Chapter FOURTEEN: The Executions in the Palazzo San Eligio

They were playing ball in the gardens of the Castel del Nuovo; Giovanna would have it so. She walked up and down the paved path watching them. There were not many left at the court of Naples. Raymond de Cabane and Luigi of Taranto, with such Neapolitans as remained faithful, had departed for Capua to dispute the passage of the Volturno with the Hungarians, and all implicated in the murder of Andreas lay in prison, by virtue of a bull from the Pope, sent to Bertrand des Beaux, Chief Judge of the Kingdom of Naples.

Therefore there were not many playing, and these few had pale faces and shaking hands; yet, because of Giovanna, they tossed the silk ball to and fro and strove to laugh.

With her head hanging, and her hands clasped high on her bosom, the Queen passed through the light and shade. She thought of the unpaid mercenaries deserting by the hundreds, pillaging the Kingdom on their way to the Hungarian camp: the magistrates, the guilds, the common people clamoring for Ludovic of Hungary; her sister praying for the success of her enemies. She thought of her accomplices, whom she had delivered to Pope and people, and she crushed tighter a parchment under her hands.

It was the petition of the fifteen and their wives, their appeal to her to save them. She paused to watch the yellow ball fly across the blue and green and fall on the sward at Cleopatra di Perlucchi’s feet. The Conte Raymond’s sisters were among those to die to-day, to perish on the Palazzo San Eligio for the murder of Andreas of Hungary.

Save them? It was too late! To keep her Kingdom she had sacrificed her confederates. She, also, had demanded vengeance on her husband’s murderers to save her credit with the world. She had done everything. All her plate and personal property was pledged to the Lombards; she had sent messages to Sicily and Provence; she had written to the Pope and to Ludovic of Hungary--she recounted these things to herself feverishly--had she not done everything?

The light ball was tossed to and fro; the courtiers ran hither and thither; the Queen paced up and down.

Suddenly she stopped.

The bell of Santa Chiara had begun to toll.

Slowly she went back to the palace, and when she had gone they ceased throwing the ball, and the beautiful Cleopatra began to sob for those being now led forth to death.

In the hall the Queen found Bertrand des Beaux, Conte di Monte Scaglioso, with a somber retinue of mailed men.

“I am on my way to attend these executions,” he said. “Madonna, may I speak to ye?”

The tolling vibrated throughout the long hall. Giovanna crumpled the parchment in her hands.

“Speak,” she said.

They stepped apart from the others. He pointed to a chair, but she could not sit.

“I have little time,” he said. “I must soon be at the Palazzo San Eligio, but I could not get to the Palace before. Madonna, I stand for the Pope.”

She lifted her head dumbly. Her hand was keeping time to the tolling, by beating against the wall.

“Madonna,” said Bertrand des Beaux, “they might speak--have ye thought of that? Remember, they have been trusting in you to save them.”

“I cannot,” she answered wildly. “Ye of all men know I cannot.”

“It were wiser not to essay it, Madonna.” He lowered his voice. “Nicolo de Melaggo, the notary, has confessed everything--yet mentioned the name of no royal prince.”

“Ah!” He saw her throat quiver.

“It is not the desire of the Pope that any of the House of Anjou be implicated,” said des Beaux, “yet it is thought that some one of higher rank than any of these----”

“Stop!” The Queen spoke steadily. “Do ye suspect my cousins?”

He looked at her keenly.

“I have thought it well to silence the prisoners.”

A pause, filled with the somber tolling, then Giovanna whispered: “How?”

“By a slit tongue, Madonna, that they may not speak to-day. I have thrust a fish-hook----”

The color swept over the Queen’s face and neck.

“Keep these horrors from me!” she cried passionately.

He bent his head.

“I thought ye would care to know that none of them will ever speak again.”

She put out her hand to dismiss him, and with the other caught the arras on the wall; then, as he was turning away, she called him back.

Her wild and distraught demeanor, her half-stifled voice caused him to stare curiously.

“My lord, my lord, my good lord,” she said, “cannot ye save the women? God wot they are innocent----”

“The confession involved them, Madonna,” he half smiled.

“Guilia di Terliggi is only nineteen,” she answered desperately.

“Ye cannot save her.”

“Am I the Queen and have so little power?” exclaimed Giovanna. “Have ye forgot these ladies are the sisters of the Conte Raymond, my sister’s betrothed, my captain, fighting for me now at Capuna?”

“Madonna, the Conte, on his return to Naples, will have the matter of his own guilt to discuss.” He turned away, and the train of men went from the hall.

The Queen stood still a moment, listening to the tolling. So, they would never speak again. She was safe. There was only Raymond left--if she could have saved the women----

There were very few in the Palace. She crept up to her dreary bedroom and tried to find Sancia, but the tirewoman was not there. All the maids and ladies were scattered. Wearily she went to the window and set it open.

A great roar met her ears. The shout of many voices, such as had sounded when Raymond de Cabane had taken her hand and proclaimed her Queen from this very window--the yell now of the crowd greeting its prey as the prison doors swung back and the victims came forth to their death. Her brow grew damp with anguish; her fingers clutched the window frame. The roar of the crowd swelled in volume; her too quick brain pictured the ghastly procession, the yelling people, the immovable soldiers, the prisoners--she did not dare to think of the prisoners.

A long while she stood immovable, the sunshine and the breeze filling the chamber and caressing her haggard face. Then she threw herself along the floor and put her hands up to her throat and moaned bitterly. Sancia, creeping into the chamber, with her fingers over her ears to shut out the sound of the bells, crouched back in horror to see the rich red robe, the auburn hair, low on the ground.

The Queen looked up.

“I heard Guilia di Terliggi shriek,” she muttered. “I heard her shriek.”

Sancia began to flutter with sobs of terror. “God have mercy on us!” she wailed. “It is too far--ye could not hear----”

Giovanna gave a sudden wild smile.

“And her tongue is pierced,” she said hollowly. “So they cannot speak--so I fancied it.” She clasped her hands round her knees and sat so, huddled up, and her lips moved as if she counted the tolling of the bells of Santa Chiara.