Chapter FIFTEEN: The Queen’s Last Stake

Giovanna stared at her answer from Ludovic of Hungary.

She broke the seal, bearing his arms, and unfolded the parchment.

A strange sensation came over her. The brother of Andreas, what manner of man was he, her conqueror?

There were only a few lines, all in the same hand:

The exclusive power you arrogated to yourself in the Kingdom, the insolence with which you treated the King, the favor which you have shown to his murderers, even to the extent of promising your sister, our betrothed bride, to the most guilty, and your excuse itself, are sufficient proofs of your having been an accomplice in your husband’s death. Convince us of your innocence and we will cease to harass your Kingdom; if you cannot do that, prepare to receive the full extent of our vengeance.

The letter fluttered from the Queen’s hand to the ground. She fell back in her chair, and her head sank on her bosom; her spirit fainted within her. She made a movement with her hands as if she laid down the sword and crown in sheer weariness. She could fight no more, she had done everything, ruined herself to her very rings, given up her friends, sided with the people, conceded to the magistrates, delivered herself into the hands of the Lombard money lenders, humbled herself to Provence, appealed to her enemy, and he, this man at her gates with an ever growing army, he, with the support of Italy and her own people, was going to brand her as a murderess.

There was nothing to be done. She had made a splendid stand against sudden disaster, but in vain, there was nothing to be done.

With the resolution that was natural to her, she decided to fly at once to Provence and to save her life if she could not her crown. She had not any hope in Raymond de Cabane being able to arrest the progress of the Hungarians, nor any faith in her people’s protection.

She sat quiet, revolving the scheme in abject weariness of soul. Maria d’Anjou entered the room, and Giovanna, like a bruised snake whose sting is dead, eyed her dully and made no movement.

There was an extraordinary air of elation and triumph about Maria. She stepped lightly and the color was ever flushing up into her face. With blue eyes alight with hope, she glanced at her sister.

“Why do you look so gay?” questioned the Queen in a passionless voice.

“Gay?--do I look gay?” answered Maria. “My heart is eased because my lord of Hungary comes.”

She stood, leaning against the carved mantel shelf, her gorgeous head upheld. The sunlight lay softly upon the folds of her pale yellow dress.

“You are very glad of my downfall,” said Giovanna.

Maria lifted the chestnut curls from her brow and looked at the Queen.

“What have you ever been to me that I should weep? Yes, I am glad.” Her face was wildly triumphant, her calm eyes scornful under her level brows. “I always turned from you, Giovanna,” she said.

The Queen raised her head and sank her chin in her hand.

“As for your ally, Raymond,” said Maria sternly, “I would not give one thought to him nor turn my head to save him, but you are of royal blood and I would have you fly the vengeance that marches on Naples.”

“Ah--you would have me fly?” answered Giovanna with narrowed eyes. Her own resolution sounded a different matter on another’s lips. She did not say that she had decided to hurry to Provence.

“All the bloody executions that made the city hideous yesterday will not save you,” said Maria. “This lord comes for vengeance.”

Giovanna raised her eyes.

“And you?”

“I am his promised wife,” answered her sister proudly. “I shall stay to welcome him.”

The Queen made a little movement in her chair. “Ah, you sent for him,” she said quietly. “You wrote to the Pope.”

“Yes,” said Maria.

Giovanna’s eyes shifted from side to side with a cunning light in them.

“Let us be at a plain understanding--you advise me to flee from this brother of Andreas?”

“The conqueror of your Kingdom,” amended Maria.

The Queen sat upright.

“Do you believe I am guilty of my husband’s death?” she asked quickly.

Her sister did not answer.

“Do you believe so?” repeated the Queen.

“I know it,” said Maria hoarsely.

A deeper pallor overspread Giovanna’s drawn features.

“You do not know it and you cannot prove it,” she said under her breath. “And it is false.”

“You must persuade the King of Hungary of that,” flashed Maria. “And you cannot--therefore as your wretched life is dear to you, leave Naples before the day be out--go to Sicily--to Provence--but do not stay here to await the coming of Ludovic of Hungary----”

“You come to tell me this?”

“For the sake of our kinship I come to tell you this.”

“Very well,” said the Queen with compressed lips. “You may go.”

Maria turned from the chamber in silence. As the door shut Giovanna’s hands clutched the chair arms and her eyes unclosed.

All the spirit that had been dead in her at Maria’s entrance was roused now, in arms.

Should she vacate her throne that her sister might step into it--should all her strivings end in this--that Maria, as Ludovic’s wife, should succeed to her crown--was she a thing so easily overawed that they could frighten her from her Kingdom? Maria’s triumph, Maria’s joy at deliverance, Maria’s pride in her victorious lord had been as so many lashes to drive her from her resolution of quitting Naples.

Even if the army and the people had forsaken her, even if she had neither money nor men, she had herself; her own kingly courage, her own strong ambition, her own crafty policy, her own beauty and youth.

She picked up Ludovic’s letter from the floor:

“If you can prove your innocence.”

If! Her blood surged hotly to her heart. If she could make the man believe in her, even now her enemy might be turned into her champion; she might preserve not her life alone, but her fame and her Kingdom. And who was Ludovic of Hungary that he should not believe in her. He was a man and young, she was a woman and beautiful, she had all the Southern guile. He would show himself a boor and a simpleton as all his countrymen.

Ah, she would not abandon everything until she had staked all once more. She had nothing to lose but her life, and she would rather risk that like a prodigal in an attempt to gain her old glories, than hoard it like a miser in misery.

She called Sancia and sent her in search of Carlo, almost the only person of rank remaining in the Palace. While she waited for him a message came to her from Bertrand des Beaux, who informed her that Luigi of Taranto had been defeated by the Hungarians at Capua, and that the victorious army was marching on Aversa and Capua; he added that the magistrates and guilds had decided to open the gates of Naples to Ludovic, and repeated Maria’s counsel of flight from the Kingdom.

Giovanna was hardly moved. It was what she had expected; it only confirmed her in her resolution. She waited with impatience for Carlo di Durazzo. He came at last. He had seen Guilia di Terliggi hanged yesterday, and in consequence was gloomy. He had wavered for days past between the Queen and Ludovic, as she well knew, but she needed him now.

“Carlo,” she said kindly. “Carlo--why have you not been to see me?”

He seated himself listlessly against the wall and began playing with the tassels on his boot. “I went to see the executions yesterday,” he answered. “And it made me sick.”

The Queen’s face darkened.

“Do not talk to me of that, cousin.”

He raised a fretful, pale face. “What do you wish to talk of, Madonna?”

Her slender fingers folded up the two letters on the knees of her gray gown. With intent eyes she studied the Duke’s face.

“Carlo--I am going to have one more throw with fortune, and I shall need your help.”

He gave a bitter little laugh.

“I am a ruined man----”

She interrupted. “I am not asking for gold or men--that is hopeless----”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“What else will be of any use?”

“My wits, perchance,” her violet eyes flashed one quick glance at him. “Cousin, I am going to Ludovic of Hungary’s camp to see him--I desire that you come with me.”

“Sweet saints!” The Duke lifted his eyebrows languidly.

“Carlo,” she pursued eagerly. “Do not argue with me or say I have lost my wits--it is the sole thing for me--let me but convince that man,” she broke off sharply, “it shall not involve you, cousin--the King is near Aversa,” she spoke the word without a shudder--“I will travel to-morrow morning and be back ere nightfall.”

“If he allow you to return at all,” answered Durazzo dryly.

“I am chancing that,” she breathed. “It is all or nothing. If he should refuse to believe me, to end that way would be better than exile in some Provence chateau with a blasted name.”

Her fingers moved nervously and her eyes flashed recklessly. Carlo di Durazzo, weak and careless, but no fool, saw well enough her motive in this desperate move. It was clear to him that in putting herself at Ludovic’s mercy, she disarmed him to a great extent; that if anything could convince him of her innocence, she herself, coming alone to him with violet eyes, soft voice, and red mouth for her advocates, would do it. And as the Duke believed in his heart she was guiltless, he could conceive that she might persuade Ludovic. Then, too, it was an adventure with a hint of knight errantry in it and danger that made a fine distraction to his thoughts of Guilia di Terliggi; it was flattering also that she trusted him.

As he considered these things the Queen watched him with burning eyes; her lips trembled and her hands were locked tightly together.

“Well,” he said at last, “it is a desperate strait and a desperate expedient--but I will go with you, Madonna.”

She rose and laid her hand on his arm. Her glance was eloquent of gratitude. Then she turned in silence to the window. All the tangled glories of her race, standards of victory, wreaths of a conqueror, the trumpets of renown, the heralds of splendor and high greatness, seemed gathered into her slight figure and her royal eyes, the disasters, the triumphs, the magnificence of a line of kings were embodied in her still resolve.

“Desperate,” she said softly, as if she had been thinking over her cousin’s last words. “Well, I think courage shows best in desperate straits--’tis better bravery to go to this King even on a poor chance than to wait here trembling before the inevitable.”