Jehanne of the golden lips

Front matter

* I

/ V V

.

CHAPTER I CiESAB Nostradamus

“ Hey, noble dames ! You ask me for a merry tale and shall have it.

“You will admit that few things are more diverting to hear than of a fool in office (whether he be governor of a province or a fair lady), who is well befooled by those he himself counted as foolish ”

Messer Giovanni Boccaccio’s mellow voice was drowned in a little ripple of laughter from the joyous audience grouped about him ; from the pursed lips and shrugged shoulders which greeted his last words it was evident that they were held to mean more than met the ear.

Boccaccio sat shaded from the hot blue Neapolitan sky by a clump of orange trees fragrant with ivory flowers, and all a-swing with golden fruit, and his laughing, whispering listeners, gorgeous of attire as the hovering butterflies above, lolled or sat on marble benches or gay silken cushions in the grass.

The orange grove stood on a slope terraced by a marble balcony which overlooked through a gap in the palms and olives beyond it, the Bay of Naples, where the soft wind blew silver sparkles in a deep azure surface.

Behind, across flowery spaces, rose the southernmost towers of Castel Nuovo, showing blackly in the strong sunlight’s clearness.

As the laugh died and Boccaccio would have spoken again, the long-handled, white-feathered, Eastern fan of Marie Duchess of Durazzo, descended playfully upon his dark curly head. This play held a caution, for the Princess of Naples was a firm believer in the saying that trees have ears, and at her sister’s Court it might be added that every blade of grass had a tongue — and that morning volatile Marie had observed a few things which made her unusually careful. Even what promised to be a very tasty jest at the expense of her royal brother-in-law Prince Andrea of Hungary, she held too risky just then, even though the jester were her favourite Boccaccio, and his hearers a chosen few of her best friends, Provencal barons and dames, who all sided with her sister Queen Jehanne against her stern consort, friends, who, indeed, had nicknamed him “Andrea Kill-Joy.” So Marie’s fan hastily descended.

She tilted her fair ruby-circleted head backwards, and laughed again, sweet, ringing laughter, like distant angelus bells.

“ Nay, now ’Ser Giovanni ! No more stiff stories of governors or lords ! We see too much of them as it is. Give us something commoner — something picked up in your roamings of the town— a real mad humoured jesting tale, to suit our mood.”

“Tell what we heard last night at the Tazza d’Oro, Giovanni,” chuckled Pierre de Lascaris, Comte de Tende, from where he had stretched his tall lithe person on the broad marble balcony’s edge, his shrewd brown Provencal eyes narrowing with laughter.

Boccaccio smiled at the ring of eager faces, but shook a firmly negative head.

“Not with all these youngsters present ! 55 Whereat rang a still louder peal of laughter from the gay sparks and dashing damsels.

Foulquet du Bar, Comte de Grasse, nicknamed Foulquet le Courtois for his never-failing and excessive courtesy, a limber slip of a youth, with a trovere’s facile tongue, and a hopeless passion for the mighty Count di Arcusa’s daughter Erminetta, here struck into the conversation.

“ Tell of a false damsel and a true knight — and find models near to hand, messire.” He glanced at the object of his sighs, but that lively maiden only tossed a disdainful head.

But Boccaccio was immovable.

“ King of Story-tellers am I named by you,” he said. “ King-like, I tell my choice ; yet I hear my subject, Her Highness, and will alter its setting to please her ”

“ No ! no ! I want a merry story,” objected Marie hastily.

Boccaccio’s raised brows and puzzled smile had scarce straightened themselves before Guy de Montleon, a youth from the Marches of Savoy, seeing a favourable chance to tell the tale which he brimmed over with eagerness to tell, took up the ball of speech.

“ Until ’Ser Giovanni makes up his mind again, I can fill the gap for you ! I’ll wager not one of you knows the true story of the Count of Lubeck’s wound which he got yesterday morning ? ”

“ He got it from Amaury of Savoy, did he not ? ” queried Marie.

44 Yes ; but it was in this wise,” began Guy, looking pleased as the circle drew even closer together than it had done for Boccaccio. 44 Heinrich von Lubeck was sitting here in the Gardens, writing laboriously and muttering as he wrote. Amaury came by, stopped, and heard, 4 The Queen’s eyes are of bluest black — no, blackest — no ! ’

44 4 How now, Count ? ’ asked Amaury, guessing at his doing.

44 4 1 am completing a portrait of her Majesty for my august master Karl (the Emperor-elect). What is the precise hue of the Queen’s eyes ? ’

44 4 Sir,’ said Amaury very shortly, 4 you are a fool. Give over writing.’

44 4 Why so ? ’ asked Lubeck, Teutonically slow to catch a meaning.

44 4 Because no mortal scribe can hope to set down the half of our Lady’s perfections, though he wear out the quills of all the geese that cackled on the Capitol ! ’Tis presumption to try — for even when you have compared her glorious person with all known goddesses, you have yet to reckon with her unspeakably fair soul — which is impossible. Take my advice and call her briefly the sun from high heaven, whose glory dazzled you too much for more — and so speak truth ! ’

Maybe — I will not dispute she is all you say, Count,’ said Lubeck, feeling for his sword. 4 But none the more am I a fool — and this script must go in obedience to the Emperor’s commands.’

4 4 4 1 think not— at least, not unaltered,’ said Amaury quietly.

44 Then he called Enrico Caraccioli and me from the arbour, where we had been overhearing all this, and with us, and the two Sanseverini lads whom we fetched from their tennis-game, for seconds, they fought it out there and then.

“ After ten minutes’ work, Amaury looked at his badly-wounded adversary and smiled at me, as the others stanched him with their scarves.

“ ‘ Guy,’ he said, 4 you understand. We fought about a throw at dice.’

44 4 Yes,’ gasped Lubeck. 4 It is a private quarrel — or the Count might get into trouble, seeing I am ambassador.’

44 At this he fainted away ; and Amaury, picking up the parchment, took out an inkhorn and endorsed it before putting it back into Lubeck’s pouch, as they bore him away. I read over his shoulder :

44 4 Queen Jehanne is of person tall and slender. From her high-held head her red-gold — (scrawl) — hair hangs in two great plaits, oft twined with pearls, and heavy as silken ropes. Her hands are very fine of shape, her arms very white of hue, and them I compare with the statue of Madame Helen of Troy, that is in Your Inlperial hall. Her look of ter gay than grave, is yet older than usual at nineteen ; for the Southern maids are women while our German lasses are yet children. Her eyes are marvellous — (scrawl) ’

44 4 Tut, Lubeck I None so bad for a beery Minnesinger ! — but still folly ! ’ said Amaury, and wrote :

44 4 Here the surpassing splendour of the Light of the World, Madame Jehanne, Queen of Naples, Jerusalem and Sicily, Princess of Capua, Duchess of Apullia, and Countess of Provence the Golden, blinded the too presumptuous scribe, and so he ceased.’

“ No, I say Amaury is right : none can describe

her — that is, none but one of us 55

“ Hold ! ” cried Foulquet le Courtois, as the buzz of approval sank into silence again. “ What are you doing, telling us now, when Amaury held you to silence ? Answer that, Guy ! 55

“ Silence ! Pfui ! ” said Guy, shrugging as only a Southerner can. “ I need not lose the pleasure of telling a good tale when that young idiot Enrico will let it all out after his second tall bicciere, at his next festa ! Besides ” — with a superb glance around — “ am I not with Provengaux ? Do we care who knows aught to our Lady’s honour, so long as those dogs in Germany hear no garbled accounts ? Amaury said nothing of silence — actually, mark you, only that they fell out at dice for the benefit of the two San-

severini, whose tongues are longer than mine ”

“ We understand perfectly,” said the Duchess, casting a quick look at each in turn, and ending with Boccaccio. “ The Count of Savoy and the Emperor’s ambassador fell out at dice. Good ! There goes my sister down the path yonder. Call her, one of you, to hear ’Ser Giovanni’s story.”

“ I go,” said Guy. He vaulted lightly over the balcony, and Pierre de Lascaris, whom he managed to bump adroitly in passing, and ran after the graceful figure in shimmering heliotrope silken robe, which loitered down the sandy path.

To three-quarters of his Southern extravagance, Amaury was right.

Queen Jehanne was one of those rare spirits of which the world sees but one or two in a century, and which, when they do walk its ways, leave as they pass a fiery trace of strife and glory.

Lubeck was not alone in his failure to describe her adequately, for countless chroniclers have tried and feebly sunk into poor catalogues of her charms and virtues, without realising the woman who owned them. The troveres who sang her praises succeed rather better, but even they are unable to rise beyond the hackneyed expressions of their craft.

Perhaps the least vague of all is old Caesar Nostradamus, the historian, son of the famous wizardprophet Michael, of Provence, who says of her : “She was the most noble, most illustrious Princess of her time ; with her great sense and high courage she governed with such prudence and strength that she did what not even her greatest ancestors, the Kings of the House of Anjou, have done — made her dominions safe from all 6 brigands, larrons voleurs et mauvais garnements,’ so that even in Provence was peace. She reined in her great seigneurs with much ability, rebuking their pride and evil passions with such gentle skill, that even they, who held kings as despicable things, trembled before their Queen’s eyes when she turned them upon them in her royal anger. She was magnificently dignified, yet gay and debon - naire, but she was constancy itself in her opinions, and never wavered when her will was once set. Her beauty was marvellous, as was her grace ; and while she held things pertaining to her royal state and honour very high in approval, yet she was always accessible to all. In all sorts of learned men’s society she took pleasure, and poets, astronomers, orators, philosophers, and doctors of all kinds thronged her Court, and most particularly kind was she to the sweet singers who sang her praises to the world in their mother-tongue of the fair land of Provence.

“ Though her whole life was passed in a whirl of adversity, wars, and domestic troubles, the hatred of countless enemies, the curses of the Popes, and the spite of her disloyal foes, she never lowered her high courage to the assaults of either man or Fate, but by the strong rays of her glowing spirit she dispersed the clouds of wars, and rode over the waves of the most troubled state-disputes as might have done the strongest warrior-king instead of a delicate dainty woman such as she. — ‘ Bref, elle fut douee de si grandes et aimables, et tant reccomandables qualitez, vertuz et perfections qu’ on l’estimoit plus tost divine qu’humaine cest aimable Princesse.’ ”

Thus far Nostradamus, but take Amaury’s word for it, Jehanne’s royal soul and lovely body mocked all efforts at setting down on paltry paper. Of all her splendid person, however, from the showers of red-gold hair to the restless little feet, the most striking feature (at which poor luckless Lubeck had so hopelessly boggled) were her wonderful eyes ; for, though each was perfect of its kind and framed in long ebony lashes, the irises were different, one a limpid deep blue-violet, the other quite black.

This odd beauty spelled irresistible fascination ; yet at this time one had but to look* into their laughing depths to see that the book of Love was yet sealed to Queen Jehanne, and that, lovely as her face was, it was the hard loveliness of a marble Venus. Venus, I say, but as yet of marble ; for though there were the Love-Goddess’s passionate possibilities she had now rather the loftier coldness of apart Athene, and both pride and contempt showed in the quick quivers of the small aquiline nose’s fine nostrils, and in the firm set of the chin. Perhaps the scarlet lips laughed too scornfully, and the full white throat lifted that chin upwards too often ; yet she had only to turn those marvellous eyes with a certain slow, half-sleepy, under-lashes smile upon her victim — and were he holy as St. Antony, he was her slave forthwith.

“ She is ice, our Jehanne,” said Boccaccio to himself. “Ice; but there are fires, like Vesuvius below her alpine surface.”

In her sister Marie, the young Duchess of Durazzo, one saw a weaker yet warmer copy of Jehanne ; for they were much alike in build and colouring, but whatever beauty or quality in Jehanne was pronounced, in Marie was moderated, and, above all, she lacked the wonderful eyes, for hers were blue as forget-me-nots, and could not flash their command or disdain. Marie’s marriage had somehow parted her from her sister ; love had subdued her high spirits, abated no little her volatile gaiety ; and Jehanne viewed with contempt the change. Loving care for Marie’s little daughter, that was very well ; but to obedient wifely worship a mere Duke, even though he was anAnjevine, was that meet for the Princess, and heiress of Naples ? The adoration of mere man was a mystery to Queen Jehanne, and besides which disturbing doubts of Marie’s husband floated in her mind. Marie was her heiress, and Charles, though their cousin, was but Duke of a shaky Duchy. In his nature Jehanne spied both cruelty and want of scruples, but at present he and Marie were happy turtle-doves. Later events proved Jehanne’s doubts right.

“ Altesse ! ” cried Guy de Montleon, catching up Jehanne, as she went, “ Messer Giovanni is telling a story, and her Grace thought you would fain hear it.”

As a Provengal, Guy addressed her as Altesse, his liege Countess — a distinction they prized much, as marking a nearer relationship to their Sovereign than the Neapolitan “ Majesty.”

She turned and smiled at him, shaking off her careworn air.

“ Gladly, for my thoughts are sombre, and ’twill banish them,” she replied. Her voice, always sweet, was silken soft in the rich vowels of the Langue d’Oc, and Guy smiled back, for very pleasure in the sound.

She tossed him one of two long-stemmed roses she held, as they went towards Boccaccio’s terrace together, and set the other in the knot of the magnificent rope of pearls twisted round her bare throat, and knotted on her breast, smiling again.

“ For your run to fetch me ! ” as deftly he caught and pinned it in his cap.

“ Here we come, ’Ser Nino ! Lend me your bench, and sit thus at my feet. — Pierre ! that cushion for him, pray ! ” she cried gaily, as Giovanni rose.

Pierre de Lascaris had been one of her childish playmates when, with her grandmother, Queen Sancia, she had spent some years in Provence — years which had bred her great love for that land and all its things, which love stayed with her all her life and was (as some think) her ruin.

“ He is going to tell us a tale of the city,” said Marie.

“Yea, and so hush all you merry brigade, and hear the story of a fool ! ” said Boccaccio ; and then his beautiful voice told inimitably the droll tale of the Enchanted Orange Tree, which caused the old merchant to see such marvellous visions of his young dame and his merry ’prentice, Lorenzo — a story which had for the hearers a double interest as its characters were recognised by some of the gallants who dealt with the deluded old man for their hose and fineries in the Vico Sardinia.

As a little buzz of laughter sealed the tale, Guy de Montleon stretched himself on the grass and held up a commanding finger, then sat up, and crossed one red-hosed leg over the other.

“ I am not sure this old man Nicholas was such a fool to be taken by such a lure as that ! ” he said slowly. 6 4 For I guess what put the idea of saying the tree was magical, into Lorenzo’s pate. It is possible to see things move thus ! ”

44 How ? ” asked Duchess Marie.

44 It needs no magic either ! ” pursued Guy, waving a silencing hand on the threatening sceptical jeers. 44 Behold that open-mouthed, marble lion on the terrace end ! Well, as I lay here, meditating after matins — stop laughing I-^bpft do meditate ! — I vow that as I watched it steadily, its jaws actually seemed to snap together ! I got Up, and felt it, but they were wide ap^rt. I deemed it magic, so set my cap with a medal of the Holy Mary of Arles on the beast’s head.

“ Still it happened, so I take it for a cheating of the light or my eyes or somewhat. Perhaps Lorenzo had seen a like thing, and acted on’t.”

The whole company began to watch the said lion, then to laugh and exclaim, as each saw differently, some nothing, others that it yawned and snapped. Jehanne, glancing at the grove whence she had come, saw in its shadows a brown frock lurk. Quick disgust rose — the Prince’s monk spied upo*\ her then ! By Peter 1 He should see something ! c

She looked round and choose as her tool Amaury of Savoy, Lubeck’s fiery victor, whom the Court named her most favoured Proven£al ; he had strolled up just in time to hear Guy’s last statement, and now leaned idly on the balcony.

The Red Count, men dubbed him, partly from the way he ruled in Savoy, partly from the crimson clothes he nearly always affected, this habit dating from when so armed and housed, in the lists at Capua, he had held Jehanne’s glove against all comers during three days of tourney, and sung her a sirvente which eclipsed all the professional troveres afterwards.

He was thirty only, but thirty in the Naples of that day was an old fifty anywhere else in experience. Ever since when nine years ago, he had first seen tenyear-old Jehanne at Avignon, the world had held for him no other thought. Five years later when His father died, he did what seemed sheer madness in that day, that is, put his young brother Umberto as Seneschal to hold his County of Savoy, and set off for Naples where (save for brief trips home) he had been ever since.

Jehanne liked him, because their minds had much in common ; both had so much self-reliance, such hatred of interference, such independence, and swift action ; and Amaury was very skilful at showing her sympathy in the manful silent way, which her fretting spirit appreciated. She guessed at a deeper feeling, but pushed the thought away, unwilling to disturb her own peace, and favoured him steadily as her knight. Her knight, of mere tourneys, and song singing, be it understood — a rank which meant nothing more to outward view, as she had a score of others all alike proclaiming her Queen of Earth in every joust a-field.

Despite her favours, however, Amaury had few foes among the Proven 9 aux ; he was too cheerful with men in peace, and too good a comrade in war, to make serious rivals, and in the lesser Court intrigues he never dabbled.

It needed a keener eye than any of those gay triflers possessed to spy out the real Amaury — the condottiere under the courtier — for he was as deep in cunning as the sea at the foot of his native Alpes Maritimes, and he could bide his time as their avalanches hang patient till the first boulder is shaken loose.

The Hungarians hated him, however, for he was very friendly with Bertrand des Baux, the Grand Justicer, and his relations (of whom more afterwards).

“ That lion is but a dead subject for trial ! ” cried the Queen.

“ Let us have a real test like the story. I see Erminetta there, look startled — perhaps she is too shy to try with some one I could name ! So my grave sober self shall do’t ! Count Amaury — hither ! Sit by me on the bench — Now look every one — like Nicholas ! ”

Amaury’s expressive grey-brown eyes showed for an instant a tell-tale light, which he hid by quickly changing seats, but his breath came shorter as her scented veil blew against his cheek.

Jehanne turned to him, and in her look he read that she would play out the jest — he had not dared to hope she really would.

The others watched as though they glamoured them.

Gradually their heads drew together — for a desperc 2 ate flash Amaury battled with the desire to draw her sharply to him, and lay not one, but many kisses on both lips, and the matchless throat which showed tempting as Eve’s apple above the low, broidered collar of her gown. Then by a supreme effort he mastered it, and as cool as she, touched lightly the cheek which felt like a rose leaf’s inner side.

Amid the clapping and cries that followed a long shadow fell on the terrace — that of a man, very tall, very stiff, very slow at raising the fur-bound kalpag from his head.

“ The Prince wills her Majesty to attend him within the Castel,” he said in Italian, with a strong foreign accent.

Queen Jehanne deliberately folded her arms.

“ Go, tell the Duke of Calabria that the Queen of Naples is not to be fetched within, by him for no given reason. If he wishes speech with Us let him come hither. We are not at his call,” she said solemnly as in the Council Chamber. Boccaccio thought her sterner than the affair warranted, but sympathised silently.

The Hungarian went, but once from hearing, muttered wrathfully.

He was a proud boiar, brother to Ladislaus Apor, the great Voivode of Transylvania, and held neither of his sovereigns in high respect ; still it galled him to see Hungary’s power flouted by a mere Neapolitan girl.

“ By King Arpad’s soul ! ” he swore under breath. “ If we were but let loose a day, we would sweep them into their sea, as he swept the Brenta’s banks on the day when he sent King Berengar to the Pit ! ”

Presently Prince Andrea came out, all in an angry twitter, his flabby white face whiter than usual between the two wings of dull brown hair which framed it. He marched up to his wife now alone on her bench, and curling the end of one of her long plaits daintily round her finger.

“ A word with you, Maddonna,” he said in a high, shaking voice.

44 Ten if you will,” said she, calm as a lake during noon-hush.

Andrea spluttered a Hungarian oath.

She was half minded to stay and face out whatever grievance he had so patiently in mind, but with the tail of her eye saw Amaury’s hand gripping his dagger hilt till the veins rose. Caution fought with reckless contempt, and won.

She made her husband a quietly commanding sign.

“ Let us speak apart,” she said, and they went off together, he with short, nervous pace, she gliding as a sleigh over ice.

Amaury raised his brows to the circle, shrugged his shoulders, and drawing Guy de Montleon’s arm through his, wandered away among the orange trees.

The Queen and Prince walked meanwhile in the shady grove.

“ How well that lemon tree grows ; I had it put there myself, years ago,” she said tranquilly, as if it were her uppermost idea. 44 1 wonder if the lemons will be good ? ”

Then Andrea’s wrath exploded.

“ Lemons ! Thunderbolts ! What a-devil do you mean by degrading you as anon ? I insist on answer, — I ”

Jehanne looked at him as at an angry child, her serenity unstirred.

“ A pity you are so excitable ! ” she said. “ You forget that a Queen may amuse herself unquestioned — sometimes. Also if she be spied upon, it may not be a pleasant sight for the spiers.”

“ Great Ladislaus ! You let your minion kiss your cheek — is that amusement ? O dignity of queens ! How dared you ? M

“ Well, Prince ” — a shade more acidly — “ if you please to kiss all my prettiest damsels in game thus, I shall say no word, be sure. You had best not complain.”

Though there was absolutely no deeper meaning concealed in her last words, Andrea started slightly. She did not mark it then, but afterwards it came to her mind. But he was of those who ride their galled steeds till they throw them, and went on now :

“ If you think I shall allow such things to be ”

“ I do not see how you can prevent them,” said Jehanne, with the smile of security.

“ When I am King of Naples in name as well as

fact ” he spurted, but she checked him with a

waved hand.

“ Too far off to plan for, as yet ! Now, Prince, I am very weary of the subject ; I tell you finally I wish no more of it. You had best accept things as they are. I am Queen of Naples by heritage, and you are my Consort. If I refuse you what title you are not capable of holding, it is for my nation’s good, and thus not my personal fault. Take my rede, moreover, and remain contented, Duke of Calabria. So are you free and careless. . . . Believe me, the crown is but weary wear sometimes, but as ’tis my duty, so must I bear the weight.”

This increased Andrea’s rage ; his mouth worked, he stopped short and faced her on trembling feet.

Suddenly there swept up to them, perhaps, the only person who could have stilled the breaking storm, the saintly Bishop of Cavaillon, Philippe de Cabassolle, Jehanne’s favourite prelate, indeed, the only one she tolerated as a friend. His views were very broad, and his tact and wit were those of an experienced man of the world, though his saintly life was in sharp contrast to some of the other Princes of Holy Church in Naples. He was only in his fortieth year, and his stately stride and upright figure gave his sweeping robes more the air of a king’s mantle than a bishop’s vestments, and the light of his kind brown eyes under his straight-cut fringe of dark hair was very pleasant. He read the storm signals of Andrea’s flushed face and Jehanne’s curled lip, and promptly tried to avert them.

“ Holy Mary’s blessing, daughter ! Here is a packet from Pisa, which will please you, or I am wrong. It is from our sweet singer Arnaud de Coutignac, and contains a new sirvente to your praise, and a rough sketch for your canopy’s decorations with ferns and roses, at your coming Court d’Amour at Capua. He sends it in advance of his own arrival, and begs me to read you the sirvente (after three pages loyal laudations of his Queen) myself.”

“ Why so ? ” asked she, her wrath fled before eager pleasure.

“ He says his poor script is unworthy your divine eyes, but the sirvente's sound alone may pass muster. The sketch is by one Paolo — t’other name ill-writ — a pupil of Messer Giotto’s. Shall I read the sirvente ? ”

There is nothing like a third party’s smooth eloquence to quench an angry man’s splutters, and the good Bishop’s chatter gave an anticlimax to Andrea’s wrath.

“ Curse your singing-jays ! ” he growled, and strode off.

“ Arnaud is a fantast of the first order,” said Jehanne. “ Never heed his ceremonies, dear Father ; give me the parchment.”

It was a fair tribute of the renowned trovere’s pen to his Queen, one of many, for Arnaud of the Lerins of Provence sang to no other lady, and all his songs exalt her to the sun ; all his life he clave to her in rain and shine. This one, however, was of much importance, as it gave her first that name by which she lives in many a Proven£al ballad and story, as “ Jehanne aux L6vres d’Or, ” or “ Labre d’Oro ” in Provencal, Langue d’Oc. The first verse I venture to English thus :