Chapter THIRTY: The Chamber of the Scarlet Tapestry

/The/ sun that had beaten down all day on the desolate streets of Naples was now fading in violet and rose-hued clouds above the vast glittering bay.

For twenty-four hours there had been a truce between Italy and Hungary, but the spirit of the splendid capital was broken. The Queen was a prisoner, Luigi of Taranto, holding the Castel del Durazzo with a mere handful of men; Carlo di Duras, always the favorite of the crowd, slain; and a foreign army, flushed with success, quartered in their midst. During the great darkness the fire had destroyed a large portion of the city, other dwellings had been sacked by the Hungarians, and the streets were full of dead and homeless. Appeals were made to the Legate, who had allied himself with the Queen’s husband, but he was helpless before an enemy that did not tremble at the name of Avignon. So all was chaos, misery, and confusion. The splendid town, with the unburied dead in its beautiful villas, and the ruined wandering helplessly in its fair gardens, seemed to be accursed, even as the astrologers had foretold from the great darkness.

And all men looked to Ludovic of Hungary.

He had taken up his residence in the Palazzo del Obo, the town dwelling of the noble family of Perlucchi, who had abandoned it to flee to their fortress without the walls, and all day had heard deputations from the Legate, from the people, from the Prince of Taranto; all admitting this--that he was master of the Kingdom of Naples.

Now, in the cool of the day, he sat alone and stared through the great windows at the wretched city.

His mood was not one of exaltation or triumph. He had no pride in his position; rather did he feel unsatisfied and conscious of a certain ghastliness in the grandeur about him, a certain horror in the means by which he had obtained his victory.

Too often for his ease did he picture Carlo’s gold armor sinking beneath the slime of the moat and Giovanna’s mad face as they brought her to the Castel del Obo.

He was the conqueror. He held Naples and would hold it. Christendom had no longer cause to laugh at him, and even his mother could not ask for more blood than this to avenge Andreas, yet his soul was troubled and bitter.

And he had yet to deal with the Queen.

The room in which he sat was a magnificent chamber of white and black marble, lofty, spacious, and hung with red and gold tapestries. From the ceiling hung a gilt and crystal lamp. Rich Eastern embroideries, looped back from the tall windows, admitted the evening air. In the center of the room was a table of colored mosaic heaped with documents, armor, and weapons. To Ludovic the place was strangely familiar and strangely distasteful, though it was utterly unknown to him and utterly splendid.

The Persian carpets on the tessellated floor, the painted ceiling, the carved and gorgeous furniture, seemed to him, in an unaccountable manner, like the setting for some ghastly and awful dream.

The tapestries were worked with unicorns and monsters supporting the arms of the Perlucchi family, and as the silk flapped in the breeze, the gold threads sparkled as if they took life. Ludovic went to the table, struggling with that feeling of oppression, apprehension, and seated himself in the somber splendors of a vast cushioned chair. It was feverishly hot and very silent. The sense that the usual life of the city had stopped utterly, increased the King’s sense of dread. He watched the sky flaring into the mercilessly brazen purple of the stifling Italian night, and he thought of the dead lying in the streets and the living sleeping among them, of the dismantled castle and the ruined gardens.

The horror of destruction, the bitterness of roofless homes, of weed-grown hearths and broken stairways, of dusty bedchambers, of statues flung down and bramble-grown moats, made him shudder. What horror is like the horror of desolation? Life is in itself so beautiful that no sin is black enough, no misery deep enough, utterly to destroy the joy of it. The end of life is the one hideous thing, the falling into decay of the fair things it made for itself the one thing unbearable. So Ludovic thought, sitting alone in his stolen palace overlooking the slain city.

What did it matter that the Queen was a murderess and the court a set of knaves, so long as the people would sing and dance, work and be merry? He would have had it now as it was when he first came to Naples… Judgment!--who was he or any of them to sit in judgment? Let them live and, if they would, laugh--it was all God asked of them.

Through the sultry dusk a little song rose, chanted to the strumming notes of a theorbo. Very distinctly Ludovic could hear the words:

We brought her to his father’s door-- Ilaria! He rode behind and I before, He loved her well, I loved her more. Oh, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

The King went to the window and looked out, leaning from the marble sill. Down in the white of the garden walks and the deep green of the foliage he could see the dwarf with a shining striped theorbo in his hands, and at his feet a girl wrapped in a crimson shawl.

The wedding feast was richly spread, Ilaria! I wove the chaplet for her head, Of snowy roses mixed with red, Oh, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

Thrum, thrum went the theorbo, and such light as was left in the heavens gathered itself into great stars. Ludovic put his hands over his eyes. On a faster note came the next verse:

He who would fly must aspire, Ilaria! I saw my goblet filled with fire, And drunk it to my heart’s desire, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

Thrum, thrum, and a circle of fireflies rose about the laurels. Ludovic moved from the window and began walking up and down the room; still he could not escape the song:

She leant from out her carved chair, Ilaria! I saw it glitter in her hair, A dagger in a silken snare-- Oh, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

In her room we kissed farewell, Ilaria! What she said I cannot tell, I heard the convent’s bitter bell, Oh, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

The sound of the theorbo stopped. A little laughter and a pause, while the singer bent over a snapped string; then the girl’s voice taking up the tune:

What I said I do not know, Ilaria! Against her cheek my cheek did glow, He softly came and found us so, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

The softer sob of the viol rose, and the sound of the clanking armor of soldiers gathered round to hear the sweet Italian melody. Ludovic, pacing to and fro in the magnificent black and white chamber, could not choose but listen also.

“Since ye two love”--he raised his head, Ilaria! “God wot that I might strike you dead, But I have other ways,” he said, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

I fought as well as well might be, Ilaria! But his men were forty-three; Against the wall they pinioned me, Oh, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

Ludovic sat down by the table and rang a gold hand bell, and watched while the crystal lamp was lit.

Her sweet hands, white and small, Ilaria! They held with mine against the wall; Without I heard the revelers call, “Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!”

Zither, theorbo, and viol rose together:

He took his dagger from his thigh, Ilaria! I heard her give a little sigh, And prayed to God to let her die-- Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

Ludovic looked at the golden monsters on the scarlet tapestry, flapping on the black and white walls, and hated the place, shuddering in himself.

He thrust our two hands through, Ilaria! So hang ye in the public view That all may know this thing is true, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

A little savage, exulting laugh broke the song, then the wail of the viol.

So pinned my hand to her soft palm, Ilaria! I felt the blood run down my arm, But her face was still and calm, Oh, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

The King turned heavily to the squire. “Bring my barons to me here, and--the Queen.”

He set her gently on my knee, Ilaria! Now do you look most lovingly And I will call the town to see, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

Now will I shame your wanton face, Ilaria! And bring your kinsfolk to this place: That they may see their own disgrace, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

The squire had left the room. Ludovic paced up and down, up and down under the shining lamp, while over the miserable city rose the dwarf’s song with its strumming melody:

And then he left us to our woe, Ilaria! I cursed him as I saw him go, Pray that death be swift and he be slow, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

Now the girl’s voice rose, intense and delicate:

Round my neck her free arm slid, Ilaria! “A dagger in my hair is hid, A weapon in my curls amid--” Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

Ere this devil comes again, Ilaria! You be free and I be slain, Fear not for my sudden pain-- Oh, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

Up and down paced Ludovic of Hungary, up and down with troubled thoughts.

So, her mouth unto my ear, Ilaria! “What is it that I fear? Save that they should find me here?” Oh, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

I cut my fingers from the wall, Ilaria! And for fear the blood should fall, Swathed them in her silken shawl, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

In lower notes the girl and the viol sang:

Leave no blood drops on the floor, Ilaria! Creep without my chamber door So he can taunt no more, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

When he comes I shall have died, Ilaria! My brethren will say he lied, Swift as the wind to Milan ride, Oh, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

The dwarf and the theorbo took it up:

Yet alone I cannot go, Ilaria! By God, I will not leave thee so, To make his rabble lords a show, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

The viol again rose sobbing:

Alas, my love, ye cannot free Ilaria! For he hath thrust most skilfully, And by the palm fastened me, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

Straightway in the gloom we kissed Ilaria! My dagger rose and smote her wrist, I saw her body writhe and twist, Oh, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

“Oh, love,” she said, “the anguish sore,” Ilaria!… I lifted her from off the floor, She never spoke or kissed me more, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria.

The King sank down in his old place by the table. He heard approaching footsteps.

Then for her sake I went away, Ilaria! And rode all night and rode all day, Too dead at heart to curse or pray, Oh, Beppo’s bride, Ilaria!

I raised my standard through the land, Ilaria! I swore by her dear severed hand His cursed castle should not stand, Oh, Beppo’s wife, Ilaria!

The magnificent doors opened and the King’s splendid nobles entered. The stir they made in the chamber drowned the song, and the King roused himself to speak to them. Close behind them was the clatter of the guard.

“She comes!” said Konrad of Gottif.

“Who?” demanded Ludovic with a strange start.

“This woman who was queen, this Giovanna.”

Black and white, gold and scarlet, swirled for a moment before the King’s eyes, then his vision cleared to see her standing in the doorway with her guard either side.

Her ermine côtehardie was buttoned close to the throat, her hair neatly dressed, her hands tied together in front of her with a fine silk cord. Thinking of her in her palace, in the hunt, in the masque and the council, always regal, splendid, an extraordinary feeling caught his heart to see her a bound prisoner.

“Did I bid ye manacle her?” he demanded, and pushed the heavy black hair off his eyes.

“Good, my liege, she is dangerous with her hands,” answered Konrad of Gottif.

“Her little hands!” muttered Ludovic. He frowned at her guards, yet neither offered her a seat nor rose himself.

She was looking past him in an abstracted way at the square of sky shown in the high window, and the fine tendrils of her hair trembled on her hollow cheeks and cast shadows faintly on her long throat.

The King leaned from his chair. The lamplight cast depths of purple over his violet robe. His face showed clear cut, heavily outlined by the shadows.

“Giovanna!” he said.

She turned her face to him calmly.

“Ah, you,” she said, in that way she had of late, as if she recognized people with an effort and was perplexed at seeing them.

“Yes, I,” he answered. “What do you think I will do with you, Giovanna?”

“Why,” she said, “I suppose I am to die.” She smiled suddenly. “Do you see the bruise on my cheek, Ludovic, where you cast me down?” She turned her head round, showing a stain on the smooth flesh where the sharp line of her chin swept into her throat. “Where you kissed me when I was queen.”

He sprang up, his haggard face flushed painfully.

“Her mind is gone,” said one softly. “She speaks, not knowing what she says.”

The King spoke, standing by his chair and facing her.

“Madonna, I have heard from your husband.”

“My husband is in Santa Chiara,” she answered quickly.

“Not he, Madonna, but Luigi of Taranto, at the Palazzo di Durazzo.”

“My cousin Luigi,” murmured Giovanna, and her brows gathered in a bewildered manner.

“Yea,” answered Ludovic thickly, “and he still finds you worth somewhat. He will leave Naples and retire to Provence if I will give you back to him.”

In the pause that followed, he set his lips together, while he stared at her intently, and his barons glanced from one to another in silence.

Giovanna of Naples looked nowhere. Her great eyes were blank, her lips lightly parted. The insistent strum of the theorbo sounded without, and her little foot beat time to it.

“Giovanna!” he said at last. “I am going to send you to your husband.”

There was a movement among the men behind him. Ludovic, feeling it, half swung round upon them.

“Here I stand no interference!” he cried. “Good lords, this is a matter of mine.”

But Konrad of Gottif could not repress a bitter sneer. “So ye vowed--the sword shall decide. Is this how, Ludovic of Hungary?”

“Yea,” said the King gravely, “this is how.” He drew the slender weapon that he wore and came a little toward her. He remembered how she had kissed his sword once while he held it, two carnations of hers at his breast, and he trembled as he approached her.

“Hold out your hands,” he commanded. She obeyed with a little look of wonder, of patience. He severed the cords with the sword edge, and, as she shook her hands free, stepped back to his place. “Now you are free--get you to your second husband, my cousin,” he said heavily. “You,” he spoke to the captain of the guard, “see her there, and see this Prince on board the galley for Provence.”

A noble beside the King spoke: “Ye give him a vast advantage in her. Think ye he will be quiet in Provence?”

“God knows,” answered Ludovic wearily. “Let him reign or live--or die--in Provence. I care not.” He watched her as she turned slowly to the door, rubbing her wrists and looking at them with vacant eyes.

It seemed as if she would leave as she had come, with neither word nor action to express either fear or courage, remorse or effrontery. But quite suddenly she stopped, dropped her hands by her side, raised her head and looked at the King, not blankly now, but with eyes of intense meaning.

“Ludovic!” she said. “Ludovic!”

At the sound of her voice they all started as if another woman had entered and spoken while they were unawares.

Giovanna still gazed at the King, her whole face and body intent with some effort of her poor brain at recollection, expression. “I--want--to say something I did not think of.” She whispered, she put her hand to her forehead. The concentration in her eyes was painful. A sense of horror seemed to have curled her mouth and contracted her brows into the likeness of a tragic mask.

Then gradually this expression faded. Her hand fell heavily against her gown. She shook her head. “I have forgotten,” she murmured vaguely, and moved slowly away.

So she passed from them, the soldiers behind her, and not until the last echo of their footsteps had long died away, did any stir or speak. Then the nobles began to move.

“A hot night,” said one.

“Mass yes. Where shall we sup?”

Ludovic looked up at the speaker. “I? Here to-night. My head is wonderfully heavy.”

“Curse this Italian weather. It kills more men than a month’s warfare. And they say the next thing will be drought and famine!”

The King rose.

“Marko,” he said to the last speaker, “have you yet heard of the lady I asked you of, the Queen’s tirewoman?”

“Good liege, no. Somehow she escaped the palace when we sacked it. At least, I have questioned many, and none knows of her. ’Tis likely she would flee to Madonna Maria.”

Ludovic turned away.

“I shall call a council in the morning,” he announced abruptly. “It will be needful to win the legate--anon we will speak of it. Sirs, good-night.”

“My lord, good-night.”

They left the chamber, their mail clattering on the marble. As Konrad of Gottif passed him, the King spoke:

“Will you sup with me to-night?”

“I am too rough company, my lord--and too out of humor.”

Ludovic flushed and kept silence. When the last had gone, the very essence of silence prevailed in the vast room. The King sat very still, tracing with absorbed eyes the forms of the monstrous beasts on the scarlet tapestry.

Did they scorn him, his lords, for weak clemency? He told himself he was above their censure. Yet their silence, and Konrad of Gottif’s words, rankled in his heart. It was hot, ah, so hot. He loathed Italy and this chamber--what had ever happened in the Perlucchi Palace that he should hate it so? What was going to happen?

He longed intensely for the day, though the clypsidera fastened against the wall told him it was not yet eight in the evening.

Presently squires and pages entered with his supper, served with that rich elegance that had always been one of the charms to hold him to Italy. But to-night the splendor of the gilded silver and painted glass seemed foreign things.

He sent them all away, locked the door on them, and sat down by the table. The food he could not touch. He drank one glass of the fine red wine. Then some fancied sound caused him to start, and his violet sleeve caught the bottle and cast it on the marble. He sprang up, unaccountably agitated, and stared at the deep stains running over the black and white floor.

“What is the matter with me?” he asked himself, walking about. He wished now he had kept some company to pass the intolerable hours. Pausing, he stared at the door, picturing Giovanna passing out in the patience of forgetfulness; then he thought of Maria, waiting for Carlo--waiting, while the bloody slime of the moat tarnished the gold armor.

With an effort at composure, he crossed to the bedchamber adjoining the apartment. It opened by wide windows onto the street, and was filled with the shine of the moon and stars. Ludovic could discern the vast outlines of the bed, hung with armorial bearings, silver tassels glittering on the satin baldaquin.

With an imprecation on the heat, the King flung off his violet houppeland, and, with a sigh of relief, stretched himself in his undergarment of close mauve velvet, that was laced with black over his white shirt. The moonlight cast intense shadows about the room. Ludovic went to the window and looked out into the street. He could see the spears of his guards gleam as they walked to and fro outside the palace doors. For the rest, it was very quiet; so still that not even the trees quivered beneath the burning purple sky, throbbing with stars.

After awhile he left the window and crossed to the outer chamber to search for a light.

“What is the matter with me?” he said again, seeing how his hand was shaking.

Then he turned round, suddenly and quietly, as if some one had called him. Yet there was silence in the chamber.

In the doorway of the bedroom stood Sancia di Renato in a citron-colored gown.