CHAPTER FOUR.
GIOVANNA
It was a small room, carefully shrouded from the daylight by a velvet curtain. Before the window an alabaster lamp cast a faint glow, making golden fleur-de-lis that were powdered over the dark purple wall hangings to glitter dully, and throwing a great shadow round the canopied bed that occupied the center of the chamber.
Andreas turned his eyes there and crossed himself. The old King lay stiff and straight on the heavy embroidered coverlet. He wore the garb of a Franciscan, round his waist was rope, and on his breast a large silver crucifix. A doctor and a monk supported him up on the tasseled pillows, so that his head was raised and he could gaze round the room.
The atmosphere was close, stifling, with incense and lack of air. To Andreas the strange glimmering light, and heavy perfume, the silence, brought a sense of awe and bewilderment.
There were three other people in the room. One, a huge man who stood erect and motionless by the head of the bed with folded arms and composed face. Andreas knew him. There was no mistaking the coarse, dark, blunt features, the fierce bloodshot eyes, the powerful figure, the Oriental’s immobility.
This was Raymond de Cabane, of whom San Severino had spoken, and Hippolyta, and Maria d’Anjou. Andreas advanced to the foot of the bed with a sense of confusion upon him, as if the incense had drugged him, and then he noticed a girl seated on a stool at Conte Raymond’s feet, leaning forward with her face hidden in the bedclothes.
She wore a gown of primrose-colored velvet, and where it fell away at the arms and throat it showed a vest of brilliant turquoise. Her hair, very long and curly and of a soft auburn tint, hung over her shoulders and the coverlet. In her lap lay an open missal of gorgeous tints. Standing behind her was a man of noble appearance, very plainly attired. His self-contained face bore some likeness to the girl, and his close hair was of the same auburn hue.
Maria d’Anjou crept to the opposite side of the bed and sank on her knees. Andreas clasped one of the wooden angels that uplifted the canopy and stared at the dying man.
Complete silence, only the distant tolling of the bells reaching this chamber like a muffled echo.
Then the King opened his faded blue eyes.
“Giovanna,” he whispered.
The girl in the primrose velvet raised her head and turned her eyes toward the dying man. Andreas had felt his breath catch at the sound of the name, and he gazed at her eagerly, but he could only see a pure delicate profile. She appeared to be unaware that he had entered.
“My lord?” she said softly.
“Did you finish the prayers?” murmured the King.
“I have read from cover to cover,” answered Giovanna, in a faint melodious voice. “Shall I read them again, my dear lord?”
He shook his head feebly.
“I wrote them, did I not?” he asked.
“For your brother, the Bishop of Toulouse,” said Giovanna.
The King muttered something under his breath:
“Everything is very strange… there is a lamp burning in a great darkness… and lilies, little glimmering lilies of Anjou… Giovanna, I have been a good King, I have ruled well and wisely,” he put out his hand and clutched her arm. “Where is your husband? … there is a wrong to be righted there… Anjou, Anjou, I die in penitence, Jesu!—Jesu!”
His head sank to one side and his eyes closed.
“You have been a saintly King,” said Giovanna.
He opened his eyes again. He could hardly breathe for the weight of the crucifix on his breast. “I founded churches,” he muttered, “and hospitals, dear Lord, and convents, and I forgave my enemies, take me to Heaven, O God”—he beat his breast feebly—“I have not sinned, lo, I die in humility—” He suddenly paused and struggled up. “Who is that at the end of my bed?” he said, and his voice was like that of a healthy man, “in scarlet and a leopard skin?”
All eyes were turned to Andreas.
“Charles Martel!” cried the King. The crucifix slipped from his breast on to the coverlet. He clutched at his monk’s robe with trembling hands as if it stifled him. “My brother, Charles Martel!”
Maria sprang up and put her arms about the old man, but Giovanna gazed at her husband.
“The grandson of Charles Martel, my good lord,” said Andreas, uplifting his noble head.
“Andreas of Hungary!” cried Giovanna.
The old King lay helpless in Maria’s arms.
“I am a usurper,” he mumbled fearfully. “It was Charles’s kingdom, it belonged to him and his sons; it was sin—Jesu forgive it——”
Andreas heard him.
“I am my father’s heir,” he said in his splendid young voice. “And by God his grace King of this realm. God remember to you, Roberto of Anjou, that you at last made reparation.” And he bent his head and crossed himself.
Roberto of Anjou writhed under the Franciscan garb. “He is right—he is right,” he murmured. “He is the King—holy Virgin, forgive, Jesu forgive me, I am a miserable sinner—a usurper——”
Giovanna rose and leaned across the bed.
“Have a heed what you say,” she whispered. “Think of me, am I not your heir—am I not the Queen to be?”
“As his wife,” gasped the King. “Have I not… seen to that?”
“In my own right,” flashed Giovanna. “My lord, you wrong me——”
The King caught her hand.
“Andreas,” he called faintly, “Andreas——”
The young man came slowly to the bed beside Giovanna.
“Call the court, Raymond,” whispered the King, “for I am surely near the end.”
The Conte Raymond left the chamber, and the doctor raised up the dying man still higher and forced a draught down his throat, while the monk sprinkled him with holy water. Andreas turned to the woman beside him. He saw a pale, soft face and a pair of brilliant violet eyes gazing at him with pride and aversion.
“This late reparation,” muttered the King, “this just reparation—but I have righted the wrong—God will remember that to me.… Andreas, give me your hand——”
The Prince obeyed in silence, and the King’s thin fingers clasped his hand with that of Giovanna.
“Husband and wife,” the King said. “King and Queen—Anjou, Anjou… love one another—so is the rift healed… the elder branch… Charles was the elder branch…”
His faint voice died away. He sank back into the pillows.
Andreas felt Giovanna’s hand in his, cold, unresponsive, lifeless. The touch of her was strange and curious. He shuddered to feel her limp fingers in his while her violet eyes were the eyes of an enemy. He turned his head from her and gazed at the King in his miserable garb of penitence, muttering remorse for that usurpation of thirty-three years ago, crying out to God and his Saints to forgive.
The door was opened softly, a splendid silent crowd entered, as many as the chamber would hold, and Raymond de Cabane came back to his place.
The oppressive heat, the heavy incense, the silence and the gloomy light gave the scene an air of terror and unreality. The gorgeous dresses of the courtiers appeared grotesque, and the lilies glittered unnaturally on the dark walls.
The vice-chancellor of the Kingdom came to the front of the crowd and advanced into the center of the room. The lamplight fell over his embroidered robe, and the great seals of the parchment he carried shook with the trembling of his hands.
He bowed to the dying King, who was muttering prayers, and commenced to read the will of Roberto of Anjou. His voice sounded hard and abrupt through the hush:
“Roberto of Anjou, by God his grace, King of Naples, Sicily, Jerusalem, Provence, Alba, Grati, Giordano, and Forcalquier, declares as his successors to all his Kingdoms, his illustrious nephew, Andreas of Hungary, and his wife, Giovanna, Duchess of Calabria.”
The vice-chancellor paused and the old King muttered in satisfaction: “So is the wrong righted… I have done well.”
But Giovanna withdrew her hand from that of Andreas of Hungary.
“And moreover,” continued the passionless voice, “he names Maria d’Anjou, youngest sister of the Duchess of Calabria, his heir in the county of Calabria, Grati, and Giordano, to be held in direct fief from the King and Queen.
“He also wills for private reasons that the above-mentioned Maria shall contract marriage with the illustrious Prince Ludovic, called the Triumphant, reigning King of Hungary. These things are for the glory of God and the peace of the Kingdom.”
In the silence that fell, the King’s voice was heard faintly from the great bed.
“Have I not made amends? Andreas of Hungary, have I not made amends?”
The young man turned slowly: “God take you to himself, Roberto of Anjou, for you have made reparation, even if it come late.”
“Giovanna,” murmured the King, “obey and love your lord as you have swore… peace… for Naples… Maria you… shall bind the factions closer… now, let them take the oath to Andreas and Giovanna…”
One after another the magnificent nobles came to the bedside. The Bishop of Cavaillon, vice-chancellor; Philip de Sanguineto, Seneschal of Provence; Godfrey of Marsan; the Count Squillace, admiral of the Kingdom; Charles d’Artois, the Count of Arie; Carlo di Durazzo, Duke de Duras, the barons and officers of the kingdoms knelt and took the oaths of homage and fealty.
Andreas and Giovanna stood motionless by the bed of the dying King, he grave and troubled, she with lowered lids, very pale.
It was the turn of Raymond de Cabane. Slowly he came from his place to the bedside. Andreas watched him. San Severino’s words rang in his ears. He instinctively moved a step back. The whole place became horrible, loathsome. He conceived a wild desire to break away into the daylight, to escape from this atmosphere of gloom and death.
Raymond de Cabane passed him where he stood, obviously and with contempt, and sank on one knee before Giovanna.
The color rushed into the Prince’s face. He stared, slow to catch the full meaning of the action. And Raymond de Cabane, glancing round, said in a loud voice:
“To you alone, Madonna, I pay my homage.”
There was a moment of terror, of expectancy. Maria rose from the other side of the bed. “The King!” she cried. “Shall he die in anguish because of your insolence?” And her fierce blue eyes cast scorn on Raymond.
But Giovanna was bending over the bed.
“The King is dead,” she said in a shaking voice.
The Franciscan bent his head.
“The King is dead,” he assented.
Giovanna turned and looked at Raymond de Cabane. “Now,” she whispered, as if she gave a signal.
In a moment the silence was broken into a riot of sound. All the passions repressed by the presence of the dying man burst forth now that he was dead.
“Long live Giovanna, Queen of Naples!” shouted the Conte Raymond, and the cry was echoed round the room: “Long live the Queen of Naples!”
Maria d’Anjou, flushed and gorgeous, came out from the dark shadows of the bed.
“My lords,” she said, her sweet voice very cold, “do you forget already the will of the King. You must also say long live Andreas of Hungary!”
There was no response, nor did they take any heed of her. Raymond de Cabane tore roughly aside the velvet curtain that shrouded the window, and a broad shaft of sunlight fell across the chamber and over the dead old man on the great bed. Andreas fell back against the wall and put his hand over his eyes as if the glare blinded him, but Giovanna stood revealed brilliant in vivid color, erect in the center of the chamber. Conte Raymond de Cabane took her by the hand and led her on to the balcony. An immense crowd filled the public square below, a sea of upturned faces gazed at the palace.
“People of Naples, the King is dead!” shouted Raymond. “Long live the Queen!”
He pointed as he spoke to the slender figure of Giovanna, who stood with her shadow behind her on the white wall of the palace, and her auburn hair fluttering back from her face.
A thousand throats shouted:
“Giovanna, Queen of Naples!”
She stared down on the dazzling town and the shouting people, then she shrank away into the window.
“Take me from this chamber, Conte,” she said.
She laid her long fair hand on his satin sleeve and went with him from the room. The courtiers rushed after, and the sound of their feet was heard in the corridors without like thunder.
Andreas of Hungary and Maria were left alone with the dead man and the monk.
“Alas! Alas!”
Maria d’Anjou looked at the Prince with wide, frightened eyes. He stood quite still. It had all happened so suddenly. In the shaft of sunlight the Italians had swept past him like a train of colored fire. He had had but a glimpse of Giovanna’s white bosom and auburn hair among the press before she had gone, clinging to the Conte Raymond’s arm. He stared stupidly before him.
“What are you going to do?” asked Maria. “You see what they mean to do——”
He started. His glance fell on the dead King beside him.
“By God’s Heaven, old man,” he muttered bitterly, “your atonement was too late.”
“He is dead,” said Maria. “But we are living and we have to deal with—Giovanna.”
The name roused him.
“Where is she gone—my wife?” he looked vaguely round.
“Oh, command yourself,” said Maria, seeing his bewildered look. “You stand alone… Think how you must act——”
She turned away abruptly and entered the next room. Andreas followed her.
“Princess,” he implored, “speak to me—for I know not what to do.”
She looked over her shoulder at him as he closed the door on the dead King.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said brokenly. “Do something—do something.” She dropped into her old place by the window and wrung her hands in her lap.
The King’s slow passions were roused to fury. He began to grasp, to realize in its full purport what had occurred. He paced about fiercely.
“I will appeal to the Pope at Avignon,” he said. “I will write to my brother.”
“Do something, do anything,” entreated Maria d’Anjou in a tone of such sorrow and despair that he stayed his wrath to look at her.
“How does it touch you, Madonna?” he asked.
“It means,” she answered, “everything to me—the Conte Raymond——”
He caught at the name savagely. “Ah, the Conte Raymond—I’ll have the Conte Raymond strangled.” He looked at her, the reflection of the golden lilies burned in his waving fair hair. She returned his gaze with an expression of anguish, of hopelessness.
“Don’t you understand?” she said with an effort. She clenched her hands in the velvet folds of her gown. “He is serving for me——”
“I know,” said Andreas. “I heard.”
She bent her head.
“For me and my possessions… Giovanna has promised me to him. He can serve her—he is powerful—the day she is crowned Queen, alone,” her eyes lifted as she stressed the word—“he takes his wretched reward——”
“She shall never be crowned Queen save as my wife,” vowed Andreas.
“God save me from the Conte Raymond,” said Maria earnestly. “I say that prayer every night, even though my heart mocks—fool, it must be!” She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. Andreas gazed at her in horror.
“He has served the Queen well,” she said hurriedly. “Therefore some say he loves her—it is a lie—latterly I have had some hope in your coming, but I saw how powerless you would be, and then—I grew afraid for you—as I have been afraid so long for myself, and I warned you.”
“My wife,” cried Andreas. “I must see my wife.” He beat his brow with his clenched fist and strode up and down the room. “I will appeal to the Pope—to Ludovic—but first I will see my wife——”
Maria watched the scarlet and leopard skin in and out of the shadow as he paced to and fro, and her face was pale and weary.
“They will not let me go to Hungary—they laugh at the King’s will,” she said.
“Giovanna—where is Giovanna?” cried Andreas, unheeding. “By God’s Heaven—does she think I am to be insulted so?”
He strode to the door and wrenched it open.
“She will not see you,” cried Maria.
“She shall,” he replied. “She shall.”
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE CONTE RAYMOND
He made his way through the thronging courtiers, thrust aside the servants, and struck himself upon her chamber door.
One of her women opened to him, and without a word he passed her.
“Where is the Queen?” he demanded.
From the inner room came her low voice: “Who is it, Sancia?”
“The King,” he answered, and entered the chamber where she sat. She was alone, seated by the foot of her bed, with sunshine strong over her primrose velvet gown. She had an ivory mirror on her lap and a comb in her hand. On a table beside her was an open casket of pearls and a heap of white roses.
She looked up when he entered and slightly flushed. “Why, this is mannerly,” she said.
Her quiet, her words, the fact that this was her bedchamber, abashed him for a moment. He stood awkwardly by the door.
“What do you want with me?” asked Giovanna, laying down the comb. “If you had waited I would have seen you presently—now, as you see, I am dressing my hair.”
He stared at her sullenly.
“If my welcome and your behavior had been of another kind,” he said, “you had been spared this——”
Her violet eyes gave him a sidelong glance.
“You should have looked for your welcome, Lord Andreas, to those who invited you.”
She picked up the white roses and began twisting them together; his blood fired at her tone; he came heavily into the room.
“I am your husband,” he said. “Before God and man your husband, and King of this realm of Naples.” He stood by the post of her bed and his eyes challenged hers. “You defied the King’s will,” he continued, “you insulted me before your minions—I have had a cur’s welcome to Naples—by God, there must be an end of it!”
She would not look at him; her head was bent over the roses she played with; he could only see the white lines of her neck and the waves of her undressed auburn hair, that shone with a thousand threads of gold.
“You were a fool to come,” she said quietly.
“I came for my heritage,” he answered stormily.
“The saints know, for no love of you or yours.”
She laughed a little, still without looking up.
“No man could say we were wedded for love,” she said. “Certainly I did not think you came for that—” The way she spoke was to him a profanation of a sacred and unknown thing.
“I have not come to talk of love,” he said roughly.
She turned now and looked him up and down with mocking violet eyes.
“No?” she said, in a very scornful manner. “What have you come to speak of?”
Her face dimpled into a contemptuous smile. Her beauty and her self-possession were as goads to Andreas. He raged to have a man to deal with.
“You have treated me badly,” he said confusedly, and bit the ends of his thick yellow hair.
She was fixing two of the white roses on to the bosom of her blue vest.
“What do you want, my cousin?” she asked carelessly, and she glanced at him again with a contained amusement—as if she thought him a fool who might be humored into submission.
“My kingdom,” he answered heavily.
The violet eyes darkened. “Ah, yes,” said Giovanna, “you wedded me for that—I was to be your footstool to the throne of Naples—I understand——”
“And I,” interrupted Andreas; “I read San Severino’s last letter to you.”
She gave a little start, but her clear gaze did not falter.
“Well,” she answered. “Well, then you know, cousin, that I shall hold what I have—that I am Queen here, with no man’s hand over me.”
“I know you are an usurper—the heiress of the younger branch——”
Giovanna smiled. Her fair white hands fingered the pearls in the case beside her.
“You must say that to my council, cousin, and to the people of Naples.”
The air of indifferent disdain brought the color to his cheeks. “I shall not go there for justice,” he cried, with blazing eyes. “Nor will I tamely bear the wrong—I shall appeal even to the Pope at Avignon and to Ludovic my brother.”
Giovanna gave him a quick look; the name of Ludovic the Triumphant carried terror.
“You will do that?” she said.
At this, the first sign of flinching she had shown, his awe of her fled; he came up to the table standing between her and the sunlight.
“I am Charles Martel’s grandson,” he said, “and the son of Carobert of Hungary—and my house, by God’s Heaven, is not one to be ruled by women.”
She sat very still, but her narrowed eyes gave him hate for hate, scorn for scorn.
“Why, you are but a foolish woman,” said Andreas, with a heaving breast, “and of what use are women to rule? I am King of Naples, by God His Grace, and if you or your minions do dispute it—I will bring the arms of Ludovic like a thunderbolt into your midst—yea, I will make Naples the vassal of Hungary, and cool your pride within a cloister.”
Giovanna, very pale, laughed bitterly.
“You are gallant, cousin.” She was breathing hard, and the slender fingers clutched tightly at the strings of pearls. “You are very chivalrous—this is a knightly manner in which to speak—to—me.”
“To you!” repeated Andreas, frowning. “Have I not reason to speak so to you, who have given me this welcome to my kingdom and my home—you—my wife?”
“Leave that word alone,” answered Giovanna, speaking very quietly. “Between you—and me—it has no meaning, no, nor ever will have; sweet Virgin! I will never be a wife to you—I will not put my head under your yoke—I do not need you beside me—I can live alone, rule alone—husband! you will never be that to me, cousin.”
Red in the face, he passionately answered her: “You might go down the wind for me…” He trembled in his utterance. “By God’s Heaven, I do not want you… you are not desirable to me—I want no wife,” he struck his hand fiercely against the post of the bed, “you need not fear that I shall woo you. I come for my Kingdom.”
Her pride was strong. White-lipped she answered him: “Oh, I am fair enough to break your heart an’ I cared to try——”
He strode away from her, tossing the hair out of his eyes.
“I would not lift my hand to touch you, so indifferent you are to me—but, if you thwart me, I will bring you to your knees, proud witch.”
Giovanna’s violet eyes were blazing like stars.
“Leave my chamber,” she said hoarsely. “I am Queen—yea, if you had a thousand armies at your back, I am Queen.”
Andreas swung round to look at her.
“Do you defy me?” he asked.
She rose. She had infinitely more control than he, and she exercised it now, though it cost her an effort.
“You—and all you can do,” she said quietly. “I also have my friends.”
“Yea, such as Raymond de Cabane!” he cried. “To whom you pay a shameful price, and San Severino.”
“So you have been speaking to Maria,” said Giovanna. “She, of course, will champion you—she will be the Conte Raymond’s wife.”
“She is my brother’s betrothed, by the King’s will, and I will not see her marry another man.”
“Let King Ludovic come for her,” returned Giovanna. “And you, cousin, leave me.”
His blue-gray eyes were dark with wrath; the leopard’s skin rose and fell with his angry breathing.
“My messengers shall ride to-day to Avignon. I’ll rouse the world. I’ll see Naples ashes and this palace with not one stone upon the other before I forego my rights——”
Giovanna broke into sudden passion. “Leave my presence—do you wish me to have you put without my doors?”
Andreas of Hungary laughed magnificently, in the confidence of his pride and strength. “You have no men would dare to touch me,” he said. “But as I have no more to say, I will go—you will not see me here again.”
He went from her chamber, and Giovanna sank into the chair, trembling. “Sancia!” she called. “Sancia!”
The waiting-woman entered with a soft step. She was a golden-haired Italian, with a lovely arch face.
“You may finish my hair now,” said Giovanna faintly. “I must see Conte Raymond.”
“Madonna, he is waiting without.”
Sancia was arranging the white roses in the coils of the Queen’s auburn hair.
“Sweetheart,” asked Giovanna, suddenly, “what do you think of Andreas?” She picked up the mirror as she spoke and gazed into it.
“Madonna, I think he is splendid.”
“Taller than the Conte, is he not?” said Giovanna musingly. “He has beautiful hands—I should like to see him out of his armor.”
“Why doth he wear a leopard’s skin?” asked Sancia, curiously. “It is a strange fashion.”
“Yes,” assented the Queen, moodily. “He is a fine knight, but he does not know much about women. Sancia, he might have won me despite them all—to be his friend, at least—if he had been wise enough to be foolish and a little flattering.” She smiled, and put the mirror down. “But now he has made of me a very bitter enemy—tell the Conte I am coming, Sancia.”
A little after, with her face as pale as the roses in her hair, she entered the antechamber. Raymond de Cabane was there, standing before the wide-open fireplace, his arms crossed on his breast, his face, save for the restless glitter of his black eyes, calm and passionless.
Giovanna went slowly to the table in the center of the room and seated herself there.
“I have seen Andreas,” she said briefly. “If we bring things to an open rupture, he will appeal to Avignon—what shall we do?”
“It is no matter,” answered Raymond, in a deep, unmoved voice. “We have more friends than he at Avignon. I think he is a fool, too.”
The Queen laid her slender hands along the table and gazed at them. “I think so,” she said quietly, and turned her heavy wedding ring about on her finger.
“And I have won the first move,” remarked Raymond de Cabane. “You have been proclaimed throughout Naples, despite the will.”
“Yes,” answered Giovanna.
“I come nearer my reward,” said the Conte, and his eyes flashed.
The Queen looked at him curiously. “You are very steady in your desire,” she answered. “Conte—are you so fond of her?”
“My feelings are no part of the bargain, Madonna—you are to give her to me, and Alba, and Giordano.”
Giovanna shrugged her shoulders.
“Conte, I was merely curious. One hears so much of love—in the poets—sometimes one wonders—” She looked at him sideways—“if one has ever met it or ever will—or ever will!”
“Maybe you will find it in your own heart one day, Madonna,” said Raymond de Cabane.
Queen Giovanna looked at him steadily, rather mournfully.
“Why, it would be as impossible as the stars stooping to the meadows, for me to love any man I have ever seen,” she answered. “I am in love with power, and glory, and this splendid crown of Naples, Conte—but Maria! I risk something to give her to you—she is promised to this Ludovic of Hungary.”
Raymond de Cabane lifted his head a little. “I think he is not eager for the alliance,” he said quietly. “In any case, what does it matter? She is mine!”
She watched him curiously. “Maria desires it,” she replied, “and Ludovic might fight.”
“Well,” he said stubbornly, “I could fight Ludovic of Hungary for her—or any man, king or commoner.” Fire flashed for a moment into his black eyes, and the dusky color came into his swarthy cheek. “Stand you but my friend, Madonna,” he added, “as you have sworn.” He breathed heavily.
“When you have fulfilled your promise,” she put in quickly, “I am not yet safely Queen. The day that I am crowned in Santa Chiara, you may draw up your marriage contract.”
He swore it, with a great passion underlying his quiet: “You shall be crowned.”
“Despite of Andreas?” she asked him.
“Despite of everything!”
At that the Queen suddenly laughed. “You are curious,” she said; “I do not think you love her.”
He gave her no pleasant glance. “Love her?” he echoed. “Hath she not Alba and Giordano?”
“Yet,” smiled Giovanna, “you made this bargain with me before the King’s will was known—and always has the bourne of your desires and the height of your rewards been Maria, Maria——”
His heavy eyes flashed under the light mockery of her tone.
“I always knew that she would be an heiress,” he answered.
Giovanna leaned back in her chair; the white rose above her brow shone against the carved wood; her white hands lay idly among the folds of her vivid gown, over her bosom the azure vest rose and fell evenly and her full lids were lowered till the bronze lashes touched her cheek.
“Maria hates you,” she said.
Raymond de Cabane stood very still. “I know,” he answered abruptly.
“It makes no difference?” asked Giovanna.
He came a step into the room. “Madonna! have we come to talk of these things? I serve for my reward—like every man; let it end at that.”
She suddenly rose and pushed back her chair; her violet eyes swept over him.
“Very well,” she said; “it is a question of policy, is it not? And you will manage the council, my cousin Carlo—the people, this Hungarian faction——”
“And your husband,” finished the Conte Raymond.
“My husband,” she repeated, steadily. “And you will send an ambassador to Avignon to win the Pope?”
“All this,” said Raymond, “for the hand of Maria d’Anjou.”
Queen Giovanna’s look was one of mingled contempt and half-admiring wonder; she crossed slowly to her chamber door.
“There is no more, Conte; I have trust in you.”
Raymond glanced at her abruptly.
“You shall be crowned within a month, Madonna.”
With an air of resolution and that veiled fierceness that was his usual bearing, he left the room.
Queen Giovanna stood with her hand on the door-handle, staring after him with disdainful violet eyes.
CHAPTER SIX.
MARIA
“There is a moral in everything,” said the dwarf, “and the moral of a garden is, ‘don’t build a house.’ ” And he blinked up at the blue sky, tempered by the thousand blossoms of an acacia tree.
It was mid August, and the gardens of the Castel del Nuovo were flowering from end to end; everywhere roses, lilies, gladiolas, myrtle, citron, chestnuts, the dark line of cedars and the gray-green of poplars.
There, under a trellis covered with vines and white and purple roses, was a marble seat, set against the low wall that looked over the town and Bay of Naples; a marble pavement was underfoot, beautifully checked with the waving, delicate shadows of the grapes and roses and strong flecks of pure sunlight. The dwarf, dressed in a becoming purple, sat with crossed legs and ate great red plums with relish. Carlo di Durazzo, Duke di Duras, lounged on the marble seat and gazed from the shade into the sunlight. He was clothed in satin of a golden color and his shoes were the hue of rubies. He looked at Naples, the white houses with the sloping pink and blue roofs, with the palms between, then the bay shimmering from purple in the front where the boats were drawn along the beach, to opal by the distant line of Sorrento, and he said, without turning his head:
“With your leave, messer, if there is a moral in everything, what is the moral of the marriage of the Queen?”
“That the man who marries without seeing his wife will die without seeing his funeral,” answered the dwarf.
The Duke turned his pretty face.
“Certainly, Andreas is a fool,” he assented. “But he is troublesome, perhaps dangerous, and I propound to you, messer, what will the Queen do with him?”
A little breeze wafted some of the acacia blossoms on to the dwarf’s lap; he played with them as he answered:
“Can the Queen do anything with nothing?” he asked. “Surely he is but—as one might express it—a cipher—even the figure nought.” And he sucked a plum with great gravity.
“Nevertheless,” said the Duke, “he has his envoys at Avignon, and there is always Hungary.”
The dwarf’s little red eyes twinkled.
“The illustrious and mighty Conte Raymond has also his envoys at Avignon,” he answered. “And I have a presentiment that His Holiness will decide for the cause that is uppermost.”
“You are a gentleman of exceeding wisdom,” said the Duke. “But I wish you would not eat so many plums; they are very bad for you.”
The dwarf selected another.
“They are really very nice,” he remarked, “will not your magnificence try one? But as I was saying, the Pope——”
“The Pope,” said Duras, “would certainly call this gluttony, which is one of the seven deadly sins.”
“Well,” answered the dwarf, “when I am sick, I will practice patience, which is one of the seven deadly virtues, and so I shall be equally balanced between Hell and the Angels—as I was saying, the Pope is not likely to decide for Andreas, our illustrious and unfortunate King——”
The Duke laid an elegant hand on the warm marble wall and watched how the sun struck fire out of the emerald ring he wore.
“I am sorry for Andreas,” he remarked. “My cousin Giovanna humiliates him very cruelly.”
The dwarf nodded.
“Silvestro, the King’s page, told me that the other day when the Queen revoked his order to free a Hungarian prisoner and shut the council doors in his face when he came to protest, he went to his room and sobbed in a helpless agony of rage, cried like a child, Silvestro said.”
“It is remarkably foolish to take things so heavily,” said Duras. “But, after all, he is only a barbarian.”
The dwarf lifted his hunched shoulders. “But a barbarian has feelings, magnificence. They say that he and the Queen have not spoken together since the day of his arrival. I saw them meet yesterday; he was going hunting——”
“He always is—the poor youth has nothing else to do,” interrupted the Duke.
“Well, he was going hunting, he was waiting in the hall, and there was Konrad of Gottif with him and a couple of dogs; they were talking together when of a sudden in came the Queen with a great company of ladies. Andreas grew red in the face and made as if he would avoid them, but they were upon him before he could leave the room. The Queen stopped and her eyes just traveled over him, and ‘Going hunting, my lord?’ she said, and the ladies behind her stared at him as if he had been a boor from the fields.
“ ‘Yes,’ he answered, and he colored more fiercely up to the roots of his hair.
“The Queen laughed, making it plain she despised him for an awkward boy.
“ ‘An’ you are not more successful in the hunt than you are in politics—or love, my lord,’ she said, ‘we need not weep the prey you chase,’ and she laughed again, throwing her arm around the Countess Terliggi’s neck, who said: ‘But herons are more easily caught than thrones or hearts, my Queen.’ And at this all the ladies laughed and swept out of the room. The King stood silent until they had gone (though he showed in his face how he had been struck), then he burst out to his friend:
“ ‘Konrad, is this bearable?’
“ ‘Go back to Hungary,’ was the answer. And then the King flung from the room wildly, saying: ‘God, no! I bide my time!’ ”
The Duke stretched his limbs.
“It would be curious,” he remarked, “if the Pope did recognize his claims, for, considering Naples is his fief, if he was to send a bull of coronation the nobles would desert my fair cousin—the positions would be reversed.”
“And he would take a terrible revenge, therefore hedge, magnificence, until the answer comes from Avignon.”
The Duke yawned. “Saints’ name, messer, I would rather see you eat more plums than see you suck the stones,” he said.
“Unfortunately, as there are no more plums, I have no choice,” sighed the dwarf. “Does your magnificence object to my cracking the stones and abstracting the kernels?”
“Immensely,” answered the Duke. “And you are quite sufficiently like a monkey.”
“It is generous of you to say so,” grinned the dwarf. “I wish I could find your magnificence sufficiently like a man.”
“What is your idea of a man?” asked the Duke, pleasantly.
“Raymond de Cabane,” said the dwarf.
“Maria! the son of a slave and a washerwoman!”
The dwarf rose and put his plum stones in his pocket. “I will take my leave.” He bowed his squat body and moved away into the sunlight; the Duke yawned and looked across the bay.
The sheer dazzle of the sunlight was as a veil over everything. On the marble pavement swayed the faint blue shadows of the roses and the vine. The acacia tree whispered continually in the breeze blowing from Capri, and tall lilies growing without tapped at the trellis work. Against the burnished turquoise sky the cedars showed black and the poplars a shuddering silver-gray. Two flashing white doves flew across the arbor.
Putting the flowers aside, came Maria d’Anjou in a long mauve gown. She carried a zither of tortoise-shell and ivory, and her bright chestnut hair lay heavy in the nape of her slender neck.
She seated herself beside the Duke, who gazed at her tenderly.
“They are going hunting, Carlo,” she said. “Will you not go with them? It looks as if you stayed away to flout the King as the others do.”
Duras smiled.
“You are sorry for Andreas, cousin?”
“For all of us,” she said, and drew a sharp breath. “And I think the King is served shamefully. What has he had but mortification and insult? Yea, and from the servants.”
“I wonder,” pondered the Duke, smiling at her; “I wonder if it had been different if he had wooed the Queen——”
“She is cold as ice,” said Maria.
“Yet I think it had been different. Where do they hunt to-day?”
“Toward Capua—Melito, I think.”
“Sweet cousin, I am too lazy to go. I would sit here and have you sing.”
Her blue eyes became pleading.
“Carlo, he is so wretched; he has no one but his Hungarians to go with. Conte Raymond lords it over him. If you would go, gentle cousin, it would give me pleasure.”
“Why, then it will be a pleasure to me,” he answered, rising. “If I do not go, at least I will offer him my best falcon before them all. Is that enough?”
She turned her beautiful head to look at him.
“I am very grateful, sweet cousin,” she said, and gave him her hand.
He kissed it and turned reluctantly away from her. She watched his gold clothes glitter into the distance, then, resting her elbows on the marble walls, looked over Naples and sighed.
Presently she took up the zither and tuned it. Music and the garden were the best company she knew. All her peace and happiness had come to her when she sat alone in the sunlight under the trees with the flowers to right and left.
With an absorbed, dreaming face, she began to sing. Her low, sweet voice rose exquisitely through the stillness:
Orpheus sang to a silver lute
Amid Arcadian trees,
When all the world had fallen mute
To listen at his knees.The winds that round Mount Ida blow
At his commands were still,
The wingèd gods circled low
Round that dim Thracian Hill.Then ever blue the tender sky
And ever green the field,
Mars laid his scarlet armor by
And rested on his shield.
Her head bent over the zither till a loose strand of hair swept the strings.
Rose-wreathed, the smiling hours sped,
Rose-wreathed the evening died.
And never a blossom drooped its head
Save when young Orpheus sighed—Thus I to gray clouds complain
In this age of mean renown
Watching the straight April rain
Silver o’er Pisa’s narrow town.
Maria d’Anjou sighed, her voice was trembling on the next notes:
Too soon has Orpheus fallen dumb,
Too soon the gods are dead,
When shall another singer come
To say what Orpheus said?
The zither dropped from her hands; her soft mournful eyes gazed vacantly across the distant town. She was wrapped in her own dreaming thoughts. She sighed, looked round, and in an instant was back in reality, the color in her cheeks.
Holding back the vines that impeded him stood the Conte Raymond looking at her.
“Good-morrow,” she said gravely; she had not that day seen him before.
He came with his slow, heavy step toward the marble seat. As always, he was composed and lowering in manner.
“I have been hoping to find you, Madonna, alone.”
Hate of him showed in quivering nostrils and lowered lids as she turned her head away.
“What is your wish with me?” she asked wearily.
His deep-set eyes flashed to her averted face. “The Queen has told ye, perchance”—his swarthy hand fingered the roses on the balustrade—“that she will be crowned in mid-September?”
She would not look round; her foot tapped the marble impatiently.
“Scorn me as you like, Maria,” he said quietly; “by then our marriage contract will be signed—I shall not wait for my reward.”
Her shoulders heaved a little.
“Conte, your presence is unendurable to me—and your talk wild.” She lifted her face now, and showed it pale with anger. “I will wed with the King of Hungary or with no man.”
“Why,” he scowled. “We waste words. Do you think ye will be freer to choose your husband than your sister was?”
She rose so suddenly that he fell back a pace.
“Ye are a bold man,” she said, with her slim hand to her side. “But I, as well as Giovanna, am of Anjou—and ye have forgot, perchance, the King?”
His wrath rose to meet hers, but he had himself well in hand. It showed only in the pale swarthiness of his cheek.
“I am a fool to speak to ye,” he said somberly. “Ye cannot thwart my designs, and the King——”
“Well?” she said, smiling splendidly; “the King—my betrothed’s brother—what if the Pope decided in his favor? Then there would be neither victory nor reward for you, Conte.”
An extraordinary look darkened his eyes.
“Do ye think that would stop me?” he asked; then checked himself as if he had disclosed too much. “But I mistake to talk of politics,” he said, and smiled unpleasantly. “Amuse yourself with your songs and flowers, Maria, September will come apace.” He raised his velvet cap and was gone, heavily, through the vines.
“When Andreas is King indeed,” said Maria under her breath, “when Ludovic of Hungary comes for me, that man”—she bit her lip—“that man shall answer for this talk to me!”
Yet even while she spoke she was afraid.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE QUEEN MOVES
Sancia di Renato, the Queen’s Paduan waiting-woman, held up a corner of the crimson canopy between her face and the sun. Her white dress was glowing in the rosy reflection as she laughed a whisper to one of the squires standing below her on the steps.
Before them were the clean, sanded lists, prepared for the jousts, with the snowy tents at either end flaunting emblazonments to the blue, the tiers of seats filled with a glittering throng of noble spectators, and, beyond, the red rope and the line of halberdiers that checked the surging crowd.
The Queen under her canopy, on her raised throne embroidered thickly with the Angevin lilies, made a gracious picture of slim fairness. As was her manner always, she bent forward slightly, stooping it seemed, yet gracefully and in a fashion well suited to her girlish slenderness. The stiff folds of her brocaded skirts swept from out the warm shadow that enveloped her and shone on the sunlit steps of her throne. There on the confines of her robe sat the dwarf in blatant scarlet. Couched there, too, was a long white hound wearing a gold collar.
Beside Giovanna her sister leaned on the arm of her chair, gorgeous, opulent in gold and green, but indifferent eyes beneath the chestnut brows and a tragic mouth behind the fluttering fan of peacock feathers.
To right and left were the ladies, whispering and laughing together, the pages, the Queen’s gentlemen, then the nobles in their velvet seats. These pageants had not been common in the old King’s time, and Giovanna’s violet eyes were eagerly noticing the signs of pleasure and approval in the gay crowd about her. She wanted their good-will—yea, down to the merest scullion breathing garlic there beyond the rope, she wanted them on her side in the coming struggle with her husband.
When she was crowned alone in Santa Chiara, she must have these people on her side. When Andreas of Hungary, despite justice and the King’s will, was thus flagrantly disregarded, he must evoke no sympathy. Naples must look to her—the Queen.
And so she gave them their jousts and tourneys, though Raymond de Cabane complained of the lavish expense, and she found it wearisome to sit for hours with the noise in her ears, the glare in her eyes, and the crown pressing unmercifully on her aching head.
She looked down curiously at Sancia’s smiling face. It was evident the fair Paduan did not find it wearisome.
“A ducat on the Prince of Taranto,” said Sancia. She swung a velvet purse tasseled in steel, and her blue eyes sparkled with merriment.
“Why many lay their money on him,” smiled the squire, “but Carlo di Durazzo goes a-begging——”
Sancia dropped the canopy, shutting out the squire. The Queen stirred in her heavy dress and rested her pointed chin in her hand. Her heart swelled to think how Andreas played into her hands by always absenting himself and his friends from these sports. He was forever hunting. The Italians did not love hunters.
A movement came through the crowd, a shout, a sudden flash of jewels from the stand as each turned his head in one direction. The halberdiers put back the people and with a blast of trumpets the petticoated heralds entered the lists.
They rode slowly round, then took up their stations at either end opposite the respective tents of their masters. One was in bronze and azure for Luigi of Taranto, the other in violet and noir for Carlo of Duras.
Now the knights themselves were coming. White necks were strained to catch the first glimpse of them, and the Queen’s stand shimmered with gauze and tissue coifs, bright locks and silk veils. First entered the Prince of Taranto on a white horse whose bronze and azure satin trappings left trails in the sand as they swept either side of him. Over his damescened Milan armor the Prince wore an ermine surtout and a great silk scarf of his colors. From the twisted wreath of blue and brown on his helm floated the graceful folds of the lambrequin, and above rose his emblem of a swan with a silver circlet round its neck. On his left arm was a huge painted shield that blazed with fifteen quarterings; his right supported the spear in its socket.
Cleopatra Perlucchi, Contessa di Montalto, led his horse. Her orange gown and gold twisted yellow hair blazed like one sheen in the sunlight. On her brow was a wreath of dark ivy leaves.
To the cheers of the crowd and the murmured applause of the stands she led him round the lists, while the tossing of the noble horse’s head caused her little hand to be pulled up and down on the studded reins. As they passed the Queen, Luigi of Taranto lowered his lance and the Contessa swept an obeisance, at which the charger shook his head free, and the people laughed.
The Prince reined in the impatient animal. Cleopatra di Perlucchi, smiling, but a little flushed, took the bridle again, and the two passed to their place in front of the bronze and azure herald.
The trumpets rose again, the shouting, far more lusty and far louder, proclaimed the next comer—a general favorite.
The ladies clapped their soft hands. Maria d’Anjou leaned a little forward, with the peacock fan shadowing her face, as Carlo of Duras entered the lists.
His armor was gilt from head to foot; his surtout was noir, the bluebells on white, his lambrequin violet, his crest, a red rose transfixed with an arrow sparkled in jewels on his helm. Leading his black horse was Guilia di Terliggi, the Conte Raymond’s sister. Her bold, dark-eyed beauty was clothed in vivid scarlet; in the waves of her somber hair glittered the gems of a chaplet.
At a quick pace they passed round. The breeze sweeping across from Pausillpo and scented with the orange groves of Sorrento blew back Guilia di Terliggi’s gown, showing the line of her figure, and ruffled the tassels on the chest of the great war horse. As they paused before the throne, Maria saw Carlo raise his visor and look up at her with adoring, ardent eyes. She smiled faintly and they passed on.
Now Raymond de Cabane, unarmed, in black velvet and wearing the Queen’s color, was galloping about arranging the order of the jousts, and fresh and less famous competitors were entering the lists. San Severino, in white and blue, his horse led by the Contessa da Morcane, Guilia di Terliggi’s sister; Bertrand d’Artois, a young noble from Provence; Lello d’Aquila, the Captain of the Florentine mercenaries; the Conte di Terliggi; and Bertrand des Beaux, grand seneschal of the Kingdom of Naples.
Then followed unknown knights who tilted without crests or arms, and refused to disclose their identity until they had tried their fate. The lists were now full; a mass of sparkling color and movement.
“Oh, the dust and the heat,” murmured Giovanna, but she dare not appear disinterested. Her white velvet gown stirred a little with her impatient movement, then she was still again.
Pages in the livery of the Queen ran forward and put up the wood and silk barriers down the center of the lists; the ladies who had led on the knights came up to their places by the Queen, escorted by the squires.
“Now—God wot,” said Cleopatra di Perlucchi, “my arm is near broken——”
“Would mine were—in such a manner!” cried Sancia. “I would give much to lead a knight round the lists.”
“Why—it is well enough,” said Guilia di Terliggi with sparkling eyes.
The Queen turned her pure-tinted, clear-cut face toward the speaker.
“When ’tis my cousin Carlo’s horse you lead?” she asked. She smiled, not pleasantly. “He should wear your favors, not my sister’s, at his breast.”
There was a flutter among the ladies. Guilia di Terliggi laughed magnificently.
“It begins,” said Giovanna. She leaned back in her chair and played with a rose she took from her bosom.
Cleopatra di Perlucchi whispered to her friend. “When she is on such ill terms with her own lord, she does well to remark on others!”
As Luigi of Taranto and Carlo of Durazzo now advanced, the others fell back and there was a hush.
Then the fierce thunder of galloping hoofs as each rode either side the barrier, the crash of meeting and breaking spears, and it was over.
The Prince of Taranto had splintered his rival’s weapon at the hand guard; he rode back to the acclaims of the crowd.
Then two more rode up, then again, and so through the sunny afternoon it was repeated with intervals for encounters on foot between the squires and the wrestling matches between the citizens.
Luigi of Taranto, having overthrown all his opponents, was the victor of the jousts, and there were many smiles and cheers from those who had put their money on his prowess, while the followers of the more popular Duke of Duras groaned and even hissed at their defeated champion.
It had come to the last bout; the sun was gilding the house tops and the cool of evening had begun to replace the hot ardors of the day.
A miniature tower built of wood and hung with velvet was placed in the center of the lists; a silk banner bearing a fanciful device waved above it, and it was garrisoned by ten of the Queen’s ladies.
Ten young gentlemen, unarmed and bareheaded, made an attempt to storm the castle, and the ladies defended themselves with showers of scented water, flowers, and sweetmeats, and little harmless gilded arrows that rose like an accompaniment to their laughter.
In the midst of this mimic warfare there ran round a rumor of an unknown knight having sent a challenge to Luigi of Taranto to tilt with him for the honor of the day. The Prince accepted, ’twas said, and presently Raymond de Cabane announced that ’twas so, and that this would be the last event of the jousts.
The Conte da Morcane had wrested the banner from the hands of the Contessa di Montalto, and to the triumphant sound of lutes, the victors wheeled the castle out of the lists, while pages threw the ammunition of sweets and scents among the crowd.
Raymond de Cabane came up to the Queen.
“Is it nearly over?” she asked in a whisper.
“Yes—your cousin Luigi will be the victor—a pity he is not popular.”
“But the people are pleased?” Her beautiful eyes were anxious.
“Yes. Andreas mistakes greatly to absent himself—you cannot be too grateful, Madonna.”
“He will not come near me,” she whispered, “since I shut the council down on him, and that my head alone is on the coinage irks him, so the boy plays his own fortunes false.”
Once more the trumpets rose, and the spectators looked with some curiosity at the unknown knight. He was a man of great stature in plain armor, riding a bright brown horse. He rode round the lists, saluted the Queen, and wheeled into his place.
Luigi of Taranto closed his visor and put his lance in rest, both crouched on the saddle bow, there was a breathless pause, the rush of galloping hoofs, and the shock of meeting spears. The stranger sat firm, but Luigi of Taranto had shaken in his seat. Shouts rose for the unknown knight. The two backed their horses into place and came at each other again. This time his weapon shivered in the Prince’s hand, and the other’s onslaught bore him backward off his horse. He clattered to the ground, scattering the sand; his squire dashed forward to seize the rearing charger, and a thunder of applause broke forth for the man who had overthrown the champion.
The Queen rose and came to the edge of the canopy. The last sunlight like rosy pearl fell over her sumptuous dress, her fine gold crown, and exquisite face. The ladies about her also moved; there was a stir of purples, reds, and greens as they flashed in and out of the crimson canopy.
Sancia handed the Queen a fine gold chain set with emeralds, the reward for the victor, who was being led by his page to the steps of the Queen’s throne.
Giovanna stepped down. Her violet shoes gleamed softly on the Eastern carpet, and her heavy train, dragging after her, sparkled wonderfully.
The Knight dismounted. All eyes were turned to this, the charming finish of the jousts. The victor came slowly up the steps, but, instead of dropping on one knee before the blazing Queen, he flung up his visor and looked at her.
Giovanna was staring into the fair, sullen face of Andreas of Hungary.
As he was recognized, as his name passed from lip to lip, wonder swept the spectators. Then they cheered him; it was a knightly exploit, such as was beloved by Naples.
But the Queen stood cold and rigid with the chain hanging in her hand. As she heard them shout for him, she went white.
“You do ill,” she said, “to come thus secretly.”
His level brows frowned.
“God wot, I should not have been welcome under my own name,” he answered.
Without another word she gave him the chain, and even before he moved she turned away. Maria was by her side in an instant, catching her arm.
“Giovanna!—you must not let him depart in such fashion—the people—do you wish them to see this breach?”
The Queen whispered back in fury. “He shall not force me with his boy’s tricks—hark! how they cheer!”
Andreas, unhelmed, his heavy fair hair waving over his armor, rose from the lists. As Giovanna watched him her eyes grew cruel, for he was breaking her chain, link from link, and flinging it ostentatiously among the shouting crowd.
“Santa Maria!” murmured Cleopatra di Montalto, and she glanced at the Queen.
“Let us away,” said Giovanna wildly. “Ladies, let us go home.”
She caught Guilia di Terliggi’s arm and hurried her down the steps.
Her soldiers, her gentlemen and pages surrounded her. Her white palfrey was brought and Luigi of Taranto, freed from his armor, came to hold her stirrup; but she took no heed of any, only to herself she said:
“This boy—and I!—this boy!”
So in the absorbed silence of furious hate she swept through the streets of Naples. The shouts of the returning crowd brought her no pleasure; had they not also cheered Andreas of Hungary? As she came into the hall of the palace she met Carlo di Durazzo, and she waved her attendants back.
“Where is he—my husband?”
The Duke, standing with his arms akimbo and his legs well apart to show off his elegant figure, smiled.
“He intends to give a feast to-night, my cousin.”
Her rings flashed into points of light at the tighter clasping of her hands, but she remembered those behind her. She beckoned to the Conte Raymond. The others, taking their dismissal, were scattered about the great hall, watching curiously from a distance. Only Maria stood near, swinging her peacock fan against the lily-bespattered tapestry on the wall.
“You see,” said the Queen to Raymond quickly. “He defies me——”
“He must not feast his Hungarians here, Madonna; there will be bloodshed.”
“His hopes of Avignon must be strong,” murmured Giovanna, “or he would not dare——”
“My hopes are also strong,” answered Raymond de Cabane sternly.
There was a little silence between them. The Conte looked covertly at his promised reward; Maria d’Anjou, sad and beautiful, wistfully waving her fan; and Giovanna thought passionately of the day when she would rule Naples alone—alone.
Then, suddenly through the crowd came Andreas himself, resplendent in blue and purple, hanging on to the arm of Henryk of Belgrade.
The Queen gave him a sidelong, wicked look, and laid her fine fingers on the Conte Raymond’s wrist.
“My lord,” she said softly.
Andreas paused and looked full at her with insolent eyes.
“I give no feast to-night,” she said steadily, “and when the Queen does not—no others do——”
Andreas flushed hotly.
“What is this?” he demanded hoarsely. “Do ye seek to rule me?”
“Ye give no feast here, Lord Andreas,” she returned. “The Conte Raymond has my orders, and ye will find none within the palace to serve you.”
“Now, by God’s Heaven!” he breathed, “am I to endure this malice?”
She put her hand to the square line of her velvet bodice.
“Ye are too generous with the public purse,” she said. “Why, your living has cost me somewhat. I do not feast seditious men such as follow thee.”
Andreas stood utterly silent. He looked at the man whose wrist she held, and was minded to stab him where he stood, but the dignity that tempered his uncouthness came to his aid.
“Well, Henryk,” he said, and his eyes were flaming, “we must even dine at taverns until I get my answer from Avignon.”
He turned on his heel, saw Maria, swept her an obeisance, then, throwing his arm round Henryk of Belgrade, went splendidly from the hall.