Chapter TWENTY-NINE: The Battle in the Streets

/The/ great engines of war, dragged by straining men and horses, the companies of heavy cavalry, blocked the streets about the Castel del Nuovo. The drawbridge was up and above the high outer wall. The gleam of the armed warders and the fine line of their spears might be seen as they moved to and fro. At the side rose the high bastions that enclosed the palace gardens, and over them waved the poplar trees, reflected in the moat below.

All was crowned by the standard of Anjou, floating against the cloudless blue from the highest watch tower in a flutter of gold and white.

Ludovic of Hungary, pressing forward, raised his visor and eagerly scanned the enemy’s ramparts. He had not brought his men as far as this unopposed. The populace had striven, with the rude weapons of a mob, to drive them back, and some of the nobles had made sorties upon them as they passed; but overwhelmingly strong in numbers and arms, the Hungarians had fought their way to the heart of the city with little loss.

Ludovic gazed at the castle where he had spent those months of pleasant idleness, Giovanna’s fool, and Maria’s scorn, the suitor of a tirewoman, and the dupe of a court of knaves. His blood was up. He vowed to bring it level with the ground, stone by stone, and hang Luigi of Taranto over the ruins.

There was nothing now to come between Naples and his wrath. He would lay it waste from end to end, sparing none. That great mysterious darkness which the astrologers had declared a portent of disaster, had passed from his mind. With the show of battle round him, it was not possible for him to be anything but elated. Splendid with his weapons, his horse, his swift victories over the Turks had won him the name of “The Triumphant” even in his early youth. The thought of these days came to him now, and nothing was good in his sight but the clangor of arms and the unfaltering decision of the sword.

With a company of knights, he rode up to the great gates that guarded the moat, and turning in his saddle, looked at his host gathered in the Grand Palazzo.

As some relief from the insupportable heat of the blazing sun on the plate armor, the gentlemen wore surcoats, mantles, and lambrequins of cloth, silk, and even fur, while their followers, the footmen, wore on their breasts the badge of their masters. So the whole army was a mass of color, like a vast mosaic, upon which the sun glittered from a purple sky, showing crests, banners, the smooth shapes of horses, while, brown and black between their studded harness, the rude carriages and monstrous shapes of the catapults and mortars, the bright tufts of the arrowheads in their quivers on the backs of the bowmen, and on all that array of scarlet and silver, embroidery and feathers learned by Hungary from the East and at once fierce and splendid.

The drawbridge gates were unguarded, and the castle made no sign when the Hungarian cavalry took them at a gallop, and the engineers, under the shouted commands of the King, began to span the moat with scaling ladders, while some of the horsemen urged their steeds to swim the dark water.

Without any opposition the ladders were grappled to the masonry of the bastions, and the footmen swarmed across, a chain of eager figures. Then from the quiet ramparts descended a stream of living fire, boiling water, and hot stones, while from every loophole flew an arrow.

Men and ladders fell into the moat. Shrieks and groans rose from the invaders, and from the warders on the battlements cries of triumph. A great movement swept through the gathered army. The mortars, belching flame and turned full on the stubborn walls; fresh ladders were thrown across; regardless of those writhing in the water, others flung themselves against the castle, hurling fuses of gunpowder into the interstices of the stone. Arrows and missiles came in a second volley; the moat began to be full of struggling men and horses; they could not get the battering rams near enough to use them. Konrad of Gottif yelled with rage to see his men hurled like flies off the walls. Among the seething confusion, he next to the King was noticeable, spurring his horse to and fro.

Then there arose a great shout from the rear. A party of horsemen, bearing the lilies of Anjou as their device had rushed up one of the narrow streets and were attacking the Hungarians.

At that the castle was abandoned, and Ludovic flung himself on the new enemy. They were too near to use the arrows, so it became a hand-to-hand fight between the knights and lancers.

The leader of the Italians, calling on “Santa Maria,” came at Ludovic and his band of knights, spears shivered against the uplifted shields, crests were lopped off, mantles and surcoats rent; more than one man fell swooning from his horse, vanquished by the weight of his armor and the heat beating on his helm.

Many, too, were unhorsed in attempting to wheel round their cumbersome chargers to meet the unlooked-for attack, and Hungarians trampled their fellows down as they fell on the enemy.

From the ramparts the garrison of the castle watched, standing by the fires, where water and stones were heated in readiness for the next attack. For an hour the lilies strove with the eagles, and neither side gave way, though the dead became numerous and the living faint.

It was now full noon and the heat intolerable. Ludovic struggled in a great press of knights, and the leader of the Italians strove to get at him through the enclosing spears.

Henryk of Belgrade dropped from his horse with a spear thrust between the rivets of his armor. A companion of the King, unlacing his helmet for air, had his head swept off at the bare throat, and his blood scattered over Ludovic’s white horse.

The King ground his teeth and swung up his sword. “At the King!” shouted the Italian to his men, and he pointed with his gold gauntlet to Ludovic, conspicuous by the crown studded with gems on his helmet and the peacock feathers rising high above it. The Hungarians again rallied, again fell back, yet stubbornly, and Ludovic’s clear voice, strained by a very fury of fighting, urged them on.

Then there was a quick sound of grinding chains, the new thunder of hoofs, a fresh battle cry.

“St. Luigi for Anjou!”

And Luigi of Taranto, at the head of his men, made a sally over the lowered drawbridge into the heart of the mêlée.

Wild cries of joy rose from the Italians; the Hungarians, hemmed in on each side, turned at bay, intrepid, without a sound.

Like the huge waves, foaming with the glitter of metal, they met, retreated with the sheer shock of the encounter, met again and grappled.

At last Ludovic found himself face to face with the knight who had brought up the Italians. He did not know who he was. His inlaid armor was dented, his crest gone, his surcoat torn to rags. Through the slit of his helmet his eyes flashed wrath, and Ludovic struck at him, hating him exceedingly. The weapon caught the shield and sparks flew; the King’s horse backed; the other swung his battle-ax; Ludovic caught it on his vambrace and winced with pain. His opponent shouted, came at him with the sword and cut the silken eagles from his breast. The King, transported with rage, brought down his weapon on the other’s helm.

The knight swayed for a moment, then gave a great groan. Ludovic, rising in his stirrups, felled him with his battle-ax.

“Who are you?” he shouted, and leaning forward, he caught the falling man by the throat and forced up his visor.

The smooth features, stained and pallid now, of Carlo di Durazzo were revealed.

“You!” cried Ludovic. “You bought your last follies dear!”

And with that he gave him the “coup de grace” with his studded mace and sent him with a split head backward into the moat, where the gold armor glittered for a moment in the dark water before the waves, thick with blood, closed over what had been Carlo di Durazzo, Duke di Duras, prince of the blood of Anjou, cousin to the Queen, light cavalier, shallow idler, and for a week husband of Maria d’Anjou, and a courageous knight, showing something of the Charles Martel blood in him, after all his softness.

Ludovic, swinging the wet mace, galloped among his men.

“The Duke di Duras is dead!” he shouted. “Up, Hungary. Serve his cousin of Taranto so!”

A groan rose from the Italians. One had seen the Duke slain and rushed to Luigi of Taranto with the news, and even that Prince could not repress a sound of wrath and sorrow. More than a young knight had fallen. The man who held Maria’s lands, his greatest folly, had died heirless, leaving confusion.

The personal followers of Carlo now fell back disheartened, nor could the Prince of Taranto urge them on. The Hungarians, seeing their advantage, pressed it. The Italians began to yield. Luigi, fearful for the castle, tried to make for the drawbridge, which he had commanded to be left down in case of retreat; but the enemy intercepted him with shouts of “Seize the bridge!”

A wild struggle ensued on the edge of the moat. The few men left in the castle and the women rushed onto the ramparts and hurled down stones and steaming water, but their missiles fell on friends as well as enemies, and Luigi of Taranto, his arm half broken by a paving stone flung by one of his own masons, shouted to them to desist. Above the sounds of battle his voice was not heard, and arrows, fire, and boiling water continued to fall on the struggling mass below.

The Prince of Taranto, holding back his curses to save his breath, but white with passion to think that he had ever left the castle, gripping his reins in his maimed right arm and wielding his sword with his left, strove, as valiantly as a man may, to hold the bridge against the rush of the Hungarians.

But Ludovic, exalted by the death of Carlo and the breaking of his ranks which followed, cheered on his men to gigantic exertions. Horse and foot went down before the Hungarian cavalry. The bowmen slipped in the blood of the knights; many were flung backward into the moat. One company of lances broke and fled.

Luigi of Taranto shouted to those within the castle to raise the drawbridge, but they did not understand, and it never occurred to them to cut off the sole retreat of the Italians. But Luigi was thinking of the Queen and the treasure. If he could save them he would gladly lose any man he possessed. Now the spirit of fury, of revenge, rose higher in the ranks of Hungary. Konrad of Gottif had whispered “Andreas!” and the name shuddered from knight to knight.

Imprecations on the witch, the devil, who had slain their prince, mingled with their war cries: “Andreas! Andreas!”

And Luigi of Taranto was beaten back. Konrad of Gottif struck his horse down. On foot among the slain, he tried to rally his men, shouting out that the Queen was within unprotected. But her name had no power to stir them. One even fled, saying:

“I fight no more for the devil!”

With thunderous yells of triumph, the Hungarians swept up to the drawbridge. The King, spurring the white horse over the dead, was galloping through when the Prince of Taranto, still surrounded by a circle of faithful swords, leaped forward and seized the blood-stained bridle.

“Not while I live!” he said.

Ludovic looked down at him.

“Ah, cousin,” he said, his visor was up and his hazel eyes danced merrily, “you play the losing game!”

But Luigi of Taranto, with all his great strength, was holding back the horse. He began to speak when Konrad of Gottif struck at him with his battle-ax. A shriek arose from both Italian and Hungarian as the Prince of Taranto fell back fainting among his little knot of men, and the white charger plunged across the drawbridge, while a great wail rose from the women on the ramparts when they saw the peacock plumes glitter under the archway of the courtyard.

The mere handful who opposed them were struck down at once in their furious onslaught. In the courtyard the knights flung themselves from their horses and came running into the palace, sword in hand. The desperate last bowshots wounded a few, but could not stop them. The pages and grooms in the outer chambers were quickly overcome. Headlong, with Ludovic before them, they rushed into the banqueting hall.

And there they paused and ceased from their shouting for the Queen.

For she stood under the dais at the far wall, facing them.

Her hands were out against the woodwork either side of her, head raised so that they could clearly see the hollow lines of her cheeks and the sweep of her long throat. Her ermine côtehardie was all unbuttoned over the yellow silk as if she had stifled in the heat or torn it in fright, her lips were strained, her eyes shadowed underneath; but she looked at them dauntlessly, and they saw she had a great sword fastened to her side. “Ah!” she said. “Hungary! Ludovic of Hungary! Come ye this time in love or war?” The light flickered down moving swords.

Ludovic made a step forward, then reeled back. “Make her prisoner,” he said. “I am sick from the sun.”