Читать книгу The Sword Decides! - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 7

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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 the golden fleur-de-lis, powdered over the dark purple wall-hangings, to glitter dully, and throwing a great shadow round the canopied bed that occupied the centre 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 a rope, and on his breast a large silver crucifix. A doctor and a monk supported him upon the tasselled 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, the heavy perfume, the silence, brought a sense of awe and bewilderment.

There were three other people in the room; one a huge man who with folded arms and composed face stood erect and motionless by the head of the bed. 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, her face hidden in the bed-clothes.

She wore a gown of primrose-coloured 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 towards the dying man. Andreas felt the catch of his breath 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.

"My brother, Charles Martel!" he cried.

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 to 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 leant 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?"

"Nay, 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 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 centre 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 the 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 sworn...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 bed-side: 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 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 bed-side. 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 colour 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 dying burst forth now in the presence of the 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, carne 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 colour, erect in the centre of the chamber. 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, her shadow flung 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 like thunder in the corridors without.

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 coloured 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."

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.

And now the young man 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 burning 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 the pale weariness of her face did not change.

"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!"