Part 38

The Piazza was deserted: the malcontents who had gathered to mutter at the horror of the moat where the victims of the night had been tossed unburied, had been dispersed by threat of arms; the sentinels nodded at their posts--scarce knowing whose power they were upholding, nor by what name men called their masters. Here and there throughout the city, a little knot of the graver burghers might be found lingering to discuss the situation in attitudes of helpless dejection, and scattering with their problems all unsolved. They were too insignificant to dread, and for the moment the triumphant conspirators were content to leave the city without further imposition or molestation to such rest as a merciful nature might vouchsafe.

They were content to yield this lull in the storm, because it gave them needful quiet in which to mature fresh intrigues, to insure their triumph. Those men of Venice of the Queen's household, who would most strenuously have resisted them, had been quieted forever, it was true; but, as dawn lightened over the ghastly faces upturned beneath the windows of the poor young Queen, an unconfessed tremor stole into the doughty breasts of Rizzo and Fabrici, in the place where most men wear their hearts, and they got them together, in friendly converse, to ponder what should come next.

For Venice was mightier than Naples--and the password they had so successfully wielded for a night--"à bas Venezia"--might not suffice to hold for the young Alfonso the dignity of Prince of Galilee, which they had proclaimed for him throughout the protesting city; it might even have a baneful ring, when news of the night's murders should reach the Republic. A plausible reason for the death must be contrived and sent forward with letters signed by the Queen's own hand, under the Royal Seal of Cyprus, accompanied with decorous lamentations and condolences on the part of her Councillors--such as one Government is wont to offer to another at the death of any distinguished patrician.

For the Chief of Council, Rizzo di Marin and his Grace the Archbishop of Nikosia, no rest was needful: the consciousness of triumph stirred the blood in their veins like strong wine, and with a sense of exhilaration sharpening all their intellectual faculties, they prepared, in a few hours, work that might ordinarily have required the consideration of days. When they closed their conference they had contrived a sheaf of pretty documents which did more honor to their astuteness than to their loyalty, and which, with the signature of the Queen, would put them in possession of all the strongholds on the coast and many positions of vantage throughout the island, including the splendid city of Nikosia--which had shown much dangerous friendliness for Queen Caterina. It was a marvellous bold scheme--a bloodless victory for Alfonso, Prince of Naples; and Rizzo grew grimly merry as he discussed it with His Grace.

His malignant eyes rested fondly on this order for the surrender of the famous stronghold of Cerines to a nephew of General Saplana, the treacherous Commander of Famagosta; with two such fortresses they should command the coast, and their empire in Cyprus was assured. It was a work of genius, this little parchment--he could scarcely bear to fold it out of his sight in the pouch that he wore next to his heart of stone.

And this--to the magnificent Lord Admiral Mutio di Costanzo, Vice-Roy of Nikosia and friend to Caterina, who had received her oath of allegiance after the death of Janus--so high he stood among the nobles of Cyprus--Rizzo's eyes fairly gleamed as he gloated over it--this order commanding him to yield up the splendid city of Nikosia, with his fortress of Costanza and the fleets of the island, to those who should present this parchment with the little signature of Caterina Regina. He, Rizzo, would take the governorship of this city of Nikosia--or, perhaps, the command of the fleets--he knew not which--that was a trifle to decide since all would be in his power: and of course he should instantly re-man the galleys. He allowed himself a moment's vision of this stately Knight Mutio de Costanzo, with his escort of cavaliers--the forty of his noble house entitled to wear the Golden Spurs--surrendering his holdings at the Queen's command, to those whom Rizzo should elect--Rizzo, who had heard himself called "that parvenu of Naples"--and the vision filled him with delight.

Then he folded the other orders without a glance, they touched upon minor points of vantage and entered properly into his scheme--the cities of Limisso and, perhaps, of Costanzo--but that might be requiring too much of the noble Lord of Costanzo, this could wait; he crumpled it in his hand. As for this Castel Dio d'Amore, it was well.

Still another paper he folded in his pouch. That one must go first beneath her signature lest the pretty little Queen should rebel.--But she should not rebel!--By all the saints and devils, it was a good night's work!

And for that session he wrote no more.

When the pouch, compact and hard, lay closely over the place of his heart, it stirred a thought, and he laughed a short wild laugh, with no melody in it. He did not know his own laugh, and it startled him.

"Perhaps," he thought, "when he should have presided over the investiture of these cities and strongholds of Cyprus in the interests of Naples and Alfonso, 'Prince of Galilee'--installing his own creatures in all those places of power--if Naples were not properly subservient and grateful--he, holding the key to the land--perhaps----"

It was a vision that pleased him even better than that of the noble Lord Mutio di Costanzo, surrounded by his escort of cavaliers, golden-spurred, delivering the keys of the city of Nikosia. But he forgot to confide this last tantalizing, supremest vision to His Grace the Archbishop.

These documents had been prepared in the underground Chamber of Conference of the Fortress, where secrets might be freely uttered because of the double walls of massive masonry: where flaring torches fastened high in the chamber, scattered the ghostly shadows, and ample potations of the fine wine of the "Commanderie" sustained their courage.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, a slender figure with vizor down, showing a tunic of mail between the folds of a dark mantle, came out from the Fortress, and stepping forth into the gray of the dawn, crossed to the Palazzo Reale, with slow, uncertain footsteps.

"Open!--In the name of the Queen's Council!"

The words came in muffled tones from behind the vizor--uncertain, like the footsteps, yet impossible to disregard.

"The password for this night?" the guard demanded.

It was given at once, but with visible repugnance--"à bas Venezia!"

"Are ye many?"

"But one."

The bars were instantly drawn back and the young knight entered the first court of the palace.

"Halt! Declare for whom thou standest. That password is already outworn: for they of the Queen's Council be of two minds."

As if from a sense of suffocation the cloak was torn off showing a suit of armor too heavy for the slight limbs; and the helmet was loosened with supple, nervous fingers, disclosing a face pale, strong and soulful. The face might have been that of a man--an artist, or a poet; but the hair, lying in loose, dusky waves about the brows, and low, in rich clinging coils at the back of the shapely head, could only belong to a woman.

A sudden wrath flamed in her deep eyes.

"If they of the Queen's Council be of two minds they are craven, though I, a woman say it! But the Queen's guard, in the Queen's palace, can have but one mind--to uphold her cause!"

There was no other voice in all Cyprus so tender, so compelling, so magnetic, so all-convincing; the voice revealed her.

"Dama Margherita de Iblin!" was echoed about the court in surprise. The news spread. The men-at-arms came thronging about her with reiterated assurances of loyalty; it was good to confess their faith to her.