Mrs. Hugh Fraser

Charles’ Further Acts as Dictator—Rise of the Favoured Louis of Taranto—Civil War—A Scheme of the Empress of Constantinople—Interference of the King of Hungary—The Empress Again to the Rescue—Hungary’s Advance—Death of the Empress—Flight of the Neapolitan Nobles—Joan and Her Husband in Provence—Charles’ Well-merited Fate—The King of Hungary’s Vengeance—Government by Execution.

This detestable butchery, strictly in accord with the criminal procedure of the day, was but the beginning of a reign of terror in the city and realm of Naples. The murder of Andrew of Hungary was soon no more than a pretext to serve Charles of Durazzo for ridding himself of all persons who, in any way, dared to manifest their disapproval of his assumption of the Dictatorship of the Kingdom or to murmur against his unbearable tyranny. Nor was it long before Louis of Taranto, who by now had completely won the heart of Joan, and was seeking to obtain from the Pope the dispensations necessary to make lawful their irregular union, began to consider the high-handed and arrogant conduct of Charles—whom and all whose works he abominated—as an intolerable affront to himself. In consequence, having armed his retainers and increased his forces as much as he could, Louis raised his standard as King of Naples and Jerusalem and bade his loyal subjects rally to him in opposition to the Albanian usurper of his sovereign rights.

In this manner there broke out a regular civil war throughout the country; now the victory inclined to Louis, and now to Charles and his ally, Robert of Taranto, the elder brother of Louis, and the disappointed suitor of Joan. But a day soon came when there was no longer left to Louis any more money; and without money he was naturally helpless to pay his troops. Both he and Joan were in despair, when his mother, the Empress of Constantinople, who was living with them, showed the true mettle of which she was made.

Bidding the young couple take heart, Catherine of Taranto promised solemnly that, if they would but lend her the half of their forces and would content themselves with remaining for a week on the defensive in the Castel Nuovo, she would bring them at the end of that time a treasure such as they had never yet even imagined. To this proposal they perforce consented; and the Empress, leading half her son’s army, marched boldly out from Naples by the Porta Capuana, along the road towards Benevento, and so came by way of the Caudine Forks to the castle of Saint Agatha of the Goths, where Queen Joan’s former lover, Bertrand of Artois, and his father, old Count Charles, were still skulking from the law.

Now when Count Charles perceived that troops were preparing to besiege him, and recognised their leader as the Empress, he sent out messengers to enquire her intentions in coming thus with a large force into his neighbourhood; to which Catherine replied, speaking as follows (her speech is translated literally):

Completely deceived by the pernicious woman’s fair words as reported to him, Count Charles sent out his son Bertrand to receive her with all due ceremony, and to escort her to where he himself lay prostrate with illness. Their meeting was cordial in the extreme; after expressing the most heartfelt regrets at the venerable knight’s sad condition, the Empress, so soon as they were alone together, lowering her voice, said that her object in so coming to him was to consult him in regard to the state of affairs in Naples and to enlist his active support on behalf of the Queen. At the same time, she went on to say, there being no immediate reason for her return to the capital, she would be more than grateful for the favour of being allowed to remain yet a few days with him at St. Agatha, in order to profit by his advice and to give him some account of all that had come to pass in Naples during his absence.

It ended in Count Charles’ head being quite turned by the Empress’ flattery; so that he not only begged her to remain his guest for so long as she pleased, but also gave orders for the gates of the castle to be left open so that she might be accessible at all times to her officers, civil and military, that were encamped outside the walls with her army.

But the fatuous credulity of Count Charles was soon undeceived. At a late hour of the following night, the gates of the fortress being still open and its rightful inmates sound asleep for the most part, the foolish old Count was suddenly awakened from his slumbers by the Empress of Constantinople, who, followed by several of her soldiers, entered his room, a dagger in her hand, and, advancing to his couch, seized him by the throat.

“Oh, accursed traitor, you are now going to be punished as you deserve!” she cried. And when he begged only mercy for his son—thinking the Empress had in mind to slay them both, lest at any time they should conspire against the kingship of her son, Louis of Taranto—and offered to put her in possession of his entire treasury if only she would spare the life of his adored son, to all his entreaties she answered only that he must prepare to part for ever from his son, whom she had decided to send away to the castle of Malfi; and that, as for Count Charles himself, the probability was that he would end his days in the dungeons of that of St. Agatha of the Goths. Prior to pronouncing these sentences, however, she had compelled him to show her where his immense treasures were concealed behind the wall of his bedchamber—a veritable Aladdin’s cave of gold in bars and in plate and of precious stones.

The chronicler, Domenico Gravina, relates how that a few days later Count Charles was found dead in his prison, the lips covered with a bloody froth, and the wrists all gnawed away—so we may suppose him to have died either of rage or of some corrosive poison; or, very likely, of both. And not long afterwards his son Bertrand, in despair, hanged himself from a grating in the vault at Malfi, into which he had been transferred by order of Catherine of Taranto.

But retribution, as condign as it was merited, was about to fall upon the head of that wicked woman.

On returning, laden with her ill-gotten spoils, to Naples, her triumph was dashed to the ground to learn that, during her absence, Charles of Durazzo, her ancient enemy and that of her house, had once more sent word to Joan, demanding that she should instantly create him Duke of Calabria, and so acknowledge him to be the rightful heir to the throne as the husband of her sister Maria. This demand the Queen had rejected with contumely; and Charles, stung to madness by her refusal, had thereupon sent back word to inform her that he had accordingly written to King Louis of Hungary, inviting him to take possession of the kingdom and promising to deliver to him the chief murderers of his brother Andrew, who had so far escaped the just consequences of their iniquity.

It was now indispensable, as Joan saw clearly, to secure the public opinion of Europe to her side in the life-and-death struggle with her implacable foe. Therefore, she sent ambassadors to plead her cause with the Florentine Republic and to exonerate her of the crime generally imputed to her of having caused the murder of her husband. She even wrote in the same sense to the Hungarian King himself; but only received for reply a letter in which Louis of Hungary enumerated the proofs against her—her disordered life both before and after marriage; the exclusive power that she had arrogated to herself; the fact that it had been in no way owing to her exertions that King Andrew’s murderers had ever been brought to justice, and that she had so quickly taken another husband in his place—all of which certainly pointed to Joan’s aggravated guilt.

Indeed, the King of Hungary had already, on receipt of Charles of Durazzo’s letter, written back to accept the offer of the throne and to say that he would at once set about making preparations for coming down to Naples at the head of a large army of Hungarians. For, apart from Charles’ invitation to him, King Louis, stirred up by love for his murdered brother, as well as by the tears of their mother, Elizabeth, and the incitement of the Dominican, Father Robert, who, after Andrew’s demise, had taken refuge in Budapesth, was now entirely bent on avenging his brother to the utmost of his ability.

He had in the past made strong endeavours to obtain from the Pope at Avignon a condemnation of Joan herself and of her accomplices of the Blood Royal, complaining that whereas the less prominent members of the plot against his brother had suffered the just penalty of their sins, yet the principal authors of it had been let to go unpunished; and that Joan herself, the most guilty of all, had been suffered to continue with impunity her career of shameless immorality. To which the Holy Father had answered that the Queen’s conduct, both during and after the murder of her husband, was of a surety most blameworthy; but that, no tangible proof of complicity in Andrew’s death having been brought against her, he, the Pope, although willing to do justice to all parties in so far as in him lay, could not condemn Joan upon mere hearsay evidence. Should such good and solid evidence be produced before him against her, however, he would not fail to deal with her accordingly; until then he must suspend judgment.

As before, it was again the Empress Catherine who came to the rescue of the situation in which her son and his wife were now placed by the action of Charles of Durazzo in inviting Louis of Hungary’s intervention against them. As she saw clearly, the only thing left for them to do now was to come to terms with their nearest enemy Charles himself, and to bribe him to combine with them against the invader who was already hastening to overwhelm them. Accordingly,, she arranged a truce with Charles; and, together with Joan and Louis of Taranto, met him in the gardens of the Castel Nuovo, where it was agreed between him and Joan that he should be created Duke of Calabria and formally acknowledged as the heir to the throne. In return he was to join forces with Joan and Louis against the King of Hungary. So soon as this agreement had been carried out, Charles, who now saw himself within measurable distance of the throne itself, set out from Naples with all the troops that could be spared for the purpose, for the city of Aquila, where the populace was already declaring for Louis of Hungary. With him went also Robert of Taranto, who had become reconciled to his brother Louis in this the hour of the latter’s greatest danger. And, just as they departed for Aquila, the Empress Catherine, who was watching the troops defile along the street towards the Porta Capuana, was taken suddenly ill and died, without speaking again, in the evening of the same day.

In the meantime the King of Hungary had already entered Italy from the north, and had struck into the Neapolitan territory on the side of Apulia; and the news of his coming filled the Court of Naples with dismay. For it had been hoped that his progress might have been stayed by a legate whom the Pope had sent to meet him at Fogligno, within a long day’s march of the Neapolitan frontier, and to bar the way to him with a threat of excommunication if he dared to advance any further without the permission of the Holy Father; but the Hungarian had refused to pay any attention to Papal remonstrances, and had continued on his way through the States of the Church into the Kingdom of Naples.

On learning of these events Queen Joan, hastily assembling such of the nobles as she knew to be loyal to her, made them swear fidelity to Louis of Taranto, her husband, and then took ship by night in one of her own ProvenÇal galleys for Marseilles, the port of Avignon, which belonged to her—so that she was, in a sense, the landlady of the Pope. So soon, then, as Joan had departed to seek refuge at the Papal Court, Louis of Taranto, taking with him his dead mother’s Counsellor, Nicholas Acciajuoli, set out with a small force for the citadel of Capua on the River Volturno, thinking there to check the enemy. Unhappily, though, the Hungarian monarch, obtaining information of his adversary’s movements, turned aside, and, marching round the flank of the Neapolitan forces by way of the mountains of Alife and Morcone, seized upon the city of Benevento, in rear of Louis of Taranto’s army.

At Benevento, however, the King of Hungary was met by a deputation of Neapolitan subjects, who, frightened by the rapidity of his advance, as well as by the Queen’s flight and by the sudden departure of her husband for they knew not what place, had decided to make the best terms they could for themselves with the revengeful newcomer. And so they brought him the keys of the city, and made submission to him as the rightful successor of the late King Robert. The news of this event soon reached Louis of Taranto’s army, and at once a vile panic set in, and very soon Louis found himself deserted by all save only the faithful, intrepid Acciajuoli; for there was more courage beneath the lawyer’s gown than beneath the breastplates of all the army. Resistance to the Hungarian was no longer possible for Louis; and, together with Acciajuoli, he returned to Naples in the evening of the day on which he had learned of the Hungarian’s arrival at Benevento. At Naples, Louis was met by his brother Robert and by Charles of Durazzo, both of whom, as well as all his other relations, entreated him to go away at once, lest he should bring down the wrath of the Hungarian upon them and upon the whole city. Turning his back upon the cowards, Louis went down to the seashore and, accompanied as ever by the loyal Acciajuoli, embarked in a crazy, rotten rowing-boat manned by four sailors, thanks to whose devotion he ultimately reached Leghorn; whence he shortly joined Queen Joan in their kingdom of Provence.

The King of Hungary being encamped at Aversa, Charles of Durazzo and Robert of Taranto now repaired there to him with the purpose of turning away his anger from themselves and their families. They were received, to their great consolation and encouragement, with every possible manifestation of benignity; the King even going so far as to enquire after their youngest brothers, Louis of Durazzo and Philip of Taranto, and to express the most lively desire to make their acquaintance as soon as possible. Finally he begged they might be sent for, in order, as he put it, “that he might make his entry into Naples in the midst of all his family.” With these requests their elders made all speed to comply, so that, within a few hours, the boy, Louis of Durazzo, and the young man, Philip of Taranto, were with them in the castle of Aversa, the Hungarian headquarters. On their being presented to him, the King embraced them, and chatted with them a little while; after which he made them, with their elder brothers, sit down with him to supper, not parting with them until a late hour of the night.

Now there were with the King of Hungary two noblemen of Naples, Lillo of Aquila and the Count of Fondi, both of them brave and honourable gentlemen and haters of cruelty and treachery. And, when Charles of Durazzo went to bed that night, these came to his bedside and bade him beware, for that the Hungarian was a tyrant and no gentleman and that, for all his fair words, he had only that morning taken council with his followers that he might put Charles himself to death and send the other Neapolitan princes in captivity into Hungary. But to these warnings Charles turned a deaf ear, although Lillo persisted in them and implored him, for the sake of all he held dear in this world, to save himself with his brothers and his cousins; until Charles angrily bade his well-wishers to leave him in peace.

All the next day the demeanour of the King continued the same until the evening, when, as they were all at supper, Charles received yet a last warning of his danger from Lillo of Aquila, who was waiting upon him at table.

“Oh, why does your Highness refuse to listen to me?” he whispered. “Fly—fly—there is still time to save yourself.”

But Charles, irritated by Lillo’s persistency, threatened, unless he held his peace, to repeat his words aloud to the King; and Lillo could only bow in submission, whispering as he did so:

“At least, I have done my duty; and now may the will of God be done, likewise, in regard to you.”

At that moment the King rose and confronted Charles, with a terrible countenance; so that the latter was now, at last, rudely awakened from his dream of security.

“Ah, traitor, now I hold you in my hand!” cried the King. “Be sure that I will do justice upon you—full justice—for your crimes,—your daring to march against my city of Aquila—you, by whose invitation I came to give peace to this miserable land that has groaned so long beneath the burden of you and yours.”

He then went on to reproach Charles with having been, together with his mother’s brother, Cardinal de PÉrigord, the means of postponing the coronation of Andrew, and so of bringing him to his untimely end; furthermore, he accused Charles of designing to obtain the kingdom for himself by his abductive marriage with the Princess Maria, his own, King Louis’, intended bride; which last delinquency had all along rankled fearfully in the King’s mind, so that as he referred to it his voice broke into a shout of fury. And then, turning away from the excuses and pleadings for mercy of his victim, he ordered the Voivode, Stephen of Transylvania, to take charge of all the prisoners and to keep them for the night in a room near his, the King’s, own apartment.

The next day King Louis, having visited that balcony in the Castle of Aversa from which the dead body of his brother Andrew had been hanged and then thrown into the garden below, sent an order to the Voivode Stephen that he was to have Charles of Durazzo brought by soldiers to that same place and that they were to cut his throat; but the King himself did not stay to witness the execution. And when word of the King’s order was brought to the Voivode, he told Charles to follow him; and, together with some soldiers, they went out to the room of the balcony. There the Voivode asked of Charles whether he wished to confess his sins to a priest; who answered in the affirmative, and so one of the monks came to him from the monastery, and heard his confession, and absolved him in so far as he was able to do. After which Duke Charles knelt down over against the fatal balcony and commended his poor soul to God, and was killed by having a very sharp knife drawn across his throat (so that his head was nearly severed from his body) by one of the soldiers, whilst another plunged a sword into his heart that he might die quickly. And when the thing was done they threw the dead body of the Duke over the balcony into the garden.

After that, King Louis rode away with all his army from Aversa to Naples, being met on the way by a large deputation of nobles and citizens of whom he took no notice, refusing to acknowledge their greeting or to ride beneath a canopy they had provided for his entry into the capital. On arriving in Naples the King at once gave himself up to the work of vengeance. The first to die was Donna Cancia, who, ever since the death of the other regicides, had been lying in prison; she was burned alive in the Mercato. Soon after Cancia’s death the King ordered the arrest of the Count of Squillace, Godfrey of Mansano, promising to spare him if he would deliver up one of his relations, a certain Conrad of Catanzaro, accused of having been among those privy to the murder of Andrew. To this infamy Squillace consented, saving his life by betraying Conrad to the Hungarian authorities, who had him broken alive, as is related, upon a wheel studded with razor-blades,—but I incline to doubt this for more reasons than one. But, instead of assuaging the rage of King Louis, these monstrous executions seem only to have filled him with a further appetite for blood. As during the usurpation of power by Charles of Durazzo after King Andrew’s murder, so now executions multiplied to such an extent that they threatened soon to become the principal medium of government; just as, four centuries and a half later, in the time of suppression of 1799, there set in an epidemic of frantic denunciation, the general terror making of society a hot-bed of the basest passions and motives—avarice, cowardice, and hate. And soon the people began to think how they might rid them of the ghastly incubus that had come to prey upon them in the person of the vampire-monarch from Hungary.