Chapter TEN: The Night of September the Thirteenth

Andreas, laughing, singing, bringing the gayety and splendor of his triumphant youth into the gray old building, followed the monk his guide up the stairs.

The Queen, on being informed of his arrival, had at once asked to see him. She sent Sancia to tell him that she was alone save for two or three of her nobles who had followed her and her sister, the rest having returned to their estates.

The King thought her message conveyed an appeal; for mercy, perhaps, and remembering how he had last stood before her, his heart swelled with exultation. They brought him into a large room in the front of the building that opened its full length by arched windows on to a stone balcony grown with small clustering red roses.

The walls were hung with arras worked in bright colors, showing the Seven Virtues striving with the Seven Sins; there were one or two high, stiff chairs and a low table against the wall bearing an alabaster angel holding a lamp and a brass bowl filled with white lilies; above was a little copper gilt statue of the Virgin on a carved bracket. Either side of the room was a door reached by two steps, and as Andreas entered, that to the right opened and the Queen came down.

They regarded each other a moment in silence. She looked ill and thin, stooping more than her wont, while the brightness of her auburn hair caused her smooth face to appear ivory-white. She moved her fingers in a restless fashion at her breast, staring at him; then she said:

“How it rains! My roses will all be spoiled!” And laughed unsteadily.

“Through the storm I am here to-night,” answered Andreas, struggling with embarrassment.

“Ah,” she said quickly. “So you were not coming?”

He was eager she should understand that he had never been afraid of her.

“I was coming in a more kingly fashion,” he said haughtily. “I have not even one servant in attendance.”

She looked at him in an extraordinary fashion.

“So you are alone--” She paused, then repeated the word. “Alone.”

“Henryk of Belgrade is with me, Madonna.”

The Queen moved slowly toward him.

“I will sit down,” she said faintly. “I have been ill.” She seated herself by the table, and so slight and frail she seemed that his strength was moved to pity her.

“You should not have left Naples, Madonna,” he said bluntly. “Did you think I should touch a woman?”

“My position was not to be borne,” she answered. “Your wife and not your wife--the Queen and not the Queen--and my friends----”

“They are here?” he interrupted. “I warn you of some of them I have sworn the death.”

“I have five with me--ten have gone,” she answered slowly. “And these five wish to make peace with you--I have no means wherewith to bribe them more.”

He noticed that she wore no jewels, though still wearing the gorgeous dress in which she had fled from Naples.

“De Cabane has gone?” asked Andreas.

“Yes, oh, yes.”

The King hated these men for having forsaken her. In his triumph he could afford to pity; he looked curiously at her faint beauty.

“Giovanna--what did you wish to say to me?”

“I am at your mercy,” she answered. “You have the crown, the people----”

“And the right,” he added.

“I am at your mercy,” she repeated.

The King frowned. He recalled how she had treated him when the power was hers, but an instinct of generosity kept him silent as to that.

“Where is Maria?” he demanded.

“She is in bed with a little fever,” answered the Queen.

“She goes to Hungary,” said Andreas. “I take her back with me to Naples.”

“Yes,” assented Giovanna.

The King walked to the window and looked out upon the rain and the bruised roses. Giovanna watched him and her face was like a mask.

“And what of me?” she asked.

He was silent. This listless submission roused in him a vague wonder. Why had she not fled to Provence or some other part of Italy?--why have waited here without striking a blow in her own cause? He glanced over his shoulder at her.

“You are grown meek,” he said.

“No,” she answered, “hopeless.”

At this his superb self-assurance felt an increased pity for her. ’Twas a woman’s manner of fight, from insolence to despair!

He came up to the table where she sat with her fingers trifling among the lilies in the brass bowl.

“Giovanna,” he spoke quietly. “What do you want with me?”

She kept her eyes very steadily down. “Pardon for my friends.”

“Not, by God, for Raymond de Cabane.”

“No--for the five who remain with me.”

“Who are they?”

“Godefroi de Marsan, de Squillace, Lello d’Aquila, di Terliggi, and de Fondi.”

“Let them return to their allegiance and I will pardon them.”

She bent her head.

“For myself--who am no wife to you--freedom from the form of it, an’ you can attain it from the Pope--the title of Duchess of Calabria and all revenues thereto appertaining, freedom to marry again whom I will, and money to support my state as first princess of the blood to the extent of three thousand ounces of gold a year.”

He had it in his power to thrust her into a convent for life. This considered, her terms were extravagant, and she seemed to be waiting for him to so pronounce them.

“And for so much I will renounce publicly all claim to the throne and engage to live in peace,” she added.

“But so be it the Pope will not annul our marriage?” asked Andreas, flushing.

“Then must I have the title of your Queen--but I will not trouble you…”

He interrupted her, lifting his noble face.

“Cousin, we will not talk of all this to-night--there are many to consult--but I swear,” and his color deepened, “that I will give you all you ask.”

She gave a start, looking up. “You mean it?” she cried.

“By God’s heaven, yes,” he glanced at her proudly, his color coming and going. “You--may have thought me--a boor--Giovanna, but I can behave even as a King,” he added, and his eyes flashed.

“You are generous, my lord,” said Giovanna, “but, as you say, we cannot discuss these matters to-night--I am still weakened by sickness.”

She rose and slowly, by reason of her heavy dress, moved across the room. The youth wondered why she wore such splendor; then it came to him she had fled in what she stood in. He was angry with himself that it had not occurred to him to send her her clothes and jewels.

She put one of her little hands to her forehead.

“My lord King, I am sorry for it all,” she said faintly. “I have been too ambitious.”

Her manner was almost humble, her guise pale and pitiful.

“Madonna,” said Andreas impetuously, softening instantly at her humility. “Will you sup with me and Count Henryk--forgetting these things for to-night?”

“No, no,” she answered hastily. “I must sit with Maria.”

“May I not see her?”

“She is in her bed,” said Giovanna. “The monks will look after you--I will send my lords to you--I shall see you in the morning----”

She stopped; her breath seemed to come with difficulty.

“Mass,” said Andreas gently, “I am grieved to see you so ill.”

“Good night, good night,” she answered with her face away from him.

“Good night, Madonna.” He strode with his easy strength to the door and opened it.

“Andreas!”

At his name that she had never used before, called so suddenly and sharply, he swung round.

She had put the room between them now, and was leaning against the window frame, her wide, purple eyes staring at him. A branch of the wet red roses had fallen in through the stone arch and lay against her skirt.

“What is it?” he asked curiously.

“Nothing,” she answered. “Nothing.”

He left her and went singing down the stairs.

He supped that night with Henryk of Belgrade and the five Italian lords, who were profuse in their professions of loyalty. Konrad of Gottif and some of the Hungarian soldiers arrived at the convent during the evening, having come upon it in their search for the King.

Merrily they jested and laughed together until well into the evening, Andreas at the height of gay spirits. The flattery of those present, the submission of his late enemies, the knowledge that he had done royally by the Queen, all combined to swell the young man’s triumph. He spoke of the hunt, of the boar they would fetch in the morrow, of the day’s sport they would have again when he had settled with the Queen. He praised the beauty of the scenery, the good fare the monks provided, he mentioned again his brother Ludovic, and toasted him, coupling his name with that of his cousin Maria. He, however, drank but little, and rose from the table early, soon after ten.

“As I have neither page nor servant,” he said, laughing, to Konrad of Gottif, “will you knock upon my door at the waking hour?”

“What hour is that, my lord?” smiled di Terliggi. “Surely you will sleep late to-morrow?”

“No,” said Andreas. “By daybreak, my good lord!”

“I’ll wager my falcon you’ll be asleep,” answered the Italian, “at daybreak.”

So still jesting, he parted from them and followed one of the monks to the room prepared for him. It was that opening on the left from the chamber where he had spoken with the Queen, and directly facing her apartment.

He asked for his few soldiers, and was told they lay in the outhouses, the two Hungarian nobles being lodged in another part of the convent.

The King entered his room gayly and asked for writing material. The monk brought it and retired.

It was a small chamber scantily furnished, and very ill lit by a smoky lamp. The bed was gaunt, the walls hung with worn tapestry. Andreas, yawning, seated himself at the little table by the window and commenced a letter to his brother.

But after the first few lines, weariness and the bad light overcame him; he put it aside for completion in the morning and rose, again yawning.

Struggling with sleep, he removed his gold-laced habit and his sword and laid them on the table beside the unfinished letter. He wore now his rose and white hose laced at the waist to a sleeveless jacket of the same color, and his white shirt ruffled round the throat. His high leather boots he took off, and as he bent over them the chain round his neck caught on the edge of the table and broke. He uttered an exclamation of annoyance, for he never went without it. It bore a jewel Ludovic had given him, a case containing a lock of his mother’s hair, and Hippolyta’s little amulet. As he laid the broken chain beside his habit he looked on these objects one by one, and a sudden sadness came over him; he wished he were not so far from the only two people he loved. Restlessly he went to the window and looked out.

The rain had ceased and the moonlight lay over the peaceful garden. On the horizon rested the thunder clouds that had retreated sullenly with their threat unfulfilled; it was absolutely still.

The King’s melancholy gave place to a wave of exultation, a thousand glorious projects formed themselves before him, he thought of the submission of the Queen and of the nobles; their last toast rang in his ears:

“Andreas, King of Naples!”

He turned into his chamber, put the light out and flung himself upon the bed. Then, sleepy as he was, some uncontrollable impulse made him rise and test the door.

As he stretched himself again upon the bed, the monastery bell rang out sharply, summoning the monks to the service held every hour of the day and night. Andreas crossed himself and fell asleep.

He slept heavily, dreamlessly for a while, then very suddenly awoke.

The room was filled with the gray light of dawn. It was so still he lay wondering what had wakened him, when a soft knock sounded on the door. Andreas remembered his boast that he would rise with the break of day, and sprang to his feet.

Sounds like suppressed laughter came from the other room, and Andreas, believing it was the nobles making a jest of his laziness, called aloud:

“I am coming, my lords!” He looked about for his clothes, but the knock being repeated, he went as he was, in his hose and shirt, gayly to the door, and opened it.

Opened it upon Raymond de Cabane with a dozen men behind him. Immediately he was seized and dragged from his door.

He gave a great shout, seeing what they intended, seeing in Raymond’s face murder, knowing instantly their purpose.

“Konrad! Henryk!” he cried, and with a terrific effort of his great strength disengaged himself from them and staggered across the room toward the Queen’s door, yelling with fury.

But they closed round him. He struggled hand to hand with the Conte Raymond and flung him off, escaped from them again, and endeavored to reach his room with the wild idea of arming himself, but Nicolo de Melaggo thrust his dagger through the staples of the lock.

At that the boy wrenched away from di Terliggi, who clung to him, and made for the center door, calling fiercely on his God and his Hungarians for succor. That door also was locked, and the Italians made a third rush.

He defended himself like a lion, rage at their trickery, scorn of their cowardice lending his strength a fury. Bertrand d’Artois, the Frenchman, he dashed against the wall and laid senseless at his feet. He struggled to the table and seizing the gilt statue of the Virgin from her bracket, struck Conte Raymond with it. The tapestry ripped from the wall in the fight, and the table went over. With flaming eyes Andreas shouted for help. Di Terliggi, the man who had laughed with him on his early rising, drew his dagger and wounded the King in the shoulder. It was the first weapon used, for it had been the Conte Raymond’s desire that they should strangle him with their hands. Andreas, feeling the blood flowing and his strength breaking, uttered horrible cries of despair, and with an effort of desperation dragged himself and the conspirators clinging to him to the Queen’s door. It was unsecured.

“Giovanna! Giovanna!” he shouted, and thrust them back and dashed into her room. He smashed the heavy door back in their faces, locked it and bolted it, then torn and bleeding, stumbled on to his knees in the center of the gray room.

She was standing by her bed with her bodice half unlaced and her bare feet showing under her gorgeous dress, her hair hung about her shoulders, that rose fair and white from her falling sleeves. She looked at Andreas, stepping back.

“The door--I forgot to bolt the door,” she muttered.

The King fell forward against her bed, great heaving breaths tore his frame; he was exhausted almost to death; the blood ran from his forehead and his shoulder on to the sheets and coverlet.

“Giovanna,” he sobbed. “They came to murder me--” His fair head sank on to the pillows; his shirt hung in rags on his torn body.

“You murdered San Severino,” said the Queen fiercely. “You would murder Raymond and all my friends----”

“Call _my_ friends!” cried Andreas. “Is there no one will stand by me now?”

He made an effort to rise, but fell forward again. “Stanch this bleeding, cousin--for--the--love--of God----”

Outside they thundered on her door for their victim.

Giovanna crossed swiftly to her husband. “Am I to falter with what I have begun?” she said with dilated eyes.

“O God!” he murmured, half fainting. “Did you set them on--when you had lied to me?” He lifted his blood-smeared face, and his eyes were terrible in their anguish. “Yet do not let them in--now,” he said hoarsely. “I am spent--pity me, cousin.”

He was faint with loss of blood. She looked down at him and made no movement either to assist him or to unclose the door to those who beat upon it. Her white face and bosom showed ghastly above her splendid dress in the gray light. She crept a little closer and stared at Andreas. His last energy appeared to have left him, his head sunk helplessly upon her lavender pillow, crimsoning it. A little early wind blowing in through the open window fluttered his thick yellow hair and her long curls. There came the sound of the Conte Raymond cursing and struggling with the door.

Andreas put out his beautiful hand and caught her down. “Giovanna--tie up my arm----”

She flung the hand from her.

“You’ll stain my dress,” she said, and laughed light-headedly.

At that he looked up, his eyes burning blue in his gray face.

“Are you going to let them in?” he asked under his breath.

She made no answer and he staggered to his feet, supporting himself by the bed post. He stared into her dark eyes and read her purpose. “You damned witch,” he said, panting. “I am still strong enough to kill you--remember that--afterwards----”

He seized her as he spoke. Utter scorn and wrath shone in his eyes. He turned her about, his bloody fingers on her long throat.

“I could kill you now,” he said. He laughed in a fury and pressed his pale lips to her bare shoulder--“good-by--Giovanna,” and he let her go.

She wiped her throat, where he had touched her, slowly with the ends of her hair, then she gathered up her glittering dress and ran to the door and opened it.

The fifteen rushed in and Andreas of Hungary stood against the bed post to meet them.

“A rope!” shouted Conte Raymond.

Lello d’Aquila cut down the cord from the Queen’s bed with his dagger… the others were upon the King. The Conte Raymond seized him round the waist and after a desperate resistance felled him and dragged him by his long hair and his shoulders to the door.

The Queen stood there with her hand on the bolt as she had opened it, and as her husband was dragged past her, he flung out his hand in his agony and clutched her dress and her hair.

Roberto of Cyprus leaped forward and cut her free. The King, still struggling fiercely, was forced down the steps into the outer room.

The others, following, loosened the Queen’s hold and closed the door upon her.

“Make haste,” said Raymond de Cabane, panting, “some one will be roused.”

“The balcony!” cried de Fondi.

“Ludovic,” moaned the King. They drew him to the window, Raymond with his knee on his breast to keep him down.

They got him out among the roses, and there he struggled with the tears of impotent anguish running down his cheeks. He half got upon his feet, but Lello d’Aquila flung the rope from the Queen’s bed round his neck.

As the King felt it tightening there, he made a last wild effort to rise, but they drew the knot and pushed him and dragged him on to the parapet.

Even then his dying strength was almost too much for them. Bertrand d’Artois turned away and fainted at the horror of the sight. Di Terliggi let go his hold, but Raymond de Cabane and the others threw him over the balcony and hurled their weight desperately upon the other end of the rope.

Then Conte Raymond looked over, leaning from the stone parapet and the scattered roses, and saw him writhing in mid air with impotent fingers clutching at his throat.

“A fine death for a King!” he called, and severed the cord with his dagger.

Andreas of Hungary fell the height of three storeys on to the flowers of the convent garden.

They listened a moment, then, scrambling over one another in a mad panic, rushed from the room.