The Royal Pawn of Venice
by Mrs. Lawrence Turnbull · English · Gutenberg #24784 · 538,104 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Royal Pawn of Venice
Author: Mrs. Lawrence Turnbull
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THE ROYAL PAWN OF VENICE
[Illustration: CATERINA CORNARO, QUEEN OF CYPRUS
FROM THE PAINTING BY TITIAN]
THE ROYAL PAWN OF VENICE
A Romance of Cyprus
by
MRS. LAWRENCE TURNBULL
Author of
"The Golden Book of Venice"
Philadelphia & London
J. B. Lippincott Company
1911
Copyright, 1911
by Francese Litchfield Turnbull
Published April, 1911
Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A.
DEDICATED
BY GRACIOUS PERMISSION OF
HER MAJESTY
TO
MARGHERITA OF SAVOY
THE BELOVED FIRST QUEEN OF UNITED ITALY
Time:
The latter half of the XV. Century.
_THE ROYAL PAWN
OF VENICE_
I
Among the day-dreams of the Rulers of Venice the island of Cyprus had
long loomed large and fair--Cyprus, the happy isle of romance, _l'isola
fortunata_, sea-girdled, clothed with dense forests of precious woods,
veined with inexhaustible mines of rich metals; a very garden of
luscious fruits, garlanded with ever-blooming flowers--a land flowing
with milk and honey and steeped in the fragrance of wines that a god
might covet.
_Kypros_--_Paphos_--a theme for poets, where Aphrodite rose from the
foam of the sea, and the fabled groves of the mysteries of Venus gave
place to primitive shrines of Christian worship, while innumerable
Grecian legends were merged in early Christian traditions, imparting
some of their own tint of fable, yet baptizing anew the groves and
hillsides to sanctity. Beautiful hillsides, rippling down to the
sea-coasts; and plains, nestling among the mountain slopes, littered
with remnants of vast temples of superb pagan workmanship and with
priceless pre-historic remains: wonderful, ancient marbles,
time-mellowed and crumbling, inwrought rather with barbaric symbols of
splendor than with the tender grace of poetic suggestion.
And this land of many races and dynasties, of conflicting ideals and
religions, as of many tongues--where domination was largely a matter of
the stronger hand--still held among the nations her ancient soubriquet
of _the happy isle_.
But less for her romance and beauty than because this _notissima famae
insulae_ was a possession to be envied by a diplomatic nation, since its
position lent it importance, the Republic had looked upon it with
longing eyes--and because of its commerce, which equalled that of
Venice, long ago the far-seeing Senate had sought to purchase it from
the Greek Emperor, but the agreement had come to naught by treachery of
the Emperor's son.
Nevertheless, Cyprus had not been forgotten; and the time for Venice to
make good this remembrance had now come uppermost on the calendar of the
years.
So they were ready to give rapt attention to the flattering proposals of
the young Cyprian Monarch, as presented by his dignified ambassador, the
Signor Filippo Mastachelli, when he appeared before the Signoria with
the retinue and splendor of an Eastern Prince, bearing gifts of jewels
meet for a royal bride, to claim the hand of a patrician maid of Venice,
to make her Queen of Cyprus.
Janus the Second was young and brave, the idol of a party of his
people--and where was the kingdom in which there were known to be no
discontents? He was upheld by the great Sultan of Egypt to whom he owed
suzerainty and, if in disfavor of the Holy Father for this allegiance,
Venice had always permitted Rome to question her own supremacy and was
not disconcerted thereby. He was beautiful as a young god, with a face
full of laughing appeal, and not less charming than the miniature set in
crystals which Mastachelli bore among the wedding gifts; and the grace
of him could not be matched, for his power of winning, when he had set
his heart to the task. In whatever deed of skill and daring his prowess
went before his knights and nobles--as, from childhood up, in whatever
teaching from books or men, he had distanced all his comrades--with that
strange facility and fascination with which the Genius of Cyprus might
have endowed her favorite in that lavish land, beloved of the gods,
where her great sea-bound plains were billows of flowers under a long
summer sky, and Nature's gifts came crowding, each upon each, in
bewildering redundancy.
Laughter-loving, born to conquer, quick to reward, Janus was tender and
generous to a fault; for it was whispered that he could take what lay
nearest to give to those who offered him adoring service on his
triumphal march, and that the murmur of the wronged belonged to the more
serious side of life for which his full-flowing Greek blood had small
patience. Such strange, unlikely tales one's enemy may tell!
And for his religion--be it Greek, or Latin, or whatever else--had he
not been named Archbishop of Nikosia at the responsible age of fifteen,
before he had exchanged the Episcopal Mitre for the Royal Crown?
These things were told, in all truth, of Janus II, King of Cyprus: and
if some others were known, they were not discussed. For the monarch had
lost his heart to the rare charm of the youthful Caterina, niece to a
Venetian noble who had become his friend in Cyprus, and had more than
once stood his helper with good Venetian gold; and who, in innocence or
wile, had one day given him sight of the girl's fair face with its
tender flush like a flower in spring, painted with rare skill by the
greatest artist of Venice. The breeze might have toyed with that mist of
golden hair, and the great dark eyes--softly luminous--had the
expectancy of a gazelle awaiting the joy of the daydawn. She was
daughter to one of the most ancient and noble of the patrician houses,
in direct descent, so the Cornari claimed, of the Cornelii of Rome.
"There need be no haste," the Signor Andrea had said lightly, as he
returned the miniature to its case blazoned in pearls with the arms of
the Cornari, "for the child is but fourteen, though she hath the
loveliness of twenty. But it is the way with our patricians of Venice,
and Messer Marco of the Cornari, father to Caterina, is already planning
with an ancient noble house of the elder branch with estates of unknown
wealth, for the marriage of his daughter. Thus the fancy of the King
must pass--there will be another--in Venice or Cyprus--the world is
large."
"Nay, none so beautiful," the King made answer; "and for me none other.
And for the matter of birth----"
"Naught hindereth that she might be Queen," Messer Andrea replied with
nonchalance, having a scheme somewhat more deeply laid than the casual
dropping of the miniature would seem to imply. "For the matter of
birth--it is a trifle--and doubtless the Republic would make her, by
adoption, Daughter to Venice--if there were aught in a created title to
enhance her princely name with semblance of royalty. But there are
already quarterings enough to match with the arms of Cyprus, and the
Lusignans are a house far less ancient than the Cornelii."
Messer Andrea could say things with a certain facile grace that kept
them from rankling, and at the moment the utterance of this truth was of
consequence.
The King threw him a quick glance, half in amusement, half in admiration
of his easy insolence, while Messer Andrea placidly explained that the
Casa Cornaro was one of the twelve original families which composed the
ancient ruling class of the Republic.
"And if the matter hath an interest for your Majesty," he continued,
"our great-grandfather on our father's side, was that Marco Cornaro who
was Doge of Venice; and the most noble Lady Fiorenza, mother to the
child Caterina and wife to my brother Marco, was grand-daughter to
Comnene, Emperor of Trebizonde. But that counteth little," he added
magnanimously; "since the Empire of Trebizonde hath ceased to be."
"For the matter of birth--verily, as thou hast said, 'it is a trifle,'"
the King admitted with a laugh: "but I must create thee Master to the
Pedigree of the House of Lusignan--a right royal post--and at thy
discretion thou mayest find or _make_ it of a color noble enough to mate
with thy fair maid of Venice."
"It pleaseth your Majesty to be of a merry mood. And for the dowry----"
Thence followed this embassy to Venice, for Janus was of those who would
bear no thwarting nor delay. The princely dowry was forthcoming, for it
had been offered by Messer Andrea Cornaro himself, and the condition of
adoption by the Republic, "that the bride might be of a station
befitting the royal alliance," well became the pleasure of the dignified
Signoria.
II
They had just told her a thing most strange--a secret that made her
childish heart stand still with wonder, then beat with a sort of
frightened excitement, all unbefitting the new dignity to which she was
called; for she was still enough a child to feel the glamour of it
through all the strangeness, and she had stolen out upon the balcony,
high over the Canal, to say over to herself the words that had been
confided to her--the little maid Caterina.
She dropped the title softly down to the water below, and started at the
echo of her own trembling voice.
_Caterina Queen of Cyprus_: Caterina--Regina!
A swaying figure in a passing gondola glanced up to the balcony of the
old Palazzo Cornaro and the young girl hastily fled, not pausing until
she had reached her own little chamber, looking on an inner court--the
only sanctuary that she could call her own, in all this great ancestral
palace, she, the future Queen of Cyprus.
Had any one heard her murmur those words? Would the Senate know that
some one in a gondola had caught the new title from her own lips? And
so--perchance--to punish the indiscretion--for the Senate was masterful,
never-to-be-disobeyed, and the matter was not to be known until it
should be declared by that solemn body of world-rulers. And if the
gondoliero had carried her word to the Palazzo San Marco----? What if
he had been sent there by the Senate itself to watch and see if she were
already woman enough to be trusted? Then there would be an end to the
golden dream--no coronation--no splendid ceremony of adoption. For there
was more. Before she should be made queen of that distant island she was
to be formally acknowledged "The Daughter of the Republic----" She was
to be made a real Princess of Venice!
What wonder that the heart of this young Venetian maid quivered with the
excitement of these visions of splendor, for by all the traditions of
her ancestors she measured the unwonted honor that was being decreed for
her--no one had yet been adopted "Daughter to the Republic"--the title
was to be created that she might wear a crown, to the further honor of
Venice! For her, who had never worn a jewel, nor a robe of state, nor
taken part in any but the simplest fete, who had never left the walls of
her ancestral palace, save under closest veil and guard--this sudden
vision of freedom and empire was intoxicating.
If she had known of those wonderful tales of the "Arabian Nights" these
things that were happening to her would have seemed more wonderful
still: but her young mind was free of similes--a sensitive blank whereon
the Senate might duly inscribe whatever tendencies seemed judicious; and
after the Betrothal there would be much time.
Caterina had taken courage again and stolen back to the balcony that
opened upon the Canal Grande from the vast upper salon, impelled by her
longing for freedom and light. The ripple of the water to the plash of
passing gondolas took on the note of distance and soothed her like a
lullaby, as the charming maid yielded herself to the golden
daydream--the soft breezes lifting the bright rings of hair that
clustered about her dainty head, while the wonderful light of the skies
of Venice smiled down upon her like a caress. The strangeness slipped
away from the new facts she had been repeating to herself, for she had
already begun to take pride in them; and the other questions that had
troubled her for a moment, were forgotten. All kings were to her
youthful imagination great and noble when they were the friends of the
Republic, and Janus was the close ally of Venice. In this stately
patrician household she had suddenly risen to be first--not only as all
maids are wont to be on the eve of their betrothal, with much
circumstance of laces and brocade and gifts and jewels--but she was to
bring new honor to their ancient house--honor even upon Venice, for her
father had declared that the Senators, the Councillors, all the great
men of the Republic--the Serenissimo himself--would bring her homage. It
was a dizzying dream of glory--beautiful, child-hearted and fancy-free,
she could dream of no more golden vision than the Signoria were
preparing for her.
So many generations of Cornari had gone forth from their palaces
scattered through the great places of Venice, as ambassadors on
momentous missions, or as Senators or Savii, had instilled the lesson of
the glory of service to Venice; and more than once the mighty Lion of
San Marco had set his imperial seal above their portal, and she,
Caterina, was to lead them all in the honor she was bringing upon her
country! If her own estimate of the part she was to play was a foolish
one, only a Venetian patrician maid could comprehend the glamour that
overlay this vision of Caterina's--the royal delivery from bondage--the
unknown delights it must open to her!
"Thou art sent for, _carina_, to the crimson salon; thy Father would
speak with thee."
It was the Lady Fiorenza, who seemed always a little sad to
Caterina--too sad for all the state that surrounded her; too grave to
suit the splendor of her silken robes and gleaming jewels; too weak to
cope with the masterful ways of her lord, the Senator Marco Cornaro. Her
mother's hand almost crushed hers in the strenuous clasp which,
strangely to Caterina, seemed to convey a passionate message of
sympathy; yet surely, at this radiant moment, there was nothing to
regret! She met the love in her mother's eyes with the smile of a
satisfied child, though she would have liked them all to rejoice with
her.
The curtain that hung before the door of the crimson salon was raised by
the page who stood in waiting. Her stately father rose to greet
her--which he had never done before in all her little life. She felt
with a sudden vague discomfort, that the world was changing for her.
"My daughter," he said, with a gravity of demeanor that befitted the
importance of his message, "thou bringest honor, not alone to the Casa
Cornaro, but also to the Republic. I have this day received from the
island of Cyprus--of which thou shalt be Queen--" and he bent his knee,
in courtly fashion before his child, as though he would be first to
bring her homage, "by the hand of the ambassador Mastachelli, this
portrait of thy Lord, Janus, the King; and these Eastern pearls--a royal
gift."
He kissed the little hand which Caterina eagerly stretched out for the
casket; but her mother covered her face with her hands, almost in an
attitude of prayer.
The miniature was blazing with diamonds, and the pearls were more
lustrous than any that had ever been seen in Venice--for Cyprus was even
beyond Venetia in luxury; and Caterina called to her mother, with a note
of triumph, to clasp them about her childish throat.
"I must learn to _look_ a Queen!" she said with a little, playful, regal
air: and then she dropped her eyes upon the beautiful, laughing face of
the royal lover who was to open paradise to her. Her father watched her
furtively; while her mother, over her child's shoulder, studied the
picture closely, feeling that it was too beautiful to trust.
"He is charming!" the girl cried in pleased surprise. She had not known
what his face would be like; she had scarcely had time to think of it
since the strange news had been brought her, a few hours before.
"He will be kind to thee," the mother said at length with conviction,
yet with a sigh, as if dissatisfied.
Caterina meanwhile, in the simple straight blue robe of a young Venetian
maiden, her dimpled throat encircled with the pearls that had been the
ransom of a kingdom, stood turning her miniature from side to side,
catching the sunlight on the jewels and the face, with the pleasure of a
child in a new and splendid toy--for it was all beautiful together. "He
is charming--charming, my King!" she repeated.
But a shadow had crept into her mother's eyes. "It is a face that an
artist might paint for his pleasure," she said with hesitation, as if
seeking expression for some vague fear that haunted her; "I pray that he
may make thee happy, _carina_; that he may be good and--and--noble."
"'Noble!'" cried Marco Cornaro, scornfully; "what seekest more? Is
Cyprus not enough for thy nobility? Is there another mother in Venice
who doth not envy thee thy fortune! Go to thy tire-women and consult
with them, for the Betrothal will be soon, by order of the Senate, and
there is small time to waste in regrets that somewhat more to thy liking
hath not befallen thee. See to it that the robing of Caterina be fit for
that other kingdom thou wouldst, perchance, have chosen for her."
"If he be noble--truly noble," the Lady Fiorenza said with unwonted
persistence--for something moved her to assert herself, "I ask no more."
But the Senator permitted her the questionable honor of unanswered
speech, as he turned with a scowl and left her. For her word had
rankled: since it was known, in the innermost circle of the Council and
there discussed in strictest secrecy, that had Janus been born in
Venice, the law would have excluded him from its _Libro d'Oro_, and no
patrician father would have sought him for his daughter. But Cyprus lay
far away beyond the sea which washed the borders of Venetia, and many of
Oriental race had peopled its shores--the ideals of Venice might be no
law for Cyprus.
III
These things took place in the spring of 1468; nor was it long before
the ceremonial had been prescribed and the pageant had been made ready
for the betrothal of the youthful Caterina; for the Senate could be as
prompt in action as far-seeing in judgment when haste seemed wise; and
other rulers were looking with no disfavor on the King of Cyprus in this
matter of an alliance, for it was known that overtures had already been
offered by the Court of Naples and by His Holiness of Rome for one of
his own family who had claim to his protection.
While Venice was plunged in a turmoil of preparation, the Casa Cornaro
gathered from all its palaces and surged up and down the grand stairway
of the Marco Cornari, bringing counsel, gifts and glorification; the
dowagers to the remotest branches, were much in evidence, refurbished,
and coming in solemn state to testify their approval of an alliance so
honorable to their house, with many wise worldly maxims and pious thanks
to the Madonna.
There was no quiet anywhere within the palazzo, save deep down in the
heart of the Lady Fiorenza, who had never been one with her family in
worldly ambitions; and far below the giddy current of the day's
happenings ran the ceaseless flow of the mother's wordless prayer,
enfolding her child--pleading that that which was to come to her should
make and keep her noble.
Resistance would have been vain, if only because she stood alone in her
family circle; but the decision of the Senate was supreme--unquestionable
and irrevocable; she stood alone indeed with only prayer to help her, and
a great faith that because of it her child would be saved in the path of
danger from which her love might not hold her feet. And so the day of the
Betrothal dawned.
* * * * *
Ah, how the bells were ringing--Madre Beata! For such a _festa_ as never
had been in Venice! The hearts of the happy people throbbed to their
rhythm, while each gave something to the splendor of the day--were it
but the color of a mantle, or the grace of a jubilant motion, or the
radiance of a beaming face--there was no _festa_ in Venice of which the
people had not its part.
They had been gathering since earliest dawn in the Piazza San Marco,
arriving breathlessly in gondolas from the nearer points, in fishing
boats with painted sails from the distant islands--hastening from their
unsold wares in the market stalls near the wooden bridge of the Rialto
to wait long hours for the pageant that no Venetian might miss. For
never had there been such another, and there was not too much space
where one might stand to see the glory and the beauty of it! _Dio!_ but
it was good to be born in Venice, where life was a _festa_!
Along the Riva their radiant, dark faces gleamed in the sunshine, where
they stood in serried ranks, picturesque in all the brilliant coloring
that their rustic wardrobes held in store for these days of _festa_;
silken shawls that were heirlooms--strings of coral and amber and great
Venetian beads of every tint, or an edge of old lace on the gala
_fazzuolo_ that many a noble lady might be proud to wear; everywhere
there was color against the background of festive garlands and brilliant
rugs decking the balconies of the palaces--a dazzling picture in the
sunshine, under the blue of the Venetian sky.
Every window in the Piazza and the Piazzetta was thronged with
spectators in gala robes, while under the arcades that stretched from
San Marco to the ancient church of San Giminiano across the square, the
people surged crowding and jubilant; climbing to the roofs and ledges of
every building, the campanile, the churches, the columned palaces,
leaving not a space where a man might stand save the avenue through the
crowd which the soldiers kept free for the procession.
The bells were beginning to ring--Santa Maria! all the bells--a true
jubilee!
Messer San Marco and San Tadoro were good to them to-day; how their
golden images flashed in the sunshine on the columns! and the four great
golden horses, in the dancing sunlight, seemed to quiver and prance
among the frost-work of the arches of San Marco, while the gold and blue
and scarlet of frieze and archivolt made a picture of delight.
The little ones shouted and babbled, were lifted high on their fathers'
shoulders, or clamored with disappointed half-sobs down in the crowd
which shut out all vision, beside the weary, expostulating mothers
whose arms were filled with wee things who could not stand, and who had
come early in the day--so early--in hope of a treat for the _bambini_.
They had carried them around the Piazza when they came in the early
morning before the crowd--"Santa Vergine--wasn't that enough for them!
to get a sight of all the grand balconies where the nobili were to be,
with the garlands and the tapestries and the curtains of velvet and
brocade, and the beautiful paintings, and the banners of San Marco, and
the great golden horses in the Piazza--the wonderful golden horses--up
so high, thou knowest, eh, Battista? What dost thou want more?
Pazienza!"
There was a commotion on the Piazzetta; the first barge, heading the
long procession from the Palazzo Cornaro in San Cassiano far up the
Canal Grande, was coming in sight, bearing the brilliant _Compagnia
della Calza_, the noble youths of the Company of the Hose, whose gilded
duty it was to appear at State Ceremonials in all the extravagance of
fantastic elegance with which Venice had decreed their costumes. A
laughing, dainty company, they sprang ashore at the landing of the
Piazzetta, doffing their jewelled caps to the admiring crowd with
capricious grace and whimsical motions, like a flock of birds of
paradise, in doublets of velvet and cloth of gold, with hair floating
loose about their throats; with devices of fabulous birds--of stars
flashing light--of mystic arabesques and hieroglyphs embroidered on
their silken hose, in pearls and gold and precious stones:--truly a gay
and frivolous company to be under the grave control of the Ten!
The people shouted with delight as they took their stand at the steps
of the Piazzetta to receive the oncoming barges, for the "Calza" were
the very darlings of their eyes, and never had they been more brilliant.
With true Venetian comradery the crowd tossed them light banter on the
names of their divisions, with pantomimic interpretation, in response to
their sweeping salutations.
"_Cortesi_! saw one ever such courtesy!"
"San Marco keep you _Immortali_, for the grace of you!"
"_Sempiterni_!--everlasting--ay, to be young like that, with so much
pleasure in life--_Cielo_!"
"And the gondolieri of the _Sempiterni_--do they live also forever?
Signori Nobili, have you need of gondolieri?"
But it needed only a whimsical motion of the Calza to fasten all eyes on
the Canal Grande, where to the gracious rhythm of countless strings and
flutes, the barges of State were nearing the steps of the Piazzetta,
bearing the standards of Venice and Cyprus--their prows garlanded with
roses, their rowers wreathed with myrtle--banners and draperies of snow
and silver floating in the breeze.
Far up the Canal Grande the gondolas of the nobles, waiting before their
palaces, had glided into position as the procession swept down toward
the Piazza--each gondola showing the colors of its _casa_, each
fluttering a silken streamer in honor of Cyprus, each bearing its
freight of crimson-garbed Senators and ladies in festal array.
A murmur of intense satisfaction broke from the excited crowd along the
Riva, as the barges which bore the youthful bride and her
newly-appointed suite floated nearer; the great festal barges carved
with bas-reliefs from classic story, were all of white and silver, their
sails of satin, plumed with roses, and from each prow the figure of a
glorified swan flashed rosy light from eyes of ruby: and every rower in
white and silver plying his silver oar, wore the arms of Cornaro
blazoned on his sleeve, with a sash of the colors of Cyprus.
An opal light played over the group of the dainty maids of honor, yet
each showed, for her only color, the arms of her ancient Venetian house
wrought large upon the creamy fabric of her tunic, the threads of gold
and gleam of jewels half lost within its folds as she walked: but the
people looked for the heraldic devices and named them eagerly as, two by
two, the maidens stepped on shore--Mocenigo--Giustiniani--Morosini--
Dandolo--Contarini--a new name for every sweet young face--the King of
Cyprus could add none fairer, nor no more noble arms to the court of his
youthful Queen. The Senate had outdone itself in luxury of imagination.
"Ecco!" The low long-drawn sound of delight swept through the expectant
throng like the rustle of the wind among the rushes, for here, at last,
was La Caterina! and a very child she seemed as she stood surrounded by
the escort of noble Matrons of Honor most sumptuously clad, whom Venice
had appointed to act as sponsors in the ceremonial of the Adoption. She
was like a snow-drop in a garden of exotics--so pale and fair and young,
in her robes of filmy lace from the cushions of Burano--the great pearls
of Janus rising and falling with the frightened throbbing of her breast.
Her mother only stood beside her under the canopy--her hand clasping
that of her child with a pressure which gradually steadied her to forget
herself and to do her part mechanically, as she might be instructed:
for, deep in the heart of the Lady Fiorenza that ceaseless prayer upheld
her with a rare and noble dignity--it brought her calm for the drama she
had not willed, and faith that for her child all would be well. She had
pleaded with the Senate that on this day of deep import the barge of
Caterina should not be without the benediction of its tutelary saint,
since every gondola was wont to have its shrine; and behind them under
the canopy, from a mass of roses on an altar of alabaster, rose a noble
Madonna by Bellini, painted with exquisite grace--the votive picture
which later kept within the Chapel of the Lady Fiorenza in the Palazzo
Cornaro, the memory of this day.
The little ones cried and struggled down among the crowd, seeing
nothing, and conscious from the chorus of ecstatic exclamations that
they were missing a golden moment.
"_Pace!_ Yes, they are coming: she is there--the Regina. Every one of
you shall see--every one. _Pazienza!_ Some one will hold the _bimbo_ who
sleeps? Then I could lift Tonino and Maria. _Mille Grazie!_"
A dozen sympathetic arms had instantly offered in response to this
appeal, for the good-natured Venetian crowd adored _festas_--they
also--and it would be a pity of pities that the bambini should miss it,
and this one was like heaven!
"Ah, but she is beautiful, the bride--beautiful as an angel: and
young--young like my Teresina! And to be a queen--Santa Maria!--she who
was like the other daughters of the nobili on the Canal Grande! Ah, but
life is wonderful for them--the nobili--but Messer San Marco is gentile
to make this _festa_ for Venice!" The recollection of their own little
part in the festa came with a patient sigh.
"It is our Caro Maestro Giovanni Bellini who hath fashioned it all they
say--the garlands, the barges--the costumes--he talked with their
Excellencies, the Signoria."
The rumor went round, for the Maestro was the honest pride of Venice.
"It is he, verily, who hath painted our Blessed Lady for the barca of
the Lady Caterina; for Madonna Fiorenza is almost a saint--and
_devote_----! She hath the heart of a _carita_ within her."
"They come now from the palazzo of the Cornaro," cried the little
peasant-mother eagerly. "Hearest thou, my _bimbo_?" She moved the
restless hands to and fro, the round eyes following the motion. "Clap
thy hands for the Regina--thou too, give thy greeting; thou wilt
remember it when thou art old. May the holy Madonna bless her!"
The shouts to which Caterina landed were deafening: the children
screamed for very ecstasy.
The lagoon, from the Riva far out toward the islands was a dense mass of
floating craft of the poorer sort, for below the Piazza there had been
no restriction, and the waters were crowded with islanders--old people
grateful for this nearness to the pageant, with a chance of separation
from the standing, jostling crowd, and proud of lending the color of
their pennons and painted sails for their share of the glory of the day.
If one could see nothing, it was good to be there to hear the
shouting--one would understand the better when Tonio should be taking
his bit of supper and free to talk--for he was no good to his old mother
now, with watching the tacking and the people. And one might as well be
dead as to stay far off in Burano on a day like this! _Cielo_, but the
bells and the shouting were divine! It made one young again.
"A _king_, thou sayest? Who is the king that the child is going to
marry? What is he like, Tonio? I cannot see so far."
"_Not there?_ Holy Mother, but it is a strange wedding! There would have
been the gossip of all the islands to answer if there hadn't been two to
a wedding when I was young. But the Signori Nobili must have everything
after their own new fashions. And to miss his own _sposalizio_! San
Marco is not good to him--he'll never see another half so fine. Is she
so young as they say--like Maria, there?"
"Ah, to be Signori just for to-day!" sighed the little peasant-mother in
the crowd, as the dazzling cortege passed out of sight into the golden
glooms of San Marco. "To go with the nobili into the Duomo where one may
behold the Pala d'Oro and the wonderful golden candlesticks which the
Serenissimo hath given--to see the Serenissimo take her for the Daughter
of the Republic--wonder of wonders! And then to the Palazzo Ducale for
the Betrothal--_Pazienza_, one must wait; they will come again later, my
_bambini_. Ah, but the beauty of it!" For the brave little woman was
weary, and there was nothing like enthusiasm for keeping up one's
courage, "and Heaven alone knew where Zorzi was with the _barca_!"
The crowd relaxed and grew restless, losing some of the gaiety of its
temper when a weary neighbor settled back a little too roughly on a
fellow-shoulder, or the babies who had been put down on the ground to
rest lost the last sweet morsels they had been munching and clamored in
vain for more--too much excited by the unusual noises and happenings to
deign to notice the brothers of the next size who were busily turning
somersaults in their behalf.
But it would not be long before the procession came again; for the last
of the sumptuous nobles who made this holiday for the people had
disappeared under the portico of San Marco.
The bells were chiming now in soft low undertones, a very ripple of
sound--like the breath of the summer-breeze upon the sea--stilling the
shrill voices of the people in the Piazza, calming the exuberance of
their motions. For it was a signal. They knew that within the Duomo,
before the great altar where slept their patron-saint, ablaze now with
lights and the marvel of the Pala d'Oro which was not for the sight of
the eyes save on days of a _festa_ like this, the child of the Cornaro
was waiting to be made the Daughter of Venice.
* * * * *
And now--for the bells were silent--in the magnificent storied chamber
of the Gran Consiglio, where so many momentous questions of state had
been discussed, in the presence of the Serenissimo, the Signoria, the
Senate and the Forty Noble Matrons, a new leaf was to be added to the
story of the Republic, and thither the feeble old Doge led the Daughter
of Venice with the brilliant assemblage who had witnessed the ceremony
of the Adoption in the Duomo.
Caterina had moved through the splendid pageant of the morning as in a
dream, still too much a child to comprehend the responsibilities it
portended--too much in awe of the distinguished company assembled to do
her honor to be conscious of any feeling but unwonted timidity. But the
tottering footsteps of the old man who held her hand as he led her
through the Porta della Carta into the Ducal Palace, awoke her inborn
sense of pity, and it was she who upheld him with her strong, young,
vital clasp, recovering her own perfect poise in the act of giving help.
The Ambassador Mastachelli was waiting with his suite, and the signing
of the parchment which bore the seals of Venice and of Cyprus was the
trifle of a moment. A circlet of rubies--the sign of the promise--had
been consecrated by the saintly Patriarch, Lorenzo Giustiniani, and the
Lady Fiorenza took comfort from the look in his noble face as he bent
over Caterina to give the benediction. She would seek his aid in the
training of the young betrothed for her life on that distant island.
But now--at last--the hour was the people's once more, for the
Serenissimo stood on the balcony above the portal of San Marco, between
the great golden horses, with the Daughter of Venice beside him--the
sunlight irradiating her white robes and beautiful, girlish face.
"Caterina--Regina--_Figlia di Venezia_--_Nostra Venezia_!" A great cry
rent the air; it came from thousands of hearts and thrilled her own to
its core, and the first, great emotion of her young life swept through
her, transforming and wholly possessing her.
A mist swam before her and her heart throbbed as if it would break: she
dimly saw innumerable faces leaning to her from roofs and balconies and
windows, and below in the great Piazza, the dense mass of the people
with faces offering love and homage, lifting their children to clap
their tiny hands for her--it was wonderful--beautiful--had the Madonna,
indeed, given her so much!
The mist cleared before her eyes and each face, to the remotest corners
of the Piazza stood out individualized, while a sudden great love of
humanity was born within her. "She would pray to make her people
happy--she would be something to the poor and suffering ones of her
distant land of Cyprus--the Holy Mother would teach her----"
It was the supreme moment that does not come to all, yet when it comes
holds the making or the marring of a life--as the lightning gleams for
an instant only through a rift of cloud, awe-inspiring and too luminous
to be forgotten. To Caterina, on the verge of womanhood, it came with
the force of a prophetic vision, giving her sight of the tie between a
queen and her people--it was like the strong mother-love of a great
woman--all-embracing; the splendor of the pageant, the personal homage
had no longer part in the exaltation of that great moment--it was the
_real_ beneath it all that stirred her soul. She lost herself in the
emotion, seeking only for expression; she opened her arms wide to them
as if she would embrace them all, turning on every side to smile her
heart out to them--tossing kisses to the children who clapped their
eager hands for her--scattering sunshine with that rare magnetic power
which is the most wondrous gift that Heaven can bestow.
"_Simpatica!_" the responsive people cried with glowing faces.
"_Angiola!_--_Tanto Simpatica!_"
The Lady Fiorenza standing where she could see the face of her child
gave thanks for the vision, with joyful tears.
"This hast thou granted her, _Madonna mia Beatissima_, for a wedding
gift!"
IV
Now that the brilliant pageant of the Betrothal had taken place, life
went on serenely in the Palazzo Cornaro in San Cassan, while the seasons
came and went and Caterina developed into a charming maiden of
seventeen--expanding in the gracious atmosphere and the wonderful new
joys that it brought her, as a rose matures to its most radiant
perfection in the sunshine. Her eager mind which had hitherto known only
the meagre culture bestowed upon young Venetian maids of her time and
estate, awoke with ardent response, growing with leaps and bounds to
meet the new demands--yet always deepening because the spring of her
will had its impulse in noble emotions.
Her thin, restricted life had suddenly overflowed with interests: the
boundaries of her vision had opened far beyond the narrow confines of
the lagoons of Venice and the Euganean hills, as the consciousness
dawned upon her of a world that had been rich in beauty and vital
memories before Venice began to be. Life was beginning to pulsate
tumultuously in her veins; her heart was awaking. All the fulness and
delight of this germinal spring-time she owed to the lord and lover who
was waiting for her across the shimmering, beckoning sea. What wonder
that her maiden heart should cling to him with a passionate trust, while
all her sweet self grew in shy loveliness out of the dream that she was
fashioning, and the deepening currents of her being flowed purely about
this vision of her betrothed, enthroning her love with her religion in
one centre.
The mimic court in the Palazzo Cornaro, under the supervision of her
monitors of Venice, was already attracting distinguished strangers--for
the element of romance in her position made the salon of the future
Queen of Cyprus the feature of Venetian social life; and long hours of
eager study with masters of the many tongues spoken in the Cyprian
court--alternating with the teachings of her mother's noble friend, the
Patriarch, as he sought to familiarize her with the early Christian
story of her distant island, proved the quick grasp of her mind--giving
dangerous hints of strength which, if disregarded, might thwart the
moulding purpose of the Signoria. So it seemed wise to forestall her
questionings with such historic glimpses as should fascinate her with
her realm to be, while Venice was silently smoothing out the crumples of
that distant Cyprian shore; and it was fitting that the bride of Janus
should make acquaintance with the literary and legendary treasures of
this fabled isle of poets, for the house of Lusignan had been known for
its taste in literature. But of a certain proverb current in Cyprus in
the days of the Lusignans, the watchful Senate took care that she should
be left in ignorance, _Ce n'est pas Minerve qui est nee en Chypre_! and
that Chief of the Ten whose difficult duty it had become to supervise
the education of Caterina was giving peremptory instruction to the
newly-created Historical Secretary to the Queen-elect:
"Begin with thy narration far back in the days of the Greek myths--she
hath much poetry in her soul. Take her carefully over the early
Christian traditions--she doth most seriously incline to venerate the
Church:--there is food in these matters to consume much time."
"And then, Eccellentissimo, one may venture to tell the story of the
House of Lusignan?"
The research of the learned Secretary had brought him in contact with
Cyprus, but it had not inclined him to make fancy pictures of its kings.
"Of Guy--the founder--and of the Crusades; it is a tale a maid may
hear," the Capo responded grimly. "Of gleanings, now and again, through
the pages of the chronicle, as it may be wise. She hath not the judgment
to endure it all, being yet scarce more than a child--and with leanings
rather toward Church than State, being over-much under the influence of
the Lady Fiorenza--_over-much_."
The words came with pauses which lent them force, and the new Secretary,
being Senate-trained, lost none of their significance.
"Thine office doth demand discretion," the Chief continued, fixing the
other with his piercing gaze. "One should choose the tale that may best
please--that she may go glad-hearted and with a maiden's fancy."
"Aye, your Excellency--for maids and women are not as men; and facts not
over-gentle may be best untold."
"Nay--not that--not that: but there is time--much time--and for the
present the care shall be to delight."
"It is the office of a courtier, Eccellentissimo; it befools a scholar,"
the Historical Secretary exclaimed with indignation. "There be poets and
romancers who would do it honor, rather than I--who have spent long
years among the records searching for truth, that I may leave a
chronicle to trust."
"And most unworthily, Signor Segretario, if thou hast found no least
trace of the great philosopher Zeno in the ancient city of Cition that
was his birthplace; nor of Homer, that maker of literature, who hath,
perchance, won space enough in the estimate of mankind to be worthy the
brief thought of a child--even of thine--a scholar seeking for truth--he
being the pride of Salamis.
"But the Signoria have never learned the backward step that they should
withdraw an appointment which conferreth unwilling honor," the Chief
concluded coldly. "Thou shalt find some beauty in the legends of the
Cinyradae, or the myths of Aphrodite, in this land of Cyprus where the
goddess rose from the foam of the sea!"
"Were not substance better than froth to train a maid to rule, your
Excellency?"
"Nay, but to _obey_; to _rule_ needeth not teaching."
"But--your Excellency----"
"Signore, foam shall suffice to teach obedience--thou hast heard the
most gracious will of the Senate."
The eyes of the scholar who loved truth better than fortune dropped
baffled; for he could not afford to surrender the favor of the Senate
which promised him means to achieve in his own special field; and he
groaned in spirit while the wide halls of the Frari, with their
treasure of ancient MSS. rose before his mental vision as the most
tempting spot on earth, with his own _magnum opus_ lying there
unfinished, yet far toward completion. And for one who had meant to
chronicle the complete history of a _movement_, who had sought ever to
weigh and sift in the interests of truth alone, to surrender the freedom
of his mind to the Senate--to come down to the teaching of a child--to
be commanded what he should speak--it was maddening!
"My own work," he murmured in a last appeal:--"I have so little time."
"The time of a Venetian is his best gift to the State," the Capo made
answer icily.
There was a pause during which the unwilling Secretary _felt_ the eyes
of the Capo upon him, forcing him to lift his own. For an instant he met
the strange fixed gaze which conveyed to him without words that what had
passed between them was to be held inviolate; then, with a courteous
salute, the man of power spoke:
"The interview is dismissed." And the Segretario Reale went out from the
presence, his soul revolting at the absolutism that forced him to
accept; and he despised himself.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the soul of the maiden was thrilling to the Patriarch's tales
of early Christian conquests in her islands--at Paphos--at Salamis--of
the miracles of the great Paulus, saint and bishop and leader--as her
eyes followed along the red-lettered parchment page of the rare volume
which the holy man had brought from the treasures of the "Marciana" for
her teaching--translating the story from the Greek, which was yet hard
for her, into her own softer tongue.
Cyprus had indeed been a favored land in those early days; for the Holy
Spirit had commanded by a revelation that Barnabas and Paulus should set
sail for Cyprus to preach the new faith at Salamis; and they had taken
with them Marcus--their own San Marco!--it was so written in this
strange, old book.
"Tell me about him!" Caterina cried, clasping her hands eagerly: "what
did he do in my land?"
Every Venetian was familiar with the Patron-Saint of Venice in his
symbolic guise, with his terrible, flashing jewelled eyes--as a power
who would guard them and confound their enemies, rather than as an
Evangelist--although the paw of the fierce Venetian lion rested always
on the open gospel-page. But to hear of him as a man, before he was
known as saint--young--'sister's son to Barnabas,' setting forth on this
mission to Cyprus, made him strangely real to the young Venetian girl;
it even brought Cyprus nearer with a tender home claim, to hear of the
wanderings of San Marco among those temples of Aphrodite; and his scorn
of the unholy worship kindled her soul as the Patriarch told how the
young Evangelist had not feared to curse the godless Cyprian city for
its idolatry--of the tumult that had been raised by his followers, as
they hurled the images of the Pagan gods from their pedestals, ruining
portions of the huge, unholy structure as they fell and killing some of
those who were taking part in the games. She would visit these vast
ruins in the ancient grove of Aphrodite, where giant-trees had grown
among the fallen columns, and wonderful vases of gold and silver and
alabaster, wrought like finest cameos, had been disinterred from mounds
of rubbish to decorate the palaces of patricians.
Of these, antique goblets, some flashing with an indescribable rainbow
lustre, delicate as an opal, had already been sent her among the rich
gifts of Janus. And so life took on new color for her--historic memories
and trifles of the day crossing each other at many points, linking the
old to the new, in unsuspected continuity.
"Our San Marco was a hero even then!" she cried; "an early Crusader
fighting for his faith!"
"Aye, daughter--as thou and I must fight," the Patriarch answered her
with tender approval in his eyes, a shadow of apprehension dimming them
before he withdrew his gaze--for of such tender stuff had martyrs been
made. "The story of those early days is for our guidance. If trials
should come," he added, "cleave but to thy faith and Heaven shall show
thee a way."
"I never thought before that one might _love_ San Marco!" Caterina said,
as she turned her glowing face frankly to the old man; "he was never a
person, but just a grotesque image to me."
"Symbols are for our race in its childhood, for with primitive peoples
imagination dominates reason," he answered her; "later we weave a more
enduring fabric out of the truth of history--still cherishing the
myth--the earlier impulse."
But it was Barnabas who was the true hero-saint of Cyprus; for he had
owned estates in his native island and had sold them and given all for
the propagation of the new faith; and when, after his cruel martyrdom
the fierce spirit of persecution had cooled, and his remains were found
interred in a grotto near the city--the divine revelation of St. Peter
clasped to his breast--the possession of so sacred a relic sufficed to
win great privileges among the hierarchy for the island of Cyprus, in
perpetuity--the proud title of Archbishop of Salamis--the imperial staff
with the golden apple at top--the cap with the red cross, and many other
honors and immunities. It was a long way from the primitive simplicity
of the fruitful ministration of Jose Barnabas, the Son of Consolation,
as he had fought for souls in the splendid vigor of his youth and
consecration!
"I am glad of these sacred bonds between my two homes!" the young girl
exclaimed with a little wistful sigh.
"There are yet other links in the history of our Church; for Sant'Elena,
the Mother of Constantine--whose tomb thou knowest on our fair island of
Sant'Elena--hath enriched thy favored land of Cyprus with its most
sacred relic, bestowing there the portions of the Holy Cross which she
had brought from Orient, and thou shalt find them still revered in the
Chapel of Santa Croce on the Mountain of the Troodos."
"Thou perchance, most Reverend Father, wilt come some day in pilgrimage
to this blessed shrine in my new land!" Caterina cried hopefully.
"Nay, dear daughter; for my work lieth in Venice. But thou seest that
where our Holy Church hath planted her banner, one may call no land
strange."
It was partly with this thought that the Patriarch had striven to
interest Caterina in these incidents of early Christianity; and partly
from his undefined dread as to what the future might hold for her, with
the wish to keep the Church and its teachings uppermost in her mind,
that she might lean upon them in need. She had been deeply interested
and again and again had turned the talk upon this theme--a docile pupil,
growing in grace and strength from the teachings he gathered for her
from that quaint old volume so little known by the women of her time. It
was his gift to fit her for the unknown life to which she was going, and
it gave him an opportunity for many helpful words which if scarcely
understood at the time came back to her later; yet he darkened her
bright visions with no fears, thinking that hope and joy and faith would
suffice for strength in trial.
The Senate, meanwhile, had matter less placid touching Cyprus and the
betrothed bride wherewith to fill this period of waiting: and more than
once the Senator Marco Cornaro had returned from lengthy sessions at the
Ducal Palace in no gentle humor, yet mute to all questioning. For it had
been learned in that innermost Council, and told no farther than was
needful, that Ferdinand of Naples was intriguing to draw Janus into an
alliance with a princess of his house; it was also known, by that
singular penetration in which Venice had no equal, that the new
Archbishop of Nicosia, Alvise Fabrici, was an agent for Ferdinand,
secretly working to further his ends in Cyprus; and finally in sign of
the willingness of Janus to break faith with Venice, came the rumor of
some coldness toward Andrea Cornaro, who had hitherto been his fast
friend.
It was enough to bring gloom to the brow of the Senator Marco Cornaro,
whose heart was set upon this royal marriage.
But nothing of this transpired beyond the walls of the Council Chamber,
from whence at last, to make an end of the pitiful waverings of this
fickle King, an ambassador was sent to the court of Cyprus to state in
terms that could not be misunderstood, that if Janus were to disgrace
his royal word, solemnly pledged by his Ambassador Mastachelli in
presence of the Serenissimo and the Signoria, the insult to a Queen
already betrothed to him would be a slight the Republic would not
suffer, and that Venice would become the enemy instead of the ally of
Cyprus.
But no misgivings troubled the heart of the betrothed in the Palazzo
Cornaro, where she waited in happy confidence, being taught through the
ceaseless vigilance of the Senate, that in royal marriages haste was
ever unseemly, and full time would be allowed for the fashioning of the
wedding trousseau, the weaving of wedding damasks and the complete
preparation of a household outfit consistent with the dignity of a
queen.
The prospect of further enemies was not an enviable one for Janus, who
already counted Genoa, Savoy and Portugal and his Holiness of Rome among
them; for he had won the wrath of the Genoese by recapturing their
important holding of Famagosta in the very heart of his own island, as
he had most heartily gained the disfavor of his Holiness by his alliance
with the infidel Sultan of Egypt; and through his sister Carlotta, the
enmity of Savoy and of Portugal was assured to him.
So the galleys and favor of Venice were not to be disregarded, and it
was not long before the Cyprian fleet appeared in the waters of the
Adriatic, bearing in response to the secret embassy of Venice, the
Ambassador sent by Janus to bring his young Queen to Cyprus.
V
Ser Gobbo Di Rialto bore on his broad breast announcements of intense
interest concerning the ceremonies which would make the day of the
departure of the Daughter of the Republic among the most splendid in the
annals of Venice. A crowd of citizens who had not been advised by
special invitation of the various banquetings and happenings, came and
went about the grotesque figure with much lively comment of delighted
anticipation, intermingled with benedictions upon San Marco that it was
not long to wait, since to-morrow would be there after the next Ave
Maria! For whatever of revelry was prepared for the nobles, brought
always in Venice a corresponding pageant to delight the eyes of the
people.
Here and there some gondolier from the islands, sheepishly conscious of
the brilliant _fazzoletto_, or the string of beads he had just bought in
the tempting booths of the old, wooden Rialto, hung on the outskirts of
the crowd before Ser Gobbo, to catch from the gossip of the more
lettered ones about him the details of the morrow's _festa_ which he
might not read for himself; for the knowledge would make him the oracle
of his little circle in Burano--or at least with Giovanna, when he
should bestow his silken trifle for the morrow's splendor. For, of
course all Venice would be there to see the queen set forth.
"Santa Maria!--the Serenissimo himself upon the Bucentoro will escort
the Regina. Heard one ever such splendor!"
"And at the Lido--hast heard, Tonio?--by favor of San Marco and San
Nicolo, the gondolieri with their barchette may float in line to make
our part of the _festa_. Oh, the beautiful day!"
"And the Signoria, and all the nobili! and the court of the young
Regina--and all the banners and the _barca_--most beautiful to
behold--one might die of the splendor of it, Santissima Maria!"
"Aye, Giuseppe, and the music of all the fleets!--it will be like
heaven, if Messer San Marco doth but send the sunshine and the breeze."
"Nay, he could not fail his Venice for a _festa_ that doth him such
honor; _Messer San Marco e galant uomo!_ But how then, Tonio, thou hast
a _sposalizio_ of thine own--with thy string of coral and thy
_fazzoletto_ fit for a Signorina: the bells will be chiming for thee
to-morrow?"
"_Basta, basta!_" Tonio responded with commendable gruffness,
considering his contentment at heart, as he hastily retreated to his
gondola under the Rialto for needed shelter from the banter which
followed him, until some other unwary victim became the centre of the
well-meant pleasantry.
"Wait then for a day, Tonio mio, and the Bucentoro will be ready for
thee," cries one of the more daring as he vanishes; "hast thou already
bespoken thy groomsman? I also am a Castellan."
Across the Piazza San Giacomo, under the famous colonnade of San Giacomo
di Rialto, the talk turned chiefly on the great event which was to
culminate on the morrow, and which for three years had consumed much
time in Senate and State, as the patricians strolled to and fro in
lively discussion.
It was here that for generations everything that affected the commerce
of Venice was held up in the light of expression as free and candid as
it was possible for opinion to be in this highly organized oligarchy;
and here as elsewhere, Venice, like a faithful mother, watched over the
welfare of her sons, though they were grown to man's estate; and since
her commerce was, in fact, the mainspring of her wealth and prestige--a
very vital part of her--she kept before their eyes on the exterior of
this ancient church in the market-place where her merchant-princes daily
met, her admonition to uphold them in righteous dealing. One might
decipher it wrought into the wall of the apse under the stones of the
frieze, in quaint lettering that tempted to the perusal and endowed the
mastered motto with the impressiveness of a rite--for the legend assumed
a quality of mystery, being much defaced from time.
"_Hoc circa templum sit jus mercatoribus aequm, pondera ne vergant nec
sit conventio prava._"
(Around the Temple let the merchant's law be just, his weights true, and
his covenant faithful.)
Among the frescoes on the walls under the colonnade was the famous
_mappa mondo_, upon which were indicated the various routes of Venetian
commerce throughout the world.
Two dignified elderly men wearing the black silk robe of the merchant
with chains of heavy gold links were strolling to and fro in eager
conversation--their comrades showing signs of deference as they passed.
"Cyprus will seem nearer now," said one of them, pausing for a moment
before the map to point out a speck in the Mediterranean with his
gold-topped staff.
"A century nearer than it was in the days of Comnenus," the other
answered him, with a recollection of the attempted purchase and
occupancy of the island in those earlier times. "But now--praise be to
San Marco, the time is ripe."
"And Venice hath never ceased to covet that 'Island of Delights!' But
now her fleets may lie at anchor in the splendid port of Famagosta while
she taketh her leisure in dealing with the merchants of the East; for
the King of Cyprus must aye keep faith with the Republic."
"Yet let Venice beware," the other answered, lowering his voice to a
confidential tone. "It is not over-easy to hold His Majesty to any faith
or compact, by what one may guess from the talk of the Senate: but the
favor of Venice is needful to him."
"And none the less that there be those who favor him not. Genoa is wroth
at him for having chased them from Famagosta--the most marvellous
stronghold in the world, if one may credit Messer Andrea Cornaro, the
friend of the King."
"He spake truly, from what I myself should have guessed thereof--getting
no closer to the Fortress than any Cyprian might have done six years
ago, when I had gone with my fleet to the Syrian Coast for a marvellous
cargo of spices, and Cyprus tempted me to a voyage of pleasure, being
not so far--the sail of a day with a fair galley. The Genoese held the
great Fortress and the splendid city of Famagosta and the country for
miles around; an enemy entrenched in the very heart of a kingdom! Small
wonder that King Janus, being of a most laudable prowess, should claim
his own again--which won him laurels, for the Cyprians had been sore
over the matter. Aye; Cyprus is good for the commerce of Venice, and it
would be a hard day when the ships of the Republic might not harbor in
her waters. And if the good of Venice be the good of Cyprus,--the amity
is the more like to last!"
"Aye, for the commerce it is well--most truly well. But there will be
too many of our patrician daughters in the suite of the young queen when
she shall sail on the morrow. I could more easily have spared fewer."
"They are but charming childish faces; and they have left their sisters
behind them--they and the little Caterina; it is well that the bride
should make a brave showing at the court of Cyprus--which is held for a
marvel of splendor."
"Thou knowest it, Messer Querini, having been there?"
"Nay--not at court--it is Messer Andrea Cornaro who will tell of it. But
I passed some days at Nikosia, on my way back from Alexandria, and
verily the cities were twins for richness. The beauty of the
churches--one for each day of the year through,--we of Venice may not at
all equal, save in our Basilica of San Marco;--the precious altars
inlaid with gold and jewels,--like our Pala d'Oro that cometh not forth
of our treasury save on days of _festa_; finest statues of ivory and
silver; great carven columns wrought like our columns of Acre--but
vaster and of that same fineness of workmanship: and such broideries of
golden thread and great pearls for draperies and altar-cloths, as one
may scarce dream of! And in their market-places, strewn with the spoils
of the East are faces and voices of every clime and a very babel of
tongues; more--far more than on our own Rialto; with schools for every
language. And I saw a thing in Nikosia that in all my journeyings I have
not met with before."
"Thy tales are more piquant than the tales of Marco Polo," his friend
said rallying him.
"All is marvellous of which thou hast not hitherto known, though it be
simpler than thou art wont to behold. So I found strange and noble, a
great building already a century and a half old, in the heart of this
sumptuous city, whereon it was signified by a writing cut into the
stone, that all men of every clime who but confess the name of Christus,
being ill or needy, should receive therein, freely given, rest and
entertainment."
"If the entertainment were of the wines of Cyprus it would be verily a
gift: for these one may even taste who hath not been in her great
cities."
"Truth is truth." the other assented. "And that wine of the
Commanderie"--the dignified speaker interrupted himself with slow
unmistakable signs of approval--"I will make it known to thee to-morrow
at the banquet. And her ortolans!--It is a rich land: the Senate hath
done well."
"How sayest thou, 'the Senate hath done well?' Is it not that we are
losing too many of our own patricians, rather than coming into favor of
Cyprus?"
"How 'losing them'--to win relations that be wise for Venice? Andrea
Cornaro hath never been one to keep himself at rest in his palace at San
Cassiano, and through his wandering hath come this royal alliance for
Venice; and to-morrow he goeth again to Cyprus as auditor to the young
queen, his niece. The Contarini, the Giustiniani--as thou knowest
well--have already vast holdings on those Mediterranean shores."
"What sayest thou of the Senator Aluisi Bernardini--that _he_ is no loss
to Venice?"
"Nay, nay: he is one that Venice may not too well spare: a man after her
best traditions--one for an embassy or any place of power--a man to do
us honor--overgrave and quiet, perchance, for his youth, yet of a
courtesy and judgment!--and never leaving the thing undone! It is his
father again."
"Might not some other man, less finely tempered, have served in Cyprus?"
"Aye--if the Bernardini himself were not so finely-tempered! I was in
the Senate the day they put the choice before him--it was no secret, and
it proved the man. To do him honor the Senate gave him choice--and the
Senate doth more easily command. And this they laid before him. An
Embassy to France, of which he should be chief--his father held it
before him, and the Lady of the Bernardini hath been eager that her son
should bear his father's honors: that, measured with this mission to
Cyprus--to attend the charming little cousin, as private Chamberlain to
the Queen, forsooth,--a man twice her years and already of an
acknowledged dignity!"
"It seemeth not easy to translate his choice. What sayeth the proud Lady
of the Bernardini? For it is less honor."
"One knoweth not; she being of Casa Cornaro, of the elder branch, and,
like her son, of few words and great discretion. But she had lately
spoken with me of this embassy to France, wishing that her son might
hold it, thinking him well fitted for the place. Ah, well--she giveth no
sign; and to-morrow she also setteth sail for Cyprus,--being created
chief lady in waiting to her fair, young cousin."
"The Lady of the Bernardini in the court of the Caterina! Impossible!
She, in whose salons one might not think one's own thoughts!"
"By San Tadoro! one might think them, at one's ease, so only they were
of a quality to please her."
"And the Lady of the Bernardini to leave her splendid palace! Venice
without the Lady of the Bernardini!"
"Where hast thou been that thou knowest it not? It is even so!"
"Thou dost verily flatter the vanity of a man, Querini, to forget that I
am but two days returned with my cargoes from Flanders."
"Nay--thy pardon, friend. I mind it well enough and shall mind it better
when thou hast a chance to make us envious of the wares thou wilt
unburden from thy cumbrous, carven chests, for there is much talk of
their richness. But the ear of Venice is so attuned to these
wedding-chimes that it hath no chance to vibrate to another theme until
the rejoicings of the morrow be past."
"And the great estates of the Bernardini? I remember some rumor in the
Broglio, before this matter of Cyprus came uppermost, that the houses
would have been allied--a marriage between the little Caterina and the
cousin Aluisi--a dispensation to be gotten from His Holiness. It would
have been well for the estates and the Casa Cornaro."
"Aye, it would have been well for the Casa Cornaro: better perchance
than this dazzling foreign marriage, and more fortune in it for the
Cornari. For the estates of the Bernardini are princely; and it is well
known in the Senate, though it be uttered in decorous whispers, that the
dower of the charming bride hath left small remainder to her noble
uncle. And Messer Andrea also, is large lender to a king--for war-debts
and the like--Janus having nothing until he had regained his kingdom.
But as well buy a King as a vast estate for one's toy, if one hath the
_zecchini_."
"Thou art verily more a merchant than I had esteemed thee, Messer
Querini, if thou hast no thought in this marriage but for the
_zecchini_--as well those of her uncle Andrea for the maid Caterina, as
those of the Bernardini."
The Signor Querini gave a long, contemptuous sniffle.
"May gold buy a man like our young Senator Bernardini! Nay:--but it is
the fuss and manner of this marriage that turneth me somewhat against
it: and because the father of the Bernardini was in truth my friend.
But Caterina was still a child when a king appeared as suitor, and the
question of the Bernardini was never made; and Marco Cornaro--Marco is a
delighted _magnifico_. _Ebbene_--San Marco might see many of us wise,
old fools choosing a king for a son-in-law, if one came our way to beg
the favor. And Messer Andrea hath it that King Janus is full winsome.
One should not be hard upon Marco Cornaro--it is not the first alliance
that his noble house hath made with royalty. May happy fortune befall
the maid--who is verily charming and of a consummate dignity."
"The King hath sent an embassy, that doeth honor to any royal house, to
bring his bride to Cyprus. His Excellency the Ambassador, Messer Filippo
Podacatharo, is a princely escort; and yesterday when he gave banquet to
the merchants of Venice, all were in admiration at the sumptuousness of
the fleet of Cyprus."
"I would have been there, but some matters of moment for the Bernardini
held me. It is not easy for him to leave Venice, with his vast holdings.
And his father was my friend. I command his galleys to-morrow, which
follow the Bucentoro to the fleet of Cyprus, outside our harbor--San
Marco favor the day!"
VI
When the Senator Bernardini had first made known to his stately
patrician Mother his acceptance of the appointment to Cyprus, she had
met him with surprise and keen disappointment.
"There is surely some great error," she said; "for I had it in
confidence that the Embassy to France hath been offered thee by the
Senate."
He confessed as much.
"Thou wilt revise thy decision: I would gladly see thee wear thy
Father's honors. Thou hast the gift of statesmanship."
He waited to choose his words, for her tone betrayed more than her
speech, and he grieved to thwart her ambitions for him.
"So may it fit me the better for the Cyprian post," he answered with an
attempt at playfulness.
"Thou wilt verily give up this Embassy to France to go with the Caterina
to her new land! There is some reason of which thou sayest naught--else
were it hard to comprehend thy choice. We are but two, Aluisi; may not
thy mother hold thy confidence?"
For answer he raised her hand to his lips, smiling upon her. Her brow
cleared.
"It is not that the little cousin hath touched thy heart?" she
questioned half seriously--"thou who art known as gracious for all and
tender for none! I have not this to bear for thee--now that the marriage
which thy Father would have favored is no longer possible? Then France
were surely wiser for thee--the Fates are kind."
"Nay, nay," he answered frankly--"have no fear. When I set sail from
Venetia for my long voyage, the Caterina was still a child. And when,
returning, I found her grown a charming maid, she was already set apart
from all such dreaming for any honorable knight of Venice. Thou dost not
guess the spell that holdeth me?"
"It is not one of her fair maids of honor who go with her to her court
of Cyprus?"
"Nay, Madre carissima; thou art still before all others with thy wayward
son."
"Yet my wish for thee--of France--thou dost pass by," she interrupted
eagerly.
"It is but for duty to the Casa Cornaro,--in which thou wouldst be last
to see me fail, dear Lady of Venice!"
She laid her hand upon his arm as if she would constrain him.
"Tell me," she urged.
"Mother, when thy name and mine shall have been forgotten, _one_ name of
the Casa Cornaro shall stand out never to be lost--since Fortune doth
weave it into history. For honor to our house, we will not fail our
Caterina."
"And thou?"
"As thou wouldst have me--thou, my Mother--than whom among the Cornari
are none found prouder--I have sworn as solemnly as any knight may take
his vow,--were it even in Crusade--to spend myself in service of the
little Queen, my cousin--as in that far land there may be need."
But for the Lady of the Bernardini--Venetian to her heart's core--the
island of Cyprus had little charm; she had dreamed of a brilliant career
for her only son which should open to him the best that Venice could
give--and she was not satisfied.
"There is no fault with that dear child," she said; "and as thy
bride--if this had been--I could have loved her well. But if thy
fortunes need be bound with hers--and all thine honors for which thou
art so meet, and with which thy Venice would fain endow thee, must be
surrendered for her sake,--'twere pity that this marriage which thy
Father willed, went not forward."
"Sweet Mother--the 'might-have-beens' make faincants of men. It is not
love--but duty that calleth me. _There is no choice._ Where is thine
honorable teaching?"
"Bethink thee, Aluisi, of this post of dignity in France--a place of
power--of service to thy country. How sayest thou 'there is no choice'?"
"Mother--when our stars have ordered otherwise--there is no more to it
than that--why then--if men lack strength to bend their wills to meet
their destiny,--it is not as they will,--it is not as their honor
wills--but far otherwise. And theirs the fault."
She looked up into his noble face as he bent over her--a face not often
yielded so fully to her gaze--dear as this widowed mother and her son
were to each other, and intimate in friendship; and as she looked a calm
fell upon her and she saw strength, truth, valor, judgment--the soul of
the man like a rock beneath the light play of his speech.
She no longer willed to oppose his choice. She put up her hand and drew
him down beside her on the couch.
"There will be much to think of," she said after a long silence; "thine
interests in Venice will be hard to leave. Why--if some of Caterina's
house must escort her and abide with her--why not her brother Zorzi? Who
should be fitter in her defense?"
"Zorzi is but a youth--less in years than her own. How should she lean
on such a boy?"
"Aluisi--thou hast some fear which thou hast not spoken."
He was silent though she waited. How might he declare the bitter need of
watchfulness, yet not betray the knowledge gotten in those secret
councils of the Republic!
"_Madre mia_," he said at last, when she had reminded him of her
question. "Without cause I had made no vow. Canst thou not trust thy
knight? And of my fealty, so solemnly sworn, Caterina knoweth naught. It
is for me and thee alone--_and least of all for the ear of Venice_. But
thou knowest--if it were no more than that the way of a crown be not
easy for a young and guileless maid--some one of her own should be with
her in that strange land; and he should be wise in counsel."
"As thou?--who dost so qualify thyself?" she asked with a pitiful
attempt to rally him--for her heart was sore. "What shall I do without
thee--Aluisi!" Her voice had suddenly broken in yearning. It was not
often that such emotion escaped her. He folded her hand more closely as
they sat on in the silence, in the falling twilight, and his eyes
wandered down the length of the splendid ancestral hall, while his
resolve strengthened within him--the knights and ladies of the house of
Cornaro for centuries back leaning to him out of the quaint carving of
their time-dimmed frames--fading from him, like ghosts, into the gloom
of the distant corners, yet holding him with a strange, vital
fascination--for it was much to leave. The very tapestries rustled with
the legends of the Cornelii of long, long ago, on the shores of the Rivo
Alto, before the story of Venice had won its honored place in the
chronicles of nations--yet not the less for their indistinguishable
outlines and mythical color were they woven into the proud consciousness
of the duty the Cornari owed their own.
Memories of the state his Mother had held here rose to meet
him--memories of his Father, who had been a power in Venice. How could
he ask the Lady of the Bernardini, with her whitening hair, to leave it
all for Cyprus? Yet that was in his thought. He could not frame the
words; it was too much to ask--he must leave it to come from her.
"Is thy fear not to be spoken?" she asked at last. "And must we accept
it for the Caterina--who is very fair and tender?"
"It is the ways of Cyprus that I fear," he answered quickly; "and of
that strange people--a blending of half-pagan races with the blood of
France and Greece. But, Madre mia--there must be no echoes from the
Council-Chamber--none of our talk beyond thine own discreet hearing--it
would but harm her. And for _acceptance_--'must we _accept_ it for the
Caterina?'--thou dost ask--it is an empty word! The will of Venice is
_set_ to do this thing."
"Yet our cousin Marco--the child's own father--goeth not heavily; he
hath no fear."
"He is mad with the glory of it--after Venice's own temper."
There had been some further talk--not over-much dwelling on vain
regrets--and then the Lady of the Bernardini had asked,
half-reluctantly:
"How if some Lady of the Cornari went with her?--I--having no daughter
of my own--and loving her well? And--thou and I need not be parted."
"I dared not ask it of thee," he cried fervently--"for it is much. I
dared not tell thee of the Senate's wish to name thee chief Lady of
Caterina's Court."
"The court of the child! The little Caterina!" she exclaimed
impetuously, rising and taking a few steps away from him with the
irresistible impulse of offended dignity.
"I was bidden to lay their desire before thee--if it should be also of
thy will, my Mother; it was not a command," he hastened to assure her.
But she had already conquered herself--being strong as proud, and prompt
in decision, but ruled above all by her deep affections, and she came
back to his side before he had found words with which to propitiate her.
"It was strange to me," she said, "but Venice would be more strange
without my boy. Let us go together."
"Thou canst verily bear to leave it all?" he asked when he could trust
himself to speak.
Her eyes followed the direction of his motion around the vast hall, then
came back to rest upon his face.
"The past is ours," she said, "but not to make us weak. Thy
'might-have-beens' are not less wise for women than for men. I have only
thee."
"San Marco atone to thee for thy sacrifice," he cried devoutly.
VII
Never was a more brilliant pageant imagined to do honor to the symbolic
rite of the _Wedding of the Adriatic_ than the triumphant Signoria had
called forth to speed the young Queen to her distant island.
Never did father more solemnly promise his protection to the child from
whom he was parting, than did Cristoforo Moro, the Serenissimo, pledge
the faith and support of Venetia to the Daughter of the Republic, as
with slow majesty, to the rhythm of an ancient wedding canticle, the
Bucentoro, escorted by all the galleys of the arsenal of Venice, the
mighty galleasses of her patrician merchants and the gondolas of her
nobles, moved forward, beyond the Lido, where the Ambassador Filippo
Podacatharo waited with the fleet of Cyprus--most sumptuously
outfitted--to receive the bride of Janus.
And never sailed fairer maiden, more fearlessly, into the far sea of her
unknown future, flooded with dreams, as with sunshine. Was it only a
glamour, tissued of myth and of legend, that lay on the face of the
waters, dazzling her eyes?
The rejoicings of the people speeded her; the bells of all the campanili
of Venice came echoing to the shores of the Lido; a tumult of
voices--the voices of the _popolazzo_, shrill and jubilant, called down
the blessings of all the saints upon her--of Santa Caterina--her own
name-saint, fair patron of Betrothals; of charming San Luigi--the
blessed guardian of love; of San Nicolo, Saint of the Sea; of Messer
San Marco and San Tadoro; and shrilly, above them all, rose the babel of
women's voices, invoking the Madonna, "Star of the Sea, Sancta Maria!"
But most of all, deep within her girlish soul, love speeded her--love,
grown strong through these years of waiting on the image she had
fashioned for herself as the portrait of her lord--painted with all the
glowing lights of a true and gracious heart that knew no shadows.
As the galleys passed beyond the Lido into the wider water and the
Daughter of Venice stood in her royal wedding-robes beside the Doge,
under the golden canopy of the Bucentoro, a rosy light flashing from the
circlet of rubies which, like the espousal ring of the Serenissimo, had
been consecrated with solemn mass and benediction by the Patriarch of
Venice,--did the words of the ancient rite occur to some among that
throng of nobles, perchance, as an omen?
"_Sea, we wed thee, in token of our true and perpetual dominion over
thee._"
But now, with a memory of the gracious legend of San Francisco del
Deserto--that where the birds should light the favor of Heaven would
follow, as they passed the convent on their outward way, a multitude of
birds set free from their golden cages burst upon the air with a flood
of song, inspired by their sudden liberty, then came throbbing and
overwrought, to seek shelter among the silken sails of the Cyprian
galleys--mere specks of iridescence, flashing like jewels in a chance
ray of sunlight.
The people saw and shouted, "_Benedizion della Madonna! Viva Messer San
Marco! Viva la Regina!_"
When the chimes of the campanili had dimmed to a faint cadence, like
some unuttered rhythm of thought, as the distance grew between the
outsailing fleet and all that pageantry of Venice, two faces stood forth
like visions from the bewildering pictures of the morning and dwelt with
Caterina forever.
The pleading face of the Mother deep with tenderness, yet shadowed by an
unspoken dread of the unknown that lay beyond:
And the gaze of the saintly Patriarch, Lorenzo Giustiniani, full of
strength and inspiration.
* * * * *
It was early summer, when the mere living was a joy; and there was much
time for gracious dreaming as the galleys of Cyprus floated down the
length of the Adriatic and past the fair coasts of the Mediterranean,
before the coming of that wonderful day of days when the bridal fleet
was nearing the shores of the _Isola Fortunata_ which had been for long
the Mecca of the young Queen's girlish visions.
It lay before her radiant under the Cyprian sky--palaces and ramparts
stretching in long lines a-down the coast, against the background of
mountain ranges, densely wooded and crowned with the sparkling snows of
Troodos; there were gardens rainbow-dyed in bloom, cool with the spray
of fountains and the shadows of waving palms; and between the cities
were wonderful, fertile plains flowing down to the foam of the sea--a
vision of tangled blossoms wreathing with beauty the shattered splendor
of temples of outworn divinities, or rippling with tasselled corn and
vines and all manner of fruit-bloom, in luxuriant promise of present
good.
What could there be but happiness in such a home! Already the spell of
the fabled Cyprian isle was upon her,--could she ever forget this first
vision of her land of dreams--fairer than even her hope had limned it!
As she stood with beating heart, waiting with impatience that she scarce
could bear for the first touch of her new, strange shore, for the first
glimpse of her lover's face--all her pulses tuned to this harmonious
rhythm of sky and sea and romance, it was told her that a messenger
waited to speak with her.
"Let him approach," she said, turning half-unwilling to watch a knight
who advanced, unattended, bearing a missive with the pendant royal seal
of Cyprus that she knew so well. He knelt before her, vizor down, yet
with the customary homage; then, rising--
"I am sent by his Majesty the King," he said, "to bear his greeting to
his most gracious Sovereign Lady, or ever her foot shall touch the shore
which blossoms for her alone."
She drew a little pace away from him, fearing to utter her thought until
she had seen his face.
"Doth it become one so to speak the message of his King, with _visor
down_, Sir Knight, to the bride whom his Majesty would honor?" she
answered half-playfully--yet a little bashful in her first speech in the
Grecian tongue which she had striven to make her own.
"Our Sovereign Lady doth answer right royally," he said, as he bowed his
acquiescence in her command, passing his helmet to one of the knights
who came thronging behind him, and stood confronting her--very courteous
and deferent in his bearing, though the breeze was tossing his waving
hair about his throat with a hint of comradery, and there was a world of
love and mastery in his charming face.
Her own--very fair and true and radiant with girlish beauty--flushed,
then paled again, with the quickened beating of her heart, and her eyes,
eloquent in confession, were fixed on his, which deepened to a glow of
pride and pleasure; yet he was loth to make an end of her charming
confusion.
"Hath this missive from his Majesty no meaning for his bride of Venice?"
he asked, coming nearer.
"Janus!" she cried--all her soul shining in her eyes; and then, in her
own soft, Italian tongue:
"How should my heart _not_ know thee!"
VIII
Caterina Veneta, Queen of Cyprus, stood on a high balcony of the summer
palace in the Casal of Potamia, one beautiful June morning at early
dawn, waving farewell to the cavalcade of nobles who were winding up the
pass that led to the great forests where the patricians of the island
were wont to pursue their favorite pastime. Janus was among them,
leading in the chase as in every art that demanded agility and
prowess--lithe, strong and beautiful in her eyes as in the first days of
their short romance.
It was the one hour of the torrid day when the air was fragrant with the
breath of flowers and tingling with the freshness of the sea; and in the
sparkle of the morning, with sunshine in her heart and love-light in her
eyes, she was very fair to look upon.
The scene had been exhilarating, full of color and motion--laughter and
repartee mingling with the adieux of the knights and seigneurs to their
ladies, the notes of the hunting-horns, the snorts of impatient steeds,
the short expectant bark of the dogs, as the Master of the hounds, the
young Count of Jaffa, with his great army of hunters and attendants,
moved before the cavalcade into the heart of the forest. A fantastic
train it was, with the picturesque costumes of the riders, the tinted
tails of their horses and dogs flashing an orange trail in the
sunshine, a touch of coquetry much in vogue among the young Cyprian
nobles of the day.
Caterina had watched the start with pride in her husband's grace and
courtly bearing, his beautiful strong youth and the devotion of his
chosen group of friends: and the winning charm of his manner, as he
looked back with a parting act of homage, brought a flush of pleasure to
her cheek. She stood for a moment, her eyes growing deep with delicious
memories, as she recalled the romance of their first meeting.
But she was conscious of a little pain at her heart, as she waited,
following him with her eyes until the cavalcade was lost to view under
the plumy shadows of the distant cypress-trees. Was it thus that kings
should spend long summer days when there were rumors of discontent in
the air--rumors definite enough to have reached the palace circle in
mysterious undertones, quickly repressed when she turned to ask their
meaning? Should Janus not have given up his pleasure to stay and examine
into the cause which he had laughed away as a mere nothing--a jest of
some discontented courtier of one of the old Greek families who had been
in Cyprus before the days of the Lusignans; and all the more if they
were always alert for fancied slights?
"If he is discontented and it is a mere nothing, why should he not be
summoned to state his grievance?" she had persisted, with a trace of
pleading in her attitude that fretted the King. She was not to concern
herself with questions of state or popular discontent suggesting
unpleasantly the ruling spirit of Helena Paleologue, his father's wife;
and he had not brought a girl-bride from Venice to watch his method of
holding the reins!
His annoyance had been very real under his laughing exterior, as he
kissed the tips of her slender fingers in knightly fashion and assured
her that there was nothing to trouble her dainty head about: she should
keep her rose-leaf beauty dewy fresh for him, without brooding over the
possible meaning of ancient discontented nobles who belonged to an
earlier regime.
A passing thought came over him while he made his laughing protest, of
the four conspirators who had just been put to the cruel death which
Cyprus reserved for her traitors; but their little game was happily
over, and he dismissed the memory with a slight shrug of his graceful
shoulders. "Was there ever a kingdom without malcontents?" he had asked,
turning to his wife. "Was everyone satisfied throughout the length and
breadth of Venetia?"
She did not know, for she had been a mere child in her Venetian home,
without thought for the things of state which few Venetian women dreamed
of discussing--still less of influencing. But now, that she was left
alone for a few days, she let her thought dwell upon the question. Was
life more strenuous in Venice, or better ordered? As she recalled the
ways of her father, the Senator Marco Cornaro, and of the other
statesmen of his circle, she could not but recognize the fact that the
nobles of Venice made the work of the Government their first concern.
She would ask her Secretary-Cousin, Aluisi Bernardini; she felt sure
that his knowledge and judgment were to be trusted on Venetian matters,
although Janus had already told her with unconcealed disdain that
Bernardini's opinion was valueless on Cyprian questions, which were new
to him--and far too complicated.
It was not until recently that some dim perception of this complexity
had begun to dawn upon her, athwart the sunshine of her life as bride
and queen. When she had first landed on this fabled island she had been
too much under the influence of the glamour with which her dreams had
invested Cyprus during the years of her betrothal for any serious study
of conditions, or questions of right and wrong. She had been taught that
kings rule by Divine Right, and no question of succession troubled her
confidence of the people's choice of Janus as their sovereign. For her
there were no disputes to consider, for the troubled state of Cyprus,
but too well known in the Council Chambers of the Republic, had never
been revealed to her. Janus was the only son of the late King, his
father, tenderly beloved by him, supported by the Sultan who was
Suzerain of Cyprus, and eagerly welcomed by the people of his realm.
These were truths it had been considered wise for her to know, and they
had been duly declared to her by her monitors of Venice.
But there were others--conflicting truths--among them the facts of his
birth and of his contest with Carlotta--with which they had
diplomatically left her to come in contact when there could be no
withdrawal, but which time must unerringly reveal to her, and with no
gentle hand.
The period of rejoicings for the Royal Marriage had been long and
brilliant, as was the custom of the time, and the Coronation-fetes, the
journeyings from city to city of the realm, that she might make
acquaintance with her land and people, had brought them far into the
early spring. But when the excitement of these days was over, she slowly
grew aware of something sinister beneath the smiling surface, and the
studied brilliancy of the atmosphere about her made her fear a
conspiracy to keep her in childish ignorance of what was passing within
the kingdom. But surely, if she were not equal to comprehending these
things, she must bend herself to the task and try to grow!
It was of this that the young Queen was thinking as her husband rode
forth with his suite of gay, young nobles to the chase, and she summoned
Aluisi to her presence.
Already a blast of heat was rising over the land and the rasping cries
of the cicala fretted their talk; and Caterina bade him follow her down
into the _voto_--the vast, cool, underground chambers which, for the
patricians of Cyprus, made life possible during this heated term,
between the freshness of the morning and the comfort of the evening
shadows.
The talk was long and serious.
"There was never a court without some discontent," he answered lightly
to her questioning; "fair Madame, my cousin and Queen."
The mingling of protection and affection in his attitude towards her was
so natural in the older man who had known her as the petted child and
cousin of their house through the years of intimacy in Venice, that she
had never allowed him to change it when they talked alone together, and
it was only in the presence of the court that he taught himself to
remember her queenly estate.
"Nay, Aluisi," she answered, earnestly, "thou art in league with the
King--it was his very answer."
"It is but truth, in league with truth, most gracious Majesty," he
retorted playfully. "Nay--but no league at all; only two liege men
speaking truth; therefore the oneness of speech."
He had employed the stilted fooling of the period to cover his confusion
and to gain time; for the matter was of moment and it had taken him
unaware--he did not know how to answer her.
"Nay, nay, Aluisi--I am distressed; there is some great trouble; I
command thy knowledge."
He had never heard her use the word before, and it became her well.
"Fair cousin, it is not new," he answered deferentially, but pausing to
choose his words, for it was no time to fill her soul with alarms. "It
is, I hear them say, some question of a mutiny in Cerines."
"It will mean an uprising?--danger for the King?"
"Nay, have no fear; it was quelled at once."
"How quelled?"
"So soon as discovery of the plot was made--before any steps had been
taken to carry out their plans."
"_How_ quelled?" she asked again, dissatisfied.
"The manner of it was not reported to me," he answered truthfully
enough; "I knew not that the question would be put to me," he added with
an attempt to turn easily from a subject on which he dared not speak
freely to matter more nearly touching his office--of her commands for
Venice for the galley that was to sail on the morrow. But meanwhile the
vision of horror rose before him of that which he had seen with his own
eyes; and lest, watching him so closely she should learn too much, he
dropped his gaze, feigning to seek for some items on the tablet he held
in his hand. How should he tell her the story of this plot to influence
an uprising, to wrest the stronghold of Cerines for Carlotta, the rival
claimant and heir? How explain this conspiracy against her husband when
she probably knew nothing of what lay beneath it? How could he speak of
the staunch loyalty to Carlotta of the leader of this conspiracy, of
whom the disaffected were making a hero, and who had preferred any fate
to the necessity of swearing fealty to Janus! He had shuddered at the
barbarism which could decree such a fate for the conspirators; nor could
he forget the horror of those bodies cut in bits, and swung on high, in
the four quarters of the town--a ghastly warning for all men to see--as
they walked to and fro in the marvellous great city of Nikosia--the city
of luxury and of churches.
But if the treatment of traitors in Venice was scarcely less barbarous,
yet the State seemed to each son of the Republic a more awe-inspiring
and less personal entity than a kingly head of any other government,
justifying severer punishment when betrayed; Venetians had been brought
up to feel that a traitor could ask for no milder fate than to swing
high upon the Piazzetta between the columns--those who thought otherwise
might avoid looking up as they passed.
He would not start her questions when it was not for him to answer them.
He caught helplessly at some court trifles, trying to evade her mood;
but she silenced him with an impatient exclamation.
When he raised his eyes he found her still watching him, with a
pathetic, questioning look.
"They keep things from me, as if I were a child!" she cried indignantly.
"Can I be a friend to our people if I do not understand them? There are
many things that I would know--the fiefs--the ancient nobles--Carlotta.
They told me little in Venice of the things I need to know."
"What things?" the Chamberlain asked helplessly.
She looked at him searchingly. "To whom shall I go if not to thee,
Aluisi? Art thou not enough my friend to help me?"
"Messer Andrea, our cousin, being high in favor with his Majesty, hath a
more intimate knowledge of Cyprian matters--I being new in the land--why
not appeal to him? Was it not by him that our sweet Lady came hither?"
She thought of the King's favorite, her Uncle Andrea Cornaro, as
Bernardini spoke--debonair, charming--yet with a power of scorn and
haughtiness beneath his facile exterior which won him the hatred of
those who were not his friends. He had not found time for any serious
talk with his niece, who had already appealed to him; indeed he had no
time for anything but the brilliant surface life of the court, where he
was a ruling spirit. After his own fashion he had been more than kind
and generous to Caterina, showering her with princely gifts, eager that
his niece should keep such estate as befitted the bride of Janus, and
proud of his own part in securing so great an honor for the Casa
Cornaro.
But among the ancient nobles of Cyprus, there were some who resented the
knowledge of their King's great indebtedness to this Venetian nobleman.
The cousins Cornaro and Bernardini were of the same generation, and no
less anxious for the honor of their house, but they represented opposite
poles of Venetian character; Bernardini's gravity and dignity of
demeanor concealed a depth of tenderness and consideration which he
rarely confessed, yet, a true Venetian statesman, he could observe in
silence, nor use his knowledge until it might be of some avail. The King
disliked him, fearing his silent judgment, and was already considering
how he might get him out of the Queen's household without offense to
Venice, whose favor was important for him. Of the Cornaro, although he
owed him much, he was less in fear; for Andrea Cornaro was one whom he
might meet with his own weapons. The bearing and deference of Bernardini
were unimpeachable, but Janus was impatient of his impenetrable reserve.
Caterina laid her hand affectionately on her cousin's arm, in response
to his question. "Aluisi," she said gravely, "my Uncle Andrea hath been
more than kind--as to a child who asketh only baubles: but, truly, he
will not see that one may not rest content to be always a child: he
thinketh, perchance, that for women there is no duty but to move regally
in the midst of a splendor where he would verily pour out his fortune. A
question fretteth his mood, which persistence maketh not more serious.
But in a kingdom where discontent hath a share, one must study the heart
of the people and win it, if one may. And this is _my_ way to help my
husband. The look of the peasants maketh me weary--as if the sunshine
of their beautiful land were not for them. I miss the happy faces of our
people of Venice!"
"It is a queen-like task," he answered her, a little wondering at her
gravity and purpose. "Meanwhile I will talk with the King's Chamberlain
about the fiefs and about the old nobility," he continued, eagerly
seizing the least tangled thread to draw this uncomfortable conversation
to a close; "would not the Lady Margherita de Iblin know far better than
I? Shall I ask my mother to send her hither?"
The Lady Margherita--the one of all her Cyprian maids of honor who had
most warmly won her friendship--there was no older nor more noble family
in the island than the De Iblin; why had she not thought of her before!
"Aye, bid her come hither," she answered, well-pleased; "we will rest
together in the heat of the day and she shall tell me many things of
Cyprus."
But the Chamberlain felt some uneasiness as he went in search of the
Cyprian lady who was to be the Queen's companion in more than one long,
frank talk. If she were to presume too much upon Caterina's knowledge
and speak too freely, what might happen when the King returned? Might he
not vent his displeasure on Aluisi himself? And if he were to be
dismissed to Venice, who would watch for her as he could do--protect and
help her?
But it was true that she ought not to be kept in ignorance of Cyprian
affairs, and she herself had made the demand.
In the days that followed, Cyprus began to unfold strange problems for
the Queen, as its story fell from the lips of the young Cyprian woman
whose confidence she had so freely invited.
"Tell me I pray thee of Carlotta--Sister to the King--all that thou
knowest," she said.
"It is a long tale, your Majesty."
"And these summer-days will be long, while the King is at the chase; we
must seek wherewith to give them some new interest, for the Court is
dull without him," she flushed like a shy, young girl, adding as if to
cover her show of feeling: "it is dull with so many absent."
The Lady Margherita was some years older than Caterina, and she felt the
gravity of the task that the Queen had imposed upon her--to tell of the
contest between her husband and his sister: she was silent in her
perplexity.
"It is a matter of history," she said slowly. "Doubtless your Majesty
knew that many of us in Cyprus had taken oath of fealty to Carlotta
before the Sultan sent us Janus and upheld him for our King. It is a
difficult tale to speak of before our Sovereign lady--whom we love."
She looked up, a smile transforming her grave, dark face and deep, sad
eyes; the rare sweetness and directness of the young Queen's nature had
already won her reverent love: but suddenly, as the Lady Margherita
looked at her she grew aware of the unsuspected fund of strength beneath
the gracious girlish exterior, realizing that the spring of her actions
would be in true nobility--not in selfish pleasure. Might not some good
for her dear land come from the enlightened love of its youthful Queen?
Yet she hesitated to bring any shadow into the life which had seemed all
sunshine during these few months of bridal festivity, and the Queen was
young to look at life through such serious eyes. But she had asked, and
the King, who was still a lover, might be steadied by his wife's
influence.
Caterina put out her hand in response to the smile and clasped that of
Margherita.
"It is for your Majesty to command silence or speech," the Cyprian
maid-of-honor said tentatively, as Caterina still held silence. "Yet, if
it be speech, I pray your Majesty to remember that it is not I, who am
the cause, if my page of history should offend. If I must speak, it can
only be what I believe to be truth."
"It is only those who speak truth, my Margherita, of whom one may trust
the friendship," Caterina answered gravely. "And I have chosen thee for
my friend."
A deep flush colored the Cyprian's ivory cheek as she knelt and kissed
the queen's hand in acknowledgment; for the reticent maid had opened her
heart, with unwonted warmth, to the appeal of the rare simplicity and
force of her liege lady's gentle nature.
"I would rather _know_, than fear I know not what," Caterina pursued.
"Our most Reverend and beloved Patriarch of Venice hath given me this
talisman to help me in my new land," there was a little pathetic
lingering on the words, which touched her listener, "'Seek to know the
truth concerning _all_ thy people. And tell thy perplexity, if there be
any, to Christ and the Madonna.' I would know that I may help the King,"
the young wife pleaded.
IX
And now, by the Queen's command which might not be denied, the talk
flowed through the days of leisure during the absence of the King, while
Caterina strolled with her Cyprian maid of honor through the terraced
gardens in the cool of the evening, or rested in the heat of the day, in
the shaded apartments of the _voto_. The girl-queen listened with
breathless eagerness to the strange revelations, often interrupting with
passionate exclamations, for her short taste of Cyprian life had been so
colored with the glamour of love and happiness and the excitement of her
novel surroundings that the vague forebodings which were beginning to
temper the brilliancy had suggested no serious shadows.
In vain Donna Margherita pleaded that she might be allowed to put the
theme aside, as she told of the disaffection of some of the ancient
nobles of Cyprus who had been despoiled of vast estates because of their
sympathy with Queen Carlotta. "But Janus was ever generous," said
Margherita, "and none of their riches went into the King's treasury, but
always into the hands of those nobles who were loyal to the new
Government."
_The new Government! Queen Carlotta!_ The young Venetian's hot
resentment rose fiercely against the Republic which had left her in such
ignorance of Cyprian matters while she turned her proud young head away
that Margherita might not guess how little the name of Carlotta had
meant for her.
"Tell me more of Carlotta--tell me everything," she commanded, steadied
by her quick resolve to know and endure whatever the past might hold for
her; and Margherita, who had been watching her with strange intuition,
knew that she might hold nothing back, as she also knew that the young
Queen had been kept in absolute ignorance of the complications preceding
the accession of Janus. But it was impossible for Caterina to conceal
the play of her angry emotions as the tale progressed, and she frankly
gave up the attempt. Janus--her beautiful Janus--the idol of the old
King--_not_ the legal heir to the throne! Janus, in his boyhood, hated,
thwarted, intrigued against--living in very fear of his life!
"Nay!" Margherita assured her with glowing eyes, "he knew not the color
of fear, for he had the heart of a King!"
Then Caterina drew her close and gave her a passionate kiss, in seal of
a friendship that was never to be broken.
"He had need to be brave," Margherita went on when she could command her
voice, for the Queen's great eyes were beseeching, "for Queen Elena
cared not how he should be put out of the way so that he might not
interfere with her absolute sway nor with the holding of the Crown by
her daughter Carlotta, when old King Janus should die."
So this was why, by Queen Elena's command, the dashing, masterful boy of
fifteen had been created Archbishop of Cyprus--in the hope that the
honors of the Church might absorb his powers and keep the wish for his
succession out of the thoughts of the people who idolized him! This
holding of the Primacy had been a mystery to Caterina, who, dearly as
she loved her hero, knew him to be no saint. But, whatever the rights of
Carlotta--who had been left Queen by her father's will (and insistent
questions thrust themselves into the thoughts of Caterina while she
listened, zealous to escape no detail)--it was evident that Margherita's
sympathies went out to Janus.
"He hath more the quality of the Lusignans--to whom the De Iblin were
ever loyal," she explained to Caterina, "and Carlotta is like her
mother. Janus was first to offer his homage to his sister, pleading that
as children of one father there might be truce and loving intercourse
between them; but he was refused admittance to the Royal Palace; denied
his right, as Primate of Cyprus, to preside at the coronation and
commanded to remain within his palace during the ceremony, _lest the
love of the people should acclaim him King_. But the crown of Carlotta
fell from her head as she returned in stately procession to the palace,"
Margherita exclaimed, crossing herself devoutly--"so one might know that
her reign should not be happy!"
"And then?" Caterina questioned, impatiently.
"Ah, yes, your Majesty, there was more; for our brave Janus had been
gentle withal, but for ceaseless outrage that forced him to forswear his
oath of loyalty. His revenues were withheld: he was beguiled to a
banquet in the palace of a high officer of the crown where poisoned
meats were set before him, but here, as in many another intrigue, the
watchful love of the beautiful Maria da Patras--his unhappy
mother--saved his life. Poor lady! she watched and prayed for him, and
had no other thought.
"One knows not how--but she always knew--as if some spirit had told
her!" Margherita continued in a tone of awe, after a moment's silence.
"For none but she had dreamed the great Sir Tristan traitor to his
trust, he who came of the noble house of De Giblet and was keeper of the
Episcopal Palace and on guard at night! Yet once it befell that Sir
Tristan came stealthily into the sleeping chamber of the prince, and the
pages of the night who stand at arms beside the couch had fallen to the
pavement, heavy with some strange sleep. But Donna Maria had watched and
warned and our Janus was already stealing far on his way to Alexandria,
when Sir Tristan drew aside the curtains and plunged his dagger deep
into the mass of pillows which in the darkness wore some semblance of a
sleeping form. It was told that he howled with rage at such childish
thwarting, for Donna Maria had men at hand who came running at the
outcry and took Sir Tristan into safe keeping."
"Madre Sanctissima!" Caterina exclaimed in her excitement, and urging
the recital with a quick motion of her hand.
"It was the last time, sweet Lady, that our Janus might feel Carlotta's
power; for soon he returned from Alexandria to take possession of Cyprus
by order of the Sultan, our Suzerain, upheld by his armies and his
treasure. For the charm of the Prince had won their hearts; the
circumstance of his birth and a woman's rights were of small account in
the estimation of the Sultan, and the march of our young King from his
landing to his capital was a victory--the people kneeling in his
pathway--wild with the joy of welcome."
Margherita had told the tale with eloquence, her breath coming quickly,
her color rising, but Caterina was fairly startled by the dramatic ring
in her voice as she told how Carlotta, at the last moment, finding
further resistance impossible, had sent an envoy to Janus to promise him
the revenues of his See, once more, if he would but lay down his arms
and renew his allegiance. But the magnificent ambassador from
Alexandria, whom the Sultan had sent with Janus to see his will
enforced, made reply:
"It is the will of my master--the Sultan of Sultans, the Lord of lords,
the King of kings--that Janus, prince of Cyprus, should reign as King;
and my master, the Sultan of sultans, will acknowledge no other
sovereign."
Then, suddenly, Caterina felt that she could bear no more; she must be
alone to think, and she held up her hand to entreat silence. How tender
she would be to him on whom such cruelty had been wreaked--how
loving--to make amends for all the hatred of the past! How brave he was,
her true knight--how forgiving--to have told her nothing of all this
tragedy! It was not strange that his people loved him so--his people who
had thronged upon his pathway with acclamation and greeting! Her heart
beat high with adoring love and her eyes filled with happy tears.
"My Janus!" she cried, and then again, "my Janus," she whispered softly,
filling the syllables with a wealth of tenderness and sympathy. She felt
that she could not wait until he should come again; these few days had
seemed so long!
But her elation passed and a sense of overwhelming disaster possessed
her. "The Senate had known it all--the Senate had told her
nothing--_nothing about Carlotta_. Why had they not named her--was it
because--because----?"
And then the questionings that had come to her hastily and been lost in
the recital of the perils and escapes of one so beloved came back with
renewed force and would not be quieted, but called out for an answer.
When Janus came she would ask him--in her staunch fair soul, she knew
that she _must_ ask him, though he might be angry and the bare thought
of this made her shrink and quail--it even shadowed a little the
pleasure of his longed-for coming--for he had always been so knightly to
her. But yet, she could not wait! A great horror came over her of the
old Queen, who had been painted as without principle and of wild
passions--shrinking from nothing so that she might gain her will, and
she was glad in her soul that Elena was not the mother of her Janus,
while she struggled with her Venetian pride and promised herself to be
the truer to him for his wrongs. And so the night wore on; and between
her longing and her trouble there was no sleep for her while the day
delayed.
A vague shape of terror seemed to hover between her and her vision of
the future that had been so golden. Where was Carlotta? Might she not
come again and strive to win back her crown? Were the nobles many who
would uphold her?
Nay; but it was Janus whom the people loved--Janus! who had been crowned
their king, with all solemn ceremony in Alexandria, by order of the
Suzerain of Cyprus--to oppose him was rebellion! Janus--her beloved--so
winsome, so masterful! Then, slowly out of the darkness rose the noble
face of Lorenzo the Giustinian, full of quiet and strength--her mother's
face, loving, comforting--both asking her best of her; and the Question
grew in her soul. "Perhaps Carlotta's right was greater--_could it be
greater_ than her husband's?"
X
All day the queen had been restless and depressed, starting at the sound
of a footfall only to drop her eyes again in disappointment and relapse
into unquiet revery; the weight of empire hung heavily upon her girlish
spirit and she was unutterably lonely in the absence of Janus which
seemed so unduly prolonged. It was the latest day that he had named for
his possible absence, and still no courier had come to announce his
return.
The noon had been unusually sultry, the stifling heat of the upper
chambers oppressed her and the ceaseless, rasping whir of the cicala
smote her with weariness, but she resisted the attempt of her ladies to
detain her in the cooler atmosphere of the _voto_, for in these
underground chambers she could have no sight of the great plain beyond
the boundaries of the palace-gardens--and she preferred remaining in the
halls that overlooked the terraces--turning her eyes often in the
direction of the forest.
It was like a pall upon them all to see their young mistress, usually so
gracious and responsive, wholly absorbed in her troubled revery; but
to-day her maidens played their sweetest strains upon their silvery
lutes, without her answering smile; the gentlemen of her court sought in
vain for some diversion to distract her; even the Lady Margherita could
do nothing for her pleasure, while she watched in unobtrusive
tenderness, feeling that quiet, however unsatisfying, was more welcome
than speech.
The pages, at a sign from the Lady Margherita, had dipped their fronds
of feather in the great vases of mountain-snow that stood between the
columns, and waved them about the chamber; the queen followed their
movements with a fleeting smile as this breath of coolness reached her,
then fixed her eyes again, with a despairing look, upon the distant
forest.
"She wearieth for the King," her maidens said low to each other, "and
verily he may come to-night, for the days have already numbered more
than he giveth of wont to the chase."
"She is not like herself," the Lady Ecciva de Montferrat whispered to
her young Venetian companion, Eloisa Contarini, as the company strolled
out upon the terraces at a sign from the Lady Beata Bernardini whose
loving motherly eyes saw that Caterina needed rest and solitude. "She is
strange and pale to-day--like one who hath seen a vision." Lady Ecciva
spoke with deep seriousness, for superstition was a vital part of the
Cyprian nature, belonging alike to peasant and noble.
"How meanest thou--_a vision_?" Eloisa questioned, startled.
The other turned to see that they were not followed and answered in an
awe-struck tone: "_The vision of the Melusina--the fate of the
Lusignans!_ Didst thou not hear her shriek from the Castle of Lusignan
in the dead of night?"
"_The Melusina?_ Ecciva, who is _the_ '_Melusina_?'"
"She is the evil genius of the House of Lusignan," Ecciva explained to
her excited companion, "all Cyprus knoweth that when the Melusina crieth
three times from the towers of the ancient Chateau of Lusignan, in far
France, it meaneth death, or some great misfortune to a ruler of this
house."
"And thou--didst hear this lamentation verily, Ecciva? I should have
died from fear!"
"Yea, thou being from Venice--not knowing that it bodeth not harm for
thee--it is misfortune only for some ruler of their house of Lusignan."
"And that is naught to thee!" the Venetian girl exclaimed in
astonishment. "Thy King--is he nothing to thee?"
"One knoweth not," the other answered nonchalantly. "There is
Carlotta--both of the house of Lusignan; and she might be kinder than
King Janus who seized the fiefs of my father because he came not forth
to do him homage when he landed with his army from Alexandria."
Eloisa drew herself impetuously away from her companion who was watching
her through long, half-closed eyes.
"Thou then--why art thou here?" she exclaimed indignantly, "in service
of my beloved Lady, who is so good and fair, if thou lovest her not--nor
the King!"
The youthful Dama Ecciva laughed lightly:
"Thou art a veritable _turco_ for fierceness, Eloisa! I have naught
against her Majesty, who truly is most fair and gracious--quite other
than Carlotta--whom I love not at all! And if I held some grudge against
the King for seizing of my father's lands (which broke his heart before
he died) one cannot long be churlish in presence of our Janus, who hath
a matchless fashion of grace with him, so that all think to have won his
favor. Verily, that is a King for Cyprus!--he mindeth one of Cinyras. I
must tell thee the tale of our hero of Cyprus some day, Eloisa."
"Aye: but tell me now--how camest thou at Court if the King hath wronged
thy house?"
"Such eyes thou hast!--like a frightened child! I know not if I shall
reach thy comprehension, were I to answer thee--but I, being only
daughter to my father, Gualtier of Montferrat, who had no son--plead
with my mother to send me hither when I came of age, to do homage
loyally to King Janus, and claim our fiefs of him again--I being his
vassal by right of long generations past--there was no other way."
"A vassal so loyal doth honor to him and thee!" the warm-blooded
Venetian maid cried scornfully, with a toss of her dainty head.
Again the Lady Ecciva laughed lightly, but no shadow of discomposure
marred the exquisite outlines of the beautiful, cold face: the skin,
delicate and fine as ivory, showed no flush of color: her eyes and
tresses were dark as night--the eye-brows slender, yet marking a perfect
arc--the eyes beneath them tantalizing, inscrutable--the mouth rosy as
that of a child--the fingers long, sinuous, emphasizing her speech with
movements so unconscious that sometimes they betrayed what her words
left unguessed.
"I do not understand thy vassalship," the Lady Eloisa said with
hesitation--yet eager to know more of her companion's attitude toward
the Queen; they had wandered far down the terrace to the basin where the
swans were floating, opalescent in the sunset light.
Dama Ecciva broke off some oleander blossoms and flung them at the royal
birds with teasing motion, watching them contentedly as, one by one,
they floated away with ruffled plumage and sounds of protest.
"It is a right of our house for many generations," she explained; "being
allied with royalty through the elder branch of the Montferrats, I am a
_dama di maridaggio_ by birth, and since there is no son of our house to
offer homage in return for our fiefs, the duty was mine to do service to
our King and claim our lands of him again. It was a simple ceremony--to
bend the knee and kiss his hand, and make some empty vows--to see my
mother Lady of her lands once more."
"Aye, it were well--if thy vows were not so 'empty,'" Eloisa protested.
"How shouldst thou speak so coldly of thy vision, if thou hadst one
spark of loyalty?"
"It was not _my_ vision," her companion answered nonchalantly; "I slept
the night through, the better to enjoy the day, which, verily, was not
worth taking such trouble for,--so stupid hath it been!"
"But the vision?" Eloisa questioned impatiently--"there was no vision!
Thou hast said it but to frighten me!"
"It is her Majesty who hath had the vision--one can tell it but to look
at her: and for the three fatal shrieks--the shrieks to curdle one's
blood--Josefa told of them but now. _Some_ one hath heard them; but
they hush it in the court for it meaneth disaster."
"I may not stay with thee!" Eloisa cried turning away in hot
displeasure; "not for fear--for I do not believe thy vision: but because
I hate thy mocking spirit and thy so strange loyalty--_dama di
maridaggio_!"
The Lady Ecciva calmly resumed her pastime of swan-teasing as her
impulsive companion, flushed and panting, began to climb the long flight
of marble steps that led back to the palace-plateau.
"I think I am better companioned this heavenly night without thy
preaching," she said serenely, as Eloisa, half repenting her quickness,
turned back to wave her a farewell, "for the breezes are comforting
after the day, and fret me not with questions. And for my
_loyalty_"--she lingered mockingly on the word--"my loyalty will serve
King Janus well enough, unless he seeketh to enforce his rights to my
displeasure."
"How to thy 'displeasure'? What 'rights'?"
"His right of Lord of the fiefs--for our lands are gifts of the
Crown--to choose a husband for his _dama di maridaggio_ who suiteth not
her fancy."
"Nay, verily, Ecciva, he is a noble gentleman--he would not press thee
too hard, thou wouldst protest."
"Aye, I should protest--I _would_ protest. And so he hath no scheme to
marry me with the miserable Neapolitan noble who held our lands while we
were dispossessed, I care not! But it were good to know what fancy might
seize him--our charming Janus! For he is a man of many moods and some
favorite of the Soldan may next be friend to him!"
The evening breezes were slowly waking over the torrid land, bringing
needed refreshment after the long sultriness of the day: the air was
laden with delicious odors--fragrance of rose and jessamine and orange
blooms; birds of brilliant plumage called to each other in jubilant
notes as they flitted hither and thither among the pomegranate blossoms
which burned, like tongues of flame, among the thickets of green.
Back through the long alleys of wonderful trees where many a clinging
vine trailed masses of riotous color, it was pleasant to hear mirthful
voices ringing freely after the dull day's repression, or echoing back
more faintly from adventurous wanderers in the farther shrubberies. This
garden of delights which Janus had made for his bride, environing this
palace of Potamia, was alive with charm--rippling with stolen streams,
more costly than molten silver at the summer's height, which kept it in
such vesture of luxuriant bloom as only a monarch might command.
But Eloisa sped quickly up from terrace to terrace, scarcely pausing to
answer the persiflage with which her companion sought to detain her; she
was overwrought and unhappy, in spite of herself; she had no faith in
the vision of Ecciva; she felt hurt and outraged by her coldness, and
she was hastening back for one look in the true and noble face of the
Lady of the Bernardini, who mothered all these young Venetian maids of
honor in the court of Caterina, craving to express her deep loyalty to
the Queen herself by some immediate act of silent homage.
Only the Lady of the Bernardini and Margherita de Iblin were with
Caterina in the loggia, just without the palace, as Eloisa came flying
up the steps and falling on her knees covered the young Queen's hand
with passionate kisses.
"What is it, _carina mia_?" Caterina asked in alarm; "thou bringest
news? There is a courier?"
"_Niente--niente, Serenissima_--only to be near the one I love!" the
girl cried fervently; and then grew suddenly quiet, in full content
after this needed avowal.
"Poverina, thou art lonely for thy Venice, and thy people," the Queen
murmured in her own soft Italian tongue, while her fingers strayed
caressingly through the glory of red-gold hair which fell unbound about
the maid, in the fashion of those days for one of noble birth and tender
age.
But presently she withdrew her hand and motioned Eloisa to a corner
among the cushions on the curving marble slab, grotesquely wrought with
talismanic symbols, which outlined the end of the loggia where they sat.
"Thou art come a-propos: for the Lady Margherita hath promised us a tale
of ancient Cyprus, and we of Venice wish to know these legends of our
beautiful island."
"Nay, beloved Sovereign Lady;--it is not legend but simple historic
truth, which your Majesty hath granted me permission to narrate--a tale
of love and loyalty of the annals of our house; and out of it hath come
this Cyprian proverb: '_Quel che Iblin e non si puo trovar._' 'Such an
one as Iblin may no man find!'" Dama Margherita, usually so pale and
grave, was flushed and eager; her deep eyes sparkled; her breath came
fast.
The name of Joan of Iblin was revered in Cyprus and the Queen turned
towards Margherita with some comprehension of her pride in the nobility
of this ancestor who had spent himself in loyal service for the early
Kings of Cyprus, touching her hand with a light pressure, smiling her
approbation.
No feast at any court in those days was complete without this diversion
of recitation, when the nation's heroes, or some passage from its
greater classics, furnished the theme; or when some improvisator wove a
tissue of myth and legend, embroidered with fact, which won its way
through confiding ages as historic truth, till the time, growing
sophisticated, laid it heroically aside for a curio. And Cyprus stood
high among the Eastern nations in literary reputation. Was not its poet
Enclos earliest among the Greek prophetic singers? Was not the "Cypria"
celebrated among the epics of antiquity, a precursor to the Iliad
itself? Was any land more fertile than Cyprus in food for poets?
The Cypriotes no longer knew whether Cinyras were god, or man, or myth;
whether he were the son of Apollo, or of Pygmalion and the bewitching
ivory image of the sculptor's dead wife; or, in very truth, that
splendid prince of Agamemnon's time, as sung by Homer in the Iliad,
winning laurels at the siege of Troy. This hero of the "_Cypria_," was
he, in verity the great High Priest of the island and chief of the
stately race of the _Cinyradae_ who had ruled the people long in State
and Sanctuary, and filled their realm with stately temples? The
Cypriotes drew breath in an atmosphere of myth and poetry and felt the
recital of the feats of their heroes to be no less a duty than a
delight.
The improvisatorial faculty so often bestowed upon this imaginative
people was greatly prized, and not infrequently it descended from father
to son, as an inheritance, winning for its possessor something of the
reverence granted to a prophet.
Dama Margherita de Iblin possessed this gift, though only in moments of
deep feeling was she willing to exercise it: but to-night she was
strangely moved out of sympathy for the Queen, whose evident anxiety
filled her with foreboding and whom she eagerly longed to divert.
"Since your Majesty hath graciously commanded the story of Joan of
Iblin, Lord of Beirut and Governor of Jerusalem--a tale of our dear land
when it was young--I will tell it after the fashion of my people," she
said, rising with her sudden resolve, her strong, dark face grown
beautiful from the play of noble emotions.
She stood for a moment, her tall figure in its sweeping folds swaying in
slow rhythmic cadence--her attitude and gesture full of grace and
dignity--irresistibly compelling--as in low, penetrating monotone she
began her chant.
The music-maidens stole noiselessly forth upon the loggia, accompanying
the noble improvisatrice with lute and rhythmic posture; the night
deepened and the stars came out, and still her hearers listened
breathlessly, as in moments of emotion the chant leaped wildly to meet
the urgency of her thought, or deepened in melting tenderness to its
pathos; for such was the intensity of Margherita's emotion and dramatic
quality that she endued each character with an almost startling
vitality--or had she put her auditors under some magic spell with the
compelling gaze of her deep eyes? They felt as if living in that past
time, partakers in its very action, and they surrendered themselves to
her power.
It was the tale of an infant heir of Cyprus, when the realm was young
and the Emperor Frederick was her Suzerain, and with a sweep of her
magnetic fingers Margherita showed the babe lying helpless and appealing
before his uncle the noble Lord of Iblin, to whom the widowed Queen had
confided him during his tutelage. The guardian's faith and devotion were
sketched in rapid strokes; and when the tiny King had been crowned and
his knights and barons of Cyprus and Jerusalem had sworn him fealty, the
souls of her listeners swelled indignant within them as Dama Margherita
thrilled forth the challenge of the Emperor to the Lord of Iblin to lay
down his trust and surrender the child with the customs of Cyprus to
him--their Suzerain--until the boy should be of age.
"_Not so--most gracious Lord and Emperor!_" Joan of Iblin had made
dauntless answer; "_for my tutelage is by order of the Queen, his
mother, who holdeth the regency justly, and by the laws of Cyprus and of
Jerusalem--which, with all courtesy, I will defend. I make appeal unto
the courts for this our right!_"
Her sympathetic auditors verily _heard_ the tramp of armies in the wild
chant of Margherita when the Emperor had replied with scorn and insult,
trampling on the rights of Cyprus; they could have sworn that they saw
the Emperor's hosts gathering on the plains as they watched the
impetuous motions of all those beckoning maiden hands; and then,
advancing in quiet dignity, sure of their right, the old-time knights
and barons of Cyprus and Jerusalem, moving to the measure of a quaint,
Christian psalm: and so fully had her listeners yielded themselves to
her potent spell, that but hearkening to her recital, they quailed and
trembled when she told that the enemies of the Lord of Iblin came by
night and sought to whisper treachery to his staunch soul, while in
tones that scarcely broke the hush, the false words of the tempter
reached their consciousness, quivering through them, as if they
themselves were guilty of this treachery:
"_Ye are more in number than the hosts of the Emperor--kill him while he
sleepeth! For we will see that his guards wake not._"
Then fell a deep, throbbing silence, tingling with a sense of shame,
broken by a sudden discord of the lutes and the wild burst of ringing
scorn.
"_Shall we, Christian men of Cyprus, do this iniquity!_"
Again, the whispered voice of the tempter: "_Aye! for the Emperor is
false; he hath taken thine own sons for hostages and keepeth not his
promise but in his camp entreateth them shamefully; and in the courts,
which shall judge of this thy cause, doth seek to malign thee._"
Once more came the voice of Joan of Iblin, invincible:
"_We have sworn fealty to the Emperor--we are true men--be others
untrue._"
And then in unison--swift, sure, triumphant--the words vibrated on the
air: "_We have sworn fealty to the Emperor--we are true men--be others
untrue._"
The voices in the garden had long since ceased, and one by one the
wanderers had gathered on the terrace, waiting in responsive silence the
conclusion of the tale they loved. Among them the Bernardini stood
entranced. He had been strolling alone, filled with anxious thoughts
which had brought him to a mood easily wrought upon, and from the
silence of the garden to come suddenly upon this scene of picturesque
action was a surprise that gave it added power.
He stood as if fascinated, never moving his gaze from the lithe figure
of Margherita, whose every motion revealed new grace and unsuspected
depths of feeling. Margherita, whom he had thought so grave and cold! So
intently was he watching her that he realized no others in the vivid
pantomime until the music maidens had gathered closely about her with
hushed lutes and a mysterious silence fell--as of night upon the
plain--spreading with the slow movement of the down-turned palms of all
that girlish throng--the graceful, swaying figures scarce advancing, yet
seeming to encompass the plain.
Between these interludes of dramatic rendering, the thread of the story
was held in a quick, clear monotone easily followed. The hushed tramp of
a great army withdrawing in the night--not from fear, but to honor their
vows--the words of Iblin: "_We will not fight our Emperor, for our men
are more than his: which having seen, it will now perchance please him
to accept our terms of honorable peace._" The Emperor's acceptance of
the terms from fear or wile, or because of new wars pressing in his own
lands: his promise to leave the customs of the realm to Cyprus: and
then, as Suzerain, his swift summons to the Lord of Iblin to join him in
Crusade with men and arms. But the friends of the faithful guardian
close round him and the chant of Margherita grows fierce and ominous:
"_Beware! He meaneth treachery. It is no summons--save to entrap thee._"
But the answer rings out loyally in the knightly faith of those early
days, while the deep, contralto tones electrify her audience: "_Shall we
show fear of our Emperor, or fail to bring him aid in holy warfare of
Crusade--we, who are Christian knights? Faith begetteth Faith!_"
Then the Cypriotes fare them forth to do the bidding of their dauntless
leader,--all the knights and nobles of Cyprus and Jerusalem, the
youthful King and the sons of the Lord of Iblin--with interchange of
gifts and feasting and homage as of leal men to their Suzerain: with
much pledging of faith, from each to each, after the manner of those
days--against the background of that noble chorus following from afar in
massive, chanted solemn tones--
"_Faith begetteth Faith._"
But now, to the cities of Cyprus, left destitute of defense while their
nobles were gone to honor the Emperor's command, came a band of
mercenaries of the Emperor's sending, who stole the customs and by
their lawless acts frightened the people who fled for safety to the
convents, denouncing Frederick as false and craven; while the governors
sent by him, in despite of his solemn treaty, made havoc in the land,
proclaiming in every city:
"_Let not the Lord of Iblin set foot in this land of Cyprus--by order of
the Emperor!_"
Suddenly the indignant cries of the whole listening company mingled in
confusion with the inspired voice of the improvisatrice and the
descriptive music of the lutes.
Caterina sprang to her feet, not knowing what she did: "Bring back the
Lord of Iblin!" she cried. "Bring the noble Joan back! Save this people
of Cyprus!"
At the sound of her voice the lords and ladies of her court came
crowding up the steps of the loggia from the terrace, clinging around
her, kissing her hands with fervent words of loyalty and pleasure,
before she realized that she was in the _Now_, or that she had cried out
in her excitement. But this was the Cypriotes' story of stories, and her
unconscious action had bound them to her.
But Dama Margherita, still in her trance of song, waved them to quiet
again as they stood grouped about the Queen, in the very mood of the
closing scene, creating an atmosphere of restrained passion, through
which the voice of the improvisatrice throbbed and pulsated like their
own hear-beats.
But now the tones of the improvisatrice are low and quiet, and her
motions assert the dignity of a life nobly lived. For Joan of Iblin has
returned from Crusade, has conquered the intruders and restored quiet
to the realm. But, thereafter, siege is laid to his own castle and fief
of Beirut, and now, gray-haired and full of honors, his time of service
drawing to a close, his trust fulfilled and the young monarch come to
his majority, he implores his royal ward to assemble his full court, and
kneeling in their presence before the youth whom he had served from
tenderest infancy, he prays:
"_If I have served thee well, my nephew and my monarch--now come to
thine own--because I loved thee well, yet loving honor more:_
"_If I have fought for thee in keeping of my trust, and dared the enmity
of the Emperor our Suzerain,--and for thy sake:_
"_Now, by my love for thee--for I am old and the cities of my fiefs are
doomed;_
"_Send, if it seemeth good to thee and to these, the knights and barons
of thy realm, and save my lands--that they be not wrested from me when
my strength is spent!_"
The true-hearted Prince threw loving arms about him, with words of
comfort and with promises, and would have raised him. But the Lord of
Iblin would bring his speech to its conclusion and have his say before
them all, thus kneeling--as if it were a rendering of his trust, a
fitting close to a so loyal life.
The words of his Swan-Song had been chanted in full, rare, solemn
harmony--the lutes in gracious melody accompanying, like an undertone of
love--slow tears down dropping from the eyes of Margherita.
And one by one, as the chant proceeded, through her strange magnetic
power, her listeners _saw_ a knight step forth from the circle and drop
to his knees, swearing fealty to the King and the Lord of Iblin, until
all were kneeling. Then the chanting voices hushed and the rapid motions
ceased: and under that spell they saw, as in a vision, luminous in the
darkness, the kneeling knights of that early court of Cyprus, and in
their midst, the gray-haired Joan of Iblin and the boyish monarch, in
his young, rosy strength--a vision of love and loyalty!
Aluisi Bernardini breathed a sigh of content as he moved quickly away
with a sense of his responsibility being shared; for it was only now
that he felt that he knew Margherita, and she would be ever near the
Queen, a Cypriote of the Cypriotes, but loyal to her heart's core. He
could have kissed the hem of her trailing robe as it floated towards
him, stirred by the motion of his passing--for in the maiden's tale she
had revealed herself to him: it was not of her grace and talent, nor of
the poem that he thought--but on the surety of her staunchness of
soul--of her consecration: he heard her voice again ringing in the
words:
"_We are true men: be others untrue!_"
XI
A Little page who had been leaning on the marble parapet beyond the
terrace, came stealthily and beckoned to a comrade on the steps of the
loggia.
"A troop of horse were coming across the plain," he explained in low,
agitated tones, as the other reached his side, and followed him back to
the post where he had been watching. "I saw them all the time Dama
Margherita was reciting--Holy Mother, but it was long!--I thought the
King was coming, and it was I that should carry the news to her
Majesty--I came near crying out! But I could not see his orange plume,
and I waited. They came slowly--_Santissima Vergine!_ _He was not
there!_"
He clutched his comrade's doublet with a trembling hand and turned an
ashen face towards him.
"What ailest thee, Tristan?--thou who art already a damoiseau and shalt
be a true knight? Thou art verily dreaming--I see nothing."
"They are gone within--in the first great court of the palace--those who
came. They were the King's gentlemen--_all_ the King's gentlemen--Messer
Andrea among them. I thought the champing would have roused the Queen
who hath been watching all the day. I am not afraid----" he gasped; "but
it was so horrible!--Thou knowest, Guido, Messer Andrea never leaveth
the King."
The boy's eyes were dark with fear.
"He will come with the others--he will surely, surely come," Guido
asseverated.
They clasped each other close and pressed their fresh cheeks together,
trembling so that they could scarcely speak, yet struggling to be brave,
as became little pages that should be knights.
"They were so long," poor Tristan said in a choking whisper, "and it was
so still--_so still_--no music, and they returning from the chase!
And--when they came nearer, I thought I saw his horse, but I could not
see a rider--and I thought, I thought--perhaps because it _was_
dark--and I ran down the front of the palace to get nearer when they
crossed the bridge. Ah, but the tramp was dreadful! And--and--it was his
horse, and a squire leading him--and--behind them--oh Guido!--_Then I
knew_."
"We will be knights, Tristan mio," Guido whispered, wiping away his
comrade's tears while his own were falling; and then, straining each
other convulsively, they broke down in sobs together.
* * * * *
Dama Ecciva stole up the steps from the terrace, and catching Eloisa's
hand, dragged her forcibly away.
"Come quickly," she whispered, with chattering teeth, "_Santa Maria
Vergine!_ I am so frightened. Oh, the poor, poor Queen! That was why she
hath been so strange--she hath truly seen the vision. Poverina, it
breaks one's heart! And he but a week away! So gay and debonair, and
beautiful as a god!"
There was no mistaking her wild eyes.
"Tell me!" Eloisa gasped.
"I was there in the pergola, and I saw them come--the _frati_ from the
Troodos in the midst of the troop of horse--with--with IT.--Oh
Eloisa, _it was true!_--They are telling her now."
* * * * *
There was a stir in the great audience-chamber back of the loggia where
Caterina sat--a sound of hesitant feet, as of many who came unwillingly,
unutterably weary from the dull weight of evil tidings.
The muffled footsteps roused her from her revery and she turned her head
and saw them coming. Her heart stood still for fear.
Messer Andrea came before the others, falteringly--as if youth had died
out of him: he was pale and strange and no words fell from his blanched
lips during that long instant while he crossed the interminable stretch
between them, and Caterina waited, with all her tortured soul crying out
for Janus.
Then the King's favorite, with the cruel story written in his anguished
eyes, turned them full upon hers for one moment, that she might
_know_--then bowed his head upon his breast and opened his arms, as if
he fain would shelter her--
"Caterina----" he said--"Child----"
XII
In the first dazed days that followed, between the necessary adjustment
of matters of state, and the many ceremonies incident upon the King's
sudden death, there was scant time to discuss the rapid happenings; even
in the court-circle they scarcely knew what was passing--still less how
it had come about. It was said that Janus had died of malignant fever,
due to the terrible malaria of the coasts where he had been hunting. Yet
some hinted that there were natural poisons, as of the marshes, and
others--more fatal: but this was with bated breath and kept well without
the innermost circle of the court, for no one really _knew_. It was easy
to talk of poison, but far less easy to make assertions implicating
those who might be innocent; and, meanwhile, the complications
surrounding the throne of Cyprus demanded infinite wisdom and despatch.
Almost before the Queen could lift her head after the shock of her
husband's death, the nobles and barons of the realm had penetrated to
her private boudoir and sworn her fealty, with a tenderness and
reverence that deeply touched her. By the will which the King had left,
Caterina Veneta was now Queen of Cyprus, with a Council of Seven
appointed to assist her; and every Venetian who held a post in the
Government was restless until the young widow of Janus, who had been
crowned with all due ceremony in the Cathedral of Nikosia at the time of
her marriage, had publicly received the full seal of her authority.
So quickly death had fallen upon the brilliant, pleasure-loving young
monarch--so without warning--that it seemed to those of his court like
some dread nightmare from which they might presently awake to a new
morning, fair and gay as those they had known so little time ago, before
the music and the mirth, the jewels and the festal robes that befit a
court had given place to the gloom and mourning of these horrible days.
As in a dream they had taken part in the sumptuous funeral ceremonies,
feeling still that it could not be true--he was too young, too brave,
too gay, too gracious, to have come so soon to this! And if to some of
those young nobles it was rather the shock of the loss of a boon
companion than a serious grief, there were many among them who, for the
few bright words that cost him little--a smile--the grasp of his ready
hand--permission to come and shine about him--now brought their tribute
of adoring tears.
Meanwhile, in the halls of the palace, time moved with slow and halting
footsteps: the stricken Queen came rarely among her circle of ladies,
and only for short intervals, and the talk, however varied, was but upon
one absorbing theme.
It was known that soon after the funeral, the Queen seeking how she
might do highest honor in preparing the permanent tomb, had been told of
the priceless sarcophagus of oriental jasper--the gift in early ages of
the Emperor of the East to Santa Soffia in Nikosia, and she had sent an
envoy to the brothers of the convent to ask that it be surrendered for
the tomb of Janus, their king, promising whatever compensation they
should ask.
"Ah, but it will be magnificent, that tomb under the dome of our own San
Nicolo! It will stand on the precious mosaic pavement from Alexandria,
on columns of ivory chased with gold. Dama Margherita hath seen the
design which hath been made for her Majesty by the curator of our
library of art."
"I also," said the little Contarini, timidly, for she was proud of the
favor of the Queen whom she devotedly loved: "It was most beautiful; and
the Serenissima la Regina held it long, as if she could not put it
away."
But a hand was raised to hush the topic:
"Speak no more thereof; for word hath come but now that the request of
her Majesty hath been denied."
There was a chorus of indignant protest:
"It could not be, when she so grieveth! They have no hearts--those
_frati_ of Santa Soffia!"
"The Queen will not endure this refusal without reason!"
"There was no reason that should be told," their informer whispered low
to one of them. "For love of the Queen, hush the topic."
But an elderly member of the Queen's Council who had been passing
through the great Hall and had paused near them, taking no part in the
conversation, now came forward, after a moment's hesitation.
"_I_ speak that you may forget it," he said: "for it seemeth to be a
pleasing theme of discussion among you--yet should be so no more--a mere
extravaganza of fancy that our girl-queen might wisely abandon."
"Signore!" exclaimed the Lady of the Bernardini, rising indignantly, "I
maintain the dignity of our Sovereign Lady's Court, while she perforce,
from sore affliction, must be absent. All speech must be as in her
presence."
The Councillor, resenting the reproof, gave a slight cold bow, studying
her curiously, and pondering whether he dared go further.
"The matter is of interest," he pursued, after a moment's pause, "for
they _gave_ their reason, these monks of Santa Soffia, and scrupled
not--being willing to keep their treasure."
"Signore Consigliere----!" Dama Margherita exclaimed beseechingly.
But if the monks of Santa Soffia had a reason for their conduct, he also
had for his, and would not be stayed.
"They gave their reason; that the precious gift should not be desecrated
to _hold relics that were subject to excommunication_," he said with
painful distinctness, and would not linger for any explanation.
"It is shameful--such a reason so calmly told by a member of our Queen's
Council! He should unsay the words!" one of the maids of honor cried
hotly. "There could be no color for it: the Signor Fabrici hath proven
that he loveth not the Regina!"
"It was unholy speech," said Dama Margherita crossing herself, "which
had not been, save for the Consigliere: it hath no shade of truth; may
the Holy Madonna forgive him--and us, who have listened to slander."
"Cara Dama Margherita," said the little Contarini consolingly, "if we
have listened--it is not with our hearts!"
"Thou art wise, carina: and we who love her will see that the ill word
goeth not beyond."
But the speech of the Consigliere had caused such consternation that it
could not be immediately dismissed; and one of the elder ladies of the
Court was obliged to explain it, for "excommunication" was a word of
evil omen.
"The word is a slander," she said. "But it is known that the Holy Father
hath had small friendship for King Janus since he declined alliance with
the niece of His Holiness, who was not one to please our young King's
delicate fancy, though His Holiness strove to have his will--first by
promises and then by threats."
They pressed closely about her, with exclamations of interest and
astonishment, for this gray-haired noble woman, Madama de Thenouris, had
not been one of those to retail gossip and they might not question her
strange tale; they knew that she had some serious purpose in this
unwonted freedom of speech.
"This was known by some of us in Cyprus before the marriage of our
King--yet was kept hushed, lest trouble should grow from mention of the
displeasure of the Holy Father; but no threat of excommunication hath
reached this court. My children, I am trusting you with confidences--for
it is a time of trouble for our most gracious Lady and we of her court
must know truth from slander that we may stand for her."
Each one came and laid her hand, in silent pledge, in that of the
gray-haired speaker.
"Later, not long since," she continued, "there came from Rome a
tale--maliciously whispered about by Fabrici--not to be believed--that
by some act of renunciation of the Christian Faith, Janus won the favor
of the Sultan when he sent him hither to regain his throne. The
Consigliere Fabrici went with others to the monks of Santa Soffia, and
if he told this matter there, so as he hath whispered it in the court of
Cyprus, it may well be that the _frati_ reasoned thus."
"Is it true, Madama, that an ambassador is already come from the Sultan
to acknowledge Caterina as Queen of Cyprus, and that there shall be some
gathering of the court to-night to receive his homage?"
"Aye; such a gathering as one may have in these sad days, my children."
"And Carlotta?" another asked eagerly--"Ecciva--tell them what thou hast
spoken of Carlotta."
"That she, in very person, hath sailed from Rhodes to meet the Admiral
of Venice on his fleet--to throw herself on his mercy, as _heir of
Cyprus_, to ask his help, to place her on the throne, _from the long
friendship between the islands_." She told it with a little note of
triumph, for it was strange news.
"Carlotta! To seek aid from Venice!--It cannot be true!"
"Aye; it is verily true," Madama de Thenouris said quietly--"as Ecciva
hath told it; for a report hath come from Messer Mocenigo, himself. But
that is like Carlotta, who leaveth no imagining of her brain untried.
She hath even the courage to urge her near connection with Venice
_through her brother Janus the King, by his marriage with Caterina
Veneta_!"
"She hath lost her reason, one would say: there can be no more to fear
from Carlotta!"
"No more to _hope_ from Carlotta," some one corrected in an undertone;
but the voice sounded unfamiliar in the group and when they looked to
see who might have spoken, there was no one to whom they could assign
it.
Eloisa Contarini turned to the young Dama Ecciva de Montferrat with her
impulsive question:
"Who was it, Ecciva?"
"Nay, I was about to ask--I also."
Dama Margherita turned and looked at her steadily; the girl gazed back
at her with narrowing eyelids, slightly shrugging her shoulders as she
finally dropped her eyes.
"But Carlotta?" one of the Venetian maids of honor questioned, impatient
for the tale: "she knew not of the will of his Majesty the King?"
"Nay; and she had hope of being first to carry news of his death to the
Admiral of Venice;--a most strange hope of any favor from such a
quarter!"
"The answer of the Mocenigo was a marvel of courtesy, as it hath been
reported, and worthy of a diplomat," Madama de Thenouris continued.
"Most graciously he assured the Princess that Venice held her friendship
gladly and would not fail of anything that she might do to prove her
loyalty to this Crown of Cyprus. Yet now, the Daughter of the Republic,
Caterina Veneta, being left by the Will of Janus Queen of Cyprus, Venice
must first uphold the rights of Caterina, and might show her Eccellenza,
the Princess Carlotta, no favor that could prejudice the sovereignty of
the Queen."
"And then?"
"And then came further pleading from Carlotta, with a new tissue of
reasons. But finally the Mocenigo told her plainly: 'The reasons which
avail in kingdoms are arms--not questions of legality.'"
"It is a theme for a comedy! And Carlotta----?"
"Hath sailed again with new wisdom for Rhodes; or, perchance to plan
some enterprise that bespeaketh her less mad."
"She is not mad--but brave!" cried the Dama Ecciva boldly.
"It is enough of Carlotta," said the Lady of the Bernardini, rising to
break up the talk.
But she beckoned to Dama Margherita to remain, as the others were
leaving the hall, and gave her a charge in a low tone.
"See to it that these tales add not to the weariness of our beloved Lady
who hath already enough of grief to bear; and the time is full of
dangers for her. I count much upon thine influence with the younger
maids to keep her from breaking her heart," she added with hesitation,
but with a smile which conveyed her confidence in the Lady Margherita,
"and to hold them loyal."
She laid a detaining hand upon the younger woman's shoulder as she
spoke the last words, uncertain whether to confide in her further, and
Margherita, having given her assurance, still waited.
"For this question of excommunication," the Lady of the Bernardini said
at last--"lest it should be bruited about by the enemies of the
Queen--_it hath no color of truth_. My Son, the Lord Chamberlain, hath
confided to me--(I am trusting thee, Dama Margherita, that thou mayest
_know_ it to be so, for the peace of mind of our poor, young Queen, and
so mayest lead others to thy belief--yet speak no hint of this my
confidence). My Son, the Chamberlain, hath seen in the most revered
chronicle of State of this kingdom, the _Libro delle Rimembranze_, the
copy of a letter sent by King Janus to His Holiness, to accredit his
Reverence the Archbishop of Nikosia, brother to this same Signor Jean
Perez Fabrici the Consigliere, who spoke with us but now--as Ambassador
to His Holiness: and the manner of this letter leaveth no room for doubt
that he wrote as a son of the Church, in all confidence of favor. He
calleth His Holiness '_Santissimo e Beatissimo Padre!_' and the
signature of this letter (which it is noted that he wrote with his own
hand) was _'Devotus vester Filius, Rex Jacobus Cipri_.'"
XIII
"Madre Mia!" he said with deep tenderness, "I think it is not possible
to hold the knowledge from her longer. It must be told to-night."
They were in the loggia overlooking the splendid stretch of terraced
gardens, now flooded with moonlight; they had been standing there, quite
silent, for a long time, each feeling that there was something to be
spoken and suffered--each praying to defer the moment.
"Oh, Aluisi--no!"
Her tone was an entreaty: but he only put out his hand and laid it
tenderly upon hers: the beautiful, tapering fingers trembled under his
touch, then slowly quieted, for there was a rare sympathy between them.
"I have done everything," he continued in a low voice, without looking
at her, "but they will not wait--matters of State, they say, to be
passed upon--a Queen must give her signature when it is needed."
He came closer, suddenly turning upon her a gaze which compelled her
startled comprehension. "They would be quite willing to pass the measure
_without_ her signature," he added, in a still lower tone. "It has come
to that--we must think of her rights and protect her _against her
Councillors_!"
"She has had so much to bear, poor child--so young--and her heart is
broken already with sorrow for her husband. For she had faith in him.
And now!--Have they no feeling for her?"
"Madre, carissima, thou knowest not Rizzo; he is the most powerful among
them, and the most ill-disposed. 'Let her take the Prince of Naples,' he
hath said openly before the Councillors, 'and give us a man to reign
over us.'"
"And Janus but two weeks dead!" The Lady Beata gave an involuntary cry
of horror. "But Fabrici, the Archbishop?" she asked after a moment, "may
he not influence them to be more gentle with her--having a brother in
the Council?"
Aluisi shook his head sorrowfully. "Nay, Mother--I know not which is
worse. Venice, at his election, would have prevented it, but could not,
because he represented this intriguing power of Naples which hath not
ceased from effort to have its will of Cyprus, since the betrothal of
Caterina--which also it sought to overthrow."
"How knowest thou?"
He laid his finger on his lips--"If we were yet in Venice, I might not
answer thee; but here--and it is for me and thee alone--it was I upon
whom the Signoria laid the task of drawing up their monitory letter to
Janus to hold him to his contract."
"Oh, if thou hadst not done it! I would rather thou hadst not written
it!" she said with a low moan.
"Aye--Mother: and I--even then I knew that it must be happier for the
child if that contract might be broken. Though if I had dreamed of
_this_ I could not have doomed one of our Casa Cornaro to such
suffering and dishonor. But thou knowest the pride of Venice: if not
_my_ hand, another's would have written it: and I then--we should not
have been here to shield her."
"But the Archbishop Fabrici cannot hold malice against Caterina. He hath
all the church of Cyprus in his command; he _must_ be friendly to the
Queen."
But Aluisi's face gave her no hope, as she turned to him.
"Fabrici, for another cause, holdeth the queen in deep disfavor," he
said, "for that he, having been sent by Janus on some embassy of marriage
for the child Zarla, came into the Chamber of Counts of the Kingdom--not
many days since--and with much grossness of speech would have discussed
the matter at length in that presence; which we, of her household--she
being in the first grief of her young widowhood--prevented, through
members of the Queen's Council, better disposed."
"It was well, Aluisi: it seemeth even now too soon--too cruel--to add
this shadow to her grief: and but for thee, she must have known thereof
that day. For she seeketh already to take up the burden of the State and
questioneth daily of the Secretary of the King of that which passeth in
the Council. 'That I may rule my people,' she sayeth sadly, 'and those
who loved the King will help me!' With what a tender grace she sayeth
'_my people_!'"
"Madre mia, thou who lovest her and art so wise--shall I leave this
parchment with thee? Thou best canst spare her in what must be told. I
have had made this copy of certain clauses of the Will of Janus, which
may not longer wait official reading before the Council in the Chamber
of the Counts and in presence of the Queen. Thinkest thou not it would
be too hard for her to learn first of its provisions before them all?"
"Thou art right, Aluisi--always right. But her faith in him is deep; how
shall I make her believe it?"
"I know not," he answered with a groan, and crushing the parchment in
his hand. Then he smoothed it out remorsefully and gave it to her. "It
is a faithful copy; there is no other argument. Thou wilt go to her
now--for it _must_ be."
With bowed head he led her to the door of the Queen's ante-chamber. "I
am here," he said, "if need should be."
She still hesitated. "It may be long, for I know not how to tell her."
"Thank Heaven that she hath one like thee to care for her," he answered,
gently forcing her through the doorway as he held her hand. "For I do
think the Council would willingly have her away."
In the ante-chamber scattered groups of court-ladies in deepest
mourning, were talking in low tones. They all rose as the Lady Beata
entered: but she, with only an inclination of her head passed on hastily
into the inner chamber which was the private boudoir of the Queen.
Caterina was quite alone, lying back on a low couch near an open window,
through which the moonlight streamed in long pale rays; while many soft
lights of perfumed oils, burning low in lamps of ivory, made only
moonlight within the chamber. She held the miniature of Janus pressed
against her cheek, and as the Lady Beata came towards her she tried to
welcome her with a quivering smile.
"I sent them all away, Zia mia: sometimes it seems less hard to bear
when I am quite alone."
The Lady Beata bent over her, stroking her hair caressingly, striving
for courage to break the silence.
"Caterina mia," she said at last, "it is needful to give some thought to
matters of government--the Council will not wait. Hast thou the
strength?"
"I _must_ have strength," she answered with instant resolution, rising
and laying aside the miniature with a lingering look. "Wilt thou call
Aluisi? He ever maketh me understand. It is so new to me," she pleaded
feebly, as the Lady Beata did not move.
"Carina, it will be best alone; Aluisi hath asked me to speak with thee.
If--if thou wilt read this parchment"--the Lady Beata held it out to
her--"it is the Will of the late King, Aluisi hath bidden me give it
thee."
"There is no need," Caterina answered listlessly, as the Lady Beata
opened it and put it into her hand, "the provisions have been told me."
But the other persisted. "To-morrow--for the Council say that they will
not longer wait; it will be read before the Counts of the Chamber, and
they would have the Queen take oath of fealty to Cyprus."
"I shall have the strength when to-morrow cometh," Caterina answered
wearily, and making a motion to return the parchment.
"There are other clauses; Aluisi thought it might be better to read
them here--alone--before--before----" Her face was blanched and pained,
and her words came with difficulty.
The young Queen looked at her in surprise, then, after a moment's
indecision, dropped her eyes upon the page and read the short clauses
through; then once more--as if she did not understand--then again, a
scarlet flush growing as she read.
The parchment contained but three short clauses: King Janus left his
kingdom to his wife Caterina, who was to reign, with their child, if
there should be one; or alone, if the child should die.
He provided a Council of seven to assist her with the Government:
In case of her death and the death of the child, the kingdom should
descend to each of the three other children of Janus, in the order
named. The unwedded mother of these children was not mentioned and
Caterina had never dreamed of their existence.
She stood trembling--her face slowly paling to a marble whiteness.
"_Mater Dolorosa!_" she gasped, with a moan of pain, instantly
repressed.
The Lady Beata put her arm around her to steady her; but Caterina drew
herself away, standing upright.
"Call back the Chamberlain!" she cried, imperiously; and stood
waiting--panting--until he entered the room.
Then she drew up her slight figure in defiance, her eyes flashing in her
white, white face--her voice ringing scorn as she pointed to the
document which had dropped from her hand.
"How should I believe this--this _baseness_ of my husband--your King?"
she cried. "Who hath _dared_ to fashion it?"
"Beloved Sovereign Lady"--he answered her, and for very pity could say
no more.
She turned from one to the other with an impatient, questioning,
imperious gesture.
They came nearer--slowly--silently turning upon her such faces of love
and sorrow and comprehension that the fire in her eyes died in anguish.
A quiver shot through her, but she struggled to stand, motioning them
away again when they would have helped her--she must drink this cup of
bitterness alone. "How should I believe it?" she repeated brokenly,
still studying their faces.--"How _should_ I believe it--ye are not
faithless to him--to me----?"
There was no need to answer her: again they looked their unspeakable
compassion.
But as Caterina's eyes rested upon the parchment once more, a sudden
hope came to her. "The will of the King was written in his own hand,"
she cried eagerly. "Thou hast said it, Aluisi; this is not the writing
of the king!"
"Nay, beloved Sovereign Lady," the Chamberlain made answer, as he picked
it up, and held it before her; "this is but a memorandum made for your
Majesty's convenience, but attested under the seal of the kingdom. The
original Will is in the keeping of the Lord of the Privy Seals, awaiting
your command. It was thought that your Majesty would wish to see it
before the Council should be assembled."
She understood and bowed her head in silence, while all hope died out of
her face.
Aluisi advisedly used the ceremonious form by which he was accustomed to
address the Queen in public, hoping to hint to her of some necessary
preparation to control the meeting of the Council that could not, in any
event, be long deferred.
They lingered wistfully, seeking vainly for words that might not hurt
her; but Caterina looked at them beseechingly, with dim eyes--her lips
moving without sound.
The Lady Beata understood.
"I go now to pray the dear Christ for thee--the Man of Sorrows," she
said with inexpressible tenderness. "And later--Carinissima--I will come
again, and thou wilt rest."
So young--so sorely stricken--she knelt in the cold moonlight alone--her
hands clasped in passionate repression on her throbbing heart--"Mater
Dei!" she moaned: "Death--and then _this_!--If but it need not have been
told me! If I might but have kept the _memory_ of my happiness!"
Only the stars and the pitying angels looked down on the fierce conflict
of grief and love and disillusion with which her desolate young soul
wrestled alone through the long, midnight vigil. How should she separate
these two beautiful faiths which had been enthroned as one in the happy
depths of her guileless heart, without perilling her very trust in God!
Yet, as the sad day dawned over the hills and sea, she knew that God was
still in His Heaven, behind the clouds--while she clung as a drowning
mariner--the more desperately for her weakness--to the spar of this
faith in the wreck of her happiness, though the love to which her whole
being had moved in rhythmic content was as a lost star, glimmering
uncertainly behind the mists.
But through the desolate night-watches the Lady of the Bernardini in the
ante-chamber of the Queen had been agonizing in prayer for her until
thought was spent; and now she had moved out upon the loggia and stood
there waiting for the dawn that seemed long-deferred, in a
half-conscious wonder that there were no sorrows great enough to stay
Nature's punctual recurrences--that to-day and to-morrow there would
still be dawns and sunsets, whatever happened to the souls of men.
In the silver line that etched the dark mountain crests against the pale
monotone of the sky, single firs stood forth saliently, while dim in the
distance, vast shapes, clothed in perpetual snows, held wraith-like
watch over the smiling plains below, where life and bloom were possible.
Athwart the low, confused twittering of bird-notes which had infused the
solemn silence with a vague hint of life, strident sounds grew
dominant--a crow calling to his mate from tree to tree--a short, sharp
symphony of swallows--a cock announcing the coming of the dawn.
Then motion broke in upon the majesty; hurried rushes of flight across
the sky--beatings of wings--pulsings and ecstasies and triumphs of
bird-life--and the Day was new.
Faint twitterings in the copses deepened to melody--to canticles of
rejoicing; tints of turquoise and opal crept into the shadows and gold
into the greens: the night-dews gleamed upon the firs and grasses, while
a luminous haze dimmed the dark glint of the waters to pearly gray,
softened the grimness of the mountain-faces and wrapped them--sea and
mountains, as soul and body in a vision of mystery, a prelude to the
blaze of golden glory that was suddenly outpoured on land and sea.
Yet the heavenly splendor was but for a moment; it faded in sudden
gloom, as a bell from the inner chamber called the Lady of the
Bernardini to attend the Queen.
* * * * *
When at early morning, the Chamberlain was summoned to the Queen's
presence, the change in her beautiful face smote him to the heart: every
line had been chiselled by pain--ennobled by a high resolve--by a strong
new-born will, rendered selfless; and in her eyes a soul--tried by fire
and suddenly grown to a great height--looked forth, luminous.
Instinctively, he dropped his eyes and fell upon his knees, as if in the
presence of some heavenly spirit, his hot tears falling upon the fragile
hand she held out to him, which he clasped, unconsciously, in both his
own, with a grasp so like a vise that it would have smitten her with
sharp pain had she been capable at that moment of any physical emotion.
"Beloved Cousin and Queen!" he cried, when he could find his voice, "we
love and revere you; we would give our _lives_ to help you!"
She made an effort to speak, but no words came; she could only bow her
head to accept his homage, while his asseverations of loyalty and love
and impotent help came crowding upon his first utterance--the
immoderate outpouring of a deep, knightly soul, unused to confess
itself--the barriers of reserve once overcome by the stinging sense of
the irreparable wrong of which the revelation to this guileless,
confiding girlish nature had suddenly wrenched every memory that once
had been happiness, out of her young life--yet, in the very immensity of
her anguish, had searched to the inmost truth of her woman's fibre and,
in the fierce unfolding, had found it wholly noble.
As he knelt, still protesting, yet out of his great reverence, using no
word to wound her--the more compassionate because he might not denounce
the one who had wronged her--it was as if he were looking up to a
beloved daughter, immeasurably above him, who yet had need of his
knightly protection. He did not know that he was speaking--he did not
know what passed--only that deep in his soul he prayed to comfort her.
Slowly, with expression, the hot passion melted into a softer mood; his
grasp relaxed and she withdrew her hand, seamed and marred with red
lines where he had unconsciously tortured it; yet in her misery she was
grateful to be reached across the awful gulf of loneliness that
separated her from the world by a sense that such loyalty yet remained
to her.
She laid her hand lightly on his head, the fingers moving for a
moment--half in caress--half in benediction, while he felt her almost
imperceptible gesture dismissing this unusual audience where soul had
faced soul on the brink of a great catastrophe; and he rose to meet the
strange, luminous, unsmiling gaze of the great dark eyes which yesterday
had been almost the eyes of a child.
She pointed to the loggia, where the morning breeze came freshly laden
with the fragrance of myriad blossoms that were just opening to the
gladness of the sunrise--a sunrise over the beautiful, fabled slopes of
Cyprus--while shadows still lay on the flower-gemmed plains that
stretched between them and the sea. Ah, yes, the cool, blue, restless
sea stretched far between her island realm and the proud Venetian home
from whence she had sailed a happy girl--one little year before--to meet
her radiant visions of the future; and now, in all the splendor of the
morning, for her the light of life had died forever on the hills of
hope.
It was to this loggia that Janus had first led her when he brought her
to this summer palace of Potamia, that she might see what a vision of
beauty he had prepared for his bride--the far-reaching terraced gardens
with their brilliancy of exotics, rivalling the plumage of the peacocks
that proudly flaunted their jewelled eyes among them--the pergolas of
precious marbles from which the vines flung out a wealth of bloom,
luring the birds to a perpetual feast of song; and behind them,
spreading up to the deep groves of varied greens upon the hillsides, the
snow of countless blossoms lay whiter than the wings of the swans,
floating at leisure in silver pools among the beds of color. It was here
that Janus had spoken words she had dreamed eternally and sacredly her
own: Mother of Consolation, she must remember them no more!
She had not thought of this when the sense of suffocation had impelled
her to seek the air, to rush where it might blow over her and through
her, lift her hair about her throbbing temples and help her to forget.
Oh God--Omnipotent and Merciful--can one never forget!
A sob broke in her throat, but she made no sound, as she turned to
re-enter her audience-chamber--the sumptuous audience-chamber where she
might feel herself less a woman and more a queen.
But Aluisi, obeying her slight motion, had already passed between the
marble columns of the portico, out into the sunshine, and stood
confronting her--her friend, her cousin, and a Councillor of her realm.
The thought gave her courage, and after a moment's struggle, she grew
calm again, listening gravely to the question of State he had wished to
open to her before it should be discussed in full Council.
He spoke at first with averted gaze, feigning to be attracted by the
beauty of the morning, that he might give her time to recover herself:
but as he turned his face to hers for her reply, she put the matter
aside with an imperious gesture.
"To-day, Aluisi, I have graver matter to command my thought: the Council
shall _wait_ until I give orders for its assembling--thou, meanwhile,
using all courtesy in its delay and the enforcement of--of my
command--the Queen's command--so only that it be enforced. These methods
are new to me," she added, with a sudden softened appeal in her tone;
"thou wilt know the way to compass it--for my sake--for it must be
done."
"It shall be done," he assented uncompromisingly; but in surprise,
knowing only too well the imperious methods of the Council appointed to
assist her in her government and the temper of the men who composed that
body--for Janus had not been great in his knowledge of men; and possibly
the only one of the seven who had been strictly devoted to the King, had
died shortly after his appointment, and the place had been filled with
one less favorable to the present rule of Cyprus. Fabrici was known to
be in sympathy with Naples; Rizzo, Chief of Council, strong,
domineering, unscrupulous, was perhaps the creature of Ferdinand, King
of Naples. "It shall be done," he said again, having vowed to help her.
"For, until I have had speech with the holiest man among the priests
that may be found in all this kingdom of Cyprus," she said with a
decision that amazed him, "I will treat of no matter of State, however
urgent. Nay, Aluisi--my cousin"--as she noted his start of surprise--"to
thee alone--who must be my counsellor in days of desolation--pray Heaven
more dark than thou shalt ever dream of--I will confide that out of this
night of vigil hath come this resolution which I dare not break. Seek
thou the man."
He had already turned to fulfil her quest which might be long in the
doing--and these impatient Councillors would be hard to hold; yet he had
no thought of parleying with this girl-queen, so suddenly grown to a
full stature.
But her voice, even and low, arrested him. "He must be Greek in birth,"
she said, "and of the Greek Church, which my people love. But above
all--_he must be a man to trust_."
He turned when he had crossed the great audience-chamber, under the
entrance colonnade of huge porphyry columns, wrought with barbaric
symbols of earlier dynasties and guarded by colossal Assyrian bulls--she
seemed so young and tender to leave, even for a day, in those
surroundings unguarded, at the mercy of that Council of Seven whom he
had reason to distrust--in her kingdom seamed with dissensions of which
she had, as yet, small comprehension; of which, perhaps, she did not
even dream--with her shattered happiness behind her and loneliness
before, and this great responsibility pressing its leaden weight upon
her fair young head.
He longed to throw her a last reassuring glance--to leave with her the
absolute faith that with every power of his being he would uphold and
steady her in the rough and desolate way.
For since he came from Venice he had not ceased his vigilant study of
the complications of Cyprus, that when her need came he might be ready.
He never forgot the vision of the girl-queen in her sweeping widow's
robes, across the great space between them, in the sunshine of the
loggia--her hand extended as if to hasten or to bless him--a wonderful,
unearthly light and strength in her face; and, for one moment as she met
his gaze and understood the full depth of his devotion, the ghost of a
smile--as if it had been granted him to bring her in this hour of
martyrdom one little ray of human comfort.
XIV
Hagios Johannes, the holiest man in Cyprus, stood waiting in the vast,
empty presence-chamber of the young Queen; for, since the sudden death
of Janus, there had been no court-life in this palace of Potamia, and
the gloom hung most heavily over the more sumptuous halls of ceremony.
Hagios Johannes--_the holy John_--they called this prior of the House of
Priests from Troodos--the Mountain of the Holy Cross--after the name of
the earlier Saint who had made the spot famous for the holiness of his
living, for his boundless charity and the wisdom of his judgments, so
that the people had gone to him in ceaseless procession with their sins
and woes in the days of primitive Christianity in Cyprus, and had
returned to their peasant homes the stronger to endure and to renounce.
Johannes the Lesser, this one called himself--being truly great and
devout of heart, so that his vision was wise and true as that of Hagios
Johannes the Greater.
A curtain at the further end of the audience-chamber parted to admit a
stately figure in mourning-robes, as the Lady Beata of the Bernardini
advanced to meet him, bringing the message that the Queen would receive
him in an inner cabinet.
"She is very worn and tired, most Reverend Father, and in years so near
to childhood that the nobility and strength of her resolve are
marvellous. And the comfort that she seeketh of thee she doth most
sorely need."
The eyes of this strong and faithful friend gleamed with unshed tears as
she turned them upon the prior, in tender appeal.
But to Hagios Johannes all courts were strange; the life of his mountain
overflowed with possibilities of ministration which busied all his
powers, and it was the first time that he had ever entered any of the
palaces of the luxurious Kings of Cyprus--of which, perhaps, this summer
palace of Potamia was the most sumptuous. The long corridors of precious
marbles, with intricate carvings and gleamings of gold and mosaic
displeased him, though he had no knowledge of their worth or beauty; but
he stood aghast at the magnificence of the audience-chamber, and the
huge Assyrian bulls which guarded the entrance gave a hint of pagan
power and oppression which instantly angered him.
The appeal of the gracious Lady Beata but roused his indignation.
He was a stern, wild figure with his flowing beard, his long hair
falling straight and unkempt about his brown throat; and his sombre
monk's garment was wrought on breast and shoulders with a salient cross
of natural thorns--the symbol of those monks of Troodos--the Mountain of
the Holy Cross; and the Lady Beata trembled for the interview that was
to be, as he answered her rudely:
"The dwellers in palaces of ivory have naught to do with wild men of the
mountains who live close to nature and care only for suffering humanity.
I have Christ's work to do; let others bring her rose-leaves and honeyed
words."
She laid a gentle, detaining hand upon him as he thrust aside the
curtain of the inner chamber.
"Most Reverend Father, are not the words of our Lord and Saviour, as
well for those who suffer in palaces, as for the wanderers and poor upon
the earth?
"Are not the wounds of the spirit as deep in anguish as those of the
physical man?
"May not the burdens of rulers be greater than those of the ruled?--Have
compassion upon our Queen!"
"Christ knoweth not kings," he answered her, as he shook off her light
touch--"save only those who bow to Him: and the mighty among
men--aye--even he who calleth himself His Vicar upon earth--are puffed
up with pride and know in their hearts no virtue in this--His sacred
symbol." He pressed his rough hand hard against the thorns upon his
breast as he spoke. "Hath not he--this false and sumptuous Vicar--but
now asserted that we, of the Holy Greek Church have no part in the
Communion of the Holy Catholic Church on earth? Did Christ call the
Latins only?" he ended fiercely.
It was a grievance that rankled; and Hagios Johannes had not learned the
gracious art of self-control, being accustomed to feel that whatever he
thought or wished was good--his hatred as well as that which appealed to
him--since he honestly sought nothing for himself, despising riches and
station from the depths of his soul, with an open scorn for the great
ones of earth and an imperious assertion of his own methods and
judgments which he would have denounced in any earthly ruler, however
wise. He never dreamed himself an autocrat over that continuous stream
of pilgrims who made their way into the House of Priests on Troodos:
they were chiefly peasants, rude in ways and understanding, whose
accustomedness to absolute methods and short words made their obedience
the swifter; and the few more learned ones who came to consult him knew
that in his heart he was faithful and seldom treasured the offense
against him--though they may have decried his wisdom. But these came
more rarely as his absolutism grew upon him, and the prophet of the
mountains came down to the cities of the plains only to see the luxury
of them--the sin and godliness of them, and to denounce them, in
unmeasured words.
Within his soul, although he did not confess it to himself, the
generations of men were separated by a wide impassable gulf--the rich
and ruling class, the godless, on one side; the poor, the suffering and
lowly--the to-be-saved,--on the other, and none ever passed across the
deep abyss. He would have challenged any man who counted _him, Father
Johannes_, in his hempen garment studded with thorns, among the rulers
of men!
The youthful Queen, weary and worn indeed from the perplexities and
struggle of the two long nights and days that had elapsed since she had
sent her Councillor on his quest of "the holiest man in Cyprus," rose
from her couch as the prior entered and advanced to meet him with a
gracious reverence.
But he, unconscious of any rudeness, spoke at once, without turning his
eyes upon her, and offering no homage.
"I am a plain man from the Mountain of the Holy Cross, your Majesty; I
know naught of the ways of Courts. The matter should be great that
calleth me from my work. Let it be presented, that I may be dismissed."
She was almost too weak to stand, and the rebuff smote her to the quick;
her lip trembled slightly, but she only stretched out her hand to her
beloved friend, drawing her close and leaning lightly upon her shoulder,
that she might feel the support of loving companionship in her great
need.
Father Johannes had been vaguely conscious of some movement in the
chamber and involuntarily he turned towards this royal lady whom, as
yet, he had never seen, but whose urgent summons had roused his
indignation.
She looked so young and fair and simple in her heavy folds of
mourning--so worn from vigil, with the lines of anguish and of a strange
strength written in her white girl-face--that she might have been the
vision of some youthful saint, wearing the rough cross of Troodos upon
her breast, beneath her robe: and for a moment, the holy man was
startled--did such heavenly visions, in truth, visit the palaces of the
great?
There was a moment of stillness in which his wonder grew.
The breeze blew faintly in through the great arched openings, behind
which rose the mountain chain that led to his own Troodos; there were
the groves of pine, darkly green, below the hills, with their deep
solitudes for prayer and meditation between the vast gnarled trunks; and
the group of the two noble women before him--severely simple--was a
vision of love and womanly grace and spiritual need; the younger one,
all pleading and pain, clinging to the elder who closely enfolded her,
her face strong in the strength of love. It was not like any life that
he had ever seen--this holy man, whose personal life had been solitary
and whose knowledge of human love, as it is known in happy homes, had
died long years ago with the passing of the mother who had borne him in
her heart. It might be that he needed such a vision to redeem his spirit
from the harshness which sin and pride in high places, and want and
crime and poverty of spirit among ignoble ones, had made him grow to
think the whole of life!
He was very weary and his vision was not clear; for the previous day had
been a solemn fast, and he had walked far and long since the early
morning, that he might be the less delayed. He felt like kneeling where
he stood--if perchance it should be a vision!--But he only bowed his
head and waited--and his weakness passed.
The younger one--the maiden with that strange mystery of pain and
strength in her white face, was coming towards him.
"Father," she said, "hath none offered thee refreshment? Thou must
indeed be weary, for the way is long. Zia, let us be served here--in
sight of the great forest that will seem like home to our good Padre."
"Nay, nay," he interposed quickly, with an effort to shake off this
incomprehensible spell and return to his wonted mood of protest, "for I
have never banqueted in the palace of a Queen--your Majesty."
"Let it be brought," Caterina said, turning to the Lady Beata, "a simple
meal; for I myself have need, having tasted nothing since the long vigil
of the night--being too sore from my great perplexity." For she divined
that she must be alone with the prior to melt his mood, which grieved
her; but she had not the less faith in his judgment for his hatred of
royalty, and at all costs she had the grace to crave for truth in the
questions she would ask of him.
"My Father," she said with winning gentleness when they were alone, "we
will speak together as father and daughter--it will be better so, for I
was not born to Majesty, and I have sent to ask of thee thy counsel, for
life is difficult. And for my hospitality--is it not offered to the
pilgrim in thy House of Priests of the Troodista? Hath not our Lord
Himself commanded the giving of the cup of water?"
He was startled at her learning: surely it was rare that women out of
holy orders had such knowledge of Christian traditions. He looked at her
reverently, still wondering, and would have spoken to excuse his rough
speech, but that he knew not how to frame a thought so strange and new.
She motioned him to a seat where a table had been spread under the deep
arches that looked toward the forest. There were wines and fruits in
tempting chalices of rainbow glass and low baskets of ivory and
chiselled silver, cooling with snow from the mountain; figs from
Lefcara; _caistas_, golden and delicious, emitting a fragrance of
glorified nectarine that rivalled the perfume of the wine itself;
pomegranates--the gift of a goddess to the thirsty Cyprian land,
planted, as was well known, by the royal hand of Aphrodite herself, each
fruit holding a fair refreshment for a torrid Cyprian day in its
sparkling, semilucent, ruby pulp: ortolans from the sea-coast, steeped
in wine.
The table was a slab of oriental alabaster, polished like a jewel,
upheld by griffins with outthrust tongues curiously contorted and
entwined. But beyond the silken curtains of the palace-windows the
forest and the hills, with a wandering breath of coolness from the
mountain-breeze, drew and welcomed him, with some faint, new perception
of the oneness of God's earth.
She had banished with a glance the maiden who stood waiting with her
lute to give the customary accompaniment to the meal, and they were
quite alone.
He crumbled his bread and swallowed his wine like a hungry man, drawing
the wild, purple figs nearer, unconscious of the dainties which she did
not press upon him, while he tasted the familiar food--the food which
his Lord Christ had blessed to man's uses. So, also, the luxury of the
service passed unnoticed, as he fixed his eyes on the distant darks of
his own forest, with the "Troodista" rising on a peak far, far
away--that haven of distressed souls to whom he was a father of
consolation. Her fingers toyed with the fruit that lay untasted before
her, while the difficulty of speech struggled within her. Yet he felt,
subtly, as he kept his eyes upon the hills, that he was in sight of the
shadow of a soul in pain, and he waited--for once, oblivious of the
distance between a palace and a convent.
"Thou art born a Greek, my Father?" she questioned. "Thou art a priest
of the Greek Church--which my people love?"
The commanding habit of a lifetime was strong upon him and again his
resentment rose to quench the softer mood which was possessing him, and
of which he was afraid.
"I knew not that I had been summoned from my work for Christ to answer
of myself," he said sternly. "If thou hast need of counsel, tell it
quickly."
Again her lip quivered at the hurt, but she put it aside bravely, as she
rose and moved backward for a pace further into the shadow. "I ask it
for my people's sake--I being their Queen," she said, "and knowing that
my people are rather Greek in feeling, I would do naught to hurt them."
How tenderly the words "my people" fell from the lips of this young,
Venetian woman, who seemed almost a child--had their imperious Grecian
Queen, Elena Paleologue ever so uttered them? Had she not named a boy to
the highest See in the gift of their church--with no thought of
fitness--but solely that he might be put aside lest he come between her
and her greed of domination? Had she not plotted murder and whatever
else might lie between her and the accomplishment of her will? His heart
melted within him, and he rose and followed Caterina into the chamber.
"The most Holy Father of Rome hath of late been prejudiced against the
King--my husband--and I sought for one who might give me counsel,
unprejudiced."
If she had been a wily diplomat she could not better have wielded the
prior's mood than by this unconscious utterance.
"So help me God, I will strive to help thee in counsel," he answered
fervently. "But are there not men, set apart as Councillors for the
realm, to aid one so young in the ruling of her kingdom?"
"Aye, Father," she admitted sadly, "but it is to steady mine own
judgment _to judge of theirs_--that I have sent for thee. The question
is not for Court Councillors, but for one who hath no part nor lot in
this matter--who is often in meditation on holy matters, and hath won
wisdom."
He made a motion of deprecation, but she went on speaking in her clear,
even voice, still questioning: "Thou knowest well the history of the
kings of Lusignan?"
He bowed his head in assent.
"And the history of the life of the King--my husband?" She dwelt on the
word with inexpressible tenderness--the slight pause that followed it
was like unuttered music.
Did she know? Was it possible that she knew? he asked himself.
But the question came again.
"And the provisions of his will--for myself and for--for others?" A wave
of color had flushed her cheek and brow.
He looked at her searchingly, seeking for words that might best comfort.
"I know them," he said, "the provisions of the will having been told me
by your Majesty's messenger: and I, being a Greek, and the friend of the
people, that which toucheth them, toucheth me. My daughter, the sins of
the race descend from father to son, and are in the blood; and there
hath been no loving care of holy women about his childhood--which should
be remembered and win forgiveness."
"It is no question of forgiveness," she answered proudly, "of which I
would speak with thee--_that_ lieth between our Holy Mother in Heaven
and the souls of those who suffer." She seemed to dismiss the subject
with an imperious wave of her slight hand. "It is a question of human
judgment in which that of a holy man may avail, but in which this
knowledge is necessary--else had it not been spoken of."
She paused for a moment to gather strength, while the old man watched
her in growing wonder--so young--so wronged--so tender--so brave--so
strong to endure!
Hagios Johannes the elder had been known through the long years of his
canonization as _Lampadisti_, the _illumined_: and as the prior
listened, he prayed with fervor that the wisdom of his sainted
predecessor might descend upon his soul.
"My Father," she resumed with a great effort, "I knew not of this
history of the last of our Kings of Cyprus, until my marriage had been
made.... I knew not of any right of Carlotta, being _own_ daughter to
the King, the father of my husband"--again that tremulous pause of
unuttered music--"to contest the crown with him, until I learned it in
Cyprus, these few weeks past."
Her head drooped lower, but she went on resolutely. "I knew not, until I
came to Cyprus--for they who knew and should have told me, held the
knowledge from me--that any might question the right of Janus--my
husband--to this kingdom of Cyprus--he being only son to the King. For I
knew not that his mother was _not_ the Queen, until I came hither."
She paused again to gather strength, lifting her guileless great eyes to
his, in agonized appeal, while he watched her dumbly.
"And now, my Father," she said, throwing back her head with sudden
vigor, and with the dignity of a great resolve, "this is my question,
which hath come to me in the watches of the night and will not be
denied, and for which I have summoned thee. I--being wife to Janus, who
hath been crowned King of this people--and I, with him, crowned Queen;
and by his will left Queen of Cyprus--with Council, appointed by him, to
help me rule; shall I, a Christian woman--a Venetian and _not_ a
Cyprian--his widow--_hold this kingdom against Carlotta_, who is
daughter to the King, the father of my husband--and to the rightful
Queen, Elena--his father's lawful wife?"
He was dumbfounded and could not answer her at once; but while he sought
for words he bowed his head in mute reverence.
"My daughter," he said at length, "hath this question been put to thee
by any men of Cyprus?"
"Nay, Father; but it hath come to me in these sad nights, because I fain
would do the _right_--that which is well for my people: and life is very
difficult."
"My people," again, uttered with the accent of a mother who folds her
child to her heart--it was a revelation; but he must probe more deeply
before he could answer her.
"And this palace--and all the palaces of this estate?" he asked slowly,
as if he could not comprehend her. "Thou wouldst renounce this splendor
when none hath asked it of thee?"
"I would even bear the weight of it, if it be _right_," she said,
"though rest were sweeter."
"Thou wouldst be free, perchance, to seek thy home in Venice?"
"Nay, nay!" she exclaimed, shrinking from him--"never Venice
again--since she hath sent me hither, knowing all, and told me not. I
cannot go back to Venice!"
He pondered gravely.
"Then what is thy will, my daughter?"
"To do the right!" she cried vehemently; "out of my own great sorrow to
expiate the wrong! May it not be, my Father, if I shrink not from the
right at any cost?"
"I will consider," he said, "since thy will is strong for this
sacrifice."
"Sacrifice!" she cried, in her amazement breaking all reserve. "Oh,
Father! To call _this_ 'sacrifice,' when the very light of life is gone
from me! He was so beautiful and gracious--with such a light in his
eyes--and I thought--oh, I _thought_ we were so happy! And now--oh, God,
it breaks my heart--I _loved_ him!"
"Daughter----"
"May not the suffering of one atone for another's sin?" she questioned
feverishly.
"Nay--leave that thought, it is too heavy for thee: and not revealed to
men, that they may declare it."
"Pray for him, Father! Thou wilt pray for him--thou and all those who
come to thee. There will be many, many prayers and God will hear. For
his people loved him--none could stay from loving him, he was so
winsome. Mother of Mercies, thou wilt take my anguish for his
atonement!--_Oh I suffer!_"
The words came in a low moan, wrung from her unaware. Father Johannes
caught the small hands which she had flung out before her clenched, in
her passionate struggle for control, and with faltering motions of
unaccustomed gentleness, he soothed her until she had grown quieter and
he could unclasp them. Then he spoke strange words, out of a great
compassion:
"Christ knoweth; for He is Love--and He will save!"
"There is more," she gasped with her spent voice--"but I dare not name
it--the thought of it is torture. But it is not true; Madonna mia! it
_is not_ true!"
The strong man could bear no more; he groaned in spirit and ground his
hands against his breast--his lip curling with scorn at the pain of his
own torn flesh. "Tell it!" he commanded; "it _cannot_ be true."
She looked at him, hope dawning in her stricken face. "The words they
speak--they who are his enemies--that he had forsworn his faith: it is
not true."
"It is the very machination of the Evil One!" he thundered. "I know the
slander and the man who fathered it, for spite. And may Heaven forgive
its maker--for he hath need--standing high in the holy place of Earth. I
_know_ it is not true!"
He looked his faith into her eyes until he had banished her terror, and
she put out her wan hand, grateful, for his assurance.
Then he turned from her abruptly and wandered away to weigh her
question, looking into the depths of the great forest while he pondered
and prayed to be enlightened. He must have sight of his own solitudes if
he would keep his judgment free, and though she called to him, timidly,
thinking he had forgotten her, he made no answer, being not yet ready.
Surely, it could not be God's will that so fine a spirit should resign
her claim to their uneasy crown!
It was long before he returned to her side, for the shadows were
lengthening and a crimson light flamed in the West.
"Daughter," he said with deep solemnity, "it hath come to me with full
light in answer to thy question, that thou, being crowned Queen and
consecrated in the Duomo of Nikosia, together with King Janus, thy
husband--whom this people loved--and decreed by him to hold this realm,
which--for the first time in many years, and by his hand, is now united
under one sovereign, that thy duty biddeth thee hold and rule it against
all other claimants--were it even Carlotta who hath once been called its
Queen.
"Rule thou this people with the fear of Heaven in thy true heart--so God
shall make thee wise!"
She came slowly, as to a heavy task, and knelt before him, with clasped
hands, kissing the crucifix which he held out to her; the red light
streamed through the arches with a fierce illumination.
"Father--and Janus!" she cried--"hear my vow!
"To do for my people as Heaven and the Madonna shall teach me: to bear
them in my heart and seek their happiness; to live for them alone! And
if harm hath been--oh God, if harm hath bee
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