This was check to Charles. His uncle the Cardinal of Perigord had done his utmost to oppose the measure, but he had been overborne in the end by Ludwig of Hungary, who had settled the matter by the powerful argument that he was himself the rightful heir to the crown of Naples, and that he relinquished his claim in favour of his younger brother. He had backed the argument by the payment to the Pope of the enormous sum, for those days, of one hundred thousand gold crowns, and the issue, obscure hitherto, had immediately become clear to the Papal Court.
It was check to Charles, as I have said. But Charles braced himself, and considered the counter-move that should give him the advantage. He went to congratulate Andreas, and found him swollen with pride and arrogance in his triumph.
“Be welcome, Charles,” he hailed Durazzo. “I am not the man to forget those who have stood my friends whilst my power was undecided.”
“For your own sake,” said the smooth Charles, as he stepped back from that brotherly embrace, “I trust you'll not forget those who have been your enemies, and who, being desperate now, may take desperate means to avert your coronation.”
The pale eyes of the Hungarian glittered.
“Of whom do you speak?”
Charles smoothed his black beard thoughtfully, his dark eyes narrowed and pensive. There must be a victim, to strike fear into Giovanna's friends and stir them to Charles's purposes.
“Why, first and foremost, I should place Giovanna's counsellor Isernia, that man of law whose evil counsels have hurt your rights as king. Next come—”
But here Charles craftily paused and looked away, a man at fault.
“Next?” cried Andreas. “Who next? Speak out!” The Duke shrugged.