“Of none of these things will you speak to Ludovic of Hungary,” she said steadily.
Sancia writhed beneath an authority she was not strong enough to outface.
“Why?” she cried. “I want him to loathe the Queen as I loathe her—to kill her as I would kill her if I could—why do you shield her—I came to you for those things you have that damn her—will you not give them to me? Will you not show them to the King? Why do you stand so silent?”
“Because these things are in God’s hands,” said Maria in a low voice. “And I cannot do what you ask.”
Sancia, baffled, mastered, broke into impotent sobbing, calling down judgment on the Queen between her gasping breaths.
Neither had noticed that the room had grown nearly dark. Maria, moving, saw that the window was a mere patch of dull light, and that the sun had long set.
With unfeeling fingers she lit the little lamp beside her bed and the tall candle on the table.
The small flame touched with gold her own incense-scented hair, and cast a wavering shadow round Sancia’s disordered loveliness and palely gleaming locks.
“God help thee,” said Maria compassionately. “For there is no aid save in heaven——”
Sancia broke out:
“I will speak—I will speak,” and struck her hand on the bedpost. “For I love him.”
A faint color came into the Princess’s face. “Ye do not think of me,” she said quietly. “Of how I have stood aside—how I have nursed my heart in secret—ye do not think that I have had my hopes and dreams—perhaps—and you forget that I am the King’s promised wife.”
“But I,” cried Sancia with the selfishness of passion, “I love him——”
“Then ye are more fortunate than I,” flashed Maria, “for I cannot love him—nor any man—ye can cherish thoughts of him in a convent, but I must feed an empty life with dreams.”
Sancia sobbed on.
“Aye,” continued Maria, walking slowly up and down, with her head held disdainfully, “do what you can with your love while you have it—think of it, weep over it. Ye are happier than those who cannot stoop to it—but I—for me, there is another way.”
She paused beside Sancia. The lamp and candle threw cross shadows over them.
“Get back to Padua,” she said.
“I cannot leave him,” murmured Sancia. “Madonna, I cannot!”
“You must,” said Maria, “or you will speak—and shall what I have concealed in deep bitterness and prayer be revealed through your jealousy? I say you shall leave Naples!”
“O Jesu!” moaned Sancia.
“Nay,” continued Maria in a softer tone. “It is the wiser thing for your soul’s sake—and what is there for ye here but misery? Certainly I will not marry this man, but he will not wed with you, and if you love him there is but shame for you—therefore go home to Padua.”
Sancia was silent a great while, and Maria put her arms about her and kissed her quietly. At which Sancia said in a faint voice:
“I will go home.”
“God be praised,” answered Maria trembling.
“And I will be silent.”
Maria kissed her again.
“Now let me rest upon your bed awhile,” pleaded Sancia. “For I am heartbroken unto death, and this place is very peaceful.”
The Princess looked at her in a manner between shame and scorn.
“That ye should break your heart for him!”
The tearful eyes flashed with pride. “There is no knight more splendid in the circle of the world—and I would give my heart again, nay, my soul, that he might smile on me!” She turned away, sank face downward on the pillows, and lay very still, save for the long shudders of exhausted passion that shook her huddled figure.
Maria watched her for a little, then moved across the room and leaned against the window, her head bowed, her hands slack.
Her strongest feeling was one of utter disdain for Sancia, herself—for Ludovic of Hungary. She remembered the night of the masquerade when she had prayed with such fervency for this man’s coming; she remembered the golden pictures her fancy had drawn of him, a hero saint, a stern avenger, a just man, a wise king, a true knight, one greatly different to those who intrigued in the court of Naples.
And now had he not proved himself such an one as any of them. Careless of his brother, he had stooped to dally with the Queen; careless of his honor, he idled the days in too fair Naples; careless of his betrothed, he deigned to turn to Sancia’s adoring loveliness. Bitterly she asked herself—are these the actions my knight would grace his mission with? Bitterly she answered herself—no.
And she felt as if the shame he was unconscious of rested upon her soul. The memory of the dead Andreas in the syringa bushes was as an accusation; the thought of him in Santa Chiara as the thought of a sin.
To her the seal of damnation was very surely upon Giovanna that moment when her lips touched those of her murdered husband’s brother, and the terrible shadow of it was over her own soul. The awful thing that had driven the Queen to madness was unsettling her sister’s clear reason. She tortured herself thinking that to be passive was a sin, thinking that to speak was a sin. She felt herself gripped by a doom that was steadily nearing—nearing burning Naples, nearing the wicked palace, where Giovanna smiled in her sin, where Ludovic caressed her and Sancia wept for love of him—nearing all these tangled nightmare miseries to blot them out forever under the blackness of utter annihilation.
With a fierce effort she controlled her wild thoughts and crept slowly to the bed to look at Sancia.
The Paduan girl was seemingly asleep. Her flushed wet face showed with the freshness of a rose between the twisted yellow of her locks. Where her dress had slipped, her bosom shone white and soft, and heaved now and then with light sobs.
“Would I could find rest as easily,” whispered Maria d’Anjou. She gazed at the childish beauty before her with compassion and no touch of envy, though she did not forget that the splendid Ludovic, for whose coming she had waited so anxiously, had turned from her to this—the Queen’s waiting woman.
Presently a soft knock on the door disturbed her. It was her page, who attended in the antechamber, with a message that the company awaited her in the dining hall. Maria put out the candle and trimmed the lamp, drew the bed curtain so as to shade Sancia’s sleeping face, and left the chamber.
In the outer room sat her tire maid, under a bronze statue of Santa Chiara. She worked at endless lengths of embroidery, and the page was at her feet, holding skeins of somber-colored silk.
“Sancia di Renato sleeps on my bed,” said Maria. “I think she will not wake until my return—ye will not rouse her.”
She sat at the supper table that night as she always sat there—silent, holding herself aloof, so quiet amid the talk and laughter that few looked her way, yet herself acutely observant, with sad eyes of judgment. This evening the whole scene flared before her in colors so sharp and with a meaning so ghastly that more than once she lowered her lids to escape it; still, like a great bedizened picture, it rose, even before her closed eyes: Ludovic of Hungary, flamboyant in black and golden tissues; Giovanna beside him, robed in yellow with her red hair gleaming against a background of cushions of noir and murrey; the dark faces of the Hungarians, the smiling faces of the Italians, beautiful forms of women, sitting carelessly round the board between the upright figures of the men; the shape and glitter of gilt vessels and the sparkle of rich glass; Luigi of Taranto, with the eyes of a reckless man, lounging forward on the table, the emerald studs in his collar shining over his scarlet dress and his face flushed and heavy; Carlo di Durazzo, fallen into the glooms, frowning at the white hounds who fawned beside him; and all lit by the soft yet gleaming light of wax candles that showed like vivid stars in a bright haze.
Opening her eyes resolutely and gazing down the table at the King’s dark face, Maria d’Anjou came to a resolution.
All the long dread and horror had culminated to-day in Sancia’s tale. She would fly from the impending doom, leave the sinners to their sin. In a convent she would pray for the soul of the forgotten Andreas.
First she would speak, for once, to Ludovic of Hungary, and release him from the formal bonds he deemed so light.
When they rose from the table, she waited by her place for the King to pass.
The Queen went by, but never looked at Maria. Ludovic, seeing her waiting, glanced at her expectantly.
“My noble cousin,” she said in a low voice.
He stopped instantly and surveyed her, unsmiling, though he was not ill-pleased that her stately coldness had been brought at last to notice him.
“I do desire,” continued Maria very softly, “to have speech with you on matters of import—to me, at least,” she added proudly.
Ludovic bent his head in a slightly mocking manner. He never took a woman seriously enough to be ever impressed by her gravity, and he thought of this cold bride of his as a heartless creature of caprice.
Maria saw his estimate of her in his arrogant eyes, and the pride of her own regal blood fired her beauty.
“Well,” she said in a louder voice. “Have I that privilege to speak to you?”
The King was looking at her very obvious loveliness. When, as now, she was flushed with animation, she owned a color and a sparkle that made the Queen hard by comparison and Sancia faded.
“My time is yours,” he answered in a stately fashion, but with smiling eyes. “Put me at your commands.”
“If you will be here in the morning when none are abroad, I will come to you.”
He lifted his brows.
“Mass! Is it so weighty—and so secretive?”
“Neither,” she replied quickly. “Yet I pray you come.”
He laughed a little.
“ ’Tis not a difficult request, God wot.” Maria’s blue eyes lifted to his steadily.
“I shall be here—and now, fair liege, the Queen waits for you.”
She turned from him with so considered and quiet a dismissal that his magnificence was moved to a half-angry, half-amused interest.
Resisting the desire to follow her, he turned to Giovanna, watching with fearful eyes, standing in the doorway, waiting him.
“What did she say?” she asked, as he came up to her, for she was afraid of her sister, although she had so completely won the King from her.
“Naught of any matter,” smiled Ludovic. “Naught that can trouble you or I——”
And he touched her hand delicately, where it hung against her robe, as if he would recall that afternoon to her mind.
But she gave him a sick glance and a forced smile for his answer.
Maria went back to her chamber. The page had gone, the maid was half asleep over the endless sewing that crept in its shining colors about her knees.
“Has Sancia gone?” asked the Princess.
“Some moments since, Madonna.”
Maria turned into the bedchamber and locked the door.
To-night, that was to be the last night of it all, she would destroy those pitiful relics of the murdered King, and with them all temptation and all hope or expectation of worldly help or pleasure.
Ludovic of Hungary had failed her. From first to last the Queen had triumphed. It was not for her, but for God’s avenging angels to seek their judgment and their punishment.
She lit a couple of candles and turned up the lamp.
The sight of the tumbled coverlet recalled Sancia’s bitter distress. Maria thought sadly of taking her with her into the convent of Santa Chiara; then of the King and Sancia’s hot words, “the most splendid knight in the circle of the world.” Perhaps he was. She held her breath to think of him. What if he had spurned Giovanna, avenged his brother—and, her lover and lord, taken her back to Hungary?
For a moment’s space she flushed and stood still, thinking of him, then—“Giovanna’s lover,” she said to herself. “And Sancia’s flatterer!”
She went swiftly to her coffer. The lions and cherubs of the molding were picked out in the yellow light as she raised the lid. The breeze from the bay blowing through the open window stirred the tapestry on the wall and her red dress.
With a prayer on her lips, she prepared to burn into ashes and oblivion these things, the destruction of which she had dallied with so long, drawing the candle closer with cold fingers.
Then shock relaxed the quiet of her nervous tension. She cried out in a strange voice and flared the candle full into the open coffer. It was bare. The little casket had gone. She had left the chest unlocked, never thinking—and some one——
Then she remembered and knew.
“Sancia,” she whispered, “Sancia will show them to the King.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.
THE TRUTH
Ludovic of Hungary stood silent and thoughtful. The early morning sun made a great brightness in the chamber. The King had a parchment in his hand; on the floor beside him knelt a young boy who was engaged in lacing up his high leathern boots. For the rest the room was empty.
The parchment in Ludovic’s hand was a letter from Hungary. It had recalled sharply that he was in danger of forgetting his own kingdom, and the epistle his mother had sent recalled Andreas and the object of his coming.
The instincts of the King and the warrior responded to the questions that lurked in these letters from home. Carelessness now and both kingdoms might slip. Naples was not his in name. To please Giovanna he had foreborne, leaving her at least the semblance of her authority. She had interested him, fascinated him. He had set himself to the task of winning her coldness as his pride had set his strength many difficult tasks, and to this end he had done much for her, yet he did not intend that Giovanna or any other woman should stand between him and his ambitions.
He had stayed long enough in Naples, unless he remained as King, and the King of Naples must be Giovanna’s husband—or her enemy.
Ludovic frowned. The Queen was extraordinary, a witch of a woman. From the first she had won him by her subtle flatteries and her unusual regal bearing, her strange face and quiet ways… he did not know if he cared for her, but he knew that he would not dare Christendom to marry her, and there was Maria.
Maria was finely dowered and the next of kin. To marry her was to come one step nearer the throne. His brother had given his life for—yet if the Queen took another husband——
He folded his letter up slowly and his frown darkened. What was to prevent him seizing Naples, now it lay under his hand?
Nothing but Giovanna and what he might have said to her—lover-like promises to vanquish her.
But that had lasted long enough. The other day had seen the end of it in the shattered temple. Thinking of her and her strangeness, he grew impatient. He was tired of her. He would leave her kingdom, marry Maria and return to Hungary.
Then he scorned himself fiercely. Should he lose the chance of a crown, and a crown rightfully his, because of a woman?
His eyes sparkled at the thought of conquest. He chafed at his late gorgeous inactivity. His mind, roused by these letters and their spurs at his idleness, was busy with plans of policy and war, the mustering his armies, the conciliating of the Italians, when he remembered Maria’s request the night before.
He had risen early on purpose, but the reading of his letters had put her from his thoughts. The Hungarian galley that had brought them lay at anchor among the shipping in the bay. As the King turned from the room he looked back at it and thought of his mother.
Her letter was not gentle. She spoke of Andreas, her youngest and her best beloved. The victims of San Eligio and the bloody death of the Conte Raymond had not appeased her wrath. She refused scornfully to believe in the innocence of the Queen. She urged her son to carry fire and sword through Naples, and hang Giovanna as Andreas was hanged, over the balcony of Aversa.
Ludovic descended the dark stairs slowly.
“That is Konrad of Gottif’s talk,” he told himself, “yet did she convince me too easily?”
Frowning and with a heavy step he entered the dining hall.
The gay morning sun fell over the disarray of last night—faded flowers, burned-out candles. On the Queen’s dais two white dogs slept. Standing by the long, open window was Maria. Ludovic remarked that she wore the same red dress as yesterday, and that her eyes were heavy underneath, but he did not guess that she had spent the night in a swound of prayer on the cold steps of her chapel altar.
He came over to her quickly.
“I am late,” he said. “Forgive it—letters came from Hungary last night—I received them but now——”
She did not hear what he said. Eagerly she searched his face, set and serious beyond its wont, for some hint of whether he knew or not.
Full of this one thought, she spoke:
“Have you seen Sancia di Renato this morning?” Her voice was thin and weak from fatigue.
He flushed quickly.
“No,” he answered gravely.
She shook with relief. There was still time for her to find Sancia and get the casket from her. She was silent with thankfulness.
Ludovic spoke again, a little haughtily:
“Why do you use Sancia di Renato’s name to me, Madonna? Was it to speak of her you wished to see me?”
“No.” She sat down in a chair by the window and raised her tired eyes.
The King leaned against the long table and pushed the thick hair off his forehead impatiently. She was over-grave, over-passionless for his taste. In the morning light her beauty had lost its sparkle and looked heavy and dragged. Her anger of last night had pleased him better.
He was obviously waiting for her to speak. She gathered her strength.
“Out of the confusion of many resolves,” she said, “I have come to this decision—I do desire to acquaint you with it——”
The weight in her voice, the earnestness in her face startled him. “What is your meaning?” he asked quickly.
“That I shall join the sisterhood of Santa Chiara,” answered Maria. “To-day.”
He colored in sheer surprised anger.
“Is it to slight me that ye breathe this folly?” he demanded. “Are ye not contracted to me?”
“It has been of little matter to you,” she replied gently. “I know that this action of mine that gives me peace will give you no pain. You do not know me. You cannot regret a stranger.”
He laughed shortly.
“I will not lose my wife.”
Maria rose. “You lose nothing. Never would I be your wife.”
Ludovic did not think lightly of himself, nor of what he had to offer. That any woman should use these words to him was as astonishing as if one of his soldiers should refuse to obey. He drew himself up from his easy posture against the table.
“Mars!” he said hotly. “Ye will have no choice—ye are my betrothed before Christendom.”
She stood silent, unmoved, with her hand to her forehead.
“What am I that ye should fly from me to a nunnery?” demanded Ludovic. He thrust his hand into his sword belt and looked at her with proud, narrowed eyes.
“Words breed dissension,” said Maria, “and naught else. This is no matter for subtle argument, but for silent decision.”
“Is it, by the Rood!” cried the King with the hot color flushed up under his eyes. “For my decision then, and that, God wot, is soon come to—’tis that ye mind your duty and speak no more of nunneries.”
“Take it as ye will,” said Maria. “Ye cannot move me.”
Ludovic clenched the hand on his baldrick. “Ye are crazed utterly,” he answered. His brows gathered into a dark frown. “This should have come sooner—we have been betrothed long enough, God wot——”
At this, touching memories of her baseless, sweet dreams, the pale color came into her face.
“You could never understand,” she said in a voice a little shaken.
Ludovic regarded her a moment in silence. Though more than once he had, with larger issues in view and some thought of Giovanna, considered breaking his contract with Maria, now he was firmly resolved that nothing should prevent this marriage; that she should refuse him would hurt both his pride and his policy.
“I came to Naples for you,” he said. “To perform our long betrothal and the old King’s wish.” He frowned heavily. “There was a little princess at my mother’s court,” he broke off.
Upright, unmoved, stood Maria, with the morning sun about her and her eyes on the ground.
“I would have wedded her but for ye,” finished the King imperiously. “My chosen wife ye are—my wife ye shall be.”
Her bosom stirred under the red gown. She raised her face a little toward him; the passion that had made her glowing last night sprang to life in her eyes now.
“Ludovic of Hungary—what is lost between us is outside speech.”
“What is lost?” he repeated.
She put her hands to her side and clasped them there. Her face, flushed with that growing passion into a splendor of color, was lifted as if she challenged him. “Ye speak of our long betrothal,” she said unevenly. “Ye take credit that ye forbore another woman, thinking of me—of me!” The word rang scornful. “Oh, believe that in my long thoughts of you no other mingled—that, though they pressed me, I was very constant to those thoughts I had of you.”
Her voice fell suddenly. Ludovic looked at her curiously, his teeth in his underlip.
“I have watched until my eyes were weary, Ludovic of Hungary, for the distant glitter of your spears. I have prayed until my lips were white for your swift coming—my ears have strained for the sound of your horses below my window—my heart has wearied for the sound of your voice—but now, upon no terms ye could devise, for no reward ye could offer, would I give myself to you.”
Pale, but with proud eyes still on her beauty, he answered her.
“What has wrought this change in ye?”
The hands over her heart tightened.
“Put that to yourself,” she said, and her blue eyes held accusation.
Inwardly he winced, though he let her see nothing in his steady face.
“You judge too soon,” he answered. He thought of Sancia. “And by a woman’s standard,” he added with a faint smile.
“I neither judge nor condemn,” said Maria. “As I knew—you do not understand.”
His smile deepened.
“Now you—perchance?” he came a step nearer, resolved on softer methods. “Ah, well, we make the matter too heavy. Ye have been too much apart. Give me the chance and I will prove to you a King may love his wife——”
“Good my liege,” she answered. “I will not come second with any man.”
He looked at her straightly.
“So it is jealousy, after all?” And he wondered what she knew and how she had come by her knowledge.
“No,” she said. “I think it is a great indifference.” Then her eyes blazed again. “Do you think that if I cared enough to be jealous, I should go into a nunnery?”
“You will not go into a nunnery,” he answered masterfully. “Whether you care or not—no convent in Naples shall dare to take ye——”
“Do you think of my dowry?” she said bitterly, “that ye are so anxious to detain me?”
Anger made his tone quiet.
“Not alone your lands, but all Naples is mine by the lifting of my hand.”
“Then ye may spare me,” she answered and moved away by the long, disordered table.
At that, seeing her turn quietly from him, Ludovic flared into open anger. Instantly he was beside her, his hand on her velvet sleeve.
“Come,” he said. “Your reasons—ye do not set me aside so easily.”
She shrank as if his touch brought contamination. “My reasons?” she echoed, her eyes dilated. He took his hand from her arm.
“I am very distasteful to you,” he exclaimed hotly.
Maria drew slowly away down the table. The sunlight lay like gold threads in her heavy chestnut hair, and cast a delicate shadow over her averted cheek, sparkled in the glass on the table behind her and the smooth stems of the branching candlesticks.
“Mars!” cried Ludovic, struggling with quick anger. “You will tell me more of this—what you mean——”
She looked at him over her shoulder with wild eyes. “Have I not said what I mean?—the silence of the convent.” Then she was gone through the arcaded window into the loggia.
Before his fierce impatience would express itself by following her, the door by the Queen’s dais opened quickly, and was quickly closed. Ludovic looked round.
Standing in the dark corner of the room where the sunlight did not reach was Sancia di Renato, her white dress and her fair hair making a brightness in the gloom.
Ludovic, seeing some purpose in her coming, connecting it in his mind with Maria’s behavior, faced her in silence, his eyes bright with anger at being trapped between the emotions and recriminations of two women. Sancia was also still with awe and some shame.
The King frowned in a wrathful silence. Was he to lose his wife because of a snatched kiss or two and words of homage to a lovely face? “By Heaven,” he broke out, “what is the matter?”
But Sancia stood mute. She had risen early to find Ludovic and put before him the stolen casket. To her the matter did not involve the sins and punishments of a royal house, nor the agonizing intertwining of bruised affections that it meant to Maria. She merely saw her lover won by a woman whom she feared and loathed, and did the direct thing in seeking to ruin the Queen and win back Ludovic.
But now, with shame and fear, she began to sob, clasping the casket to her breast, now she was really face to face with him. Slowly she moved toward the table, her white dress flickered with gold thread flowers from the bosom to the feet. In her pale hair hung a little knot of scarlet. Her eyes were misted with her late weeping, her mouth trembled, and she gave quick, tearless sobs.
The King looked at her, and the flush on his dark cheek grew deeper.
The silence became terrible to Sancia. She set the casket on the table and thrust it toward the King. “Take it away,” she said in a muffled voice.
His intense eyes fell to the little casket. “What is this ye contend over?” he asked.
Sancia gave one glance at the King’s face, and the full color surged into her own. She sat down heavily on one of the drawn back chairs and closed her eyes as if she was swooning.
“Why should I hesitate?” she said thickly.
A breathless pause fell. The immovable sunlight, the heavy silence, became oppressive. Ludovic took up the casket and she made neither sound nor movement. It was a wooden casket, covered with stamped leather. In heavy gold it bore the arms of Anjou, and encircling the shield of lilies was this inscription:
“Memorare * novissima * tua * et * in * eternam * non * pechalis.”
Ludovic handled it slowly. The motto glittered hardly: “Remember thy later end and thou shalt not sin forever.”
He turned back the lid. Sancia was looking at him. And another’s gaze was upon him. Maria, passing the loggia, had seen Sancia, seen it was too late, and stood now, staring, breathless with this turn of fate, silent with hopelessness.
He saw some little fair curls lying on a parchment that bore familiar writing, and a gold chain he had often seen on his brother’s neck. He put the casket down and stepped back from it.
“Why, what have you given me?” he said, and he was shaken as a man who comes unawares on the dead.
With pity and terror, Sancia sat speechless, but Maria was strung beyond tenderness. “I found those things in your brother’s room at the Convent of Santo-Pietro-a-Majello,” she answered hollowly. “The letter is to you—will you not read it?”
The King looked at her in a bewildered half-reproach, as if he marveled at her swift return, and accused her of, in some way, entrapping him. Then he took up the casket again, unfolded the letter and read.
“I think he was too weary to finish it that night,” said Maria dully. “And on the morrow he was dead.”
(She came slowly into the room, to the terror of Sancia.) Ludovic gave no heed to her. He laid the letter back, looked at the broken chain, then he said, very hoarsely:
“This hair?”
“Yea,” answered Maria. “As I found it… on the balcony…”
“And this?” he raised distracted eyes to her as he touched fearfully the fragment of brocade and the auburn curl.
“That,” said Maria, with an indrawing of her breath, “is—her—hair and her dress.”
She ceased sharply.
“Yes?” whispered Ludovic.
“I took it from his hand,” she answered him, “as he lay beneath the balcony—her hair—her dress—clutched in his dead fingers——”
Her words stumbled into silence. The King stared at her, holding the open casket in his hand. Sancia rose by the table with her finger tips on the shining table, and her great weary eyes fixed on Ludovic.
Suddenly Maria spoke again, like one wounded and grown fierce with pain.
“You have the truth now—my reasons and all you asked for—the truth!—what will you do with your knowledge?”
Ludovic closed the casket.
“You wish me to think,” he said. “You mean me to think—that Giovanna is guilty——”
“Think what ye will,” answered Maria. “For I say no word one way or the other.”
“I do not believe it,” said Ludovic. “Remembering her as she came to me—I—do not believe it——”
Maria would not speak, but Sancia, leaning against the table, cried:
“I know she is guilty.”
Ludovic turned slowly and looked at the speaker.
“Of what?”
Sancia’s white lips shaped an answer.
“Of murder—of murder planned, of murder performed—of the murder of her husband and your brother, Andreas of Hungary.”
Since Konrad of Gottif had left, he had not heard that name. Hearing it now in this manner held him silent, the color ebbed from his face. He looked at neither of the women, but at the casket on the table.
“Have I not lived near her?” continued Sancia thickly. “Do I not know that she is a devil?”
Ludovic looked sharply up at Maria.
“You!—why do you stand there silent?” he demanded. “What do you think this means?”
“I think it means she was there—when they slew him——”
“Means!” burst out Sancia. “It means they slew him in her chamber, by her bed—it means he clung round her knees and they cut away her hair and her dress to free her—did I not see her wipe her floor with her linen vest and fold away her stained coverlet?”
“Ye come late with these tales,” said Ludovic. His face was livid, his mouth worked uncontrollably. “Is there one alive,” he asked desperately, “of those who were there that night?”
Maria answered him in her weary way. “They perished in the fires of San Eligio.”
“Yea,” said the King quickly. “She punished them——”
“She took good heed to that,” flashed Sancia. “And with the Conte d’Eboli—did he live to speak with you? I do think that when ye looked into his face he was dumb.”
It was a keen truth that seemed to show Ludovic his own folly in a swift flash; yet still he struggled with his old conviction. “Why have ye kept this from me?” he asked. He turned to Maria. “Why have ye conspired also to fool me—if this indeed be truth?”
“God knows,” she said wearily. “I have tried—I have waited—this Paduan maid has solved the riddle—the dishonor of our house comes better from her than from me,” her face lit with a cold pride, “for I also am of Anjou.”
The King looked from her to Sancia. “So you, out of hate for the Queen, bring me those,” he repeated his words, “out of hate for the Queen.”
Sancia lifted appealing eyes. Her wrath had died, leaving only shame and wretchedness. “I spoke because I was not strong enough to remain silent,” she murmured brokenly. She slipped into the chair behind her and hid her face.
“Ye loathe the Queen,” said Ludovic. “As most do—God wot she has few champions. Belike ye lie because of this hate.”
At that Sancia looked up. “I do not lie,” she whispered, “though I am very sinful—I speak the truth now.”
“Still ye hate the Queen,” repeated Ludovic sternly. “And your word is but the word of a shallow woman.”
Maria came from the window and put her hand on Sancia’s hand as it rested on the table. “It is not for ye to speak so of her,” she said with a quick color in her face. “If what she has done be to her shame—then on your soul rests that shame——”
Ludovic glanced from one to the other angrily. “So she has confided in you, my cousin?” he frowned fiercely. “When women league together, a man may never come at the truth.”
Sancia rose, hiding her face in her sleeve. “Ye will never be troubled again with me,” she said in a muffled voice. She lifted her wet eyes suddenly. “Shallow I may be and a thing not fit to disturb your thoughts, but do ye blame me that I took a King’s lies for truth?” She turned down the room. The sunlight gleamed an instant in the flowers on the gown and the pale hair, then the shadow enveloped her. She walked steadily to the door. The King, watching her, saw her pale fingers part the arras, saw it fall together as her quiet step died away.
The Princess made a movement as if she would have followed.
“Stay,” said Ludovic. He put out his hand to detain her. “Nay; ye shall speak to me,” for he saw silence written in her face. “I will know if ye work on me for your own ends——”
She interrupted him. “Do you think me that manner of woman? My ends? I have told ye my ends—a convent cell, a convent grave.”
In sad contrast to her youth were her words and her tired voice. Ludovic, bewildered, baffled, looked at her with horror in his eyes. That the soul should ever weary of the flesh was beyond his conception.
“Maria,” he said, for the first time using her name, “ye are to be my Queen. Ye shall not talk of graves.”
Her face held wondering contempt. “Do you not understand—now?”
His gaze fell to the casket.
“Ye think of Giovanna,” he said heavily.
“I think of her,” answered Maria.
Ludovic looked up again, fiercely. “How shall I deal with her?” he cried, goaded.
“As ye list,” said Maria. “As ye judge, punish, as ye believe, act. For me, my life is over. Farewell.”
All life and color had faded from his face, but he answered steadily: “I am master in Naples, and before two days are out ye shall be my wife. If ye enter a convent, I will bring you hence—yea, even from the altar steps. And as for Giovanna——”
He caught up the casket.
“As for Giovanna,” he repeated.
Maria, standing in the shaft of sunlight with unmoved eyes, was silent.
“What shall I do?” asked Ludovic thickly, frowning at her. He wished to bring her to either an accusation or a defense; to draw something from her, to some way probe her calm.
But she answered evenly, “I have no more to say.”
“Curse your saintliness!” he cried hotly. “But, after all”—he smiled bitterly—“between me—and—Giovanna—the sword decides.”
With the chest held against his side he left the dining hall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.
FLIGHT
Maria turned through the long, open window into the garden.
She looked at the trees, the roses on their trellis, the sky and the long shadows, but could not escape the sense of confinement, imprisonment, that had haunted her in the house.
Slowly she walked down the paved path. The yellow sunshine could not warm her numb flesh. She thought of Giovanna. Giovanna quiet, stooping, with her reserved eyes and expressionless mouth. She thought of Ludovic, with the casket held to his side. She thought also of his words about the convent, and his refusal to set her free.
The walk was set with lilies. Her red gown caught against them; one or two fell, broken, on the path behind her, but she did not notice.
Presently she came to the marble terrace overlooking the bay, and slowly she turned and stared at the palace.
With a cold force, she resolved that she could never enter it again. That she could not look on Giovanna’s face when her secret was dragged into the light… that she must escape.
Escape! It was all about her like walls. The peaceful trees, the quiet flowers encircled and held her. Aimlessly she wandered. The plash of a fountain and the crystal light of it, broke her distraction. She paused, holding back the thick citron.
Carlo di Durazzo sat on the marble rim of the fountain. His head was turned from her; he stared into the water where his blue habit was reflected, and the gilded fish clustered round his fingers.
Beside him sat the Dwarf, half asleep, on the long grass, with the shadow of his ungainly head thrown across his tawdry vest.
The citron bough slipped from Maria’s grasp. The confused terror and wretchedness of her thoughts found relief in words and action.
“Carlo!” she cried, and with a hot vehemence that startled herself.
At once he turned, scattering the fish like threads of gold through the shining water. At once he rose and came toward her, with a flush of expectation on his smooth face, as one who receives a long-expected summons.
Maria held out her hands.
“I cannot go back to the palace.”
Carlo took her cold fingers into his hot grasp. His indolent indifference fell from him like a discarded cloak. “Is it my chance—at last?” he said simply.
The Dwarf, awaking at the sound of voices, saw the King’s betrothed holding the arm of Carlo di Durazzo as the two slipped through the trees. Saw the red and blue garments shine between the thick leaves and disappear. He drew himself up, climbed on to the edge of the basin and laughed. He disliked the King of Hungary, who had told him that his voice was cracked and his wit stale. He saw the makings of a pretty scandal in those two hurrying through the garden, and a scandal that would touch Ludovic. Therefore he laughed and winked at the goldfish.
He amused himself by picturing their swift, cloaked flight from the half-slumbering palace through the sunlit streets to the Castel di Durazzo. The quick summoning of the Duke’s soldiers, perhaps of the discontented populace—sedition in a moment, scattered like flame, and as quick to seize hold and destroy.
The goldfish swam round and round in a busy idleness. The dwarf nodded to himself, half asleep again, and was again aroused by one stepping into the shade out of the heavy glare of the sunshine.
It was Luigi of Taranto, massive, gloomy; his red hair hanging over his red face, and his gray eyes narrowed.
“Good morrow, magnificence,” said the Dwarf pleasantly.
Luigi of Taranto leaned against the slim trunk of an acacia and folded his arms across his chest. He wore leather, much worn, with armor, and a great sword dragged in the grass beside him.
“Is the Queen abroad yet?” he questioned.
“I do not think so, magnificence.” The Dwarf stroked his chin. “Have you seen the Hungarian galley in the bay?”
The Prince nodded.
“I have seen the man who brought the letters to the King from it. Who do ye think he was, fool? Lasglo, who was here with Andreas! I spoke with him. He says Konrad of Gottif has returned, and with a woman.”
“We have enough women,” remarked the Dwarf.
Luigi of Taranto smiled sourly. “He has come to stir the King up against Naples. Hark to me, fool—if ye value your ugly skin, ye will leave Naples.”
The Dwarf caught one of the fish and held it slackly in his huge hand. “Ye would not vouch for the safety of this city of ours, magnificence?”
The other frowned.
“Even now the people fight the Hungarians in the streets. Riots and mutinies at every turn. Des Beaux his withdrawn to Baiae—we near the last struggle, fool.”
The Dwarf let go of the writhing carp and watched it swim away. So had Maria d’Anjou and her fortune slipped through the fingers of Hungary.
“Who is there to struggle?” he asked. “Ludovic is the master.”
“There is the Queen,” said Luigi of Taranto. “And the man who marries the Queen.”
The Dwarf looked at the water.
“Oh!” he said, under his breath, and he glanced at the Prince sideways. Aloud he remarked:
“And there is your splendid cousin Carlo.”
The Prince smiled.
“Fit companion for you and dancing minstrels is the splendid Carlo, and for naught else.”
Whereat the Dwarf also smiled, hugging his secret.
Luigi of Taranto moved from the tree.
“Here is a crown for some man’s winning,” he said breathlessly. “And a Kingdom to be striven for.” He checked himself, and looked down at the little deformity he towered over. “Hast been in the streets lately, fool?”
“Yea,” the Dwarf nodded.
“How seemed the people?”
“Discontented, magnificence. Hot against the Hungarians. One ran along preaching the end of the world—sedition is hot.”
“So seemed it to me,” said Luigi of Taranto thoughtfully, and he turned away with his eyes moodily on the ground.
The Dwarf took off his cap and fanned himself with it, chuckling.
“The Queen!” he mocked, “and the man who marries the Queen!” He made a grimace at the tall figure walking slowly, yet resolutely, toward the palace.
Then, meditating on the people about him, their situations, their actions, he arranged on the broad brim of the fountain little symbols of them, with a thoughtful air. For Giovanna, a dark citron leaf, regal, yet suggesting secrecy; for Maria, beside her, the petal of a lily, cold and fragrant; for Ludovic of Hungary, the gaudy striped blossom of a carnation, blood-red and gold; for Sancia, a humble daisy, pulled from the thick grass. There remained the Duke di Duras, Konrad of Gottif and Luigi of Taranto. The Dwarf felt in his pocket and brought out a little knot of blue ribbon for Carlo, and a little twist of leather cord for his cousin. To represent the fierce Hungarian, he picked up a piece of hard, dry stick and laid it by his master, the carnation. His arrangements complete, the Dwarf hunched up his knees and laughed. A steady little wind was blowing sweetly through the trees. He waited, watching to see which of his kings, queens and princes would blow away and which would linger.
For a moment, none of them stirred; but a japonica blossom, red and fresh as a drop of wet blood, fell into their midst.
“Now who is this?” questioned the Dwarf. Then he smiled hugely. “ ’Tis the woman who came from Hungary with Konrad of Gottif!”
Even as he spoke, the breeze, gathering in strength, swept away the daisy and caused the lily leaf to tremble.
“The scene is soon clear of Madonna Sancia,” commented the Dwarf.
But, with the next gust, knot of ribbon and the carnation had been swept into the fountain.
The others stood steadily. The Dwarf counted his survivors.
“Luigi, Maria, Konrad, the Queen—and the woman who came in the galley from Hungary!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.
CAROLA OF BOHEMIA
In his bedchamber the King mused sullenly, at war with circumstance. He had refused himself to those who sought admission to his presence, and, when he chose to raise his head to listen, he could hear the busy, perturbed voices of his Hungarians talking without the door.
Doubtless they wondered. Doubtless they saw, as he did, now these letters from home and the shock of Sancia’s accusation had roused him from his gayeties, that in the next few days Naples was to be lost or won.
He had put himself in a position not easy to hold with dignity. He knew they cursed him and his soldiers in Naples. He knew they mocked at home at his absence. He had roused the disdain of his mother and his betrothed—merely to pleasure Giovanna, who, if what they said was true, he should have delivered over to death months ago.
Yet he did not believe it was true. Last night, with eyes ardent, but not lover-like, she had entreated him to a grave conference to-day. She had spoken with a man’s weight and clearness of the state of popular feeling; of the ill-paid mercenaries, the mutinying guilds, her own empty coffers. She had urged upon him (putting aside his lighter talk with an absorbed frown) the reasons for his swift marriage and return to Hungary. Thinking of her as she was then, thinking of her as she had come to him in the old farmhouse at Aversa, he could not believe this thing.
The midday sun was ruddy over the brown panelings of the room, with their gilded lines, over the heavy polished furniture, and the scarlet and gold of the great bed.
On the steps of it, spread with fine, rich carpets, sat Ludovic, his young face pale and lined. The sight of his brother’s unfinished letter and broken chain had been like sudden announcement of that brother’s death, as if until now he had never realized that Andreas lay silent forever in San Gonnaro, bitter memories of their common boyhood arose to wound him: the generous worship of Andreas toward his elder, their great hunts together—at home in Hungary.
Ludovic bowed his head. He thought of Konrad of Gottif’s hot arrival in Buda, of his account of Andreas’s death and fierce denunciation of Giovanna, his mother’s tearless face as she had said to him, “Go ye and slay this woman.”
But it was so easy to forget—the present was so strong. He had forgotten; forgotten those vows in Buda, forgotten his own dead, forgotten those waiting at home.
Yet even now, with awakened remorse and grief in his heart, he was convinced that his judgment had been mistaken in pronouncing Giovanna innocent—neither Sancia’s passion, Maria’s calm nor the lock of hair had convinced him of that.
He tortured himself with doubts into a misery of hesitation. He could form no resolutions out of his tangled emotions. His strongest feeling grew to be a great dread and horror of meeting the Queen.
As the hour in which he had promised to meet her drew nearer, that fear of her grew. He could not look into her face until he had decided—he could not speak to her until he knew.
He wished Maria had goaded him. He would be the instrument, not the judge. His blood was cold toward Giovanna. Let some one fire it, and he might act, but in this spirit of sick wonder he could do nothing.
He rose from the steps of his bed and paced to and fro. He pictured Giovanna waiting for him. He pictured Maria watching for him to act, until his thoughts grew past bearing.
Then Sancia occurred to him—whether she lied or not, she knew something. He thought he could manage Sancia, and came at last to this resolve—to find her and question her, to nerve himself with her invective against the Queen.
When he left his room, he found that it was later in the day than he had imagined. He reflected that several hours had passed since Sancia had spoken to him, and that he had dallied with the situation longer than he had intended.
The antechambers were full of his people, idly amusing themselves.
He reprimanded them curtly for their careless lounging, and left a hush behind him as he passed them. They knew he was not always the mere gay knight Naples had known—he could be terrible.
In the library of the old King Roberto, hardly used in the Queen’s reign, Ludovic had first met Sancia alone.
She was dreaming over a book in French, “La Cité des Dames,” and he had come to look for a volume on falconry Luigi of Taranto had told him of.
Since then they had often met there, and about this hour. She might be there to-day.
With this thought in his mind, Ludovic ascended to the first floor of the tower and entered the library.
It was a large, low room, with narrow windows of painted glass behind a trellis of ironwork. The ceiling was of cypress work, painted in silver with the arms of Anjou; the walls of carved oak, against which were arranged the books in long, gilded shelves. A great silver lamp hung from the ceiling, and thirty branching candlesticks, decorated with knobs of lapis-lazuli, were fixed to the wall. In the time of the old King, these had been alight day and night, but in the court of Giovanna there was no one to save the lamps of learning from extinction.
Ludovic closed the door behind him.
Sancia was there, seated under the window in the massive reader’s chair, carved with flowers and monsters, and cushioned in dull purple velvet. She looked up. Her white dress and her shining hair were tempered to dull gold by the light pouring through the thick, colored glass behind her. The book she held in her hand slid to the ground.
She did not speak, and Ludovic was also silent. The still atmosphere of the place, the silence redolent of peace and wisdom was over them.
Then Sancia said brokenly:
“I did not think you would come to-day, or I should not be here.”
Ludovic picked up her book. It was an “Horæ,” and the open pages glittered with saints. He put it back on the shelves, then turned and looked at her.
“Sancia,” he said gravely, in a very low voice, “you must tell me what you know—about the Queen.”
She set her small hands on the smooth heads of the snarling dragons of her chair and clenched them there, tightly.
“I have told enough,” she answered faintly. “God forgive me.”
The silence fell again, and with it that sense of perfume of peace, the accompaniment of beautiful books, that, even when dumb, breathe of calm and wisdom. Then she said, in a voice that hardly stirred the air:
“I am going home to Padua.”
Ludovic stood leaning against the shelves, dyed gold from head to foot by the sun shining through the regal quarterings on the window.
“Did ye, then, lie to me?” he asked breathlessly.
She leaned forward in her chair and stared at him. “Nay, I did not lie.”
With the lifting of her eyes to his, something of the restraint between them vanished.
“Sancia,” he said slowly, and came toward her. “Forgive me, sweet—my sweet.”
She rose, and put out her hand as a barrier between them.
“I am going home,” was all her answer.
He stood the length of her arm away from her.
“So easily?” he questioned. “And without answering me?”
Her hand dropped, and hung against the lilies on her dress.
“I will say no word against the Queen,” she said.
“Why did you speak this morning?” he asked.
She was silent a little while, and Ludovic watched the sand running through an hour-glass that stood on the window-sill.
“I think you know,” she said at last. “All my life I shall repent it—and”—sudden passion touched her cold speech like a flame springing from ashes—“that ever I looked tenderly on your face, my liege!”
He flushed to the eyes, but answered her proudly:
“Whether ye hate me or no—answer me about the Queen.”
She looked at him with intense expression in her eyes. It seemed to him pity, and it wounded him sorely—the color burned more hotly in his swarthy face.
“Nay,” he said, setting his teeth. “I shall think ye spoke slander this morning.”
“The Queen!” answered Sancia wildly. “Why do ye think of her, when Maria——”
“What of Maria?” he demanded.
“I had not meant to tell you,” breathed Sancia. “But she—is gone!”
“Gone?”
Sancia shrank away from his fierce glance.
“She could not face it—the Dwarf saw them go.”
When Ludovic spoke again his soft voice was rough. “Who went with her?”
“Carlo di Durazzo,” whispered Sancia.
“Has that fool put this slight on me?” cried Ludovic. “Truly you have made me your sport, you in Naples!”
A bitter silence reigned. Sancia looked at the King’s haggard face with wide, yearning eyes. The golden light, changing, lay over the Spanish leather on the floor, the rich covers of the book, and sparkled in the silver lamp.
“Could not face it?” said Ludovic suddenly. “What could she not face?”
“Your dealing with Giovanna,” answered Sancia.
So Maria had felt as he had felt, dreaded what he had dreaded…
“What do ye think I shall do with the Queen?” he demanded hoarsely.
Sancia shuddered.
“I—I—do not know—do not come to me for help.”
There was the sound of her gown as she moved toward the door, the accusing look of her lovely face in the beautiful gloom; then the latch had lifted and fallen again—he was alone.
She had evaded him as they all evaded him. He alone must decide——
Decide! He thought of the mockery Maria’s flight would throw on him, and his first resolve was to run Carlo through, then that fell to chaos, and his one thought was Giovanna—Giovanna…
He flung himself in the chair Sancia had sat in, putting off facing the shame and scandal of his betrothed’s flight—blown abroad by now, perhaps, over the whole palace—and then—the Queen, waiting for him…
He thrust these things away from him. His sick head fell forward in his hands. He saw, through a mist of pain, the titles of the books on the even shelves, the undisturbed dust lying over them; the lilies of Anjou stamped on wood and leather. The quiet was broken by the opening of the heavy door, and the flash of a page’s scarlet dress.
The King looked up, frowning.
The boy went on his knee.
“The Lord Konrad of Gottif is here, my liege,” he said, “and importunate to speak with you.”
The King stared. He had thought Konrad in Hungary. Then he remembered the galley from home.
“He arrived last night?”
“Yes, my liege.”
“Bring him here,” said Ludovic somberly.
The page slipped through the darkness of the open door. The King sat frowning, staring on the ground.
He heard Konrad enter and the latch slip back into place. He knew the other was waiting, and for a space he kept him so, and would not look up.
Then he raised his eyes, and said curtly:
“Had ye my commands to return here?”
Konrad of Gottif flung back the green brocaded mantle that hung over his armor, and the mail rung pleasantly.
“God wot, King Ludovic, I had no commands of ye,” he said easily. “Your people sent me, and for them I stand here now.”
He came farther into the room. He was completely armed, save for his head, and that he had but just removed his helmet was seen by his heavy hair pressed into the line of the basnet.
“Ye ride well armed,” said the King curtly, aware of the difference in his own attire—the silk houppeland to the ground, fastened round the waist with gold, the velvet shoes, and the fine chains about his neck.
“I find the streets of Naples dangerous,” answered Konrad. His black eyes dwelt on the King steadily. “There are those at home, my liege, think them too dangerous for you.”
“There are those at home whom I will hang for meddling varlets,” flashed Ludovic. “Have ye made yourself the spokesman of such, Konrad of Gottif?” He rose and pushed back his chair. Above his high ermine collar his face showed pale and set in angry lines.
“I am the spokesman of your people and your mother,” said Konrad. “For those—and for King Andreas, lying in his bloody grave a bowshot from where ye dally with his vengeance.”
“I have avenged my brother,” answered the King quickly.
“No!” cried Konrad. “The Queen still lives!”
The two men looked at each other.
“I know not why I take this from ye,” said Ludovic. “Little do I care what they say of me at home—yet let not these impertinences reach too high, lest I return—over-suddenly.”
Konrad of Gottif folded his arms across his breast.
“Still ye do not answer me, Lord of Hungary. I say the woman, Giovanna of Naples, still lives.”
“And I say—ye are not her judge,” replied Ludovic hotly.
“Yet I stand for justice—is it for you to palter with the truth? From autumn till the spring have ye stayed here in idleness. I do think Christendom will smile to see such as ye beguiled by such as she.”
The King gave him a ghastly look.
“Come,” he said hoarsely. “Put it more plainly—ye think I have been fooled, cajoled—ye think this little cousin of mine—” he paused—“murdered my brother?” he finished.
“I believe it,” was the answer. “And so they think in Hungary.”
The King caught hold of the bookcase.
“Mother of God, if it should be so!”
Konrad of Gottif spoke quietly:
“It is so.”
Ludovic stood silent, looking down; his brow gathered into lines of pain, his right hand grasping the embossed back of “Les Trois Vertu,” his left hanging by his side, and the dusty gold light touching the silk and fur of his robe, the jewels round his throat and on his fingers.
Konrad of Gottif moved nearer. His breath began to come quickly.
“Even now,” he said in an intense tone, “as I rode through Naples, I saw them fortifying the Castel di Duras—they told me Maria d’Anjou was within, and that her cousin would hold her against the world. Shall Hungary take that insult? Shall she, also, laugh at you? Shall that fool Carlo prove himself the better man? Oh, Hungary, Hungary, up and act! Shake Naples about their heads—bring this woman to punishment—show them we breed no puppet kings—no hesitating men!”
The King looked up with a flushed face.
“What do ye goad me to?” he asked thickly.
“The man’s part,” breathed Konrad. “Take your sword and go to her—in the name of God, of Andreas, and of Hungary!”
Ludovic sat down in the massive chair.
“ ’Tis a woman,” he muttered.
“The fouler was the deed—would ye soften murder because a woman’s hand wrought it?”
Ludovic raised tortured eyes.
“ ’Tis a woman I have kissed,” he said. “And she—looks to me—and—oh, that is all of it,” he finished passionately. “ ’Tis a woman I have kissed!”
In the silence was the clink of Konrad’s armor as he moved slightly, then his voice:
“Still ye will deal judgment on her none the less because of—kisses.”
“Do ye know she is guilty?” demanded Ludovic.
“You know it,” was the answer.
It was true. In his soul he knew it now. Thinking on all the evidence against her—of Maria, of Sancia, he saw her guilt and his folly. Yet, though the thought of Andreas’s foul death shook him with fury, he could not associate Giovanna with her crime—remembering her, he strove to silence the accusation in his heart.
“I am waiting,” said Konrad of Gottif.
“For what?” asked Ludovic.
“For your decision, my liege.”
Ludovic sat up in his chair. He trembled exceedingly.
“If she is guilty——”
“I say she is—guilty of her husband’s death, guilty of Raymond de Cabane’s death, guilty of lies innumerable——”
“Then, if she cannot answer me when I accuse her of these things, I will shake her from her throne as I placed her on it——”
“And nothing more?”
Ludovic rose.
“If ye mean what I think ye mean,” he said hoarsely.
“I mean ye vowed in Buda to slay this woman——”
“Then I did not know myself—or her—if she was twice damned with blood, I could not do it——”
“Ye shall,” said Konrad of Gottif through set teeth, “or deliver her to some more dishonorable death—a death like his—over the balcony of Aversa!”
The King faced him fiercely.
“I say I cannot do it. Do you know how we parted—last night, only last night? And to-day I am to go to her—and murder her?”
“So—is this foreign woman more to ye than your blood—your own land?”
Ludovic steadied himself against the wall. “They have all been in league to deceive me,” he said brokenly. “This morning I heard—for the first time—Maria was too cold, too silent—but let it pass——”
Konrad of Gottif’s voice filled the pause with quiet weight:
“Remember what ye vowed in Buda!”
Ludovic clenched his hand against the bookcase.
“Peace of what I vowed in Buda!” he cried. “Have I not said—I am not convinced?”
Konrad flung up his head. “Will you go to her—will you accuse her to her face? And if she braves it out, ye must see her guilt then—come, will you do this?”
“And what then—what if I do?” breathed the King. “What if I see her, speak to her, and know this horror true—man, ye goad me past bearing. What then, I say?”
“What then? Ye ask me what then? Ye who are his brother, and wear a sword—ye could face her and know her guilty, and wonder what to do?” He struck his hand down on the great weapon he wore as he spoke, and his brows scowled heavily. “By God’s Heaven, if the King hesitates, there is one from Hungary will not! I, even I, will strike down at sight the cold wanton who slew my young lord Andreas!”
With the last words, his voice fell to softness. Ludovic looked up at him and the color rose into his haggard face.