Читать книгу The Sword Decides! - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 6

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The midday sun burnt 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 near his end.

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 haughtily round on the surging people filling the streets, all making their way to the Castle del 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 honour!" 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 armour, and fluttering red plumes above his closed visor, drew all eyes by the splendour of his appointments and the magnificent pomp of his carriage.

He, reining in his struggling charger, 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-grey 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.

Konrad of Gottif shouted above the press of men and horses:

"The Castel del Nuovo! Show us the way, dogs!" and he leant from his rearing steed and struck the man nearest him with his gauntlet.

A muffled, angry cry arose, the crowd 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, blinding; the armour 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 leant 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 armour 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, that 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 del 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 del Nuovo. The crowd murmured wonder.

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 ye 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' Ovo, 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 leapt 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, sombre, 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, as if he were faint, leant against the wall within the door.

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-grey 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 colour 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 centre 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 colour; 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 were magnificence and splendour. She wore a gown of wine-coloured 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 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 towards 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 save the priests and Giovanna."

Andreas gazed at the door.

"Giovanna is within?" he said.

"Yes; she was always the King's favourite. 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 jewelled 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 leant her head against the mullions.

"Such things are common Last week they burnt 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 were dead."

She said this so simply and quietly, so much as if it were 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 Raymond de Cabane."

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!"

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.