Chapter NINE: The Convent of Santo-Pietro-A-Majello

Andreas of Hungary ruled in Naples; no one disputed the title the Pope had sanctioned, nor made any effort on behalf of the Queen, who had admitted the justice of her husband’s claim by her sudden flight. In the triumphant court of the King she was never mentioned, seldom thought of, only Carlo di Durazzo had sometimes an uneasy remembrance of disdainful eyes unclosing on him, of a cruel face stricken into pallor, a delicate woman in a heavy gown, utterly forsaken--so had he seen her ride away.

And, as he knew his cousin well, as he thought of the fifteen great nobles with her, he shivered a little in his elegance at the things he had put his hand to for the King.

San Severino, the Queen’s councillor, had been executed in the Grand Palazzo three days after her flight; the prescription list grew daily longer, for the King ruled recklessly and with a heavy hand, treating Naples more as a conquered city than as his heritage.

Hungarians replaced Italians in every office of the crown, a thousand men were hired from Verona to keep the murmuring people down. The standard of Anjou no longer floated above the castle; there, as everywhere, it had given place to the banner bearing the proud arms of Hungary. Andreas, like a reckless rider managing fierce steeds, drove his fortunes at a headlong pace, and never glanced aside for obstacles nor looked ahead for danger. He knew nothing of the Queen’s whereabouts and cared little, save a generous concern for Maria d’Anjou. It was represented to him that Giovanna might escape to Provence and raise a war against him there or enlist some city of Italy in her favor; but he was careless of these things.

And then she sent to him from the Convent of Santo-Pietro-a-Majello at Aversa, some few miles outside the town. He read her letter through between pride and shame, and took it to Konrad of Gottif and the Duke of Duras, whom he found together in the garden comparing falcons.

The King, very gorgeous to look upon, in a gold-laced habit above the rose and white hose, drew Konrad of Gottif aside with that half-shy manner that changed him when he had to speak of the Queen.

“A letter from Giovanna,” he said, coloring, and thrust it into his friend’s hand. “Read it and show it to my cousin.”

The Duke, yawning, gave his falcon to the page and came up to them.

“The Queen has written to me,” Andreas spoke, awkwardly.

“By St. Catherine!” cried the Duke, and grew a little pale; “where is she?”

“At Aversa.” Andreas seated himself on the stone bench among the laurels, and his fine fingers pulled at the flame-colored and white gladiolas beside him.

Konrad of Gottif glanced over her small writing. “Of course you will not go?” he said, quickly, and handed the letter to the Duke, who read:

At the Convent of Santo-Pietro-a-Majello, Aversa, this eleventh day of September, in the year 1344, to the Lord Andreas of Hungary, in the Castel del Nuovo, Naples:

In the honor and welfare of the Kingdom, for our several comforts, for the sake of the illustrious Maria d’Anjou, will you come and confer with me in this house of peace? Being a woman and defenceless, I dare not enter a city you have armed with your soldiery, being your wife, by God His Grace Queen of this realm also, I will not patiently be wronged, therefore come here and treat with me, and God his blessing be upon our meeting.

Giovanna d’Anjou.

Carlo di Durazzo laughed.

“Defenceless! She does not mention Conte Raymond or the others.”

“Yet she had but fifteen men,” said Andreas, grandly. “Saying that even they are with her in this convent--and I shall go.”

“God’s name, why, my lord?” cried Konrad of Gottif.

Andreas lifted his blue-gray eyes.

“Those men, Konrad, I have sworn to punish before I am crowned King, and my cousin Maria I shall bring back to Naples. I shall not go alone.”

The Duke paced uneasily a few steps this way and that. “You intend to take the convent by storm?”

“I shall go there with my retinue,” answered the King. “After the hunt to-day I will arrest those traitors and execute them on my coronation morning. Maria I will send to Hungary as my brother’s bride. Cousin, what are the names of the fifteen she has with her?”

The Duke ran them over: “De Cabane, de Squillace, Godefroi de Marsan, Bertrand d’Artois----”

“The Frenchman!” interjected Andreas.

“From Provence, yes; di Terliggi, Morcane, Mileto, Cantangero, Roberto of Cyprus, the notary, Nicolo de Melaggo Acciajuoli, Lello d’Aquila, de Fondi, Tomaso Pace----”

“Write me down those names that I may remember them,” said Andreas.

“They are great and desperate men,” remarked Konrad of Gottif. “And I think, my lord, ye are unwise to go yourself.”

“Shall I stay away as though I am afraid?” flashed the King. “No, by God’s Heaven, as they insulted me, so will I trample on them, and as Giovanna watched it before, so may she watch it now.”

He rose, and his fierce glance rested on the Duke.

“You, messer, saw her triumph; you shall accompany me to Aversa.”

“And the Queen?” asked Konrad of Gottif.

The blood rose to the King’s noble young face.

“She may go free for me… the Holy Father will annul the marriage, seeing we are first cousins… I--have nothing to say to the Queen.”

He turned abruptly through the laurels toward the palace.

The Duke and the Hungarian looked at each other.

“Your master is very headstrong,” said Duras, with a faint smile. “He acts foolishly in visiting the Queen.”

“She can do nothing if he is armed with men. What should she do?”

The Duke picked a white rose and studied it attentively. “Of course,” he said, slowly; “what should she do?”

Konrad of Gottif rose.

“You are accompanying us?”

Duras replied with downcast eyes:

“Will you excuse me to the King? I have a headache--in truth, I am indisposed.”

“Too indisposed to hunt, my good lord?”

The Duke smiled. “I am no mighty hunter, messer----”

“We shall not hunt boars alone to-day----”

“I pray you excuse me and tender my duty to the King. Indeed, I am too sick to ride to Aversa.”

Andreas, hearing this an hour later as he mounted in the courtyard, laughed carelessly.

“My little cousin is a weakling,” he said.

It was a glorious morning, with a fine veil of cloud over the sun, tempering the heat, though promising thunder, the Italians said. The King’s spirits were tip-toe with youth, strength and triumph; he rode at a hand gallop through the streets of Naples, and for the sake of his sheer young splendor the people cheered him. More than one house was hung with silk and flowers in honor of his approaching coronation; more than one bright face smiled down upon him from casement and balcony. And Andreas laughed up at them, feeling his heart as high as his banner that waved above the city, for he was a King, and it seemed to him that his fortunes danced with gold like the blue bay that flashed between the houses.

Konrad of Gottif rode on his right, and the King gayly talked with him of his plans for the future and of little things that occurred to him.

He would build a lordly palace at Pausilippo, among the orange groves; he would send to his mother for a jewel to give Maria on her wedding--this brought him to remember that he should have written to his brother.

“But to-night,” he said; “I will write to-night.” Then he spoke of the little peasant girl who had disappeared; he told Konrad of the amulet, and laughing, added:

“I do not need it now.”

They left Naples behind them and started across the country toward Capua.

“Was ever sky so blue?” cried Andreas, exulting in the sun.

The cavalcade plunged into a forest of pine and chestnut, where the eager dogs were loosed. By the middle of the morning they had started a boar, and the King, adding the elation of his heart to excitement of the chase, was soon far ahead of the others in pursuit. Henryk of Belgrade alone kept up with the noble white steed as it thundered down the forest glade and across the flowered meadows. With the blazing sky swirling overhead, the scented grass underfoot, the trees to right and left, his heart and the horse’s hoofs keeping time in a wild measure, the King pursued the boar; his cap had gone and his yellow locks floated out with his gold cloak; one hand grasped the reins, the other held aloft the great spear; the white mane of the eager horse fluttered back and struck the rider’s flushed face; his breath came quickly in little sobs of excitement through his cleft lips; so, down the slopes and up the slopes, bringing a wind with him, rode Andreas of Hungary.

As the sun was dipping behind the chestnuts, they came upon the boar at bay, ringed about with crouching dogs, and one, bleeding, on the uprooted grass. It was on a low knoll under a cluster of beeches, all grown about with white flowers and limp scarlet poppies. Henryk of Belgrade rode up, shouting, and plunged at the boar, who turned and rushed at him.

“Take care!” laughed the King, reining up his foaming horse; but Henryk’s steed reared with fright and his master was thrown among the dogs.

The boar charged, but the King leaped splendidly from his horse and met him with the spear, standing over his prostrate friend; even for a moment his strength shook before the onslaught of the desperate animal. Then he drove home with the spear, then with the hunting knife, killing his foe cleanly.

Henryk scrambled up from the trampled beech mast. The King, panting, stepped back.

“Where are the others, Henryk?”

No one was in sight. Dark, heavy clouds were rising above the trees.

“There will be a storm,” said Andreas. He seated himself on the root of the beech beside the dead boar and the dogs.

“We must be near Capua or Aversa,” answered Henryk. “We can see no sign of a town from here.”

“It is no matter,” cried the King gayly. “The others, I think, must pass this way. We will wait awhile.”

Now the excitement of the chase was over, he felt himself tired, and laughingly told Henryk that he was hungry; then he fell to talking of his cousin Maria and of Raymond de Cabane’s designs upon her, and of his resolution that she should marry none other than his brother. “How much I talk of Ludovic to-day!” he said, smiling. “By God’s Heaven, he comes constantly to my thoughts. Henryk, I should have written to him--it is five days since he wrote to me--ah, the storm!”

In a moment it had blown up, a thick cloud obscuring the sky; a little distant thunder rolled. “We must find some shelter for the night,” remarked Henryk. “Nor linger for the others----”

“Some one comes,” said the King.

It was a shepherd boy hurrying toward the trees with the little wind that is the herald of rain blowing in his hair.

“Friend!” cried Andreas, in his halting Italian. “Come here----”

The boy turned, and started to see the gorgeous hunter seated among his hounds, with the dead boar beside the splendid great horses.

The King laughed light-heartedly.

“A poor specimen of venery, friend, as my huntsmen are not here--but tell us where we may find shelter if we will?”

The shepherd came softly up to him, gazing at the boar with wide eyes.

“Lord, there is no place near save the convent, whither I go.”

“Why, we will go there also,” cried Andreas. “Where is it?”

The boy pointed where the wood dipped into a valley.

“Below there--it is nearby--one may come upon a road.”

“Well, if it rain and our friends come not, we will ask asylum,” answered the King. He put his hand in the gold and leather purse that hung at his waist and gave the boy a piece of silver.

The shepherd took it with an awestruck admiration. The King’s yellow hair and blue-gray eyes and magnificent bearing were even as the figures in the missals illuminated by the monks. He was turning away slowly when Andreas called after him: “What is the name of your convent?”

The boy’s thin voice came over his shoulder.

“Santo-Pietro-a-Majello.”

Henryk gave a little exclamation.

“Where the Queen is!” said Andreas.

“And Raymond de Cabane,” added Henryk. “You will not go there?”

The King frowned. “Why not? I should be glad to see my cousin--I meant to go.”

“But not alone----”

“God’s name, Henryk,” cried the King impatiently. “What can a woman do? Have I grown to be afraid of such an one?”

“She has fifteen men with her.”

“We do not know it.”

“Would we had asked the boy,” said Henryk. “But he has gone.”

It began to rain in great drops; the thunder grew nearer. Andreas sprang up and looked about him for any trace of his company.

“Henryk, I am going to the convent.”

“Then you go, not as a King, but as a fool,” answered his friend roughly.

Andreas laughed.

“Why, you seem to think they might lay hands on me.”

“God knows they might.”

“By God, Henryk, I cannot bring myself to any fear of anything in the circle of the world--but I am tired, now, and something hungry.” He leaped, laughing, on to his horse. The whole landscape had darkened, and it was raining heavily. Henryk mounted.

“We must abandon the spoil,” said Andreas ruefully. “But perhaps there are those at the convent can come for it.”

The hounds behind them, they rode across the grass in the direction the shepherd had indicated, and the moment they cleared the scattered trees they beheld the convent, black against the stormy sky. It was a fine building, walled about with a great garden and shaded with many slim poplar trees that shuddered to and fro now dolefully in the gusts of rain.

A few moments brought them to the gate. On their summons it was instantly opened by a monk.

“I am the King,” said Andreas. “I ask your hospitality to-night.”

The monk bowed his head in silence, and the two men rode up the path through multitudes of sweet-smelling flowers, fragrant with the rain, to the convent of Santo-Pietro-a-Majello.