The court had been recently thrown into consternation by the discovery of a plot to seize the various citadels of the island and hold them for Carlotta. It was evidently well supported and far advanced, as disclosed by the intercepted letters addressed to some unknown person, which had been laid before the Council; all who were mentioned as partisans or confidants in this intrigue were designated under assumed names, but the knowledge which these papers gave the Council was of immense value, enabling them to provide that all the garrisons of Cyprus should be commanded by men of known loyalty to the Queen. Meanwhile vigorous efforts were being made to discover the identity of the person addressed as
"L'Illustrissima,Madama di Niuna."
But no light had been thrown upon the matter, although it had been openly discussed in the court-circle.
Dama Margherita had noticed with uneasiness that Ecciva de Montferrat, who was usually on the alert for any excitement, had seemed singularly apathetic when this subject had been broached, and she felt that the trust reposed in her by the Admiral required her to mention her suspicions to Madama di Thénouris, although she shrank from this duty the more because she knew that Dama Ecciva wassupposed to be exerting some secret influence against herself.
"Dear Madama di Thénouris," she said appealingly, "it seems so much the more ungracious on my part. Yet it is treachery to our Queen. And if it should be that Dama Ecciva hath been receiving these letters and holding such part in these intrigues—to leave her where she hath free access to the court-circle.—But it cannot be true; she is too young to be so faithless! And if she need not know that I have hinted of my fears? It would seem like some petty revenge—yet I cannot be false to my trust!"
"Thank heaven thou canst not, Margherita, since others find it easy! Yet we must watch for our own assurance, and may thy fears prove naught! Comfort thy soul, forsomeone is guilty, and the finding of the culprit will clear all others of suspicion."
"It is most strange about these letters," Madama di Thénouris said later, as the young maids of honor sat around her with their embroidery frames. "Tell me, Ecciva——"
There was a sudden convulsive movement of the girl's arm and she gave an exclamation of annoyance as the golden thread snapped in her needle; but she did not look up.
Madama di Thénouris, closely watching, saw that her fingers trembled so that she could scarcely hold her needle.
"Tell me," she pursued in her leisurely fashion, after a slight pause, while Ecciva's needle stillremained unthreaded, "what method shall we take to discover the identity of this unknown 'illustrissima'—thisMadama di Niuna?"
The girl's alarm grew evidently less; but it was a moment more before she answered:
"Why doth your Excellency thus honor me, in calling me in counsel? There are others whose opinion would carry more weight."
"Nevertheless, since I have asked thee, give me thy thought."
"Madama di Niuna," the young maid of honor exclaimed petulantly, forgetting her deference, "there is no Madama di Niuna!—How should I know?" The silk was hopelessly knotted and twisted about the tiny pearl she had just threaded, requiring close attention; Madama di Thénouris also seemed to watch her work with interest.
"Thou art right, my child, thou art over-young to have any knowledge of so despicable an intrigue. But the matter is naturally of deep concern for us all," she added, as Ecciva, having recovered her perfect self-control lifted her eyes to Madama di Thénouris with a smile that was intended to thank her for her trust, while assuring her that there was no possible ground for supposing that she had any knowledge of this intrigue.
But the gray-haired court-lady met her gaze searchingly and with no answering smile—she who could be so gracious.
"The Council will follow a clue upon which they have just chanced, and which may lead to the discovery. If Madama di Niuna would come forward to confess," she pursued with quiet emphasis, "itmight lessen the penalty for participation in this intrigue—which some among the Council tell us can be nothing less than death."
There was a murmur of abhorrence from the young voices about her, but Dama Ecciva was quite silent, although there had been a motion of her blanched lips as if to speak, and Madama di Thénouris still held her fascinated gaze. Her eyes had suddenly dilated with a look of terror, yet almost instantly reassumed their long oval shape—the lids closing to more than their narrow wont: her embroidery had slipped to the floor, as she rose, and she was treading it under her feet—bruising and grinding it passionately, as if it were some safe, unnoticed outlet to the fear and anger that might smother her. She had flung out her hands desperately, the dainty tapering fingers working with strenuous, nervous motions—but now they were tightly clenched in the rose-leaf palms, and she stood bracing herself, like a statue of defiance. There was an added pallor on the beautiful ivory face—so still she was she scarcely seemed to breathe—yet all at tension—like some wild thing of the tropical forest, suddenly brought to bay, summoning all her strength for the leap that was to free her.
But she might rage in vain against the invisible meshes that held her, although it was but for a brief moment that Madama di Thénouris had searched her soul in silent confession.
The times were perilous, and it behooved those whose duty it was to keep the wheels of the machine sufficiently lubricated to run without over-much creaking, to see that not only were all possible precautions taken to secure the Queen's safety, but that everything that might promote the loyalty of the uncertain Cyprian nobility should be encouraged.
Some of the older Greek families lived like petty rulers within their own estates, holding absolute sway over their vassals and enforcing their allegiance at least to the point of not daring to act in opposition to whatever political views their lords might choose to adopt. Yet the fact that an old patrician was not in sympathy with the Crown was by no means an assurance of loyalty to Carlotta; it might simply mean that he was waiting to select one from among the many banners that were eager to float over his happy island of Cyprus—or that a more fervent hope possessed him of gathering to his own standard the various malcontents and of wearing, with true Cyprian magnificence, the royal honors that he craved;—as why should he not? since more than one of those ancient Cyprian families claimed kinship by marriage with the royal house of Lusignan.
Thus it had been decreed by the powers behind the throne that the seat of government should be removed to Nikosia,—the most loyal of all the cities of the realm, whose jealousy at her loss of prestigein being supplanted in this dignity by the less important city of Famagosta should be wisely taken into account; and great preparations were being made for the royal progress about to take place, by which it was hoped to stimulate an increased pride in the Government among the populace and the citizens.
Great hopes were also entertained by the Admiral Mutio di Costanzo, the Bernardini, Dama Margherita and Madama di Thénouris that theHigh Court—an institution distinctively Cyprian, which had not been held since the death of Janus, but of which a session had now been proclaimed throughout the island—would assemble a throng of nobles with their vassals and would prove a strong appeal to their loyalty.
The old Cyprian gentlewoman, Madama di Thénouris, under advice of the Admiral and the Council, had held long frank talks with the Lady of the Bernardini.
"We love our gentle Queen," she said with feeling; "and we do our possible to uphold her. But she also—she must show herself among the nobles—she must claim their loyalty. Hath she the strength to rise above her grief and try to rule? There hath been enough of mourning for the temper of this people; we must have action. We are like children—half-barbaric—more easily swayed by trifles that please us—not of such sober poise as the people of Venice; but the good Lord hath made us thus."
But Caterina was ready to do her part. "Whatever the customs of the country doth require," sheanswered without hesitation, "I shall have the strength, since it is for my people. Only, cara Madama di Thénouris, thou and the Zia will provide what is best—I cannot think about these things—they seem like trifles; till I grow stronger," she added timidly, in a tone of appeal.
"Nay, beloved Lady; they are but trifles; we will spare you thought of them, that the real matters may help the sooner to win your interest. But it will not be displeasing to your Majesty to see your maidens about you in robes of white—to hold a fairer memory of the infant King, in his innocence and charm, than these robes of woe?" She touched the heavy mourning folds of the Queen's garments, as she spoke.
Caterina started in surprise; but she answered in a moment, with a little effort, "Aye—it will be sweeter—mine also, cara Madama; since never can the grief be less. The Holy Mother, and myfiglio dilettissimo—it is enough that they know. And it is for his people!"
Yet in the loneliness of the night, after she had made her last prayer at the tomb of Janus, and lighted the last taper with her own hands for him in the Duomo San Nicolò, and wept her last tears before the altar where, but a few short months ago her little son had been baptized and crowned—kneeling on the slab that bore her baby's name—the sense of desolation overpowered her.
"Even this little comfort I must lose," she cried; "Madonna mia—Janus and my boy seemed nearer here! They leave me nothing—nothing!"
But later in her own chamber, alone in thesolemn stillness, deep in her heart an appeal that could not be uttered because of its intensity, her strained gaze fastened on the brilliant, star-lit skies as if she would pierce the mysteries of life and death and surprise some effluence of spirit-love—some smile of tenderness from the angel of her little child—a strange calm came to her—a dim perception of eternal values—of the nothingness of time and place—of the everlastingness of any love that has been true.—Then slowly she sank upon her knees, still looking upward, and the anguish lessened and peace and strength descended upon her soul—a gift from the holiness of the night.
It was in such vigils, since her great sorrows had come to her, that the desolate girl-queen had learned her life-lessons—and she was no longer afraid of their solemnity, coming thus into closer friendship with her own soul and a more implicit faith.
"Dear Father in Heaven!" she cried. "Thou knowest it is because I love them that I leave them, to do their life-work! and Thou wilt grant me wisdom! If but I knew—if but I knew my people's need!"
At that most perfect hour of early evening when the sun was sinking rapidly behind the mountains in a flood of gold and crimson glory, and the air was filled with a delicious wandering breeze, soft and refreshing after the heat of the day and laden with the perfumes of a thousand flowers, the Queen set forth upon her journey.
She was accompanied by her full court of knights and maidens, a guard of infantry and escort ofcavalry, with many mounted nobles besides, to do her honor,—a sumptuous cavalcade of at least two hundred horse; with such state had the Council of the Realm thought fit to decree the royal progress. With them came forth the dignitaries of Famagosta and other nobles, as was the custom of those days in bidding a ceremonious farewell—to journey with the royal train a league beyond the city which the Queen was leaving to take up her residence in Nikosia.
And thus the cavalcade proceeded on its way, pausing anon, for the greetings of the villagers who came forth to meet them and offer homage—Caterina slow-pacing on her snow-white palfrey—six knights from among the noblest in the land in constant attendance at her bridle, giving place continually to the new group pressing forward to claim their part of this so honorable service.
They had journeyed thus for an evening and a long day, with but the needful pauses for rest and refreshment, when they saw before them in the distance, embowered in delicious gardens of palms and cypresses and rich masses of bloom, the domes and minarets of the city of Nikosia—slender and white and lace-like against the deep blue sky—and climbing the hillside, high above the city, the turrets and crenellated walls of its far-famed citadel.
The chances of travel had often brought the Signor Bernardini and Dama Margherita together, and there had been much friendly talk between them of things which both held dear and in which their hopes for the quieting of the kingdom had a large share. She was flushed and eager beyond her wont,when they first came in sight of the distant city of Nikosia, and he laid his hand upon her bridle and lowered his voice. "Let us not hasten," he said entreatingly; "the journey hath been so beautiful; and our bourne is all too near."
"Nay—not too near—for Her Majesty may well be weary."
"The Dama Margherita hath ever a thought for others," he answered her. "And for me?—will she not grant me to reach the bourne I covet?"
"How may I help to that of which I know nothing?" she asked inadvertently, her thoughts being full of the problems they had discussed touching the Queen: then suddenly lifting her eyes and meeting his, she turned her head away in confusion.
"Then I will make confession——" he began eagerly.
"Nay; I am no priest," she answered, touching her horse with her whip.
He followed, disconcerted; but she, repenting, soon quieted her pace and turned her face to him again, serene as of wont.
"I would fain tell thee my secret, Margherita," he pleaded.
She lacked the courage to reprove him while he lingered on her name with an accent that turned it to music.
"Nay—if it be a secret, tell it not: for women have tongues."
"Have they also hearts?" he asked.
"Not those who yield them," she said; "but only those who hold them fast."
"Ismy secret a secret, Margherita?"
"Your Excellency—a member of the Council of the Realm hath so reported it," she answered, laughing frankly. "Who am I, that I should question his judgment?"
"Thou art thyself," he said half banteringly—half seriously, and watching to see how she would take it. "To none other would I so defer."
"Not to the Queen?" she asked, still playfully.
But he was serious at once. "Aye—ever to the Queen, in duty bound—by kinsman's ties—by knighthood's vows—by my honor, by her sorrows, and by my will—yet this hindereth not that there should be one——"
"Methinks my stirrup is caught fast in the housing!" she interrupted with an exclamation of dismay: and there was naught to do for the Bernardini but to dismount and readjust it,—she—talking brightly the while, of many things for which at that moment he cared naught; and less, because it was she who spoke.
But when they were riding side by side again, and the city was coming nearer, he would not be put off for any whim of hers.
"If thou hast discovered my secret—which I would fain know—most worshipful Dama Margherita,—I would that thou shouldst proclaim it wherever thy tongue listeth. 'Quel che Iblin è, non si può trovar!'"
He knew that the old Cyprian proverb, "Such another as Iblin is, may not be found," was the pride of her house, and would reach the tenderest spot in her loyal heart.
She turned to him gravely: "Dear SignorBernardini, let it not be spoken between us," she said. "For the Queen hath sore need of us—of our every thought and care."
"Might we not serve her better so?" he pleaded.
But she shook her head. "Thou who hast been all faith and service, counting thy life naught—thou knowest. She in her trouble should see that we think but of her."
"Is this thy answer—most worshipful Margherita?"
Again she turned her eyes to his—serene and deep—no hint of trouble in them.
"There hath been no question," she said; "there can be no answer, where there hath been no question."
And although he would fain have spoken further, he could not: for that brief moment in which her eyes held his—half-commanding—wholly trusting—was like the sealing of a vow to do her bidding.
Then as she turned away, the echo of a name floated towards him—"Aluisi!" so spoken as no one had ever uttered it before.—Or had he surprised it, written on her soul, in that deep gaze, which she had permitted?
But now the sudden sunset glory of that Eastern clime flamed in the skies, touching the domes and pinnacles of this city of delights with flecks of crimson and purple and molten gold, illuminating the lovely Cyprian landscape with a never-to-be-forgotten light—and Nikosia stood forth radiant against the background of dark environing hills, clothed to their summits with kingly cedars—whilein the far distance the sea flashed its silver setting, melting into the opal of the clouds which seemed to rise from its breast.
Was it this fleeting radiance of color that always stirred the birds to sudden, joyous song at the charmed hour of sunset?—that outpoured upon the heavenly breeze, for which the long day often panted, this flood of perfume of a thousand odors? Or was it only because it was Cyprus and for her magic beauty she had indeed been named of all the isles of Greece, "L'Isola Fortunata," beloved of the gods?
But now from the splendid city came sounds of rejoicing—music and vivas—through the gates thrown wide, the tramp of a multitude issuing forth to welcome their Queen, with the homage of loyal hearts,—and her own throbbed almost to breaking. The Vice-Roy and Admiral, Mutio di Costanzo, with his escort of Knights of the Golden Spurs came bringing the keys of the city which had stood for the Queen against the mandates of the Council of the Realm; Stefano Caduna, Leader of the people, stalwart and faithful, brave as a lion, with his devoted guild about him—the judges of the courts and the chief men of the municipality; a chapter of the Knights of St. John, in their white mantles and eight-pointed crosses of red—the new primate of Nikosia, with all the hierarchy of his province of diverse creeds—the burghers—the nobles of the city—they made a welcome that stirred the soul of Caterina and filled it with a hope warm as the presage of the glowing skies.
"Viva la Regina—La ben-venuta!"
The people shouted her name; they thronged toswell the royal procession as she rode through the garlanded streets, in regal state, under the golden canopy which they had brought to do her honor, upheld over her fair young head by four mounted knights of the most ancient houses of Nikosia. Before the portico of the Duomo Santa Soffia the cavalcade came to pause, while Caterina dismounted—the people clinging about her to kiss her hand, to prove their loyalty—until pale from emotion she left them, and passed with all her noble company under the fretted arches of the vast portal, to offer up her orisons—her first act in this city of her adoption, a service of faith and adoration—her first resting-place in her new home, the altar of the church which was one in all lands.
For the first time since the death of Janus, the magnificent hall of the Upper Court in the Palace of the Assizes was filled with a noble assembly of Cyprian patricians who came in state, each with his train of vassals, who were also privileged to enter the great judgment hall and witness the imposing ceremony of the opening of the Court. Each baron wore at the point of his lance the small square banner with the device and color of his ancestral house and the motto, "Cour, Coin, Justice," which was the privilege of his class, signifying that he was entitled to receive homage and tribute from his vassals—hishommes ligesand his serfs, and to render judgment upon their minor causes.
The long arcaded corridors leading out to the court-yards of the palace were thronged with serfs in attendance upon the knights and barons, and with citizens who had no seat of right in the assembly; and beyond, from the court-yards, came the sound of the champing of steeds impatient for the voice of their masters and chafing under the unwelcome restraint of their attendants, who kept up a ceaseless babel of adjuration and coaxing.
Every noble of Cyprus in sympathy with the present Government was waiting with his vassals and suites in splendid array to pay his homage to the young Queen, who now first since the death of her child was to appear among them at a high function; there were others who, uncertain or careless of theirsentiments had responded to the urgent invitation of the Council of the Realm, from no stronger motive than a mild curiosity; and possibly a few had come with a wrathful determination to find something to condemn in the bearing of the Queen that might stimulate an organized opposition.
Between the splendid shafts of the monoliths that rose like a Cyprian forest from the polished marble pavement, a vast company of the hierarchy of Cyprus—Greek, Latin, and Armenian, in rich sacerdotal vestments—were waiting to take part in the solemn ceremonial; for the royal white-robed procession had already ascended the steps of the dias where the newly appointed Archbishop of Nikosia would offer his prayer of consecration and receive the pledge of the Queen faithfully to uphold the laws of the Realm.
The majestic martial music to which the procession had moved had diminished to a dim, melodic undertone, over which the prayer of the Primate rose and fell in swift, rhythmic periods—a litany of ascription and petition, to which the people, standing with faces towards the East and with outstretched hands, responded full-voiced.
O Thou, God over all, great in Majesty and power, to Thee we ascribe all praise!
To Thee we ascribe all praise!
O Thou, Lord of lords and King of kings, grant to Caterina, Sovereign of this Realm, grace and wisdom to rule her people.
Grace and wisdom to rule her people!
And grant to her, O Giver of all good, Thy benediction, with gladness!
Thy benediction, with gladness!
O Thou, Creator of Life and Immortality, Lord of the living and of the dead, grant that the soul of thy servant Janus may rest in peace!
May rest in peace!
O Thou, Holy and Ineffable, around whose throne the pure souls of sinless little ones float as an effluence of Thy love, grant to the soul of our infant King, Thy joy perpetual.
Thy joy perpetual!
O Thou, supreme in justice, Ruler of all rulers and Judge of all men, grant to the rulers of this Court wisdom, that they may judge righteously!
That they may judge righteously!
Yet, O Eternal Father, Thou who art merciful, grant us to temper judgment with mercy.
Judgment with mercy!
Thou, who art Everlasting Truth, grant us to be true.
Grant us to be true!
And then, while the Archbishop was standing with hands outspread in benediction over the kneeling throng, the music of a wonderful, rhythmicAmen, oft repeated, thrilled and throbbed from arch to arch.
How cruel the changes that had swept the island-kingdom since the last High Court had assembled in this Council-Chamber! Their young and charmingmonarch, in the very exuberance of life, had been summoned without warning to lay it down. His little child, the hope of the realm, had come and passed as swiftly as some fair vision of the night, leaving scarcely a trace of his short earthly career save in the heart of the mother where its every memory would be cherished deathlessly. And for their fair young Queen, who stood among them widowed and childless—in lieu of the fulfilment of the radiant hopes which had brought her hither, there had been a pitiful record of conspiracy, betrayal and captivity.
These memories smote upon the nobler souls in the throng, moving them to compassion and admiration; for what knight among them could more bravely have borne such suffering and thwarting?
But Caterina, in trailing garments glistening like the snows of Troödos, stood like a queenly lily among her white-robed maids of honor, exalted by the solemnity of the service and looking deep into the heart of her life-problems—ignoring self and contests—dreaming only of duty and the achievement that her people's love might render possible.
They had feared to see her in mourning robes, with a woful court about her,—trembling, sorrow-weighted, pitiful and unimpressive; and a low murmur of admiration just stirred the hush of the chamber as she took her place under the royal canopy and turned to confront the great assembly—the strength of suffering and resolve in the beautiful unsmiling face, which yet seemed to promise and crave for love—to plead with them for their allegiance.
She stood so for a moment, quite still; then she stretched out both arms to them with a sudden impulse.
"My people!" she said brokenly.
Her voice thrilled them, and they answered with a burst of loyalty warm enough to screen the silence of those who took no part in the grateful chorus.
She only bowed her head in acknowledgment, struggling with her emotion: then moving a little aside, she laid her hand upon the arm of the alabaster seat that Janus had been wont to use,—it was filled with lilies in memory of the infant King and guarded by the group of white-clad pages who should have been his knights. And now, as if the touch gave her courage, her voice came clear and unwavering.
"My people!" she said again, lingering on the words as if the claim were inexpressibly dear to her; "because ye werehispeople—my husband's—the King's: because ye should have beenhis—my little, little son's;—because they have left me their work to do."
She paused for a moment to steady her voice, for a sudden desperate sense of loneliness and self-pity had overpowered her as she looked into the sea of faces turned to hers and saw—with the intense spiritual insight granted to the few in crucial moments—the conflicting emotions with which they regarded her.
Then, as swiftly, there flashed into her recollection the memory of the scene in Venice, on the day of her betrothal, when there had been revealed to her the sacredness of the tie possible between a Queenand her people—a vision of the holy, surging, passionate mother-love, adequate to all sacrifice. Surely for these days of her desolation that early vision had been granted; and with the force of a heavenly message its memory now brought her strength.
The appeal in her eyes deepened, and the lines of her mouth grew more tender, while she held herself firmly erect,—as one accustomed to rule,—and the tones of her voice took on the accent of unquestioned authority.
"Dear people of Cyprus," she said quite calmly, "Ineedyour love—that together we may rule wisely."
She had not dreamed that ever again she should taste so dear a joy as came with the sound of this tumultuous response to her appeal; for the hearts of the nobles had warmed to her, and a wave of compunction and loyalty swept the assembly.
As she took her seat upon the throne and gave the signal to open the court, the light in her face was a radiance beautiful to behold.
"Bow down before the Majesty of the Law!" His Grace the Archbishop, solemnly proclaimed, while two priests from Santa Soffia stepped forth from under the arcades, reverently carrying the illuminated MS. of the Evangel which had been the treasure of their monastery from earliest ages; and behind them came others of their brotherhood bearing the quaint, copper casket in which were enshrined those revered Books of the Law known as the "Assizes of Jerusalem," and esteemed among all the codes of the nations for their wisdom and justice.
The ancient volumes which bore this title had long since disappeared, in the destruction of Jerusalem; and tradition, prone to assign to well-known authors of illustrious deeds many good feats accomplished by those who remain nameless, had ascribed the compilation of this early masterpiece of judicial wisdom to Godfrey de Bouillon. It had been sacredly kept in the church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and guarded by a decree ordaining that it should not be opened except in the presence of certain high officials.
Upon the maxims of this ancient work, faithfully digested in the famous law-schools of Nikosia by their greatest scholars, the present volume of Assizes had been founded; and among those most largely concerned in its authorship was Joan of Iblin—the distinguished ancestor of Dama Margherita.
Dama Margherita had never been present when the volume was opened, for like the famous code which had preceded it, it was hedged about with solemn formalities and might not be unsealed save in the presence of the Sovereign and four barons of the realm; and she leaned eagerly forward as the herald, who parted the crowd before the bearers of the sacred chest reiterated again and again the command:
"Bow down before the Majesty of the Law!"
The little procession proceeded slowly through the intricacies of the throng, all heads bowing as they passed, until they brought it under the dome that was raised over the dias where the thrones were set for the Sovereigns, and where, looking upward, one might read in great golden characters, wroughtabove the frieze, this admonition from the Book of the Law:
Whoever shall appear in this Court and bear false witness, be he the noblest in the land, he shall lose his head.
The Queen, to show her reverence, had risen from her throne as they paused before her, and descending the steps she laid her hand upon the Evangel, where His Grace the Archbishop held open the page for her, and kneeling to kiss the venerated Book of the Assizes, she solemnly swore to uphold the laws and statutes of Cyprus.
But this day was destined to become memorable in the annals of the courts.
There had been some disputes and decrees of minor interest to be passed upon before the matter of the recent conspiracy had been brought forward. This had absorbed the attention of the most learned Cyprian men at law for some time past, and at this first session of the Court of Assizes, the summing up of evidence and the closing arguments were to be laid before the tribunal and sentence would be declared. The revelations of the trial had thus far been kept secret—but it was known from other sources that the identity of many of those implicated had been discovered, and an important prisoner, who was supposed to have had a large share in shaping the plot, was to be brought into court to close her trial.
It was she, they said, who, trusted near the person of Her Majesty, having full opportunity of access to those highest in authority and of friendlyintercourse with all the ancient Cyprian nobility, had been chosen by the chiefs of the conspiracy to receive and transmit their orders covertly; to win converts for the scheme, wherever there might be hope of partisans, and to protect their plans from suspicion. The charge was "High Treason," for it was whispered that the seizure of the strongholds was but to have been a step toward the seizure of the Crown, and this leader came of an ambitious race, than which no family of Cyprus could boast a more ancient lineage.
In the innermost circle about the Queen, whatever the suspicions of the maids and knights might have been, the name of this arch-offender was not even whispered: for their dear Queen herself, with eyes that were dark with emotion, had pleaded with them.
"For love of me, seek not to know until her innocence or guilt shall be declared. If she should be innocent—which may our Blessed Lady grant!—let us save her from dishonor in thought and name."
But one of their number had been long absent, on a visit, it had been declared, to her distant estates; and if some who came less frequently to court, named the name of "Madama di Niuna" over-curiously, the courtiers turned their faces from each other, lest their eyes should betray the request of their beloved Sovereign Lady—for so had her misfortunes and her graces and high demeanor won their loyalty.
The prisoner stood before her judges, when they led her into the Hall of the Assizes, mercifullyswathed from head to foot in the filmy silken veil usually worn by the women of Nikosia; but through the snowy folds which concealed the features, there came the gleam of the fantastic jewelled garb, and the lines of the pose—proudly defiant—were plainly discernible—it could be none other than the young and beautiful and high-born Dama Ecciva de Montferrat.
The young maids of honor turned sad eyes upon each other, each seeking to touch the hand of her nearest companion, by way of assurance, while all waited, in a stress of suspense that was near despair.
Throughout the trial, the splendid assembly followed every phase with breathless attention, yet with conflicting emotions,—for the prisoner was one of their peers and all felt the case to be momentous; while, as the masterly arguments proceeded, and the evidence seemed irrefutable, perhaps few among them could have determined how it should be most wisely decided, in view of the waverings and discontent which had threatened to undermine the Government.
And now the judges and the learned men had withdrawn for private consultation, and the assembly waited for the verdict in a hush through which one might have counted the heart-beats sounding in tumultuous rhythm; but the girlish prisoner still kept her defiant attitude—tapping the pavement impatiently with her tiny booted foot—as making light of any crime that might be imputed to Dama Ecciva de Montferrat.
Then, more swiftly than one might tell it, a blaze of irrepressible human passion broke upon thedecorous quiet of the Chamber; the nobles sprang to their feet, struggling for expression; for the awful announcement "Guilty," although they had awaited it, brought a sudden desperate realization of the fearful consequences, as, almost without pause, the penalty was declared and a piercing shriek rent the air.
"Notdeath!—Holy Saints—Not Death!"
They could see the sinuous figure writhing and panting convulsively under her wrappings, then tearing her veil like a frenzied woman, as she sank fainting upon the pavement; and the crowd made way in awe-struck silence for the Lady Beata with the maidens of the court who closed about the tortured figure in shielding ministration.
A stately patrician robed in black, fought her way through the excited throng to the steps of the throne, and threw herself at the feet of the Queen.
"Have mercy!" she cried; "she is too young to die! Take my life for hers—she is my child!"
A messenger was crossing the chamber from the judge's throne, bearing a parchment tied in black, a portentous seal depending from the ribbon. It was the first time that a death-warrant had been presented for the Queen's signature, and she was visibly agitated.
The agonized mother at her feet kept up her passionate entreaties.
Caterina started up pale and trembling, holding out her hand to the kneeling figure and drawing her forward:
"Counts and Barons of the Realm, Judges of the Court and all ye people who look to us forprotection! We have sworn before you all to uphold the laws of Cyprus—we will not fail you!" she protested. "Yet, oh I beg you to remember that together in this Chamber we have prayed to-day that we might temper judgment with mercy!—Let us not sign it!"
A low murmur of sympathy echoed through the assembly, half-assenting, and Caterina, perceiving it hurried on.
"Let us rule together wisely," she besought them, "and for the honor of Cyprus! Let it not be told that our first meeting in this noble assembly hath been darkened by a sentence of death upon one of our own nobles! Madonna mia! Grant us to be merciful—spare the noble house of Montferrat; let the penalty be exile!"
There was a confused murmur in the Hall of the Assizes: disjointed words punctuated the low babel of sounds: "Exile!" "Exile with confiscation!" "Death!" "Mercy!" "Death and Confiscation."
They scarcely knew whether they prayed for death or mercy, or whether in their souls they wished for justice or pardon, for the question was too weighty to be solved by law, since a nation's peace might hang upon it. They knew not if they saw distinctly, for the mist that seemed to cloud their vision—a mist enfolding two women like a halo—the one tall, black-robed, superb in anguish, with pathetic lines of age upon her hair and brow, and in her eyes, darker than night, such frenzy of supplication as one may only offer for a dearer than self: the other young, tender, fair—all compassion, divinein forgiveness and comprehension—for were they not both mothers, and had she not suffered the irreparable loss that she might learn to shield grieving mother-hearts? She held the Countess of Montferrat closely clasped as if she would sustain her in her trouble.
"Notconfiscation!" she pleaded. "Hath not this mother enough to suffer in knowing that her child hath missed the highest trust? Shall we add this also to her pain, and take from her the estates which have been the home of her people for long ages? Shall she not take the vow of fealty to the State, instead of her child? And for the Dama Ecciva—we grieve that it must be exile—yet the safety of the Crown demandeth it. Be merciful—dear people!"
It was a woman's reason—but a woman's heart, stronger than law or precedent, had won the day.
"A confidential communication of deep import to Cyprus—so thou come at once, and alone. 'The Prisoner in the Castle.'"
The Signor Aluisi Bernardini read the note a second time with frowning brows, for there was more than one prisoner, even of this recent conspiracy, in the castle, and the hand was disguised or unknown to him, and he could but guess at the identity of the sender of this mysterious message, which had been brought him, quite openly, by one of the castle guards.
The man stood waiting at the door of his study, until he called to him:
"Thou hast a message for me from——?"
"The Dama Ecciva de Montferrat, Eccellentissimo," the messenger answered, readily.
"Deliver it."
"I was to remind your Excellency that the galley will sail to-morrow for Venice—if your Excellency should have despatches—the Dama de Montferrat feared that it might not be known beyond the castle."
"Is this known within the castle and by order of the Castellan?" Bernardini asked quickly, in surprise.
"Eccellentissimo, the word came to me by the Dama de Montferrat, in confidence. I have no other message."
The Bernardini pondered a moment. She had meant him to feel that the case was urgent, for nohint of the immediate sailing of the prisoner's galley for Venetian waters had yet reached him, who was usually foremost in any information that touched upon Venetian interests. It might be a ruse, or a mere plausible excuse to her messenger.
"Is there aught else in which I may serve the Dama de Montferrat?" the Bernardini asked with assumed nonchalance, partly to gain time to decide upon his own course of action, yet hoping to throw some little light upon the mystery.
"It is written in the note. Doth your Excellency bid me return alone?"
The man's manner was insistent: he had been shown a jewel of value that should be his if he brought the Bernardini back with him, and such fidelity as might thus be purchased, Dama Ecciva could count upon.
"Nay: I follow," the Bernardini answered, waving him on before,—"yet not too closely. At the castle wait for me."
"Of deep import to Cyprus," he repeated to himself, as he made his way across the breadth of the city to the citadel: he was alone save for his horse, who often brought him a sense of almost human companionship, and to-day the responsive quiver of the animal, as his master laid a caressing touch upon his arched neck, gave him an assurance of fidelity that was helpful. For the matter of this conspiracy had sorely wrought upon him and he might not ignore such a message, though it came from one so unreliable as Dama Ecciva, for she was surely in touch with the disaffected nobles. It might be a new conspiracy—yet it was more likelya mere whim, or an attempt to get her sentence remitted—poor girl!
But he felt no emotion of compassion towards her, save for her duplicity, as he was conducted to the apartment which the Queen had had prepared in the castle for her young prisoner of State. By the Queen's grace, also, the Countess of Montferrat occupied the royal apartment under the same roof and was permitted at certain hours, to visit her daughter, though never without surveillance. But for one so high in authority as the Bernardini there were no restrictions and he soon stood confronting the Dama Ecciva in a small cabinet, which by the Queen's mercy had little the aspect of a prison; for she had thought of the mother, as she gave her orders for the prisoner's comfort, and of the last days that she and her daughter might spend together in their native land, and her tender heart had overflowed to them; there were even flowers from the royal gardens, and the air was fragrant; but in Dama Ecciva's manner there was no softening change.
"So your Excellency hath even deigned to respond to the request of aprisoner?" she exclaimed by way of greeting, and lingering with a little mocking pretense on the last word.
"If it be within my power——" he began tentatively.
"Promise not too rashly, my Lord Chamberlain, lest I hold thee to thy word," she answered lightly. "For I shall ask naught of thee that is not within thy sole power to grant. If I ask thee aught—yetI know not if I will:—methinks my mood hath changed."
He was dumb as he looked at her—within a few hours of perpetual banishment she stood before him, brilliant, inconsequent, carefully dressed in her usual fanciful garb—the very jessamines in her hair lusciously over-sweet—with no hint of regret in face or manner—her old fire-fly self.
"Our time is short, Dama Ecciva," he reminded her at length, when she had chosen a cushioned corner and sat toying with a bunch of wild orchids—seemingly forgetful of his presence, as of her summons. "We are alone: and if thou hast a confidence to make—'of import to the State'——"
"The time is long enough for our needs, Eccellentissimo," she retorted, with a rippling laugh. "Verily, I like these wild blooms better than Her Majesty's choice favorites—this orchid hath a face well-nigh human—but overwise; I scarce need tell it—as to thee—that the sailing of the galley was my device to bring thee quickly."
He bit his lip to hold back his impatient speech, for she might not be dealt with as other women, by any appeal to trust or reason.
"Wherefore 'quickly'," he answered her, "since there is time?"
She looked up in surprise at having missed the expected reproof for which she was already fashioning a saucy reply, and her mood changed suddenly.
"Nay, nay, there is not time," she cried passionately, stretching out her hands to him. "There isnottime! Though it be not to-night, it may be to-morrow—who knoweth? And it isforever—forever and ever! Caro Signore, art thou not a little sorry for me?"
She looked like a child as she made this appeal, and his heart smote him for his coldness, for she was truly suffering. His sudden sympathy brought a new note of tenderness to his voice.
"So sorry," he said, as he took her hand in a compassionate clasp. "So sorry—that only duty to our land of Cyprus stayeth me from seeking that thy weary penance be lightened. If I might, I would help thee."
"Our land of Cyprus!and thou a Venetian!" she cried triumphantly, her rainbow face flashing smiles, "and how, caro Signore—carissimo Signore—if 'duty to our land of Cyprus' should bid thee help me?"
"It is some new intrigue of which thou hast knowledge?" he questioned, striving to hold her thoughts in one direction.
"Is not the one for which I stand here, and which will send me hence, enough," she answered tantalizingly, "that thou wouldst have more?"
"If it be but for whim of speech that thou hast summoned me," he said rising, knowing well that she would yield nothing to persuasion, "I may not linger longer. If there be a way in which I may serve thy mother, the Countess—ere I take my leave——?"
She shook her head for answer, pulling impatiently at the orchids which she had gathered up again; they seemed akin to her—half elfin flowers.
"Or if there be some message of farewell for Her Majesty?"
Again she shook her head, in emphatic denial; but she was conscious that the Bernardini still lingered, although he had taken a few steps away from her: and looking up she saw that he was watching her in keen disappointment. Suddenly her cheek flamed, for his look was both compassionate and reproachful, yet despite her anger, she thought him more than ever noble while she struggled to repress the half-conscious feeling within her that dumbly answered to his appeal.
"She hath been merciful and forgiven much," he urged, in a tone that was still compassionate toward Ecciva herself; "she hath suffered much because of the grief for thy mother and thyself—and because she might not lighten the penance. Is there no little word of farewell for her?"
Dama Ecciva tossed away her flowers, and rose indignantly:
"Ihavea message for Her Majesty," she said in quick, hard tones. "Tell her I thank her for"—she glanced about the chamber as if summing up its comforts and elegance—"for her flowers. Tell her that the de Montferrats come of a noble house, well nigh as old as the Lusignans; that of our elder branch came a queen of Cyprus. Tell her that if I know not how to thank her for that she hath decreed banishment for a noble of our ancient house—she who hath lived in our land of Cyprus thesefew years of her little life—if I lack the grace to be so good a courtier—yet I humbly thank her for—these orchids—which might have sprung from some mouldering trunk in a forgotten corner of my estates.They mind me of the days beforeshecame to Cyprus."
She crushed them angrily beneath her foot as she spoke, and her words stormed upon him.
As he would have answered her, she broke in with more hot words.
"Tell her that I shall not lose my color in exile; it will not cure me of mycrime of loyaltyto my people—I cannot change my faith—tell her——"
But he interrupted gravely:
"Thou dost wrong thyself and her: knowing well that thy 'crime' is not 'of loyalty to thy people'; but that thou couldstprofessa loyalty which was but pretence to the Queen who held thy vows of fealty."
She was quivering still with anger and she did not answer him.
"Speech is useless," he said, "if it be not reasonable: and none grieveth more than our gentle Lady that the welfare of the State demandeth the exile of one who hath conspired against it. She, of her grace, will have it that others have misled thee;—that of thine own heart thou wouldst not have sought this treachery."
"Treachery!" her eyes flamed. "If that be treachery——Listen! I thought to send thee away without my confidence and leave thee to thy blind struggle to rule our people of Cyprus—thou and the fair little Queen! Yet Iwilltell thee, for I cannot leave thee so."
She had come nearer. "Will the nobles in their far lands bow atherbidding?Never!They need amanto sway them, for the good of Cyprus—onewho knoweth how to rule—of strength and constancy to shape their kingdom and make it great. Forsucha man the nobles would rise in their might."
"There is none such," he answered coldly, "and talk of treason—except it were a maid's wild dreaming—must be brought before the Council of the Realm. Unless thou hast confession of some real import to the State—or names that we should know—and for the telling much might be forgiven thee—I bid thee farewell. Truly it is hard for thee, my poor Dama Ecciva; but in thy heart thou knowest that the penalty could not be less.—May thy reason and the years soften it to thee."
She had not listened to his last words, but stood irresolute as he took his ceremonious farewell: then suddenly she sprang towards him and caught his hand to detain him. Her face had grown soft and eager.
"Itis'confession'!" she cried, "'of import to the State'—and 'names' that thou shouldst know. There are many nobles whom I could reach—I will name thee all their names when we have spoken together: those who suffer banishment with me are but a few. At word of mine they would kindle into fire and make a glory of Cyprus!" She had drawn herself up proudly, her eyes were flashing; she had clenched her small hands so tightly over his that he could not withdraw it.
"Poor child!" he said compassionately; "shall one woman rule them, and not another!—It is the madness of imprisonment and exile; it shall be forgiven thee."
He tried to make his escape, but she clung to his hand yet more closely, so that he could not move without dragging her with him.
"It is not forgiveness that I want," she cried furiously, "but comprehension. Canst thou not see! Have I not said that Cyprus hath need of a man to rule?Wholed the people to storm the Fortress of Famagosta?Whoruled the city in quiet through those days of stress?—Thouart the man!Through me, who hold the key, thou shalt rule them well."
"I am a Venetian," he answered coldly; and no longer hesitating to use the needful force to unclasp the clinging, importunate hands. "From compassion have I shown too great patience with thy mad dreaming. I will direct that the Countess of Montferrat be permitted to come to thee now: for the galley must soon sail for Venice.—May the Madonna help thee!"
But as he reached the door a mocking laugh rang out and made him turn in surprise, for it was but a moment since he had instinctively averted his gaze, lest he should read too easily in her mobile face the emotion which she made no effort to conceal.
"Let us at least part with due ceremony, your Excellency," she said, "since we shall both have travelled to other worlds before we meet again: I—who might have been a Queen, hadst thou but believed my 'mad dreaming' and accepted my aid to make thee—that which should have made me thy Queen indeed, and thee a Sovereign of Cyprus!—had I but condescended so far!"
She swept him her most courtly reverence."Adieu! Thou art a man indeed—like many another—to let a woman outwit thee and befool thee—so that even now thou knowest not within thy soul if she hath spoken truth,—or flattery to beguile thee; or 'mad dreaming'—for which, perforce, she 'may be forgiven,' and render thanks! Thou knowest not whether she hath, in truth, spokento mislead theethat which should have brought the pride of thy superb Venice low—hadst thou but listened!—So much hath my 'confession' availed thee. O, most astute Venetian!"
She flung the words at him in triumphant tones, while he, in noble pity, stood speechless—having seen her face when she thought he had not seen; and she stood thus—radiant—defiant—until there was no longer an echo of footsteps back through the long vaulted corridor of the castle. Then the mocking smile died on her lips and eyes and she threw herself on her couch in a bitter paroxysm of passion.
"One may dare all, for a man of stone," she cried, "and yet not win! And I would have made him great—greatbeyond his dreams! O fool!—Fool!"