Читать книгу The Royal Pawn of Venice - Mrs. Lawrence Turnbull - Страница 13

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Never was a more brilliant pageant imagined to do honor to the symbolic rite of the Wedding of the Adriatic than the triumphant Signoria had called forth to speed the young Queen to her distant island.

Never did father more solemnly promise his protection to the child from whom he was parting, than did Cristoforo Moro, the Serenissimo, pledge the faith and support of Venetia to the Daughter of the Republic, as with slow majesty, to the rhythm of an ancient wedding canticle, the Bucentoro, escorted by all the galleys of the arsenal of Venice, the mighty galléasses of her patrician merchants and the gondolas of her nobles, moved forward, beyond the Lido, where the Ambassador Filippo Podacatharo waited with the fleet of Cyprus—most sumptuously outfitted—to receive the bride of Janus.

And never sailed fairer maiden, more fearlessly, into the far sea of her unknown future, flooded with dreams, as with sunshine. Was it only a glamour, tissued of myth and of legend, that lay on the face of the waters, dazzling her eyes?

The rejoicings of the people speeded her; the bells of all the campanili of Venice came echoing to the shores of the Lido; a tumult of voices—the voices of the popolazzo, shrill and jubilant, called down the blessings of all the saints upon her—of Santa Caterina—her own name-saint, fair patron of Betrothals; of charming San Luigi—the blessed guardian of love; of San Nicolò, Saint of the Sea; of Messer San Marco and San Tadoro; and shrilly, above them all, rose the babel of women's voices, invoking the Madonna, "Star of the Sea, Sancta Maria!"

But most of all, deep within her girlish soul, love speeded her—love, grown strong through these years of waiting on the image she had fashioned for herself as the portrait of her lord—painted with all the glowing lights of a true and gracious heart that knew no shadows.

As the galleys passed beyond the Lido into the wider water and the Daughter of Venice stood in her royal wedding-robes beside the Doge, under the golden canopy of the Bucentoro, a rosy light flashing from the circlet of rubies which, like the espousal ring of the Serenissimo, had been consecrated with solemn mass and benediction by the Patriarch of Venice—did the words of the ancient rite occur to some among that throng of nobles, perchance, as an omen?

"Sea, we wed thee, in token of our true and perpetual dominion over thee."

But now, with a memory of the gracious legend of San Francisco del Deserto—that where the birds should light the favor of Heaven would follow, as they passed the convent on their outward way, a multitude of birds set free from their golden cages burst upon the air with a flood of song, inspired by their sudden liberty, then came throbbing and overwrought, to seek shelter among the silken sails of the Cyprian galleys—mere specks of iridescence, flashing like jewels in a chance ray of sunlight.

The people saw and shouted, "Benedizion della Madonna! Viva Messer San Marco! Viva la Regina!"

When the chimes of the campanili had dimmed to a faint cadence, like some unuttered rhythm of thought, as the distance grew between the outsailing fleet and all that pageantry of Venice, two faces stood forth like visions from the bewildering pictures of the morning and dwelt with Caterina forever.

The pleading face of the Mother deep with tenderness, yet shadowed by an unspoken dread of the unknown that lay beyond:

And the gaze of the saintly Patriarch, Lorenzo Giustiniani, full of strength and inspiration.

It was early summer, when the mere living was a joy; and there was much time for gracious dreaming as the galleys of Cyprus floated down the length of the Adriatic and past the fair coasts of the Mediterranean, before the coming of that wonderful day of days when the bridal fleet was nearing the shores of the Isola Fortunata which had been for long the Mecca of the young Queen's girlish visions.

It lay before her radiant under the Cyprian sky—palaces and ramparts stretching in long lines a-down the coast, against the background of mountain ranges, densely wooded and crowned with the sparkling snows of Troödos; there were gardens rainbow-dyed in bloom, cool with the spray of fountains and the shadows of waving palms; and between the cities were wonderful, fertile plains flowing down to the foam of the sea—a vision of tangled blossoms wreathing with beauty the shattered splendor of temples of outworn divinities, or rippling with tasselled corn and vines and all manner of fruit-bloom, in luxuriant promise of present good.

What could there be but happiness in such a home! Already the spell of the fabled Cyprian isle was upon her—could she ever forget this first vision of her land of dreams—fairer than even her hope had limned it!

As she stood with beating heart, waiting with impatience that she scarce could bear for the first touch of her new, strange shore, for the first glimpse of her lover's face—all her pulses tuned to this harmonious rhythm of sky and sea and romance, it was told her that a messenger waited to speak with her.

"Let him approach," she said, turning half-unwilling to watch a knight who advanced, unattended, bearing a missive with the pendant royal seal of Cyprus that she knew so well. He knelt before her, vizor down, yet with the customary homage; then, rising—

"I am sent by his Majesty the King," he said, "to bear his greeting to his most gracious Sovereign Lady, or ever her foot shall touch the shore which blossoms for her alone."

She drew a little pace away from him, fearing to utter her thought until she had seen his face.

"Doth it become one so to speak the message of his King, with visor down, Sir Knight, to the bride whom his Majesty would honor?" she answered half-playfully—yet a little bashful in her first speech in the Grecian tongue which she had striven to make her own.

"Our Sovereign Lady doth answer right royally," he said, as he bowed his acquiescence in her command, passing his helmet to one of the knights who came thronging behind him, and stood confronting her—very courteous and deferent in his bearing, though the breeze was tossing his waving hair about his throat with a hint of comradery, and there was a world of love and mastery in his charming face.

Her own—very fair and true and radiant with girlish beauty—flushed, then paled again, with the quickened beating of her heart, and her eyes, eloquent in confession, were fixed on his, which deepened to a glow of pride and pleasure; yet he was loth to make an end of her charming confusion.

"Hath this missive from his Majesty no meaning for his bride of Venice?" he asked, coming nearer.

"Janus!" she cried—all her soul shining in her eyes; and then, in her own soft, Italian tongue:

"How should my heart not know thee!"