The Royal Pawn of Venice Part 16

"Or Queen Carlotta?"

"_Maledetto!--Who spoke?_"

But the challenge was unanswered. The n.o.ble who had dared to name aloud the daughter of their last Queen--the sister of their late King--had been lost in the darkness before the trusty guard, _sent from Venice_, could make sure of him.

"The fellow should be thrust through for his insolence. A Cyprian master is good enough for Cyprus," they confided to each other, as they made pause again, emerging from the crowd at the other end of the piazza, before the gate of the fortress.

"What matters it?" his comrade answered him nonchalantly, "for canst thou tell me the color of a Cypriote now? and his native tongue may be liker that of Spain or Venice than of France or Greece. My Lord of Piscopia hath the color of Venice."

"But of the very household of our Queen:--speak soft! Our Queen?--Perchance this night may be her undoing--how runs King Giacomo's will? Yea, for the matter of the fiefs, she hath been royal with her gifts--a matter not so lordly when confiscation cometh thus easily."

"But she hath a royal way with her, as of one born to the throne, and for that matter it were not strange for one of the house of Cornelii--they held their heads proudly enough in Venice, I am told; and her mother was of the blood of a Comnenus--more royal than a Lusignan, if not so well tempered."

"Aye; she is well enough."

"And she hath a grace that hath verily won the people; never was there such a crowd in the time of any other Queen. See how they throng before her gates to-night--poor simple souls--conquered by a smile that costeth naught."

"Nay; it is not strange; for the people entered little into the thought of Queen Carlotta, or Queen Elena. There is no harm in her; she is a good child, and beautiful enough to be a saint; with too little understanding of the ways of our court: too great a saint for Ja.n.u.s--by every blessed saint of Cyprus! But I had rather she had more earthliness and wile than be the p.a.w.n of Venice. A Cyprian for the Cypriotes! Our Ja.n.u.s were better;--a Lusignan--not too much a saint--not a child nor a woman neither--but masterful: less the p.a.w.n of Venice."

"As well of Venice with her fleets and commerce, as of Naples--if it be not a Cyprian. How sayest thou? And it was King Ja.n.u.s himself who gave Pelendria--that most royal and bountiful fief of a prince of Lusignan--into the hands of that parvenu of Naples, _Rizzo_! The King verily guessed not his quality when he named him to such estate! He would outrule monarchs."

"_Pace!_"

Close to them, in the crowd, they heard the sound of a soldier's lance rasping the pavement as he stood at rest. One not far off seemed to answer his signal.

The storm was growing fiercer; the sullen mutterings of the wind broke into a shriek, with a terrible downpour of rain; but the rushing crowd was stayed by a cry of joy that rose above the tumult--a cry of love from the heart of the people--

"Mater Beatissima! _A light in the palace window!_"

A candle flamed in a dark window--two--more--a light in every cas.e.m.e.nt!

The gates of the palace were thrown wide and a splendid mounted corps rode forth amidst a flare of torches--white plumes of rejoicing waving from their casques--white banners raised high on the points of their lances--while the herald, in full armor with vizor up, bore proudly before the people the silken banner with the arms of Cyprus blazoned upon it--the white, royal banner of a Prince of Galilee.

The waiting people went wild with joy, for the bells of all the churches of Famagosta were pealing a jubilee, and the night rang with shouts of homage for the Prince of Galilee, the heir to the crown of Cyprus:

For an infant prince had just opened his unconscious eyes upon his troubled earthly heritage.

XVI

White banners of rejoicing floated from every stronghold and palace throughout Cyprus, to publish the birth of the infant prince; but a hush had lain for many days over the city of Famagosta.

In the Cathedral of San Nicol, the Archbishop of Nikosia, primate of all Cyprus, ministered in solemn state among a throng of lesser dignitaries, priests, and acolytes. His sumptuous robes of office, of cloth of gold broidered with costly pearls, flashed forth a marvellous radiance from the light of countless candles bought with the precious copper bits of the peasants who came from the provinces far and near. As they gathered about the steps of the altar they carefully drew their dingy work-worn garments back, lest their touch should sully the splendid Persian carpet spread for the Reverendissimo, little dreaming that the hint of sorrowing love in their stolid faces robed them with n.o.bility and turned their hard-earned copper _carcie_ into a golden gift.

In the many churches throughout the kingdom the humble people were kneeling, praying their unlettered prayers for the beautiful young Queen, with the more faith that the Holy Mother would listen because one so great as the Archbishop of Nikosia ministered in person before their sacred image of San Nicol. For had it not been the booty of a slaughtered Eastern city, won by Peter the Valiant in most holy warfare of Crusade, which His Holiness of Rome would fain have counted among the treasures of the One True Church within the Eternal City?

In the grim stone corridors of the impregnable fortress of Famagosta, a crowd of humble pilgrims from the Troodos knelt, breathlessly fingering their rosaries, while the monks of the Holy House upon the Mountain moved among the scattered groups, holding each one his Cross of Thorns, and reciting his low "Ave," that the people might follow in hushed whispers.

But within the little Chapel of the Fortress, Hagios Johannes wrestled alone in prayer; it leaped from his heart with groans and sobs that might not be restrained.

Surely the merciful Father in Heaven would leave this pure spirit to rule the distressed people of Cyprus:--"Were they found too sinful to win so great a boon?--'_Let the priests, the ministers of the people, weep between the porch and the altar!_'--My G.o.d, it is Thy word, spoken by Thy prophet of old!" He pressed his hands against the crosses on his breast and shoulders, lashing himself in a sort of frenzy from the pa.s.sion of his thought, not knowing that his blood trickled in slow drops upon the very steps of the altar--the blood of man, defiling the purity of that slab of onyx brought from the Temple at Jerusalem by the first of the Kings of Lusignan.

The fortress, not the Palace of Famagosta, had been the birthplace of the little Prince of Galilee; a wise precaution, possibly, in view of the diversities of sympathy to be found among the n.o.bles of Cyprus. In the innermost of the apartments set apart for the Royal use, a grave a.s.semblage of learned men had gathered--men of many races and tongues, of various schools of science, diverse in doctrines and ideals--all, with the exception of Maestro Gentile, the court physician, strangers to the patient whom they were called to treat in a critical moment. As a matter of science the case had a certain value for them, which was not lessened by the fact of the patient's quality; but to Maestro Gentile alone was the hopeless condition of the young Queen a matter of deep personal concern. They came from France, from Greece, from the famous University of Bologna; the Sultan of Egypt had sent a sage learned in all the lore of that ancient civilization; and a wise Arab had brought to this consultation the secrets of every herb that grew; while a holy man from Persia, steeped in the wisdom of the Zend Avestar and in the doctrines of Zarathrustra, stood ready to use his mystic comfort in behalf of the sufferer. The consultation had dragged its slow length through the hot August afternoon, while the strange faces came and went about the couch where the young Queen lay moaning and tossing; the single being under that roof who loved her as her own soul and would have given her life for hers, was waiting alone in the great ante-chamber, listening for every footfall, every motion within--filling each moment with an intensity of prayer.

The great men had barred her from the sick-room while they made their diagnosis, lest the intricacies of the symptoms should declare themselves less positively in the presence of a nature without learning in any method of their art. "There was fever," they said; "it would excite the patient to have one of her own household so near her in this extremity; her strength must be carefully treasured."

But all wore faces of gloom, speaking with hushed voices, as, one by one, they came forth from the darkened chamber, yet with a sense of relief that all had been done that could be done and the weakness might now be left to run its course, "For there is no hope," they said.

The Lady Beata had questioned each face silently; but when the last one pa.s.sed, bringing the same sense of doom, "Can _nothing_ more be done?"

she asked with clasped hands.

They shook their heads, gravely, with decorous looks of sympathy, repeating their short refrain, like a knell.

"Then I will go to her," she answered, "that she may see a face of love when she pa.s.ses," and pushing them all aside, she resolutely entered the sick-chamber, signing to Maestro Gentile to follow her; but the protest from the group of learned men was less than she had feared, since the Queen was now so ill that nothing could cure or harm.

The fair young mother, fever flushed, with wandering eyes, lay tossing on the silken cushions of her low couch--broken words feebly struggling from the parted lips in pathetic tones, "Madonna--I am so tired--_so_ tired--take me----"

There was no recognition in her eyes, as the Lady Beata leaned over her, startled at the words, her soul wrung with sympathy.

"Why can they do nothing?" she asked in low authoritative tones of the physician.

"The will is gone," he answered sorrowfully; "she hath lost all desire of life; she will not rally, being too weak for the effort, and having no consciousness to help herself."

There was a hunted, frightened look in Caterina's face; the words came again, more faintly--"tired--take me----"

"She shall _not_ die until she hath known this joy which Heaven hath sent her!" the Lady Beata cried with conviction and a sudden sense of power. "We will save her--thou, Maestro Gentile--and I--who love her.

Give her only some potion for her strengthening, I beseech thee, caro Maestro;--life is flickering--she _must_ not die yet."

"There is no hope," he answered her again; but he gave the strengthening draught, for he could not resist her imploring eyes.

The Lady Beata had been moving noiselessly, throwing wide the curtains; a faint, pitying evening breeze stole into the chamber. She came now and knelt beside the couch.

"Bring the little Prince hither with all possible haste, from his chamber," she said without lifting her eyes from Caterina's face. "We must rouse her!"

And now the Maestro went without further question, to do her bidding, although the child, and all that belonged to him had been kept out of sight and sound of the invalid, through these days of danger, lest an emotion should snap the slender thread of life.

"Bring none with thee," she said, "save only the peasant-nurse; for we must be alone."

Quite alone, with death so near, out of the marvellous great strength in her heart, the Lady Beata laid her firm, cool touch on the restless hands, scarcely restraining them--yet the spasmodic movements grew quieter; she smiled into her eyes, until the strain of the frightened gaze relaxed; she folded her close in the arms of her deep tenderness and _willed_ her back to life with the strenuousness of a great purpose--for was there not the little wailing child to live for, to give her sight of the love and happiness for which she was starving!

Closer and closer yet she folded her, with light caressing motions on hair and brow, calling to her with all sweet names that deep-hearted women know, in tones so like a dream that they caught the wandering consciousness and lighted it with a faint, far hope.

Time is not when such momentous issues are pending. Whether the moments pa.s.sed into hours, or whether each instant were so fraught with its intensity of hope and fear that every heart-throb seemed an eternity, the yearning watchers never knew. Slowly--or was it swiftly?--Just as hope was dying in despair--a breath of peace, like the wafting of the wings of some heavenly messenger, stirred softly among them, dropping balm on the face of the sleeper.

They bent above her breathlessly; the pale eyelids fluttered and unclosed.