STANDING AT ONE OF the windows in the huge Castelnuovo, which had a view over the port and bay of Naples, the old Queen Mother, Marie of Hungary, watched a ship weighing anchor. Making sure that no one could see her, she wiped a tear from the corner of a lashless eyelid with a roughened finger.

      ‘Now I can die,’ she murmured.

      She had lived a full life. Daughter of a king, wife of a king, mother and grandmother of kings, she had settled one branch of her descendants upon the throne of central Italy, and obtained for the other, by war and intrigue, the Kingdom of Hungary, which she looked upon as her personal heritage. Her younger sons were princes or sovereign dukes. Two of her daughters were queens, one of Majorca, the other of Aragon. Her fecundity had been a means to power for the Anjou-Sicily family, a cadet branch of the Capet tree, which was now beginning to spread across all Europe, threatening to become as great as its trunk.

      If Marie of Hungary had already lost six of her children she had at least the consolation of knowing that they had died as piously as she had brought them up; indeed, one of them, who had renounced his dynastic rights to enter the Church, was shortly to be canonized. As if the Kingdoms of this world were too narrow for this expanding family, the old Queen had dispatched her progeny to the Kingdom of Heaven. She was the mother of a Saint.^{1 fn2}

      At over seventy she had but one duty left to fulfil and that was to assure the future of one of her granddaughters, Clémence, the orphan. This had now been achieved.

      Because Clémence was the daughter of her eldest son, Charles Martel, for whom she had so persistently laid claim to the throne of Hungary, because the child had been orphaned at two years of age, because she herself had assumed entire responsibility for her education, and because finally this task was the last of her life, Marie of Hungary had held the girl in particular affection, in so far as a capacity for affection existed in that old heart, subordinated as it was to force, duty, and power.

      The great ship, which was weighing anchor in the harbour upon this brilliantly sunny day of the first of June 1315, represented to the eyes of the Queen Mother of Naples both the triumph of her policy and the melancholy of things achieved.

      For her dearly loved Clémence, a princess of twenty-two without territorial inheritance, rich only in her reputation for beauty and virtue, she had recently obtained the most important of alliances, the most imposing of marriages. Clémence was leaving to become Queen of France. Thus she, who was the most deprived by fate of all the princesses of Anjou, who had waited the longest for a match, was now to receive the finest of kingdoms and to reign as suzerain over all her relations. It clearly illustrated the teaching of the Gospel.

      It was, of course, true that the young King of France, Louis X, was reputed to be neither particularly handsome of face nor pleasant of character.

      ‘But what does that matter? My husband, upon whom God have mercy, was excessively lame, but I succeeded, without much difficulty, in reconciling myself to the fact,’ thought Marie of Hungary. ‘Moreover, one does not become a queen in order to find happiness.’

      People wondered, in covert whispers, that Queen Marguerite should have died in her prison so opportunely, just when King Louis, for the lack of a Pope, was unable to obtain an annulment of his marriage. But need one listen to scandal? Marie of Hungary was little inclined to waste pity upon a woman, particularly upon a Queen, who had betrayed her marriage vows and provided from such an exalted position so reprehensible an example. She saw nothing for surprise in the fact that God’s punishment should so naturally have fallen upon the scandalous Marguerite.

      ‘My beautiful Clémence will restore virtue to a place of honour in the Court of Paris,’ she told herself.

      In a gesture of farewell she made the sign of the Cross upon the window with her grey hand; then, her crown resting upon her silver hair, her chin jerking with a tic, her walk stiff but still firm, she retired to her chapel to thank the Lord for having helped her to the accomplishment of her long royal mission and to offer up to God the deep unhappiness of all women who have come to the end of their earthly task.

      In the meantime, the San Giovanni, the great ship with a round hull entirely painted in white and gold and flying from her mast and yards the pennants of Anjou, Hungary, and France, was beginning to tack away from the shore. The captain and his crew had sworn upon the Bible to defend their passengers against storm, Barbary pirates, and all the perils of the sea. The statue of Saint John the Baptist, the patron of the ship, shone in the sun upon the prow. In the fore- and after-castles, half as high as the masts, a hundred men-at-arms, look-outs, archers, and slingers were at their posts to repel the attacks of pirates. The holds were overflowing with provisions, and the sand of the ballast had been filled with amphorae containing oil, flagons of wine, and fresh eggs. The giant iron-bound chests, holding the silk robes, the jewels, the gold plate, and all the princess’s wedding presents, were stacked against the bulkhead of the saloon, a vast compartment between the mainmast and the poop where, among oriental carpets, the gentlemen and equerries were to be lodged.

      The Neapolitans crowded upon the quays to watch the departure of what appeared to them a ship of good omen. Women held up their children at arms’ length. Through the loud murmur rising from the crowd were to be heard shouts, uttered with the noisy good nature with which the populace of Naples has always treated its idols:

       ‘Guardi com’ è bella!’

       ‘Addio, Donna Clemenza! Sia felice!’

       ‘Dio la benedica, nostra principessa!’

       ‘Non si dimentichi di noi!’^fn3

      For Donna Clemenza personified a sort of legend to the Neapolitans. They remembered her father, the handsome Carlo Martelo, the friend of poets and in particular of the divine Dante, a learned prince, as good a musician as he was valiant in arms, who travelled the peninsula, followed by two hundred French, Provençal, and Italian gentlemen, all dressed, as he was himself, half in scarlet and half in green, their horses caparisoned in silver and gold. It was said of him that he was a true son of Venus, for he possessed ‘the five gifts that incite to love and which are health, beauty, wealth, leisure, and youth’. They had looked forward to his becoming king; but he had died of the plague at twenty-four and his wife, a princess of Hapsburg, had expired upon hearing the news, an event which had struck the popular imagination.

      Naples had transferred its affection to Clémence who, as she grew up, had developed a likeness to her father. The royal orphan was adored in the poor quarters of the town to which she went to distribute charity; she was invariably affected by distress. Her face inspired the painters of the school of Giotto in their representations of the Virgin and the saints in their frescoes; and to this day travellers who visit the churches of Campania and Apulia may admire upon the walls of the sanctuaries the golden hair, the clear gentle eyes, the grace of the slightly curving neck, the long slender hands, without knowing that it is the portrait of the beautiful Clémence of Hungary.

      Upon the crenellated deck which covered the after-castle, some thirty feet above the waves, the fiancée of the King of France gazed for the last time upon the land of her childhood, upon the old Castell’Ovo in which she had been born, upon Castelnuovo where she had grown up, upon the swarming crowd who threw her kisses, upon the whole lively, wonderful, dusty scene.

      ‘Thank you, Madam my Grandmother,’ she thought, her eyes raised to the window from which the figure of Marie of Hungary had just disappeared. ‘I shall doubtless never see you again. Thank you for all you have done for me. Having reached the age of twenty-two, I was in despair at not having yet found a husband; I thought that I should never find one and that I should have to enter a convent. It was you who were right to counsel patience. And now I am to be queen of that great kingdom which is watered by four rivers, and lapped by three seas. My cousin the King of England, my aunt of Majorca, my kinsman of Bohemia, my sister the Crown Princess of Vienna, and even my uncle Robert, who reigns here and whose subject I was till today, will become my vassals for the lands they have in France, or the links they have with that crown. But