Читать книгу The Sword Decides! - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 5

Table of Contents

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, and not this Italian girl the Queen. He cursed King Roberto for his schemes of atonement; he cursed this dishonouring 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 equally so said, 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 this Italian witch?

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 with hanging head went moodily back to the other part of the tent.

Back to her old place crept Hippolyta, the peasant girl; she was laughing, and began 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 also finely dressed."

He longed to ask her something of Giovanna and what the people said of her; but shame tied his tongue.

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 sombrely.

Presently, as the music paused, 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-grey eyes.

"Do not go to Naples," she said under her breath.

He started.

"Why do you say that?" he asked fearfully.

"I do not know." She gazed at him earnestly. "I hear it in the music—it is terrible I 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; 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 timidly.

"This Raymond de Cabane," she began, "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. "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!"

"What do you know of the?" 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."

"Will you?" she whispered.

"Yes," answered the Prince vehemently. "I shall be King when Roberto 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," he said 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 she made towards the entry.

Andreas roused himself from his absorption. "Good-night, Hippolyta."

She turned and saw him standing lonely in his splendour, the light flickering over his brooding face, and she uttered a quick sound.

"Prince!" She drew from her bosom a little cross of ash wood, 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 group of Italians lay along the grass; their bright dresses curiously dim in 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! O Birenice!

I loved you once, I'd love you twice

Would you return, O 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, O Birenice!

I loved you once, I'd love you twice

Would you return, O 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 fast."

Andreas of Hungary glanced down the line of his countrymen, 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."