Chapter SEVEN: The Queen Moves

Sancia di Renato, the Queen’s Paduan waiting-woman, held up a corner of the crimson canopy between her face and the sun. Her white dress was glowing in the rosy reflection as she laughed a whisper to one of the squires standing below her on the steps.

Before them were the clean, sanded lists, prepared for the jousts, with the snowy tents at either end flaunting emblazonments to the blue, the tiers of seats filled with a glittering throng of noble spectators, and, beyond, the red rope and the line of halberdiers that checked the surging crowd.

The Queen under her canopy, on her raised throne embroidered thickly with the Angevin lilies, made a gracious picture of slim fairness. As was her manner always, she bent forward slightly, stooping it seemed, yet gracefully and in a fashion well suited to her girlish slenderness. The stiff folds of her brocaded skirts swept from out the warm shadow that enveloped her and shone on the sunlit steps of her throne. There on the confines of her robe sat the dwarf in blatant scarlet. Couched there, too, was a long white hound wearing a gold collar.

Beside Giovanna her sister leaned on the arm of her chair, gorgeous, opulent in gold and green, but indifferent eyes beneath the chestnut brows and a tragic mouth behind the fluttering fan of peacock feathers.

To right and left were the ladies, whispering and laughing together, the pages, the Queen’s gentlemen, then the nobles in their velvet seats. These pageants had not been common in the old King’s time, and Giovanna’s violet eyes were eagerly noticing the signs of pleasure and approval in the gay crowd about her. She wanted their good-will--yea, down to the merest scullion breathing garlic there beyond the rope, she wanted them on her side in the coming struggle with her husband.

When she was crowned alone in Santa Chiara, she must have these people on her side. When Andreas of Hungary, despite justice and the King’s will, was thus flagrantly disregarded, he must evoke no sympathy. Naples must look to her--the Queen.

And so she gave them their jousts and tourneys, though Raymond de Cabane complained of the lavish expense, and she found it wearisome to sit for hours with the noise in her ears, the glare in her eyes, and the crown pressing unmercifully on her aching head.

She looked down curiously at Sancia’s smiling face. It was evident the fair Paduan did not find it wearisome.

“A ducat on the Prince of Taranto,” said Sancia. She swung a velvet purse tasseled in steel, and her blue eyes sparkled with merriment.

“Why many lay their money on _him_,” smiled the squire, “but Carlo di Durazzo goes a-begging----”

Sancia dropped the canopy, shutting out the squire. The Queen stirred in her heavy dress and rested her pointed chin in her hand. Her heart swelled to think how Andreas played into her hands by always absenting himself and his friends from these sports. He was forever hunting. The Italians did not love hunters.

A movement came through the crowd, a shout, a sudden flash of jewels from the stand as each turned his head in one direction. The halberdiers put back the people and with a blast of trumpets the petticoated heralds entered the lists.

They rode slowly round, then took up their stations at either end opposite the respective tents of their masters. One was in bronze and azure for Luigi of Taranto, the other in violet and noir for Carlo of Duras.

Now the knights themselves were coming. White necks were strained to catch the first glimpse of them, and the Queen’s stand shimmered with gauze and tissue coifs, bright locks and silk veils. First entered the Prince of Taranto on a white horse whose bronze and azure satin trappings left trails in the sand as they swept either side of him. Over his damescened Milan armor the Prince wore an ermine surtout and a great silk scarf of his colors. From the twisted wreath of blue and brown on his helm floated the graceful folds of the lambrequin, and above rose his emblem of a swan with a silver circlet round its neck. On his left arm was a huge painted shield that blazed with fifteen quarterings; his right supported the spear in its socket.

Cleopatra Perlucchi, Contessa di Montalto, led his horse. Her orange gown and gold twisted yellow hair blazed like one sheen in the sunlight. On her brow was a wreath of dark ivy leaves.

To the cheers of the crowd and the murmured applause of the stands she led him round the lists, while the tossing of the noble horse’s head caused her little hand to be pulled up and down on the studded reins. As they passed the Queen, Luigi of Taranto lowered his lance and the Contessa swept an obeisance, at which the charger shook his head free, and the people laughed.

The Prince reined in the impatient animal. Cleopatra di Perlucchi, smiling, but a little flushed, took the bridle again, and the two passed to their place in front of the bronze and azure herald.

The trumpets rose again, the shouting, far more lusty and far louder, proclaimed the next comer--a general favorite.

The ladies clapped their soft hands. Maria d’Anjou leaned a little forward, with the peacock fan shadowing her face, as Carlo of Duras entered the lists.

His armor was gilt from head to foot; his surtout was noir, the bluebells on white, his lambrequin violet, his crest, a red rose transfixed with an arrow sparkled in jewels on his helm. Leading his black horse was Guilia di Terliggi, the Conte Raymond’s sister. Her bold, dark-eyed beauty was clothed in vivid scarlet; in the waves of her somber hair glittered the gems of a chaplet.

At a quick pace they passed round. The breeze sweeping across from Pausillpo and scented with the orange groves of Sorrento blew back Guilia di Terliggi’s gown, showing the line of her figure, and ruffled the tassels on the chest of the great war horse. As they paused before the throne, Maria saw Carlo raise his visor and look up at her with adoring, ardent eyes. She smiled faintly and they passed on.

Now Raymond de Cabane, unarmed, in black velvet and wearing the Queen’s color, was galloping about arranging the order of the jousts, and fresh and less famous competitors were entering the lists. San Severino, in white and blue, his horse led by the Contessa da Morcane, Guilia di Terliggi’s sister; Bertrand d’Artois, a young noble from Provence; Lello d’Aquila, the Captain of the Florentine mercenaries; the Conte di Terliggi; and Bertrand des Beaux, grand seneschal of the Kingdom of Naples.

Then followed unknown knights who tilted without crests or arms, and refused to disclose their identity until they had tried their fate. The lists were now full; a mass of sparkling color and movement.

“Oh, the dust and the heat,” murmured Giovanna, but she dare not appear disinterested. Her white velvet gown stirred a little with her impatient movement, then she was still again.

Pages in the livery of the Queen ran forward and put up the wood and silk barriers down the center of the lists; the ladies who had led on the knights came up to their places by the Queen, escorted by the squires.

“Now--God wot,” said Cleopatra di Perlucchi, “my arm is near broken----”

“Would mine were--in such a manner!” cried Sancia. “I would give much to lead a knight round the lists.”

“Why--it is well enough,” said Guilia di Terliggi with sparkling eyes.

The Queen turned her pure-tinted, clear-cut face toward the speaker.

“When ’tis my cousin Carlo’s horse you lead?” she asked. She smiled, not pleasantly. “He should wear your favors, not my sister’s, at his breast.”

There was a flutter among the ladies. Guilia di Terliggi laughed magnificently.

“It begins,” said Giovanna. She leaned back in her chair and played with a rose she took from her bosom.

Cleopatra di Perlucchi whispered to her friend. “When she is on such ill terms with her own lord, she does well to remark on others!”

As Luigi of Taranto and Carlo of Durazzo now advanced, the others fell back and there was a hush.

Then the fierce thunder of galloping hoofs as each rode either side the barrier, the crash of meeting and breaking spears, and it was over.

The Prince of Taranto had splintered his rival’s weapon at the hand guard; he rode back to the acclaims of the crowd.

Then two more rode up, then again, and so through the sunny afternoon it was repeated with intervals for encounters on foot between the squires and the wrestling matches between the citizens.

Luigi of Taranto, having overthrown all his opponents, was the victor of the jousts, and there were many smiles and cheers from those who had put their money on his prowess, while the followers of the more popular Duke of Duras groaned and even hissed at their defeated champion.

It had come to the last bout; the sun was gilding the house tops and the cool of evening had begun to replace the hot ardors of the day.

A miniature tower built of wood and hung with velvet was placed in the center of the lists; a silk banner bearing a fanciful device waved above it, and it was garrisoned by ten of the Queen’s ladies.

Ten young gentlemen, unarmed and bareheaded, made an attempt to storm the castle, and the ladies defended themselves with showers of scented water, flowers, and sweetmeats, and little harmless gilded arrows that rose like an accompaniment to their laughter.

In the midst of this mimic warfare there ran round a rumor of an unknown knight having sent a challenge to Luigi of Taranto to tilt with him for the honor of the day. The Prince accepted, ’twas said, and presently Raymond de Cabane announced that ’twas so, and that this would be the last event of the jousts.

The Conte da Morcane had wrested the banner from the hands of the Contessa di Montalto, and to the triumphant sound of lutes, the victors wheeled the castle out of the lists, while pages threw the ammunition of sweets and scents among the crowd.

Raymond de Cabane came up to the Queen.

“Is it nearly over?” she asked in a whisper.

“Yes--your cousin Luigi will be the victor--a pity he is not popular.”

“But the people are pleased?” Her beautiful eyes were anxious.

“Yes. Andreas mistakes greatly to absent himself--you cannot be too grateful, Madonna.”

“He will not come near me,” she whispered, “since I shut the council down on him, and that my head alone is on the coinage irks him, so the boy plays his own fortunes false.”

Once more the trumpets rose, and the spectators looked with some curiosity at the unknown knight. He was a man of great stature in plain armor, riding a bright brown horse. He rode round the lists, saluted the Queen, and wheeled into his place.

Luigi of Taranto closed his visor and put his lance in rest, both crouched on the saddle bow, there was a breathless pause, the rush of galloping hoofs, and the shock of meeting spears. The stranger sat firm, but Luigi of Taranto had shaken in his seat. Shouts rose for the unknown knight. The two backed their horses into place and came at each other again. This time his weapon shivered in the Prince’s hand, and the other’s onslaught bore him backward off his horse. He clattered to the ground, scattering the sand; his squire dashed forward to seize the rearing charger, and a thunder of applause broke forth for the man who had overthrown the champion.

The Queen rose and came to the edge of the canopy. The last sunlight like rosy pearl fell over her sumptuous dress, her fine gold crown, and exquisite face. The ladies about her also moved; there was a stir of purples, reds, and greens as they flashed in and out of the crimson canopy.

Sancia handed the Queen a fine gold chain set with emeralds, the reward for the victor, who was being led by his page to the steps of the Queen’s throne.

Giovanna stepped down. Her violet shoes gleamed softly on the Eastern carpet, and her heavy train, dragging after her, sparkled wonderfully.

The Knight dismounted. All eyes were turned to this, the charming finish of the jousts. The victor came slowly up the steps, but, instead of dropping on one knee before the blazing Queen, he flung up his visor and looked at her.

Giovanna was staring into the fair, sullen face of Andreas of Hungary.

As he was recognized, as his name passed from lip to lip, wonder swept the spectators. Then they cheered him; it was a knightly exploit, such as was beloved by Naples.

But the Queen stood cold and rigid with the chain hanging in her hand. As she heard them shout for him, she went white.

“You do ill,” she said, “to come thus secretly.”

His level brows frowned.

“God wot, I should not have been welcome under my own name,” he answered.

Without another word she gave him the chain, and even before he moved she turned away. Maria was by her side in an instant, catching her arm.

“Giovanna!--you must not let him depart in such fashion--the people--do you wish them to see this breach?”

The Queen whispered back in fury. “He shall not force me with his boy’s tricks--hark! how they cheer!”

Andreas, unhelmed, his heavy fair hair waving over his armor, rose from the lists. As Giovanna watched him her eyes grew cruel, for he was breaking her chain, link from link, and flinging it ostentatiously among the shouting crowd.

“Santa Maria!” murmured Cleopatra di Montalto, and she glanced at the Queen.

“Let us away,” said Giovanna wildly. “Ladies, let us go home.”

She caught Guilia di Terliggi’s arm and hurried her down the steps.

Her soldiers, her gentlemen and pages surrounded her. Her white palfrey was brought and Luigi of Taranto, freed from his armor, came to hold her stirrup; but she took no heed of any, only to herself she said:

“This boy--and I!--this boy!”

So in the absorbed silence of furious hate she swept through the streets of Naples. The shouts of the returning crowd brought her no pleasure; had they not also cheered Andreas of Hungary? As she came into the hall of the palace she met Carlo di Durazzo, and she waved her attendants back.

“Where is he--my husband?”

The Duke, standing with his arms akimbo and his legs well apart to show off his elegant figure, smiled.

“He intends to give a feast to-night, my cousin.”

Her rings flashed into points of light at the tighter clasping of her hands, but she remembered those behind her. She beckoned to the Conte Raymond. The others, taking their dismissal, were scattered about the great hall, watching curiously from a distance. Only Maria stood near, swinging her peacock fan against the lily-bespattered tapestry on the wall.

“You see,” said the Queen to Raymond quickly. “He defies me----”

“He must not feast his Hungarians here, Madonna; there will be bloodshed.”

“His hopes of Avignon must be strong,” murmured Giovanna, “or he would not dare----”

“My hopes are also strong,” answered Raymond de Cabane sternly.

There was a little silence between them. The Conte looked covertly at his promised reward; Maria d’Anjou, sad and beautiful, wistfully waving her fan; and Giovanna thought passionately of the day when she would rule Naples alone--alone.

Then, suddenly through the crowd came Andreas himself, resplendent in blue and purple, hanging on to the arm of Henryk of Belgrade.

The Queen gave him a sidelong, wicked look, and laid her fine fingers on the Conte Raymond’s wrist.

“My lord,” she said softly.

Andreas paused and looked full at her with insolent eyes.

“I give no feast to-night,” she said steadily, “and when the Queen does not--no others do----”

Andreas flushed hotly.

“What is this?” he demanded hoarsely. “Do ye seek to rule me?”

“Ye give no feast here, Lord Andreas,” she returned. “The Conte Raymond has my orders, and ye will find none within the palace to serve you.”

“Now, by God’s Heaven!” he breathed, “am I to endure this malice?”

She put her hand to the square line of her velvet bodice.

“Ye are too generous with the public purse,” she said. “Why, your living has cost me somewhat. I do not feast seditious men such as follow thee.”

Andreas stood utterly silent. He looked at the man whose wrist she held, and was minded to stab him where he stood, but the dignity that tempered his uncouthness came to his aid.

“Well, Henryk,” he said, and his eyes were flaming, “we must even dine at taverns until I get my answer from Avignon.”

He turned on his heel, saw Maria, swept her an obeisance, then, throwing his arm round Henryk of Belgrade, went splendidly from the hall.