Chapter SEVENTEEN: The Conte Raymond Pays

“So she persuaded him?” said des Beaux.

“In half an hour,” answered Carlo di Durazzo. “It is well for Naples--better Hungary as a friend than as a conqueror.”

They stood on the balcony of the Castel del Nuovo looking toward Sorrento.

“He actually comes, then, in friendly fashion?” questioned des Beaux.

“He will enter into an alliance with the Queen--he will marry Maria,” Carlo sighed.

“He might have come, God wot, as a conqueror,” returned the other. “The guilds would have opened to him--and, after all, he is the true heir. It was a daring move,” he added.

“On the Queen’s part--yes. She has a wonderful courage.”

“And Raymond de Cabane?”

“He is to be sent a prisoner to this King.”

“The wiser thing--it will mollify Hungary.”

“And prove the innocence of the Queen,” said Carlo.

“How?”

“Why, Mars! he must know. And if she deliver him up, what reason has he to keep silent. It is a proof she is not afraid of him----”

They heard a footstep in the room behind them, and entered it from the balcony.

A splendid, red-haired knight in black armor, burnished with gold, and wrapped in a scarlet cloak, was crossing the chamber.

“The Prince of Taranto!” cried des Beaux. Carlo greeted him gayly. Yesterday’s success had put him in a good humor with the world.

But Luigi of Taranto looked sick and gloomy. “I return a defeated man,” he said heavily. “Ye have heard how all was lost at Benevento?”

Before they could answer, the door that led to the Queen’s apartments opened, and Giovanna showed herself. She smiled on all of them; there was a color in her cheeks, a light in her eyes; her hair slipped in a great coil into her white neck; she wore a rose-pink gown, laced over the bosom with gold.

Luigi of Taranto turned pale with rage and shame at the tale he carried. “I should not be here alive, Madonna----”

“Ah, the affair at Benevento,” she said, still smiling. “Has not Carlo told you?” She went up to the warrior and laid her hand on his arm. “Ludovic of Hungary enters Naples in two days’ time as my cousin and my friend.”

“Now, who has done this miracle?” cried the Prince of Taranto.

Prudence and containment gave way to triumph. Giovanna unclosed her shining eyes and laughed under her breath.

“In half an hour I persuaded him. He comes to treat with me as a King with a reigning Princess.”

“Persuaded him?” asked the Prince, “of what?”

Quietly she answered him, her fingers playing with the tassels of her bodice:

“You know my cousin--he suspected me--as the world has suspected me--of complicity in the King’s death.”

She flashed one quick glance at Luigi of Taranto’s eager face, then her heavy white lids drooped again. “I convinced him of my innocence,” she said. “And I think there is no one will dare raise a voice against me since he is satisfied.”

The Prince of Taranto’s eyes flashed with a strange expression.

Giovanna laughed, and gave him her hand.

“You were always my very good champion, yet your sword”--her eyes were cruel--“has failed, while my wit has saved Naples.” She drew her hand away, and he flushed. “Where is Conte Raymond?” she asked.

“He follows me, Madonna.”

She looked round upon the three men and her teeth pressed her lip. “If you were in my place, gentlemen,” she asked quietly, “what would be your manner of dealing with Raymond de Cabane?”

Bertrand des Beaux considered her with grave eyes.

“You know, Madonna, what has kept me from dealing with him as with his accomplices--his position--your favor. If he forfeit these--well!”

The Queen lifted her hand in protest.

“My favor!” she said in a thick voice. “A thing forced from me. Prince, what do you say?”

Luigi of Taranto answered earnestly:

“We only stain ourselves by sheltering a murderer. It would have been better for our honor had he suffered with the others.”

Giovanna looked at Carlo.

The smooth, golden, rose-tinted face flushed. He answered with a fierceness rare in his indifferent demeanor:

“I think enough blood has been shed for that boy’s death--straightly, cousin, are you meaning to deliver Raymond de Cabane to the King as a peace offering?”

Giovanna’s eyes showed him hate for the turn of his speech; her teeth were again set in her lip; the thin skin broke, the blood staining them. “I am asking your advice,” she said, in a low, restrained voice. “The King of Hungary has demanded this man. His guilt is a thing obvious and blazoned----”

A deep pause fell, then Carlo’s light laugh rose. “What I said, Giovanna! Buy your own safety with what you can--why not?”

“The safety of Naples,” said the Queen, shaking. “Remember, the King is to marry my sister--had I not to promise it? Raymond will not renounce her quietly.”

Bertrand des Beaux spoke.

“He must go--it is bare justice.”

“An’ the way of it be not treacherous,” said Luigi of Taranto. “I will put in no word to save Raymond de Cabane from punishment.”

Giovanna dabbed her mouth with a handkerchief and moistened her lips. Carlo shrugged his shoulders. It was in his mind that the Queen had been served and trusted by this man she was scheming to deliver to his death. That he had fought for her loyally, whatever his sins, it was not for her to judge and punish.

But Bertrand des Beaux admired her for a stroke of policy equal to her cunning in placing herself at the head of the popular fury that demanded the warrant for the death of the fifteen. His crafty Italian face expressed a sardonic approbation and understanding of her motive. In his heart he believed her guilty of at least pre-knowledge of her husband’s death.

“The Conte Raymond--in common prudence--must be sacrificed,” he said suavely.

Luigi of Taranto was not moved to speak for de Cabane, yet shamefacedness touched him a little as he considered the action they proposed.

“He is still powerful,” he said slowly. “Are we strong enough to arrest him?”

Giovanna had been thinking all night over this question, fresh to them. She was nervously wrought up to face it, armed with replies to all difficulties.

“It must be done secretly,” she answered quickly.

Des Beaux studied his lean hands; he understood. Carlo, at the window, kept his eyes on the three of them.

“Ye would not send him alive to the King of Hungary?” asked des Beaux.

“No,” said Giovanna.

Luigi of Taranto glanced at her.

“Why not, Madonna?”

Des Beaux, for her, answered easily: “It would be a foolish thing, since--he might speak--” and the Conte also glanced at the Queen.

“He might lie,” amended Giovanna, with a steady expression on her white face. “He might defame us all.”

Carlo came toward them, his hands thrust through his girdle, his usual lazy indolence in face and manner.

“I see Raymond de Cabane below--riding into the courtyard,” he said carelessly.

Luigi of Taranto sprang up.

“Have we any we can trust?” cried the Queen, and sat down by the table and rose up again, with fierce eyes, all in a breath.

“To do the deed, mean you?” asked Bertrand des Beaux.

“I cannot be the executioner of a man who has fought beside me,” cried the Prince.

Carlo di Durazzo laughed.

“Are you afraid of him? Fling him into the dungeons as you flung the others--burn him in the public square.”

Des Beaux moistened his lips.

“We have neither the force now nor the authority.”

“So it must be murder?” said Carlo lightly.

Giovanna glanced at him in a baited fashion. “Are you all meaning to forsake me?” she whispered. “This man must die--for the sake of Naples.” She sat down again and curled her fingers together on the table; her violet eyes shifted from one to another. “He will be coming up,” she said.

Luigi of Taranto spoke, goaded by her appeal.

“The Provence soldiery I brought back with me--they are trustworthy. They would----”

She caught at it.

“Bring them up,” she commanded eagerly. “Wait a little.” She put her hand to her head. “I will see him--send him to me.” She broke off again--“wait without upon the stairs. If I call for you----”

Des Beaux answered her broken words suavely.

“I shall be there--with the soldiers, Madonna.”

“I also,” said the Prince of Taranto grimly.

“And you, Carlo?” questioned the Queen.

“Oh, I must see my falcons fed,” he answered, with an indifferent glance. “Ye do not require my services.”

She motioned them all away.

“Send him to me,” she muttered.

After they had left her she sat with her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, facing what was before her. Ever since she had promised Raymond de Cabane to Ludovic of Hungary, she had been scheming how to accomplish it, for her triumphant success of yesterday would be marred if this man lived.

For he knew.

She might put what front she would on it, he knew. She might outlie him; her word might even persuade Ludovic against Raymond’s, but it was a risk. She was safe save for him--but he was there and he knew everything. He would speak, too. There was only the one means to keep him silent--death.

Her temples were throbbing feverishly; her lips and throat dry. It had cost her a tremendous effort to come to this resolution, to hold it, carry it through without flinching. She wanted no more blood; horror and distaste were dragging her back, fear urging her forward.

Raymond de Cabane must not speak with Ludovic of Hungary. His death would ensure her safety and pacify the King. It must be done.

She trembled and moaned into her hands. She recalled Ludovic’s words: “Let des Beaux arrest him. It is not your vengeance.” Did he mean it was a task unfitting a woman?

Yet he had asked her for the man. He had believed her, and demanded Raymond as a pledge of her sincerity--it was wonderful that he had believed her.

She forgot Raymond in thinking upon that. What she had said yesterday in that farmhouse kitchen she could not recall. By what desperate arts of madness she had convinced him she did not know. But she remembered his face, his bearing--the manner in which he had said: “I believe you, cousin.”

And he should believe in her; whatever it meant to keep intact his faith in her, that she would do. Was such an one as Raymond de Cabane to blast her hopes and condemn her? When Ludovic of Hungary believed?

The door swung open and fell to. At a heavy footfall she looked up with dazed, sick eyes.

Raymond de Cabane had entered. His coarse face was a ghastly hue with rage and fatigue, dark and pallid; his eyes bloodshot and strained.

Giovanna, rising stiffly, saw that he was looking at her without even the scant respect that usually covered his brutality.

“So, you have been treating with the King?” he demanded roughly.

She had hoped that he might not have heard.

“Well?” she said, biting her ragged lips. “Well?”

Raymond de Cabane strode to the other side of the table. “What part did I play in your conditions?” he asked. “While I was fighting for you at Benevento, how were you bargaining for me at Aversa?”

The Queen answered unsteadily. Behind the pink velvet bodice her bosom rose painfully, as if her heart beat desperately for freedom under the tight gold cords. “Who has been speaking to you of these things?”

“It is common talk that you went to the Hungarians yesterday and turned their King to your purpose.”

She shrank before his heavy presence, his lowering face.

“You have come to a pact with the King of Hungary,” he continued fiercely. “Well--what of me?”

She did not answer.

“What of me?” he repeated. “And what of that matter I know?”

She lifted her shoulders, as if in self-protection, and drew closer together against the chair from which she had risen.

“Do you threaten?” she asked unpleasantly.

His face was black and heavy with wrath.

“I see no occasion for threats,” he said somberly. “You were clever enough to free yourself from the others--a fish hook through the tongue to silence them--but I live, and I know.” He came suddenly round the table, trembling with passion. “You white-faced witch! you would betray me for your convenience--to buy mercy from your Hungarian dupe----”

“It is not true,” flashed Giovanna. “I----”

“You lie,” interrupted Raymond hotly. “As you lied to him. As you lied to Ludovic that you were innocent of the King’s death. What manner of man is he to believe you? Innocent!” He drove the word home pitilessly. “When you were considering how you might decoy him to the convent, even as chance sent him--innocent, when it was at your feet----”

“Stop!” cried Giovanna hoarsely. “Is this your loyalty?” She faced him with desperate eyes and distended nostrils, her hands clasped across the bosom of her dress.

“I owe you no loyalty,” he retorted with passion. “I made you Queen. My hand kept you on the throne. Loyalty! I would have ridden over to Ludovic to make my peace by surrendering Naples. I should never have returned but for Maria!”

“You are very constant,” said Giovanna in a thick voice.

His bloodshot eyes turned a fierce glance on her. “I served you for your sister. I demand her. Everything is lost, but you owe me my reward--give me Maria d’Anjou.”

The Queen had no word for a long moment, then she answered in a voice barely audible:

“Would you be silent if I did?”

“Yes.”

But she dare not. Maria was promised to Ludovic. And then, could she trust him? No.

“You talk wildly,” she said. “Maria would not go with you--and the Hungarians will be in Naples in two days.”

His defaced armor rattled with his passionate breaths.

“Give me the key of her chamber--show me where it is. I shall not ask her if she will go. I have some men faithful. I will secure her and ride to Giordano.” He meant what he said. Desperate as it seemed, he meant it. She could doubt neither the intensity of his tone nor the fire in his eyes. She was silent, considering.

“Nay, bring her here,” continued Raymond eagerly. “Send for her now. Let me see her--speak to her. I could take her now--at once.”

Giovanna looked at him strangely.

“Well, I will not be ungrateful--you shall see her.” She moved in a heavy, weary manner to the door. When she reached it, she looked back over her shoulder. Raymond had seated himself at the table and was pouring out wine in the manner of a man worn out.

The Queen opened the door. In the blackness of the stairs the forms of men and the dull gleam of armor, the red locks of Luigi of Taranto and the crafty face of des Beaux showed obscurely.

“He is coming,” said the Queen in a steady whisper. “You know what to do.” And she shut the door. Slowly she returned to the table, where Raymond was drinking greedily.

“Maria is in the great hall alone,” she said. “So a page tells me--go to her there.”

He rose at once with flaming eyes. Ruined, desperate, the thought of seeing Maria d’Anjou was inspiration, strength.

“I shall take her to Giordano,” he said briskly. “I have enough men--she should be glad to leave Naples.” He strode past the Queen with contempt, but his wrath mollified. Let her not cheat him of Maria d’Anjou, and he cared not how many she duped or betrayed.

“May ye be more fortunate in your second King from Hungary,” he sneered. “As for me, I think I have finished with ye--farewell.”

“And I with ye,” she replied. “We have both played for our own ends, have we not?”

She preceded him to the door and opened it.

“Take care of the steps, Conte--it is dark.” She dragged her breath out painfully and trembled so that she had to lean against the wall. He, not thinking of her nor looking at her, stepped out. Instantly the Queen closed the door, bolted it, and flung herself against it with her hands over her ears. There was the sound of a hoarse cry, a struggle, the scuffling of feet, the clink of armor--it was very quickly over.

Giovanna remained, white, rigid, as if the life had been drained out of her, leaning against the heavy door, with her cold fingers in her ears and her vivid hair framing her face, with glazed eyes and strained, parted lips.

Sancia, coming from the inner chamber, saw her so, motionless, against the door, and all her old terrors reviving, she shrieked, falling back.

The Queen dropped her hands. “What is the matter?” she asked, and closed her eyes. “Where is Maria?”

Sancia, a shrinking figure in white, murmured an answer: “In her chamber, Madonna.”

“Ah, well--go,” said Giovanna.

The waiting woman disappeared and the room fell to silence.

The Queen began laughing in a ghastly fashion. “She does not know,” she muttered, as she crept along the wall, “that I am mad sometimes--that things come and talk to me--who was that?”

Her laughter began to be strangled with sobs.

“What am I doing? Oh, my head--my head!”

She dropped to her knees, crouching against the arras, and laughed again vacantly. Cautiously she looked round, and laid her finger on her lip with a cunning smile.

Then, with eager fingers, she tore the linen off her bosom, finding it under the pink velvet of her dress, and commenced rubbing the floor.

“How dark blood is!” she said, moistening her lips. “From the bed to the balcony.” Busily and noiselessly, on her hands and knees, she rubbed the unstained boards.

“If it dries, it never comes out,” she muttered. “Never--comes--out----”