Chapter TWENTY-FIVE: Carola of Bohemia

In his bedchamber the King mused sullenly, at war with circumstance. He had refused himself to those who sought admission to his presence, and, when he chose to raise his head to listen, he could hear the busy, perturbed voices of his Hungarians talking without the door.

Doubtless they wondered. Doubtless they saw, as he did, now these letters from home and the shock of Sancia’s accusation had roused him from his gayeties, that in the next few days Naples was to be lost or won.

He had put himself in a position not easy to hold with dignity. He knew they cursed him and his soldiers in Naples. He knew they mocked at home at his absence. He had roused the disdain of his mother and his betrothed--merely to pleasure Giovanna, who, if what they said was true, he should have delivered over to death months ago.

Yet he did not believe it was true. Last night, with eyes ardent, but not lover-like, she had entreated him to a grave conference to-day. She had spoken with a man’s weight and clearness of the state of popular feeling; of the ill-paid mercenaries, the mutinying guilds, her own empty coffers. She had urged upon him (putting aside his lighter talk with an absorbed frown) the reasons for his swift marriage and return to Hungary. Thinking of her as she was then, thinking of her as she had come to him in the old farmhouse at Aversa, he could not believe this thing.

The midday sun was ruddy over the brown panelings of the room, with their gilded lines, over the heavy polished furniture, and the scarlet and gold of the great bed.

On the steps of it, spread with fine, rich carpets, sat Ludovic, his young face pale and lined. The sight of his brother’s unfinished letter and broken chain had been like sudden announcement of that brother’s death, as if until now he had never realized that Andreas lay silent forever in San Gonnaro, bitter memories of their common boyhood arose to wound him: the generous worship of Andreas toward his elder, their great hunts together--at home in Hungary.

Ludovic bowed his head. He thought of Konrad of Gottif’s hot arrival in Buda, of his account of Andreas’s death and fierce denunciation of Giovanna, his mother’s tearless face as she had said to him, “Go ye and slay this woman.”

But it was so easy to forget--the present was so strong. He had forgotten; forgotten those vows in Buda, forgotten his own dead, forgotten those waiting at home.

Yet even now, with awakened remorse and grief in his heart, he was convinced that his judgment had been mistaken in pronouncing Giovanna innocent--neither Sancia’s passion, Maria’s calm nor the lock of hair had convinced him of that.

He tortured himself with doubts into a misery of hesitation. He could form no resolutions out of his tangled emotions. His strongest feeling grew to be a great dread and horror of meeting the Queen.

As the hour in which he had promised to meet her drew nearer, that fear of her grew. He could not look into her face until he had decided--he could not speak to her until he knew.

He wished Maria had goaded him. He would be the instrument, not the judge. His blood was cold toward Giovanna. Let some one fire it, and he might act, but in this spirit of sick wonder he could do nothing.

He rose from the steps of his bed and paced to and fro. He pictured Giovanna waiting for him. He pictured Maria watching for him to act, until his thoughts grew past bearing.

Then Sancia occurred to him--whether she lied or not, she knew something. He thought he could manage Sancia, and came at last to this resolve--to find her and question her, to nerve himself with her invective against the Queen.

When he left his room, he found that it was later in the day than he had imagined. He reflected that several hours had passed since Sancia had spoken to him, and that he had dallied with the situation longer than he had intended.

The antechambers were full of his people, idly amusing themselves.

He reprimanded them curtly for their careless lounging, and left a hush behind him as he passed them. They knew he was not always the mere gay knight Naples had known--he could be terrible.

In the library of the old King Roberto, hardly used in the Queen’s reign, Ludovic had first met Sancia alone.

She was dreaming over a book in French, “La Cité des Dames,” and he had come to look for a volume on falconry Luigi of Taranto had told him of.

Since then they had often met there, and about this hour. She might be there to-day.

With this thought in his mind, Ludovic ascended to the first floor of the tower and entered the library.

It was a large, low room, with narrow windows of painted glass behind a trellis of ironwork. The ceiling was of cypress work, painted in silver with the arms of Anjou; the walls of carved oak, against which were arranged the books in long, gilded shelves. A great silver lamp hung from the ceiling, and thirty branching candlesticks, decorated with knobs of lapis-lazuli, were fixed to the wall. In the time of the old King, these had been alight day and night, but in the court of Giovanna there was no one to save the lamps of learning from extinction.

Ludovic closed the door behind him.

Sancia was there, seated under the window in the massive reader’s chair, carved with flowers and monsters, and cushioned in dull purple velvet. She looked up. Her white dress and her shining hair were tempered to dull gold by the light pouring through the thick, colored glass behind her. The book she held in her hand slid to the ground.

She did not speak, and Ludovic was also silent. The still atmosphere of the place, the silence redolent of peace and wisdom was over them.

Then Sancia said brokenly:

“I did not think you would come to-day, or I should not be here.”

Ludovic picked up her book. It was an “Horæ,” and the open pages glittered with saints. He put it back on the shelves, then turned and looked at her.

“Sancia,” he said gravely, in a very low voice, “you must tell me what you know--about the Queen.”

She set her small hands on the smooth heads of the snarling dragons of her chair and clenched them there, tightly.

“I have told enough,” she answered faintly. “God forgive me.”

The silence fell again, and with it that sense of perfume of peace, the accompaniment of beautiful books, that, even when dumb, breathe of calm and wisdom. Then she said, in a voice that hardly stirred the air:

“I am going home to Padua.”

Ludovic stood leaning against the shelves, dyed gold from head to foot by the sun shining through the regal quarterings on the window.

“Did ye, then, lie to me?” he asked breathlessly.

She leaned forward in her chair and stared at him. “Nay, I did not lie.”

With the lifting of her eyes to his, something of the restraint between them vanished.

“Sancia,” he said slowly, and came toward her. “Forgive me, sweet--my sweet.”

She rose, and put out her hand as a barrier between them.

“I am going home,” was all her answer.

He stood the length of her arm away from her.

“So easily?” he questioned. “And without answering me?”

Her hand dropped, and hung against the lilies on her dress.

“I will say no word against the Queen,” she said.

“Why did you speak this morning?” he asked.

She was silent a little while, and Ludovic watched the sand running through an hour-glass that stood on the window-sill.

“I think you know,” she said at last. “All my life I shall repent it--and”--sudden passion touched her cold speech like a flame springing from ashes--“that ever I looked tenderly on your face, my liege!”

He flushed to the eyes, but answered her proudly:

“Whether ye hate me or no--answer me about the Queen.”

She looked at him with intense expression in her eyes. It seemed to him pity, and it wounded him sorely--the color burned more hotly in his swarthy face.

“Nay,” he said, setting his teeth. “I shall think ye spoke slander this morning.”

“The Queen!” answered Sancia wildly. “Why do ye think of her, when Maria----”

“What of Maria?” he demanded.

“I had not meant to tell you,” breathed Sancia. “But she--is gone!”

“Gone?”

Sancia shrank away from his fierce glance.

“She could not face it--the Dwarf saw them go.”

When Ludovic spoke again his soft voice was rough. “Who went with her?”

“Carlo di Durazzo,” whispered Sancia.

“Has that fool put this slight on me?” cried Ludovic. “Truly you have made me your sport, you in Naples!”

A bitter silence reigned. Sancia looked at the King’s haggard face with wide, yearning eyes. The golden light, changing, lay over the Spanish leather on the floor, the rich covers of the book, and sparkled in the silver lamp.

“Could not face it?” said Ludovic suddenly. “What could she not face?”

“Your dealing with Giovanna,” answered Sancia.

So Maria had felt as he had felt, dreaded what he had dreaded…

“What do ye think I shall do with the Queen?” he demanded hoarsely.

Sancia shuddered.

“I--I--do not know--do not come to me for help.”

There was the sound of her gown as she moved toward the door, the accusing look of her lovely face in the beautiful gloom; then the latch had lifted and fallen again--he was alone.

She had evaded him as they all evaded him. He alone must decide----

Decide! He thought of the mockery Maria’s flight would throw on him, and his first resolve was to run Carlo through, then that fell to chaos, and his one thought was Giovanna--Giovanna…

He flung himself in the chair Sancia had sat in, putting off facing the shame and scandal of his betrothed’s flight--blown abroad by now, perhaps, over the whole palace--and then--the Queen, waiting for him…

He thrust these things away from him. His sick head fell forward in his hands. He saw, through a mist of pain, the titles of the books on the even shelves, the undisturbed dust lying over them; the lilies of Anjou stamped on wood and leather. The quiet was broken by the opening of the heavy door, and the flash of a page’s scarlet dress.

The King looked up, frowning.

The boy went on his knee.

“The Lord Konrad of Gottif is here, my liege,” he said, “and importunate to speak with you.”

The King stared. He had thought Konrad in Hungary. Then he remembered the galley from home.

“He arrived last night?”

“Yes, my liege.”

“Bring him here,” said Ludovic somberly.

The page slipped through the darkness of the open door. The King sat frowning, staring on the ground.

He heard Konrad enter and the latch slip back into place. He knew the other was waiting, and for a space he kept him so, and would not look up.

Then he raised his eyes, and said curtly:

“Had ye my commands to return here?”

Konrad of Gottif flung back the green brocaded mantle that hung over his armor, and the mail rung pleasantly.

“God wot, King Ludovic, I had no commands of ye,” he said easily. “Your people sent me, and for them I stand here now.”

He came farther into the room. He was completely armed, save for his head, and that he had but just removed his helmet was seen by his heavy hair pressed into the line of the basnet.

“Ye ride well armed,” said the King curtly, aware of the difference in his own attire--the silk houppeland to the ground, fastened round the waist with gold, the velvet shoes, and the fine chains about his neck.

“I find the streets of Naples dangerous,” answered Konrad. His black eyes dwelt on the King steadily. “There are those at home, my liege, think them too dangerous for you.”

“There are those at home whom I will hang for meddling varlets,” flashed Ludovic. “Have ye made yourself the spokesman of such, Konrad of Gottif?” He rose and pushed back his chair. Above his high ermine collar his face showed pale and set in angry lines.

“I am the spokesman of your people and your mother,” said Konrad. “For those--and for King Andreas, lying in his bloody grave a bowshot from where ye dally with his vengeance.”

“I have avenged my brother,” answered the King quickly.

“No!” cried Konrad. “The Queen still lives!”

The two men looked at each other.

“I know not why I take this from ye,” said Ludovic. “Little do I care what they say of me at home--yet let not these impertinences reach too high, lest I return--over-suddenly.”

Konrad of Gottif folded his arms across his breast.

“Still ye do not answer me, Lord of Hungary. I say the woman, Giovanna of Naples, still lives.”

“And I say--ye are not her judge,” replied Ludovic hotly.

“Yet I stand for justice--is it for you to palter with the truth? From autumn till the spring have ye stayed here in idleness. I do think Christendom will smile to see such as ye beguiled by such as she.”

The King gave him a ghastly look.

“Come,” he said hoarsely. “Put it more plainly--ye think I have been fooled, cajoled--ye think this little cousin of mine--” he paused--“murdered my brother?” he finished.

“I believe it,” was the answer. “And so they think in Hungary.”

The King caught hold of the bookcase.

“Mother of God, if it should be so!”

Konrad of Gottif spoke quietly:

“It is so.”

Ludovic stood silent, looking down; his brow gathered into lines of pain, his right hand grasping the embossed back of “Les Trois Vertu,” his left hanging by his side, and the dusty gold light touching the silk and fur of his robe, the jewels round his throat and on his fingers.

Konrad of Gottif moved nearer. His breath began to come quickly.

“Even now,” he said in an intense tone, “as I rode through Naples, I saw them fortifying the Castel di Duras--they told me Maria d’Anjou was within, and that her cousin would hold her against the world. Shall Hungary take that insult? Shall she, also, laugh at you? Shall that fool Carlo prove himself the better man? Oh, Hungary, Hungary, up and act! Shake Naples about their heads--bring this woman to punishment--show them we breed no puppet kings--no hesitating men!”

The King looked up with a flushed face.

“What do ye goad me to?” he asked thickly.

“The man’s part,” breathed Konrad. “Take your sword and go to her--in the name of God, of Andreas, and of Hungary!”

Ludovic sat down in the massive chair.

“’Tis a woman,” he muttered.

“The fouler was the deed--would ye soften murder because a woman’s hand wrought it?”

Ludovic raised tortured eyes.

“’Tis a woman I have kissed,” he said. “And she--looks to me--and--oh, that is all of it,” he finished passionately. “’Tis a woman I have kissed!”

In the silence was the clink of Konrad’s armor as he moved slightly, then his voice:

“Still ye will deal judgment on her none the less because of--kisses.”

“Do ye _know_ she is guilty?” demanded Ludovic.

“You know it,” was the answer.

It was true. In his soul he knew it now. Thinking on all the evidence against her--of Maria, of Sancia, he saw her guilt and his folly. Yet, though the thought of Andreas’s foul death shook him with fury, he could not associate Giovanna with her crime--remembering her, he strove to silence the accusation in his heart.

“I am waiting,” said Konrad of Gottif.

“For what?” asked Ludovic.

“For your decision, my liege.”

Ludovic sat up in his chair. He trembled exceedingly.

“If she is guilty----”

“I say she is--guilty of her husband’s death, guilty of Raymond de Cabane’s death, guilty of lies innumerable----”

“Then, if she cannot answer me when I accuse her of these things, I will shake her from her throne as I placed her on it----”

“And nothing more?”

Ludovic rose.

“If ye mean what I think ye mean,” he said hoarsely.

“I mean ye vowed in Buda to slay this woman----”

“Then I did not know myself--or her--if she was twice damned with blood, I could not do it----”

“Ye shall,” said Konrad of Gottif through set teeth, “or deliver her to some more dishonorable death--a death like his--over the balcony of Aversa!”

The King faced him fiercely.

“I say I cannot do it. Do you know how we parted--last night, only last night? And to-day I am to go to her--and murder her?”

“So--is this foreign woman more to ye than your blood--your own land?”

Ludovic steadied himself against the wall. “They have all been in league to deceive me,” he said brokenly. “This morning I heard--for the first time--Maria was too cold, too silent--but let it pass----”

Konrad of Gottif’s voice filled the pause with quiet weight:

“Remember what ye vowed in Buda!”

Ludovic clenched his hand against the bookcase.

“Peace of what I vowed in Buda!” he cried. “Have I not said--I am not convinced?”

Konrad flung up his head. “Will you go to her--will you accuse her to her face? And if she braves it out, ye must see her guilt then--come, will you do this?”

“And what then--what if I do?” breathed the King. “What if I see her, speak to her, and know this horror true--man, ye goad me past bearing. What then, I say?”

“What then? Ye ask me what then? Ye who are his brother, and wear a sword--ye could face her and know her guilty, and wonder what to do?” He struck his hand down on the great weapon he wore as he spoke, and his brows scowled heavily. “By God’s Heaven, if the King hesitates, there is one from Hungary will not! I, even I, will strike down at sight the cold wanton who slew my young lord Andreas!”

With the last words, his voice fell to softness. Ludovic looked up at him and the color rose into his haggard face.

“Ye always loved him,” he said.

Konrad of Gottif was silent, but his breast heaved under the shining armor, and his hand tightened convulsively on his sword hilt.

“Let her go,” continued the King. “I--I would not see her again. Let her be banished to Naples--let God decide----”

“A coward’s decision, Ludovic of Hungary! Let the sword decide!”

“My God!” answered the King thickly. “Ye forget your station.”

“And you yours,” said Konrad of Gottif bitterly. “But ye are one for the women to manage--a man might speak to ye in vain, while ye would respond to the flutter of a lady’s hand. I--I--have not moved ye?”

There was a soft sound of silk as the King stirred in his place.

“No!” he answered sternly.

The other smiled sourly.

“Mind ye of a little princess at your mother’s court who once had some influence with ye?”

Ludovic stared at him.

“She crossed the seas with me,” continued Konrad grimly. “By your mother’s desire--to move ye if I failed.” He turned toward the door. “Shall she come in?”

“Carola of Bohemia!” cried Ludovic. “Carola of Bohemia here?”

Konrad’s bitter smile deepened as he marked the success of his last move. The change in the King’s voice and face, his half movement from the wall.

“Come,” he said quietly. “We will see if we of Hungary cannot set a woman against the Neapolitan enchantress.”

The King put his hand to his ermine collar and drew himself up, as if he would make some motion to stay the other, but Konrad of Gottif had opened the door.

“Princess!” he said.

A light footstep sounded without. In a second she was within the room, and Konrad had closed the door behind her. She wore a heavy traveling mantle, the hood pushed back from her black hair, and clasped with a great emerald at the base of her white throat. She looked at the King with eyes as dark as his own. The rich color of her lips and cheeks had faded, and she trembled exceedingly.

Ludovic glanced from her to Konrad.

“You put some fine tricks upon me,” he said hotly.

Carola of Bohemia crossed the room and went on her knees by the King’s side and took his hand. “Ludovic!” she said. “You will deal with this Queen, and you will return, Ludovic--for Andreas, for Hungary--home?”

He strove to free his hand, to raise her up. The sudden sight of her face made him weak before her. She would not loose her hold on him. She spoke again, low, insistent:

“For the sake of the time we danced and sang and laughed in Buda--we three. The time when you loved me a little, Ludovic! For the sake of his mother, who cannot sleep thinking of him--alone--alone in his grave! For the sake of the people who wait for you in Hungary--for the glory of the eagles--for--for----”

She broke off abruptly, and rose in front of the bookcase. She looked at Ludovic and he at her. The golden light glittered over her plain attire and burned a green flame in the jewel at her throat.

“You will do it?” said Carola of Bohemia. “I have always known you were--magnificent! You will do this--magnificently!”

The King, looking at her steadily, with gleaming eyes, held out his hand, but before he could speak----

“Hush!” said Konrad of Gottif, and the door opened.

Carola put her hand in his. It was a page in Giovanna’s livery who entered.

“The Queen bid me say she waits,” he said to the King. “And the matters will not brook delay.”

Ludovic of Hungary, still looking at the woman whose hand he held, answered:

“Tell her I come.”