Konrad, is this bearable?’
“‘Go back to Hungary,’ was the answer. And then the King flung from
the room wildly, saying: ‘God, no! I bide my time!’”
The Duke stretched his limbs.
“It would be curious,” he remarked, “if the Pope did recognize his
claims, for, considering Naples is his fief, if he was to send a bull
of coronation the nobles would desert my fair cousin--the positions
would be reversed.”
“And he would take a terrible revenge, therefore hedge, magnificence,
until the answer comes from Avignon.”
The Duke yawned. “Saints’ name, messer, I would rather see you eat
more plums than see you suck the stones,” he said.
“Unfortunately, as there are no more plums, I have no choice,” sighed
the dwarf. “Does your magnificence object to my cracking the stones
and abstracting the kernels?”
“Immensely,” answered the Duke. “And you are quite sufficiently like a
monkey.”
“It is generous of you to say so,” grinned the dwarf. “I wish I could
find your magnificence sufficiently like a man.”
“What is your idea of a man?” asked the Duke, pleasantly.
“Raymond de Cabane,” said the dwarf.
“Maria! the son of a slave and a washerwoman!”
The dwarf rose and put his plum stones in his pocket. “I will take my
leave.” He bowed his squat body and moved away into the sunlight; the
Duke yawned and looked across the bay.
The sheer dazzle of the sunlight was as a veil over everything. On the
marble pavement swayed the faint blue shadows of the roses and the
vine. The acacia tree whispered continually in the breeze blowing from
Capri, and tall lilies growing without tapped at the trellis work.
Against the burnished turquoise sky the cedars showed black and the
poplars a shuddering silver-gray. Two flashing white doves flew across
the arbor.
Putting the flowers aside, came Maria d’Anjou in a long mauve gown.
She carried a zither of tortoise-shell and ivory, and her bright
chestnut hair lay heavy in the nape of her slender neck.
She seated herself beside the Duke, who gazed at her tenderly.
“They are going hunting, Carlo,” she said. “Will you not go with them?
It looks as if you stayed away to flout the King as the others do.”
Duras smiled.
“You are sorry for Andreas, cousin?”
“For all of us,” she said, and drew a sharp breath. “And I think the
King is served shamefully. What has he had but mortification and
insult? Yea, and from the servants.”
“I wonder,” pondered the Duke, smiling at her; “I wonder if it had
been different if he had wooed the Queen----”
“She is cold as ice,” said Maria.
“Yet I think it had been different. Where do they hunt to-day?”
“Toward Capua--Melito, I think.”
“Sweet cousin, I am too lazy to go. I would sit here and have you
sing.”
Her blue eyes became pleading.
“Carlo, he is so wretched; he has no one but his Hungarians to go
with. Conte Raymond lords it over him. If you would go, gentle cousin,
it would give me pleasure.”
“Why, then it will be a pleasure to me,” he answered, rising. “If I do
not go, at least I will offer him my best falcon before them all. Is
that enough?”
She turned her beautiful head to look at him.
“I am very grateful, sweet cousin,” she said, and gave him her hand.
He kissed it and turned reluctantly away from her. She watched his
gold clothes glitter into the distance, then, resting her elbows on
the marble walls, looked over Naples and sighed.
Presently she took up the zither and tuned it. Music and the garden
were the best company she knew. All her peace and happiness had come
to her when she sat alone in the sunlight under the trees with the
flowers to right and left.
With an absorbed, dreaming face, she began to sing. Her low, sweet
voice rose exquisitely through the stillness:
Orpheus sang to a silver lute
Amid Arcadian trees,
When all the world had fallen mute
To listen at his knees.
The winds that round Mount Ida blow
At his commands were still,
The wingèd gods circled low
Round that dim Thracian Hill.
Then ever blue the tender sky
And ever green the field,
Mars laid his scarlet armor by
And rested on his shield.
Her head bent over the zither till a loose strand of hair swept the
strings.
Rose-wreathed, the smiling hours sped,
Rose-wreathed the evening died.
And never a blossom drooped its head
Save when young Orpheus sighed--
Thus I to gray clouds complain
In this age of mean renown
Watching the straight April rain
Silver o’er Pisa’s narrow town.
Maria d’Anjou sighed, her voice was trembling on the next notes:
Too soon has Orpheus fallen dumb,
Too soon the gods are dead,
When shall another singer come
To say what Orpheus said?
The zither dropped from her hands; her soft mournful eyes gazed
vacantly across the distant town. She was wrapped in her own dreaming
thoughts. She sighed, looked round, and in an instant was back in
reality, the color in her cheeks.
Holding back the vines that impeded him stood the Conte Raymond
looking at her.
“Good-morrow,” she said gravely; she had not that day seen him before.
He came with his slow, heavy step toward the marble seat. As always,
he was composed and lowering in manner.
“I have been hoping to find you, Madonna, alone.”
Hate of him showed in quivering nostrils and lowered lids as she
turned her head away.
“What is your wish with me?” she asked wearily.
His deep-set eyes flashed to her averted face. “The Queen has told ye,
perchance”--his swarthy hand fingered the roses on the
balustrade--“that she will be crowned in mid-September?”
She would not look round; her foot tapped the marble impatiently.
“Scorn me as you like, Maria,” he said quietly; “by then our marriage
contract will be signed--I shall not wait for my reward.”
Her shoulders heaved a little.
“Conte, your presence is unendurable to me--and your talk wild.” She
lifted her face now, and showed it pale with anger. “I will wed with
the King of Hungary or with no man.”
“Why,” he scowled. “We waste words. Do you think ye will be freer to
choose your husband than your sister was?”
She rose so suddenly that he fell back a pace.
“Ye are a bold man,” she said, with her slim hand to her side. “But I,
as well as Giovanna, am of Anjou--and ye have forgot, perchance, the
King?”
His wrath rose to meet hers, but he had himself well in hand. It
showed only in the pale swarthiness of his cheek.
“I am a fool to speak to ye,” he said somberly. “Ye cannot thwart my
designs, and the King----”
“Well?” she said, smiling splendidly; “the King--my betrothed’s
brother--what if the Pope decided in his favor? Then there would be
neither victory nor reward for you, Conte.”
An extraordinary look darkened his eyes.
“Do ye think that would stop me?” he asked; then checked himself as if
he had disclosed too much. “But I mistake to talk of politics,” he
said, and smiled unpleasantly. “Amuse yourself with your songs and
flowers, Maria, September will come apace.” He raised his velvet cap
and was gone, heavily, through the vines.
“When Andreas is King indeed,” said Maria under her breath, “when
Ludovic of Hungary comes for me, that man”--she bit her lip--“that man
shall answer for this talk to me!”
Yet even while she spoke she was afraid.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE QUEEN MOVES
Sancia di Renato, the Queen’s Paduan waiting-woman, held up a corner
of the crimson canopy between her face and the sun. Her white dress
was glowing in the rosy reflection as she laughed a whisper to one of
the squires standing below her on the steps.
Before them were the clean, sanded lists, prepared for the jousts,
with the snowy tents at either end flaunting emblazonments to the
blue, the tiers of seats filled with a glittering throng of noble
spectators, and, beyond, the red rope and the line of halberdiers that
checked the surging crowd.
The Queen under her canopy, on her raised throne embroidered thickly
with the Angevin lilies, made a gracious picture of slim fairness. As
was her manner always, she bent forward slightly, stooping it seemed,
yet gracefully and in a fashion well suited to her girlish
slenderness. The stiff folds of her brocaded skirts swept from out the
warm shadow that enveloped her and shone on the sunlit steps of her
throne. There on the confines of her robe sat the dwarf in blatant
scarlet. Couched there, too, was a long white hound wearing a gold
collar.
Beside Giovanna her sister leaned on the arm of her chair, gorgeous,
opulent in gold and green, but indifferent eyes beneath the chestnut
brows and a tragic mouth behind the fluttering fan of peacock
feathers.
To right and left were the ladies, whispering and laughing together,
the pages, the Queen’s gentlemen, then the nobles in their velvet
seats. These pageants had not been common in the old King’s time, and
Giovanna’s violet eyes were eagerly noticing the signs of pleasure and
approval in the gay crowd about her. She wanted their good-will--yea,
down to the merest scullion breathing garlic there beyond the rope,
she wanted them on her side in the coming struggle with her husband.
When she was crowned alone in Santa Chiara, she must have these people
on her side. When Andreas of Hungary, despite justice and the King’s
will, was thus flagrantly disregarded, he must evoke no sympathy.
Naples must look to her--the Queen.
And so she gave them their jousts and tourneys, though Raymond de
Cabane complained of the lavish expense, and she found it wearisome to
sit for hours with the noise in her ears, the glare in her eyes, and
the crown pressing unmercifully on her aching head.
She looked down curiously at Sancia’s smiling face. It was evident the
fair Paduan did not find it wearisome.
“A ducat on the Prince of Taranto,” said Sancia. She swung a velvet
purse tasseled in steel, and her blue eyes sparkled with merriment.
“Why many lay their money on _him_,” smiled the squire, “but Carlo di
Durazzo goes a-begging----”
Sancia dropped the canopy, shutting out the squire. The Queen stirred
in her heavy dress and rested her pointed chin in her hand. Her heart
swelled to think how Andreas played into her hands by always absenting
himself and his friends from these sports. He was forever hunting. The
Italians did not love hunters.
A movement came through the crowd, a shout, a sudden flash of jewels
from the stand as each turned his head in one direction. The
halberdiers put back the people and with a blast of trumpets the
petticoated heralds entered the lists.
They rode slowly round, then took up their stations at either end
opposite the respective tents of their masters. One was in bronze and
azure for Luigi of Taranto, the other in violet and noir for Carlo of
Duras.
Now the knights themselves were coming. White necks were strained to
catch the first glimpse of them, and the Queen’s stand shimmered with
gauze and tissue coifs, bright locks and silk veils. First entered the
Prince of Taranto on a white horse whose bronze and azure satin
trappings left trails in the sand as they swept either side of him.
Over his damescened Milan armor the Prince wore an ermine surtout and
a great silk scarf of his colors. From the twisted wreath of blue and
brown on his helm floated the graceful folds of the lambrequin, and
above rose his emblem of a swan with a silver circlet round its neck.
On his left arm was a huge painted shield that blazed with fifteen
quarterings; his right supported the spear in its socket.
Cleopatra Perlucchi, Contessa di Montalto, led his horse. Her orange
gown and gold twisted yellow hair blazed like one sheen in the
sunlight. On her brow was a wreath of dark ivy leaves.