CHAPTER V

WAVES OF DESTINY

When Francesco waked on the following morning, the June sun touched

the tree-tops which bounded the western horizon with their delicate

feathery twigs. Throughout the castle of Avellino there was the hum

and murmur of life. An unusual activity prevailed; the Apulian court

was preparing to depart, as the long train of horses and jennets drawn

up in the courtyard indicated.

Francesco listened to the dim murmur of familiar voices, and the

echoes of laughter which reached his ears as he stood contemplating

himself undecidedly in a steel mirror that hung from an iron hook upon

his bedroom wall.

Of what use to deck himself in fine raiment for the last time he

should ever wear it? Sackcloth was henceforth to be his garment;--what

matter if he went unkempt on the last day in the home he loved?

But the thought of the part he wished to play, came back to him. He

could not bear the thought that his companions should know of his

undoing. Despair is concealed more easily for an hour than unrest. And

so Francesco heaved a long heavy sigh and went to the great carven

chest wherein he kept his apparel.

Slowly, with the demeanor of one whose heart is not in what he does,

he arrayed himself in his splendid court costume, as if preparing to

share the gladsomeness of his companions.

He descended into the courtyard as one walking in a dream, and as in a

dream his ear caught the sounds of laughter and merriment, such as had

not resounded in the Castle of Avellino since the days of Emperor

Frederick II.

On every lip were the glad tidings: Conradino had crossed the Alps!

Conradino was about to descend into Italy with his iron hosts to claim

his heritage. Like an Angel of Vengeance he would march on to Rome,

where the arch-enemy of his house sat enthroned in the chair of St.

Peter. From all parts of Italy the Ghibellines were flocking to the

banners of the golden-haired son of Emperor Conrad IV,--Conradino, as

they lovingly called him,--the last Hohenstauffen!

From the adjoining gardens there came sounds of joyous laughter; the

music of citherns and lyres rippled enchantingly on the soft breeze of

the morning. It was as if an evil spell had been lifted from the land,

but the spell had caught one who could not shake it off, as with stony

gaze and quivering lips he walked along, noting the preparations for

events, in which he was to have no further share. He noted it not that

the grooms and lackeys, pages and squires regarded him curiously, as

if wondering at his luxurious attire, so little in keeping with the

exigencies of a tedious journey. Hardly he noted the casual greeting

of a companion who passed hurriedly, as if bent on his own

preparations. After rambling aimlessly through the demesne, he

bethought himself that the time for repast was at hand, and after

pausing here and there, as if to convince himself that what he saw was

not the phantom of a mocking dream, he returned to the castle, his

heart heavy with the weight of the impending hour.

The banqueting-hall in the Castle of Avellino presented a busy scene.

A small army of lackeys and pages was at work preparing a repast, the

last the court was to partake ere the Viceroy set out. They were to

start at dusk, owing to the extreme noon-day heat in the plains.

One great board stretched down the centre of the room, containing

places enough for every occupant of the building.

Presently the doors leading into the banqueting-hall turned inward and

a throng of court attendants filed into the dimly lighted room. These

were followed by an array of visiting mendicants, who never failed to

infest any noble household, and they had scarcely grouped themselves

standing about the board, when the Viceroy, arm in arm with Galvano

Lancia, entered the hall.

These two seated themselves at the board at once, watching the others

as they entered. The women and their escorts, who had entered laughing

and chatting among themselves, grew silent as they beheld the Viceroy

already seated. One girl, garbed in a flowing gown of sea-green

damask, entered the room alone. As she advanced to her place, after

the prescribed courtesy to the Viceroy, her dark eyes searchingly

scanned the throng of pages. Apparently she did not find among them

the one she sought.

"Donna Ilaria looks for her errant knight," whispered Galvano Lancia

into the ear of Conrad Capecé.

"Has not Francesco returned?" queried the Viceroy.

"I hardly expected him before to-day, even if the Grand Master's

illness has not taken a fatal turn."

"Here are the monks!"

"And there--at the door--"

Conrad Capecé followed the direction of Lancia's gaze.

"Francesco!"--he finished with a gasp, staring bewildered at the

youth's dazzling garb, richer even than the Viceroy's.

There was a sudden round of forbidden whispering among Francesco's

companions, and significant glances passed between many at the expense

of Ilaria Caselli, for Francesco's entrance had been indeed destined

to create a commotion among the members of the Vice-regal household.

Conscious to the full that all eyes were upon him, Francesco paused

for a moment in the doorway. Then he advanced slowly towards the seat

of the Viceroy, a bright smile on his lips, a feeling akin to death

freezing his heart. The grace remained still unspoken, while the

monks, eager as their worldly brethren, turned upon their stools to

gaze at the newcomer.

Francesco was clad in a tunic made of white cloth, heavily embroidered

with gold, slashed up the sides far enough to reveal the dusky sheen

of his black embroidered hose. His belt was of black and gold, and the

dagger it held was hilted with gleaming jewels. The dark hair framed a

face as white as his garb and the feverish lustre of the deep set eyes

matched the brilliancy of the gems in his belt.

The finishing touch to Francesco's curious attire, the one which gave

the greatest significance to his appearance, was that which appeared

to link him in some way to the most beautiful girl in the hall. It was

a faded rose, which still seemed to cast a crimson shadow upon the

gleaming purity of his tunic, the rose he had discarded in his first

fit of despair, until he had bethought himself of a better course.

Under the wondering or sneering glances of all these eyes, Francesco,

seemingly unabashed, advanced to the Viceroy's chair, and, bending a

knee, muttered an apology for his delayed arrival.

Count Capecé bade him arise, saying audibly:

"In truth, Francesco, you shame us all for slovenliness in dress. Sit

you here by my side! Your companions yonder have brilliancy enough in

their midst. You shall relieve our soberness!"

With an amused smile Galvano Lancia made room between himself and the

Viceroy. There was a faint color in the youth's cheeks, as he hastily

dropped into the posture for grace. If no one else at the board had

perceived it, he, at least, had understood the Viceroy's mild rebuke

for overdress, and his mortification was sincere. For Count Capecé was

dressed in a sombre suit of dark green, unembroidered and unadorned.

Galvano Lancia supplemented him in a tunic of deep red, with black

hose and leather belt and pouch, and the other nobles were all attired

in garbs suitable for travel. There was a confused hum and medley of

voices, but the one all-absorbing topic of discourse was the

appearance of Conradino on Italian soil, and the hope of the

Ghibellines in the final victory of their cause.

From the first, Francesco was uncomfortable in his new place. In the

eyes of his companions, when he could catch them, he read only

curiosity, mingled in some instances with envy and malice. This was

especially the case at that part of the board where Raniero Frangipani

was seated, not too far removed from Ilaria Caselli, although the

latter had dropped her eyes, without so much as vouchsafing him a

glance.

Francesco noted it all, and between the unmistakable gaze of derision

which came to him from the Frangipani and his associates, Ilaria's

seeming unconsciousness of his presence, and the well-nigh physical

discomfort of being the target of all present, in the seat assigned to

him, he felt ill at ease. Before he had entered the room he had

absolutely believed in his own ability to act. Now he perceived his

mistake. Do what he would, his heart and his expression failed him

together.

At last he fixed his eyes upon the figure of her who bore the flower

symbol of their relationship. Evidently the scarlet flower was being

commented upon from his rightful part of the table, for he beheld

Ilaria's color rise. Unexpectedly she turned her head to glance

stealthily at the faded petals that burned upon the cold purity of his

vestments. In that glance she met his eyes full upon her. A shadow of

mingled confusion and anger flitted across her face and, snatching

her own rose from her gown, she dropped it on the floor.

Undoubtedly this performance was calculated to throw Francesco into a

state of doubt and anxiety as to her feeling for him. Yet, how little

did she guess the uselessness of that coquetry! What evermore would he

have to do with love or the dallying with it? What woman would be

enamored of a sackcloth gown? Yet, at this moment, he perceived that

his feeling for her had rooted deeper than he had admitted to himself.

And now it seemed to him that, were his well of bitterness to be

deepened by one jot, it would drive him mad. And as these cobwebs of

thought were spun out in his tired brain, such a black look of despair

came upon his face that Ilaria was even prepared to smile upon him

when he turned to her again.

Galvano Lancia also saw that expression, and guessed that the

Viceroy's idle whim had made the youth uncomfortable enough for this

time. But in his address there was also a courtier's purpose which

Count Capecé, who was looking on, understood.

"Francesco!"

The youth turned, to find Galvano Lancia's kindly eyes upon him.

"Your father is better of his illness?"

"It is well with my father!" Francesco replied laconically.

As the repast progressed, the situation was becoming almost unbearable

for the son of the Grand Master. Only the desire to avoid constituting

the target of the almost general curiosity, prompted Francesco to

remain at the Viceroy's table. He instinctively knew the eyes of

Ilaria to rest upon him and, although not another word had been

spoken, the situation was becoming greatly strained. But he did not

wish to exhibit the misery which racked his soul with a thousand pangs

before the gossiping courtiers and monks. Thus he ate or made a

pretence at eating in silence. He had become acutely susceptible to

the disagreeable features of his surroundings. The gathering heat and

the heavy odor of meats and wines in the immense room, the flickering

glare of the torches, the shrillness of the many voices, the noises of

laughter which flowed together with the wine,--they all smote his

senses with a sharp sting of irritation, disgust and measureless

regret. So many, many times had he been part of all this. Now it was

going from him. The thought and the attempt at its banishment sickened

him. He leaned upon the table, white and faint. His eyes were closed.

He had lost the courage to attempt further concealment. He

instinctively knew the Frangipani was watching him and there was a

suggestion in his gaze which filled him with an inward dread. How

would Ilaria take it? What would become of her, after he had gone? He

glanced down the board. Flagons of wine and platters of fruit were

beginning to be in great demand. Story-telling and jesting, which were

wont to drag out repasts to endless hours, had begun. In the midst of

it all Count Capecé arose. His move was not instantly perceived, but

when he was heard to call upon one of the monks for a blessing, there

was a general stir at the board. The blessing given, the Viceroy

started from the hall, when he found himself accosted by Francesco,

who had stumbled blindly after him.

"May I have a word with you, my lord?"

Count Capecé nodded and Francesco followed him to his private cabinet,

the doors of which closed behind him.

The Viceroy had seated himself and silently beckoned to the youth to

begin.

With an effort Francesco spoke:

"I returned from San Cataldo last night, but was denied admittance to

your Grace, wherefore my presence here may have startled you!--"

There was something like life in Francesco's tone, now the decisive

moment had come, and looking down he carefully noted the face of him

who was to be his judge.

A silent nod from the Viceroy bade him proceed.

"By your Grace's leave," he continued, with a marked effort, "this

must be my last day at the Court of Avellino. I am bidden on a long

and tedious journey. My father would have me set out upon it at once!

I had wished to acquaint your Grace of the matter last night. I crave

permission to quit the royal household, that I may be free to do my

father's bidding."

Francesco had spoken with marked slowness and precision, that he might

force himself to maintain his calm demeanor. To his own relief he

finished the speech with no hint of a break in his tone, though

gravely uncomfortable under the Viceroy's steady, searching gaze.

Now, with a quiet gentleness that caused him to start painfully, he

felt the latter's hand laid almost tenderly upon his arm. He gave a

startled look into the frank, kindly face of the Apulian, and the

response that met his eyes forced a swift wave of color into his

bloodless cheeks. He would have almost preferred the rude brutality of

Anjou's men to this generosity which left him no weapons for defence.

He moved uneasily where he stood, and his breath came fast.

He was very near to breaking.

"You have my permission to execute your father's behest," the Viceroy

replied while his eyes were fixed on the face of the youth. "Let but

the office wait its hour! You have heard the tidings which have

brought joy to every Ghibelline heart. You note our preparations to

depart. Conradino has crossed the Alps. To him belongs our first duty!

We are bound for Pavia!"

Francesco gave an involuntary start.

"I also am bound northward!" he said, and wished he had not spoken.

The Viceroy nodded.

"The better so! You ride with us!"

Francesco looked up appealingly. His misery received a new shock from

the Viceroy's lack of comprehension.

"I fear that may not be," he faltered, then noting the Viceroy's

puzzled look, he added:

"The office I am bidden to perform, brooks no delay!"

Count Capecé eyed him curiously.

"What business may that be, more cogent than our own? On the

hoof-beats of our horses hang the destinies of a kingdom! None may

falter, none may turn back! I pry not into the nature of the office

you are bidden to perform. Yet all personal interests should be

suspended before the one all-absorbing task, that beckons us towards

the Po!"--

"This business may not wait!"

It was almost a wail that broke from Francesco's lips. How could he

make him understand without revealing his father's shame!

A shadow flitted across the Viceroy's brow.

"You will move the more swiftly in our train!"

A choking sensation had seized the youth.

"It may not be,--I must ride,--alone!" he stammered. All the color had

forsaken his face and his knees barely supported his body.

"And when shall you return?" asked the Viceroy, feigning acquiescence.

There was a moment's silence ere Francesco replied:

"I fear, my lord,--I shall not return!"

Count Capecé started.

"You speak as if you were about to renounce the Court of Avellino

forever," he replied after a brief pause, charged with apprehension.

"What is the meaning of this? Why do you tremble? Your father is

better of his illness! No messenger has reached us from San Cataldo.

Is not your presence here proof of his recovery?"

"When I left my father's side, his sickness was in nowise lessened,"

responded Francesco laconically.

"Not lessened!" exclaimed the Viceroy. "Then how came you here?"

"At my father's command I am here!"

"For what purpose?"

"To acquaint you of my choice--of the Church!"

He spoke the words in a hard and dry tone.

Count Capecé had arisen. He was hardly less pale than Francesco, but

there was a light in his eyes that burnt into the very soul of the

youth.

"You said, your choice?"

"My choice!"

"Ingrate! Renegade!"

Francesco bowed his head.

He no longer attempted to reply, or to vindicate himself. His head had

fallen upon his breast. His hot eyes were closed. His temples throbbed

dully. He had known it from the start. They would misjudge him, they

would misjudge his motives. Years of loyalty spent at the Court of

Avellino would not mitigate the judgment of the step he was about to

take; they would rather aggravate it. They believed him bought by the

Guelphs. And his lips must remain sealed forever! Dared he divulge his

father's shame? Dared he cast an aspersion upon the guiltless head of

her who had given him birth and life? A life he had not desired,

forsooth, yet one that it was his to bear to the end,--whatever that

end!--

The Viceroy seemed to await some explanation, some apology--an apology

he could not give. What would words avail? Had not he, Francesco,

bartered his life, his soul, his destiny into eternal bondage? But now

his misery gave way to his pride. Once again he raised his head; but

in his pallid face there lay an expression of haughtiness, of

defiance, with which he met the Viceroy's hostile gaze.

"I take my leave, my lord! As for my future life, it is not of

sufficient import to require or merit your consideration."

The Viceroy pointed silently to the door.

As one dazed, Francesco crept to his chamber.

There with a great sob he sank into a settle.

He gazed about. Nothing seemed altered since the days when he had been

alive. Not a trifle was changed because a human soul, a living human

soul had been struck down. The chamber was just the same as before.

Outside the water plashed in the fountain, the birds carolled in the

trees. As for himself,--he was dead, quite dead.

He sat down on the edge of his couch and stared straight into space.

His head ached. The very centre of his brain seemed to burst. It was

all so dull, so stupid,--life so utterly meaningless.

He remembered he had not spoken with Ilaria. At the very thought

everything grew black before his vision. Yet he could not leave with

the stigma upon his soul. She at least would understand, she at least

would pity him. He felt like one looking down into a self-dug grave.

He arose and stepped to the window.

It was now past the hour of high noon. The activity in the courtyard,

abandoned during the heated term of the day, began gradually to

revive. There was no time to be lost.

Hastily he scratched a few lines on a fragment of vellum which lay

close at hand, called an attendant and bade him despatch it at once to

Ilaria Caselli.

Then, weary and tired, he gathered together his scant belongings, so

scant indeed as not to encumber his steed; then, his arms propped on

his knees, he sat down once more and awaited the coming of dusk.