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"My lord, you look upon me with a terrible countenance that makes
me
tremble. But on my knees I entreat you, have mercy on me if I have
done
wrong, for God is my witness that I did not call you to this
kingdom
with any criminal intention: I have always desired, and still
desire,
your supremacy in all the sincerity of my soul. Some
treacherous
counsellors, I am certain, have contrived to draw down your
hatred upon
me. If it is true, as you say, that I went with an armed force to
Aquila
I was compelled by Queen Joan, and I could not do otherwise; but as
soon
as I heard of your arrival at Fermo I took my troops away again. I
hope
for the love of Christ I may obtain your mercy and pardon, by reason
of
my former services and constant loyalty. But as I see you are now
angry
with me, I say no more waiting for your fury to pass over. Once
again,
my lord, have pity upon us, since we are in the hands of your
Majesty."
The king turned away his head, and retired slowly, confiding
the
prisoners to the care of Stephen Vayvoda and the Count of Zornic,
who
guarded them during the night in a room adjoining the king’s
chamber.
The next day Louis held another meeting of his council, and ordered
that
Charles should have his throat cut on the very spot where poor Andre
had
been hanged. He then sent the other princes of the blood, loaded
with
chains, to Hungary, where they were long kept prisoners. Charles,
quite
thunderstruck by such an unexpected blow, overwhelmed by the thought
of
his past crimes, trembled like a coward face to face with death,
and
seemed completely crushed. Bowed, upon his knees, his face half
hidden
in his hands, from time to time convulsive sobs escaped him, as he
tried
to fix the thoughts that chased each other through his mind like
the
shapes of a monstrous dream. Night was in his soul, but every now
and
then light flashed across the darkness, and over the gloomy
background
of his despair passed gilded figures fleeing from him with smiles
of
mockery. In his ears buzzed voices from the other world; he saw a
long
procession of ghosts, like the conspirators whom Nicholas of Melazzo
had
pointed out in the vaults of Castel Nuovo. But these phantoms each
held
his head in his hand, and shaking it by the hair, bespattered him
with
drops of blood. Some brandished whips, some knives: each
threatened
Charles with his instrument of torture. Pursued by the nocturnal
train,
the hapless man opened his mouth for one mighty cry, but his breath
was
gone, and it died upon his lips. Then he beheld his mother
stretching
out her arms from afar, and he fancied that if he could but reach
her he
would be safe. But at each step the path grew more and more
narrow,
pieces of his flesh were torn off by the approaching walls; at
last,
breathless, naked and bleeding, he reached his goal; but his
mother
glided farther away, and it was all to begin over again. The
phantoms
pursued him, grinning and screaming in his ears:—
"Cursed be
he who slayeth his mother!"
Charles was roused from these horrors by the
cries of his brothers, who
had come to embrace him for the last time before
embarking. The duke in
a low voice asked their pardon, and then fell back
into his state of
despair. The children were dragged away, begging to be
allowed to share
their brother’s fate, and crying for death as an alleviation
of their
woes. At length they were separated, but the sound of their
lamentation
sounded long in the heart of the condemned man. After a few
moments, two
soldiers and two equerries came to tell the duke that his hour
had come.
Charles followed them, unresisting, to the fatal balcony where
Andre had
been hanged. He was there asked if he desired to confess, and when
he
said yes, they brought a monk from the sane convent where the
terrible
scene had been enacted: he listened to the confession of all his
sins,
and granted him absolution. The duke at once rose and walked to
the
place where Andre had been thrown down for the cord to be put round
his
neck, and there, kneeling again, he asked his
executioners—
"Friends, in pity tell me, is there any hope for my
life?"
And when they answered no, Charles exclaimed:
"Then carry
out your instructions."
At these words, one of the equerries plunged his
sword into his breast,
and the other cut his head off with a knife, and his
corpse was thrown
over the balcony into the garden where Andre’s body had
lain for three
days unburied.
CHAPTER VII
The
King of Hungary, his black flag ever borne before him, started for
Naples,
refusing all offered honours, and rejecting the canopy beneath
which he was
to make his entry, not even stopping to give audience to
the chief citizens
or to receive the acclamations of the crowd. Armed at
all points, he made for
Castel Nuovo, leaving behind him dismay and
fear. His first act on entering
the city was to order Dona Cancha to be
burnt, her punishment having been
deferred by reason of her pregnancy.
Like the others, she was drawn on a cart
to the square of St. Eligius,
and there consigned to the flames. The young
creature, whose suffering
had not impaired her beauty, was dressed as for a
festival, and laughing
like a mad thing up to the last moment, mocked at her
executioners and
threw kisses to the crowd.
A few days later, Godfrey
of Marsana, Count of Squillace and grand
admiral of the kingdom, was arrested
by the king’s orders. His life was
promised him on condition of his
delivering up Conrad of Catanzaro, one
of his relatives, accused of
conspiring against Andre. The grand admiral
committed this act of shameless
treachery, and did not shrink from
sending his own son to persuade Conrad to
come to the town. The poor
wretch was given over to the king, and tortured
alive on a wheel made
with sharp knives. The sight of these barbarities, far
from calming the
king’s rage, seemed to inflame it the more. Every day there
were new
accusations and new sentences. The prisons were crowded:
Louis’s
punishments were redoubled in severity. A fear arose that the town,
and
indeed the whole kingdom, were to be treated as having taken part
in
Andre’s death. Murmurs arose against this barbarous rule, and all
men’s
thoughts turned towards their fugitive queen. The Neapolitan barons
had
taken the oath of fidelity with no willing hearts; and when it came
to
the turn of the Counts of San Severino, they feared a trick of
some
kind, and refused to appear all together before the Hungarian, but
took
refuge in the town of Salerno, and sent Archbishop Roger, their
brother,
to make sure of the king’s intentions beforehand. Louis received
him
magnificently, and appointed him privy councillor and grand
proto
notary. Then, and not till then, did Robert of San Severino and
Roger,
Count of Chiaramonte, venture into the king’s presence; after
doing
homage, they retired to their homes. The other barons followed
their
example of caution, and hiding their discontent under a show of
respect,
awaited a favourable moment for shaking off the foreign yoke. But
the
queen had encountered no obstacle in her flight, and arrived at
Nice
five days later. Her passage through Provence was like a triumph.
Her
beauty, youth, and misfortunes, even certain mysterious reports as
to
her adventures, all contributed to arouse the interest of the
Provencal
people. Games and fetes were improvised to soften the hardship of
exile
for the proscribed princess; but amid the outbursts of joy from
every
town, castle, and city, Joan, always sad, lived ever in her silent
grief
and glowing memories.
At the gates of Aix she found the clergy,
the nobility, and the chief
magistrates, who received her respectfully but
with no signs of
enthusiasm. As the queen advanced, her astonishment
increased as she saw
the coldness of the people and the solemn, constrained
air of the great
men who escorted her. Many anxious thoughts alarmed her, and
she even
went so far as to fear some intrigue of the King of Hungary.
Scarcely
had her cortege arrived at Castle Arnaud, when the nobles, dividing
into
two ranks, let the queen pass with her counsellor Spinelli and
two
women; then closing up, they cut her off from the rest of her
suite.
After this, each in turn took up his station as guardian of
the
fortress.
There was no room for doubt: the queen was a prisoner;
but the cause of
the manoeuvre it was impossible to guess. She asked the
high
dignitaries, and they, protesting respectful devotion, refused
to
explain till they had news from Avignon. Meanwhile all honours that
a
queen could receive were lavished on Joan; but she was kept in sight
and
forbidden to go out. This new trouble increased her depression: she
did
not know what had happened to Louis of Tarentum, and her
imagination,
always apt at creating disasters, instantly suggested that she
would
soon be weeping for his loss.
But Louis, always with his
faithful Acciajuoli, had after many fatiguing
adventures been shipwrecked at
the port of Pisa; thence he had taken
route for Florence, to beg men and
money; but the Florentines decided to
keep an absolute neutrality, and
refused to receive him. The prince,
losing his last hope, was pondering
gloomy plans, when Nicholas
Acciajuoli thus resolutely addressed
him:
"My lord, it is not given to mankind to enjoy prosperity for ever:
there
are misfortunes beyond all human foresight. You were once rich
and
powerful, and you are now a fugitive in disguise, begging the help
of
others. You must reserve your strength for better days. I still have
a
considerable fortune, and also have relations and friends whose
wealth
is at my disposal: let us try to make our way to the queen, and at
once
decide what we can do. I myself shall always defend you and obey you
as
my lord and master."
The prince received these generous offers with
the utmost gratitude, and
told his counsellor that he placed his person in
his hands and all that
remained of his future. Acciajuoli, not content with
serving his master
as a devoted servant, persuaded his brother Angelo,
Archbishop of
Florence, who was in great favour at Clement VI’s court, to
join with
them in persuading the pope to interest himself in the cause of
Louis of
Tarentum. So, without further delay, the prince, his counsellor, and
the
good prelate made their way to the port of Marseilles, but learning
that
the queen was a prisoner at Aix, they embarked at Acque-Morte, and
went
straight to Avignon. It soon appeared that the pope had a real
affection
and esteem for the character of the Archbishop of Florence, for
Louis
was received with paternal kindness at the court of Avignon; which
was
far more than he had expected: when he kneeled before the
sovereign
pontiff, His Holiness bent affectionately towards him and helped
him to
rise, saluting him by the title of king.
Two days later,
another prelate, the Archbishop of Aix, came into the
queen’s
presence,—
"Most gracious and dearly beloved sovereign, permit the most
humble and
devoted of your servants to ask pardon, in the name of your
subjects,
for the painful but necessary measure they have thought fit to
take
concerning your Majesty. When you arrived on our coast, your loyal
town
of Aix had learned from a trustworthy source that the King of France
was
proposing to give our country to one of his own sons, making good
this
loss to you by the cession of another domain, also that the Duke
of
Normandy had come to Avignon to request this exchange in person. We
were
quite decided, madam, and had made a vow to God that we would give
up
everything rather than suffer the hateful tyranny of the French.
But
before spilling blood we thought it best to secure your august person
as
a sacred hostage, a sacred ark which no man dared touch but was
smitten
to the ground, which indeed must keep away from our walls the scourge
of
war. We have now read the formal annulment of this hateful plan, in
a
brief sent by the sovereign pontiff from Avignon; and in this brief
he
himself guarantees your good faith.
"We give you your full and
entire liberty, and henceforth we shall only
endeavour to keep you among us
by prayers and protestations. Go then,
madam, if that is your pleasure, but
before you leave these lands, which
will be plunged into mourning by your
withdrawal, leave with us some
hope that you forgive the apparent violence to
which we have subjected
you, only in the fear that we might lose you; and
remember that on the
day when you cease to be our queen you sign the
death-warrant of all
your subjects."
Joan reassured the archbishop and
the deputation from her good town of
Aix with a melancholy smile, and
promised that she would always cherish
the memory of their affection. For
this time she could not be deceived
as to the real sentiments of the nobles
and people; and a fidelity so
uncommon, revealed with sincere tears, touched
her heart and made her
reflect bitterly upon her past. But a league’s
distance from Avignon a
magnificent triumphal reception awaited her. Louis of
Tarentum and all
the cardinals present at the court had come out to meet her.
Pages in
dazzling dress carried above Joan’s head a canopy of scarlet
velvet,
ornamented with fleur-de-lys in gold and plumes. Handsome youths
and
lovely girls, their heads crowned with flowers, went before her
singing
her praise. The streets were bordered with a living hedge of people;
the
houses were decked out; the bells rang a triple peal, as at the
great
Church festivals. Clement VI first received the queen at the castle
of
Avignon with all the pomp he knew so well how to employ on
solemn
occasions, then she was lodged in the palace of Cardinal Napoleon of
the
Orsini, who on his return from the Conclave at Perugia had built
this
regal dwelling at Villeneuve, inhabited later by the popes.
No
words could give an idea of the strangely disturbed condition of
Avignon at
this period. Since Clement V had transported the seat of the
papacy to
Provence, there had sprung up, in this rival to Rome, squares,
churches,
cardinals’ palaces, of unparalleled splendour. All the
business of nations
and kings was transacted at the castle of Avignon.
Ambassadors from every
court, merchants of every nation, adventurers of
all kinds, Italians,
Spaniards, Hungarians, Arabs, Jews, soldiers,
Bohemians, jesters, poets,
monks, courtesans, swarmed and clustered
here, and hustled one another in the
streets. There was confusion of
tongues, customs, and costumes, an
inextricable mixture of splendour and
rags, riches and misery, debasement and
grandeur. The austere poets of
the Middle Ages stigmatised the accursed city
in their writings under
the name of the New Babylon.
There is one
curious monument of Joan’s sojourn at Avignon and the
exercise of her
authority as sovereign. She was indignant at the
effrontery of the women of
the town, who elbowed everybody shamelessly
in the streets, and published a
notable edict, the first of its kind,
which has since served as a model in
like cases, to compel all
unfortunate women who trafficked in their honour to
live shut up
together in a house, that was bound to be open every day in the
year
except the last three days of Holy Week, the entrance to be barred
to
Jews at all times. An abbess, chosen once a year, had the
supreme
control over this strange convent. Rules were established for
the
maintenance of order, and severe penalties inflicted for
any
infringement of discipline. The lawyers of the period gained a
great
reputation by this salutary institution; the fair ladies of Avignon
were
eager in their defence of the queen in spite of the calumnious
reports
that strove to tarnish her reputation: with one voice the wisdom
of
Andre’s widow was extolled. The concert of praises was
disturbed,
however, by murmurs from the recluses themselves, who, in their
own
brutal language, declared that Joan of Naples was impeding
their
commerce so as to get a monopoly for herself.
Meanwhile Marie of
Durazzo had joined her sister. After her husband’s
death she had found means
to take refuge in the convent of Santa Croce
with her two little daughters;
and while Louis of Hungary was busy
burning his victims, the unhappy Marie
had contrived to make her escape
in the frock of an old monk, and as by a
miracle to get on board a ship
that was setting sail for Provence. She
related to her sister the
frightful details of the king’s cruelty. And soon a
new proof of his
implacable hatred confirmed the tales of the poor
princess.
Louis’s ambassadors appeared at the court of Avignon to demand
formally
the queen’s condemnation.
It was a great day when Joan of
Naples pleaded her own cause before the
pope, in the presence of all the
cardinals then at Avignon, all the
ambassadors of foreign powers, and all the
eminent persons come from
every quarter of Europe to be present at this
trial, unique in the
annals of history. We must imagine a vast enclosure, in
whose midst upon
a raised throne, as president of the august tribunal, sat
God’s vicar on
earth, absolute and supreme judge, emblem of temporal and
spiritual
power, of authority human and divine. To right and left of the
sovereign
pontiff, the cardinals in their red robes sat in chairs set round
in a
circle, and behind these princes of the Sacred College stretched rows
of
bishops extending to the end of the hall, with vicars, canons,
deacons,
archdeacons, and the whole immense hierarchy of the Church. Facing
the
pontifical throne was a platform reserved for the Queen of Naples
and
her suite. At the pope’s feet stood the ambassadors from the King
of
Hungary, who played the part of accusers without speaking a word,
the
circumstances of the crime and all the proofs having been
discussed
beforehand by a committee appointed for the purpose. The rest of
the
hall was filled by a brilliant crowd of high dignitaries,
illustrious
captains, and noble envoys, all vying with one another in proud
display.
Everyone ceased to breathe, all eyes were fixed on the dais whence
Joan
was to speak her own defence. A movement of uneasy curiosity made
this
compact mass of humanity surge towards the centre, the cardinals
above
raised like proud peacocks over a golden harvest-field shaken in
the
breeze.
The queen appeared, hand in hand with her uncle, the old
Cardinal of
Perigord, and her aunt, the Countess Agnes. Her gait was so
modest and
proud, her countenance so melancholy and pure, her looks so open
and
confident, that even before she spoke every heart was hers. Joan was
now
twenty years of age; her magnificent beauty was fully developed, but
an
extreme pallor concealed the brilliance of her transparent satin
skin,
and her hollow cheek told the tale of expiation and suffering. Among
the
spectators who looked on most eagerly there was a certain young man
with
strongly marked features, glowing eyes, and brown hair, whom we
shall
meet again later on in our narrative; but we will not divert
our
readers’ attention, but only tell them that his name was James
of
Aragon, that he was Prince of Majorca, and would have been ready to
shed
every drop of his blood only to check one single tear that hung
on
Joan’s eyelids. The queen spoke in an agitated, trembling
voice,
stopping from time to time to dry her moist and shining eyes, or
to
breathe one of those deep sighs that go straight to the heart. She
told
the tale of her husband’s death painfully and vividly,
painted
truthfully the mad terror that had seized upon her and struck her
down
at that frightful time, raised her hands to her brow with the gesture
of
despair, as though she would wrest the madness from her brain—and
a
shudder of pity and awe passed through the assembled crowd. It is a
fact
that at this moment, if her words were false, her anguish was
both
sincere and terrible. An angel soiled by crime, she lied like
Satan
himself, but like him too she suffered all the agony of remorse
and
pride. Thus, when at the end of her speech she burst into tears
and
implored help and protection against the usurper of her kingdom, a
cry
of general assent drowned her closing words, several hands flew to
their
sword-hilts, and the Hungarian ambassadors retired covered with
shame
and confusion.
That same evening the sentence, to the great joy
of all, was proclaimed,
that Joan was innocent and acquitted of all concern
in the assassination
of her husband. But as her conduct after the event and
the indifference
she had shown about pursuing the authors of the crime
admitted of no
valid excuse, the pope declared that there were plain traces
of magic,
and that the wrong-doing attributed to Joan was the result of
some
baneful charm cast upon her, which she could by no possible
means
resist. At the same time, His Holiness confirmed her marriage with
Louis
of Tarentum, and bestowed on him the order of the Rose of Gold and
the
title of King of Sicily and Jerusalem. Joan, it is true, had on the
eve
of her acquittal sold the town of Avignon to the pope for the sum
of
80,000 florins.
While the queen was pleading her cause at the court
of Clement VI, a
dreadful epidemic, called the Black Plague—the same that
Boccaccio has
described so wonderfully—was ravaging the kingdom of Naples,
and indeed
the whole of Italy. According to the calculation of Matteo
Villani,
Florence lost three-fifths of her population, Bologna two-thirds,
and
nearly all Europe was reduced in some such frightful proportion.
The
Neapolitans were already weary of the cruelties and greed of
the
Hungarians, they were only awaiting some opportunity to revolt
against
the stranger’s oppression, and to recall their lawful sovereign,
whom,
for all her ill deeds, they had never ceased to love. The attraction
of
youth and beauty was deeply felt by this pleasure-loving
people.
Scarcely had the pestilence thrown confusion into the army and
town,
when loud cursing arose against the tyrant and his executioners.
Louis
of Hungary, suddenly threatened by the wrath of Heaven and the
people’s
vengeance, was terrified both by the plague and by the riots,
and
disappeared in the middle of the night. Leaving the government of
Naples
in the hands of Conrad Lupo, one of his captains, he embarked hastily
at
Berletta, and left the kingdom in very much the same way as Louis
of
Tarentum, fleeing from him, had left it a few months before.
This
news arrived at Avignon just when the pope was about to send the
queen his
bull of absolution. It was at once decided to take away the
kingdom from
Louis’s viceroy. Nicholas Acciajuoli left for Naples with
the marvellous bull
that was to prove to all men the innocence of the
queen, to banish all
scruples and stir up a new enthusiasm. The
counsellor first went to the
castle of Melzi, commanded by his son
Lorenzo: this was the only fortress
that had always held out. The father
and son embraced with the honourable
pride that near relatives may
justly feel when they meet after they have
united in the performance of
a heroic duty. From the governor of Melzi Louis
of Tarentum’s counsellor
learned that all men were wearied of the arrogance
and vexatious conduct
of the queen’s enemies, and that a conspiracy was in
train, started in
the University of Naples, but with vast ramifications all
over the
kingdom, and moreover that there was dissension in the enemy’s army.
The
indefatigable counsellor went from Apulia to Naples, traversing
towns
and villages, collecting men everywhere, proclaiming loudly
the
acquittal of the queen and her marriage with Louis of Tarentum,
also
that the pope was offering indulgences to such as would receive with
joy
their lawful sovereigns. Then seeing that the people shouted as he
went
by, "Long live Joan! Death to the Hungarians!" he returned and told
his
sovereigns in what frame of mind he had left their subjects.
Joan
borrowed money wherever she could, armed galleys, and left
Marseilles with
her husband, her sister, and two faithful advisers,
Acciajuoli and Spinelli,
on the 10th of September 1348. The king and
queen not being able to enter at
the harbour, which was in the enemy’s
power, disembarked at Santa Maria del
Carmine, near the river Sebeto,
amid the frenzied applause of an immense
crowd, and accompanied by all
the Neapolitan nobles. They made their way to
the palace of Messire
Ajutorio, near Porta Capuana, the Hungarians having
fortified themselves
in all the castles; but Acciajuoli, at the head of the
queen’s
partisans, blockaded the fortresses so ably that half of the enemy
were
obliged to surrender, and the other half took to flight and
were
scattered about the interior of the kingdom. We shall now follow
Louis
of Tarentum in his arduous adventures in Apulia, the Calabrias, and
the
Abruzzi, where he recovered one by one the fortresses that
the
Hungarians had taken. By dint of unexampled valour and patience, he
at
last mastered nearly all the more considerable places, when
suddenly
everything changed, and fortune turned her back upon him for the
second
time. A German captain called Warner, who had deserted the
Hungarian
army to sell himself to the queen, had again played the traitor and
sold
himself once more, allowed himself to be surprised at Corneto by
Conrad
Lupo, the King of Hungary’s vicar-general, and openly joined him,
taking
along with him a great party of the adventurers who fought under
his
orders. This unexpected defection forced Louis of Tarentum to retire
to
Naples. The King of Hungary soon learning that the troops had
rallied
round his banner, and only awaited his return to march upon the
capital,
disembarked with a strong reinforcement of cavalry at the port
of
Manfredonia, and taking Trani, Canosa, and Salerno, went forward to
lay
siege to Aversa.
The news fell like a thunder-clap on Joan and her
husband. The Hungarian
army consisted of 10,000 horse and more than 7000
infantry, and Aversa
had only 500 soldiers under Giacomo Pignatelli. In spite
of the immense
disproportion of the numbers, the Neapolitan general
vigorously repelled
the attack; and the King of Hungary, fighting in the
front, was wounded
in his foot by an arrow. Then Louis, seeing that it would
be difficult
to take the place by storm, determined to starve them out. For
three
months the besieged performed prodigies of valour, and
further
assistance was impossible. Their capitulation was expected at
any
moment, unless indeed they decided to perish every man. Renaud des
Baux,
who was to come from Marseilles with a squadron of ten ships to
defend
the ports of the capital and secure the queen’s flight, should
the
Hungarian army get possession of Naples, had been delayed by
adverse
winds and obliged to stop on the way. All things seemed to conspire
in
favour of the enemy. Louis of Tarentum, whose generous soul refused
to
shed the blood of his brave men in an unequal and desperate
struggle,
nobly sacrificed himself, and made an offer to the King of Hungary
to
settle their quarrel in single combat. We append the authentic
letters
that passed between Joan’s husband and Andre’s
brother.
"Illustrious King of Hungary, who has come to invade our
kingdom, we, by
the grace of God King of Jerusalem and Sicily, invite you to
single
combat. We know that you are in no wise disturbed by the death of
your
lancers or the other pagans in your suite, no more indeed than if
they
were dogs; but we, fearing harm to our own soldiers and
men-at-arms,
desire to fight with you personally, to put an end to the
present war
and restore peace to our kingdom. He who survives shall be king.
And
therefore, to ensure that this duel shall take place, we
definitely
propose as a site either Paris, in the presence of the King of
France,
or one of the towns of Perugia, Avignon, or Naples. Choose one of
these
four places, and send us your reply."
The King of Hungary first
consulted with his council, and then replied:—
"Great King, we have read
and considered your letter sent to us by the
bearer of these presents, and by
your invitation to a duel we are most
supremely pleased; but we do not
approve of any of the places you
propose, since they are all suspect, and for
several reasons. The King
of France is your maternal grandfather, and
although we are also
connected by blood with him, the relationship is not so
near. The town
of Avignon, although nominally belonging to the sovereign
pontiff, is
the capital of Provence, and has always been subject to your
rule.
Neither have we any more confidence in Perugia, for that town is
devoted
to your cause.
"As to the city of Naples, there is no need to
say that we refuse that
rendezvous, since it is in revolt against us and you
are there as king.
But if you wish to fight with us, let it be in the
presence of the
Emperor of Germany, who is lord supreme, or the King of
England, who is
our common friend, or the Patriarch of Aquilea, a good
Catholic. If you
do not approve of any of the places we propose, we shall
soon be near
you with our army, and so remove all difficulties and delays.
Then you
can come forth, and our duel can take place in the presence of
both
armies."
After the interchange of these two letters, Louis of
Tarentum proposed
nothing further. The garrison at Aversa had capitulated
after a heroic
resistance, and it was known only too well that if the King of
Hungary
could get so far as the walls of Naples, he would not have to
endanger
his life in order to seize that city. Happily the Provencal galleys
had
reached port at last. The king and the queen had only just time
to
embark and take refuge at Gaeta. The Hungarian army arrived at
Naples.
The town was on the point of yielding, and had sent messengers to
the
king humbly demanding peace; but the speeches of the Hungarians
showed
such insolence that the people, irritated past endurance, took up
arms,
and resolved to defend their household gods with all the energy
of
despair.
CHAPTER VIII
While the Neapolitans
were holding out against their enemy at the Porta
Capuana, a strange scene
was being enacted at the other side of the
town, a scene that shows us in
lively colours the violence and treachery
of this barbarous age. The widow of
Charles of Durazzo was shut up in
the castle of Ovo, and awaiting in feverish
anxiety the arrival of the
ship that was to take her to the queen. The poor
Princess Marie,
pressing her weeping children to her heart, pale, with
dishevelled
locks, fixed eyes, and drawn lips, was listening for every
sound,
distracted between hope and fear. Suddenly steps resounded along
the
corridor; a friendly voice was heard; Marie fell upon her knees with
a
cry of joy: her liberator had come.
Renaud des Baux, admiral of the
Provencal squadron, respectfully
advanced, followed by his eldest son Robert
and his chaplain.
"God, I thank Thee!" exclaimed Marie, rising to her
feet; "we are
saved."
"One moment, madam," said Renaud, stopping her:
"you are indeed saved,
but upon one condition."
"A condition?"
murmured the princess in surprise.
"Listen, madam. The King of Hungary,
the avenger of Andre’s murderers,
the slayer of your husband, is at the gates
of Naples; the people and
soldiers will succumb, as soon as their last
gallant effort is spent—the
army of the conqueror is about to spread
desolation and death throughout
the city by fire and the sword. This time the
Hungarian butcher will
spare no victims: he will kill the mother before her
children’s eyes,
the children in their mother’s arms. The drawbridge of this
castle is up
and there are none on guard; every man who can wield a sword is
now at
the other end of the town. Woe to you, Marie of Durazzo, if the King
of
Hungary shall remember that you preferred his rival to him!"
"But
have you not come here to save me?" cried Marie in a voice of
anguish. "Joan,
my sister, did she not command you to take me to her?"
"Your sister is no
longer in the position to give orders," replied
Renaud, with a disdainful
smile. "She had nothing for me but thanks
because I saved her life, and her
husband’s too, when he fled like a
coward before the man whom he had dared to
challenge to a duel."
Marie looked fixedly at the admiral to assure
herself that it was really
he who thus arrogantly talked about his masters.
But she was terrified
at his imperturbable expression, and said
gently—
"As I owe my life and my children’s lives solely to your
generosity, I
am grateful to you beyond all measure. But we must hurry, my
lord: every
moment I fancy I hear cries of vengeance, and you would not leave
me now
a prey to my brutal enemy?"
"God forbid, madam; I will save you
at the risk of my life; but I have
said already, I impose a
condition."
"What is it?" said Marie, with forced calm.
"That you
marry my son on the instant, in the presence of our
reverend
chaplain."
"Rash man!" cried Marie, recoiling, her face
scarlet with indignation
and shame; "you dare to speak thus to the sister of
your legitimate
sovereign? Give thanks to God that I will pardon an insult
offered, as I
know, in a moment of madness; try by your devotion to make me
forget
what you have said."
The count, without one word, signed to his
son and a priest to follow,
and prepared to depart. As he crossed the
threshold Marie ran to him,
and clasping her hands, prayed him in God’s name
never to forsake her.
Renaud stopped.
"I might easily take my
revenge," he said, "for your affront when you
refuse my son in your pride;
but that business I leave to Louis of
Hungary, who will acquit himself, no
doubt, with credit."
"Have mercy on my poor daughters!" cried the
princess; "mercy at least
for my poor babes, if my own tears cannot move
you."
"If you loved your children," said the admiral, frowning, "you
would
have done your duty at once."
"But I do not love your son!"
cried Marie, proud but trembling. "O God,
must a wretched woman’s heart be
thus trampled? You, father, a minister
of truth and justice, tell this man
that God must not be called on to
witness an oath dragged from the weak and
helpless!"
She turned to the admiral’s son; and added,
sobbing—
"You are young, perhaps you have loved: one day no doubt you
will love.
I appeal to your loyalty as a young man, to your courtesy as a
knight,
to all your noblest impulses; join me, and turn your father away
from
his fatal project. You have never seen me before: you do not know
but
that in my secret heart I love another. Your pride should be revolted
at
the sight of an unhappy woman casting herself at your feet and
imploring
your favour and protection. One word from you, Robert, and I shall
bless
you every moment of my life: the memory of you will be graven in
my
heart like the memory of a guardian angel, and my children shall
name
you nightly in their prayers, asking God to grant your wishes. Oh,
say,
will you not save me? Who knows, later on I may love you—with
real
love."
"I must obey my father," Robert replied, never lifting his
eyes to the
lovely suppliant.
The priest was silent. Two minutes
passed, and these four persons, each
absorbed in his own thoughts, stood
motionless as statues carved at the
four corners of a tomb. Marie was thrice
tempted to throw herself into
the sea. But a confused distant sound suddenly
struck upon her ears:
little by little it drew nearer, voices were more
distinctly heard;
women in the street were uttering cries of
distress—
"Fly, fly! God has forsaken us; the Hungarians are in the
town!"
The tears of Marie’s children were the answer to these cries; and
little
Margaret, raising her hands to her mother, expressed her fear in
speech
that was far beyond her years. Renaud, without one look at this
touching
picture, drew his son towards the door.
"Stay," said the
princess, extending her hand with a solemn gesture: "as
God sends no other
aid to my children, it is His will that the sacrifice
be
accomplished."
She fell on her knees before the priest, bending her head
like a victim
who offers her neck to the executioner. Robert des Baux took
his place
beside her, and the priest pronounced the formula that united them
for
ever, consecrating the infamous deed by a sacrilegious
blessing.
"All is over!" murmured Marie of Durazzo, looking tearfully on
her
little daughters.
"No, all is not yet over," said the admiral
harshly, pushing her towards
another room; "before we leave, the marriage
must be consummated."
"O just God!" cried the princess, in a voice torn
with anguish, and she
fell swooning to the floor.
Renaud des Baux
directed his ships towards Marseilles, where he hoped to
get his son crowned
Count of Provence, thanks to his strange marriage
with Marie of Durazzo. But
this cowardly act of treason was not to go
unpunished. The wind rose with
fury, and drove him towards Gaeta, where
the queen and her husband had just
arrived. Renaud bade his sailors keep
in the open, threatening to throw any
man into the sea who dared to
disobey him. The crew at first murmured; soon
cries of mutiny rose on
every side. The admiral, seeing he was lost, passed
from threats to
prayers. But the princess, who had recovered her senses at
the first
thunder-clap, dragged herself up to the bridge and screamed for
help,
"Come to me, Louis! Come, my barons! Death to the cowardly wretches
who
have outraged my honour!"
Louis of Tarentum jumped into a boat,
followed by some ten of his
bravest men, and, rowing rapidly, reached the
ship. Then Marie told him
her story in a word, and he turned upon the admiral
a lightning glance,
as though defying him to make any
defence.
"Wretch!" cried the king, transfixing the traitor with his
sword.
Then he had the son loaded with chains, and also the unworthy
priest who
had served as accomplice to the admiral, who now expiated his
odious
crime by death. He took the princess and her children in his boat,
and
re-entered the harbour.
The Hungarians, however, forcing one of
the gates of Naples, marched
triumphant to Castel Nuovo. But as they were
crossing the Piazza delle
Correggie, the Neapolitans perceived that the
horses were so weak and
the men so reduced by all they had undergone during
the siege of Aversa
that a mere puff of wind would dispense this phantom-like
army. Changing
from a state of panic to real daring, the people rushed upon
their
conquerors, and drove them outside the walls by which they had
just
entered. The sudden violent reaction broke the pride of the King
of
Hungary, and made him more tractable when Clement VI decided that
he
ought at last to interfere. A truce was concluded first from the
month
of February 1350 to the beginning of April 1351, and the next year
this
was converted into a real peace, Joan paying to the King of Hungary
the
sum of 300,000 florins for the expenses of the war.
After the
Hungarians had gone, the pope sent a legate to crown Joan and
Louis of
Tarentum, and the 25th of May, the day of Pentecost, was chosen
for the
ceremony. All contemporary historians speak enthusiastically of
this
magnificent fete. Its details have been immortalised by Giotto in
the
frescoes of the church which from this day bore the name of
L’Incoronata. A
general amnesty was declared for all who had taken part
in the late wars on
either side, and the king and queen were greeted
with shouts of joy as they
solemnly paraded beneath the canopy, with all
the barons of the kingdom in
their train.
But the day’s joy was impaired by an accident which to a
superstitious
people seemed of evil augury. Louis of Tarentum, riding a
richly
caparisoned horse, had just passed the Porta Petruccia, when some
ladies
looking out from a high window threw such a quantity of flowers at
the
king that his frightened steed reared and broke his rein. Louis
could
not hold him, so jumped lightly to the ground; but the crown fell at
his
feet and was broken into three pieces. On that very day the
only
daughter of Joan and Louis died.
But the king not wishing to
sadden the brilliant ceremony with show of
mourning, kept up the jousts and
tournaments for three days, and in
memory of his coronation instituted the
order of ’Chevaliers du Noeud’.
But from that day begun with an omen so sad,
his life was nothing but a
series of disillusions. After sustaining wars in
Sicily and Apulia, and
quelling the insurrection of Louis of Durazzo, who
ended his days in the
castle of Ovo, Louis of Tarentum, worn out by a life of
pleasure, his
health undermined by slow disease, overwhelmed with domestic
trouble,
succumbed to an acute fever on the 5th of June 1362, at the age
of
forty-two. His body had not been laid in its royal tomb at
Saint
Domenico before several aspirants appeared to the hand of the
queen.
One was the Prince of Majorca, the handsome youth we have already
spoken
of: he bore her off triumphant over all rivals, including the son of
the
King of France. James of Aragon had one of those faces of
melancholy
sweetness which no woman can resist. Great troubles nobly borne
had
thrown as it were a funereal veil over his youthful days: more
than
thirteen years he had spent shut in an iron cage; when by the aid of
a
false key he had escaped from his dreadful prison, he wandered from
one
court to another seeking aid; it is even said that he was reduced to
the
lowest degree of poverty and forced to beg his bread. The
young
stranger’s beauty and his adventures combined had impressed both
Joan
and Marie at the court of Avignon. Marie especially had conceived
a
violent passion for him, all the more so for the efforts she made
to
conceal it in her own bosom. Ever since James of Aragon came to
Naples,
the unhappy princess, married with a dagger at her throat, had
desired
to purchase her liberty at the expense of crime. Followed by four
armed
men, she entered the prison where Robert des Baux was still
suffering
for a fault more his father’s than his own. Marie stood before
the
prisoner, her arms crossed, her cheeks livid, her lips trembling. It
was
a terrible interview. This time it was she who threatened, the man
who
entreated pardon. Marie was deaf to his prayers, and the head of
the
luckless man fell bleeding at her feet, and her men threw the body
into
the sea. But God never allows a murder to go unpunished: James
preferred
the queen to her sister, and the widow of Charles of Durazzo
gained
nothing by her crime but the contempt of the man she loved, and a
bitter
remorse which brought her while yet young to the tomb.
Joan was
married in turn to James of Aragon, son of the King of Majorca,
and to Otho
of Brunswick, of the imperial family of Saxony. We will pass
rapidly over
these years, and come to the denouement of this history of
crime and
expiation. James, parted from his wife, continued his stormy
career, after a
long contest in Spain with Peter the Cruel, who had
usurped his kingdom:
about the end of the year 1375 he died near
Navarre. Otho also could not
escape the Divine vengeance which hung over
the court of Naples, but to the
end he valiantly shared the queen’s
fortunes. Joan, since she had no lawful
heir, adopted her nephew,
Charles de la Paix (so called after the peace of
Trevisa). He was the
son of Louis Duras, who after rebelling against Louis of
Tarentum, had
died miserably in the castle of Ovo. The child would have
shared his
father’s fate had not Joan interceded to spare his life, loaded
him with
kindness, and married him to Margaret, the daughter of her sister
Marie
and her cousin Charles, who was put to death by the King of
Hungary.
Serious differences arose between the queen and one of her
former
subjects, Bartolommeo Prigiani, who had become pope under the name
of
Urban VI. Annoyed by the queen’s opposition, the pope one day
angrily
said he would shut her up in a convent. Joan, to avenge the
insult,
openly favoured Clement VII, the anti-pope, and offered him a home
in
her own castle, when, pursued by Pope Urban’s army, he had taken
refuge
at Fondi. But the people rebelled against Clement, and killed
the
Archbishop of Naples, who had helped to elect him: they broke the
cross
that was carried in procession before the anti-pope, and hardly
allowed
him time to make his escape on shipboard to Provence. Urban
declared
that Joan was now dethroned, and released her subjects from their
oath
of fidelity to her, bestowing the crown of Sicily and Jerusalem
upon
Charles de la Paix, who marched on Naples with 8000 Hungarians.
Joan,
who could not believe in such base ingratitude, sent out his
wife
Margaret to meet her adopted son, though she might have kept her as
a
hostage, and his two children, Ladislaus and Joan, who became later
the
second queen of that name. But the victorious army soon arrived at
the
gates of Naples, and Charles blockaded the queen in her
castle,
forgetting in his ingratitude that she had saved his life and loved
him
like a mother.
Joan during the siege endured all the worst
fatigues of war that any
soldier has to bear. She saw her faithful friends
fall around her wasted
by hunger or decimated by sickness. When all food was
exhausted, dead
and decomposed bodies were thrown into the castle that they
might
pollute the air she breathed. Otho with his troops was kept at
Aversa;
Louis of Anjou, the brother of the King of France whom she had named
as
her successor when she disinherited her nephew, never appeared to
help
her, and the Provencal ships from Clement VII were not due to
arrive
until all hope must be over. Joan asked for a truce of five
days,
promising that, if Otho had not come to relieve her in that time,
she
would surrender the fortress.
On the fifth day Otho’s army
appeared on the side of Piedigrotta. The
fight was sharp on both sides, and
Joan from the top of a tower could
follow with her eyes the cloud of dust
raised by her husband’s horse in
the thickest of the battle. The victory was
long uncertain: at length
the prince made so bold an onset upon the royal
standard, in his
eagerness to meet his enemy hand to hand, that he plunged
into the very
middle of the army, and found himself pressed on every side.
Covered
with blood and sweat, his sword broken in his hand, he was forced
to
surrender. An hour later Charles was writing to his uncle, the King
of
Hungary, that Joan had fallen into his power, and he only awaited
His
Majesty’s orders to decide her fate.
It was a fine May morning:
the queen was under guard in the castle of
Aversa: Otho had obtained his
liberty on condition of his quitting
Naples, and Louis of Anjou had at last
got together an army of 50,000
men and was marching in hot haste to the
conquest of the kingdom. None
of this news had reached the ears of Joan, who
for some days had lived
in complete isolation. The spring lavished all her
glory on these
enchanted plains, which have earned the name of the blessed
and happy
country, campagna felite. The orange trees were covered with sweet
white
blossoms, the cherries laden with ruby fruit, the olives with
young
emerald leaves, the pomegranate feathery with red bells; the
wild
mulberry, the evergreen laurel, all the strong budding
vegetation,
needing no help from man to flourish in this spot privileged by
Nature,
made one great garden, here and there interrupted by little
hidden
runlets. It was a forgotten Eden in this corner of the world. Joan
at
her window was breathing in the perfumes of spring, and her eyes
misty
with tears rested on a bed of flowery verdure; a light breeze, keen
and
balmy, blew upon her burning brow and offered a grateful coolness to
her
damp and fevered cheeks. Distant melodious voices, refrains
of
well-known songs, were all that disturbed the silence of the poor
little
room, the solitary nest where a life was passing away in tears
and
repentance, a life the most brilliant and eventful of a century
of
splendour and unrest.
The queen was slowly reviewing in her mind
all her life since she ceased
to be a child—fifty years of disillusionment
and suffering. She thought
first of her happy, peaceful childhood, her
grandfather’s blind
affection, the pure joys of her days of innocence, the
exciting games
with her little sister and tall cousins. Then she shuddered at
the
earliest thought of marriage, the constraint, the loss of liberty,
the
bitter regrets; she remembered with horror the deceitful words
murmured
in her ear, designed to sow the seeds of corruption and vice that
were
to poison her whole life. Then came the burning memories of her
first
love, the treachery and desertion of Robert of Cabane, the moments
of
madness passed like a dream in the arms of Bertrand of Artois—the
whole
drama up to its tragic denouement showed as in letters of fire on
the
dark background of her sombre thoughts. Then arose cries of anguish
in
her soul, even as on that terrible fatal night she heard the voice
of
Andre asking mercy from his murderers. A long deadly silence
followed
his awful struggle, and the queen saw before her eyes the carts
of
infamy and the torture of her accomplices. All the rest of this
vision
was persecution, flight, exile, remorse, punishments from God and
curses
from the world. Around her was a frightful solitude: husbands,
lovers,
kindred, friends, all were dead; all she had loved or hated in the
world
were now no more; her joy, pain, desire, and hope had vanished for
ever.
The poor queen, unable to free herself from these visions of
woe,
violently tore herself away from the awful reverie, and kneeling at
a
prie-dieu, prayed with fervour. She was still beautiful, in spite of
her
extreme pallor; the noble lines of her face kept their pure oval;
the
fire of repentance in her great black eyes lit them up with
superhuman
brilliance, and the hope of pardon played in a heavenly smile upon
her lips. |
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