The Project Gutenberg eBook of The sword decides
Title: The sword decides
A chronicle of a queen in the Dark Ages, founded on the story of Giovanna of Naples
Author: Marjorie Bowen
Release date: January 13, 2026 [eBook #77689]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The McClure Company, 1908
Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer
THE SWORD DECIDES
A CHRONICLE OF A QUEEN IN
THE DARK AGES
FOUNDED ON THE STORY OF
GIOVANNA OF NAPLES
BY
MARJORIE BOWEN
NEW YORK
THE McCLURE COMPANY
MCMVIII
[COPYRIGHT]
Copyright, 1908, by The McClure Company
Published, March, 1908
CONTENTS
IX. The Convent of Santo-Pietro-a-Majello
X. The Night of September the Thirteenth
XIV. The Executions in the Palazzo San Eligio
XXVII. Konrad of Gottif’s Wife
XXVIII. The Queen’s Second Husband
XXIX. The Battle in the Streets
XXX. The Chamber of the Scarlet Tapestry
THE SWORD DECIDES
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.