To these assurances Father Robert lent a willing, although not an entirely believing ear; for he could only attribute the change in Duke Charles to some misunderstanding with the young Queen. At the same time Charles and Andrew of Hungary were become the closest of comrades; never, now, was Andrew seen in public without his Albanian cousin-by-marriage; never did he withdraw himself from the circle of his friends to the seclusion of his apartments but Charles of Durazzo walked at his elbow.
And so things went on for a while, until at length the whole Court was ranged definitely on one side or on the other: on that of Queen Joan and the Neapolitan people itself, to whom Andrew and his followers were entirely odious; or else on that of Andrew and those who hoped eventually to make him sole sovereign of Naples to their own advantage—the Hungarian “Heyducs,” the Count of Altamura, and their kind.
The war of the factions had begun by the omission of Andrew’s name from all the proclamations, warrants, and so forth issued by the Queen in her own sole name. In retaliation for this indefensible slight, Andrew had ordered his followers to break open all the prisons within reach and to liberate their tenants, criminal or otherwise, in his name alone and in honour of his succession to the throne of Naples. He had also loaded the members of his own party—and especially the execrated Altamura—with honours and riches by means of patents signed by himself only, as the one supreme temporal authority in the kingdom. It may be added that in all these arbitrary and illegal measures, so admirably calculated to arouse the bitterest anger and the most murderous hatred of the Queen’s supporters against him, Andrew of Hungary’s one confident adviser was none other than his evil genius, Charles of Durazzo.
From that moment the party of Joan, led by the Counts of San-Severino, Mileto, Terlizzi, Balzo, Morcone, Catanzaro and Sant’ Angelo, and, more especially, by the Queen’s ex-favourite Robert of Cabane, Count of Eboli, and his successor in her affections, Bertrand d’Artois, was resolved upon ridding the land of Andrew and of his minions. Of all the angry barons who had rallied to Joan’s support, the last-mentioned, Bertrand d’Artois, really loved her for herself, and was actuated by no motive of personal gain, except—alas!—his lawless hope of becoming united to her in matrimony once her husband were removed from the path of his criminal passion. In vain his father, the brave and noble Charles of Artois, one of the regents of the kingdom, strove to dissuade him from the perilous course of a love as treasonable as it was immoral; nothing was of any avail to hold back the young man from the pursuit of his designs.
More successful, however, was the restraining influence of another parent over another child in the same situation—the influence of the Empress of Constantinople over her youngest-born, the handsome Louis of Taranto, who, in deference to his mother’s entreaties, turned away his eyes as well as he could from his lovely ill-mated cousin.
After the rupture between Joan and the Duke of Durazzo, many weeks elapsed without her either meeting him or hearing much of his doings, beyond that he was become the inseparable comrade of her husband; although, indeed, at times she cannot have helped wondering what shape his enmity towards her might eventually assume.
One radiant morning of spring, however, as she was in her room in the Castel Nuovo, looking out over the town and the sea beyond, all shimmering in the sunlight, towards Sorrento, there came a knock on the door, and Donna Filippa Cabano, mother of the Grand Seneschal, entered precipitately, her face blanched with alarm and anger, to say that Princess Maria, Joan’s little sister, was nowhere to be found.
A short while previously the child had been playing happily by herself in the castle grounds; and then, soon afterwards, she had simply disappeared, none could say where or in what direction.
Joan’s consternation may be more easily imagined than described. Her love for Maria was the one perfectly innocent, unspoilt love of her whole existence, the very tenderest spot in all her heart. And now Maria was gone from her; the horror and grief of it were such that she shrieked as though a live coal had been laid upon her breast. That, however, was only in the first anguish of her loss; recovering herself quickly, she broke out in a storm of anger upon those responsible, by their want of vigilance for the catastrophe; such was the Queen’s fury, indeed, that Filippa fled from her in fear for her life. Instantly the whole castle was in an uproar, its inhabitants scouring every nook and cranny, indoors and out; but without success; and, presently, the whole city of Naples was bent distractedly upon the same quest, hunting high and low for the beloved little girl. All, though, was in vain; and albeit during that day, and many days and nights to follow, the search was diligently pursued, yet in spite of every effort no trace could be found of the lost Princess.