Joan of Naples HTML version

Chapter 1
In the night of the 15th of January 1343, while the inhabitants of Naples lay wrapped in
peaceful slumber, they were suddenly awakened by the bells of the three hundred
churches that this thrice blessed capital contains. In the midst of the disturbance caused
by so rude a call the first bought in the mind of all was that the town was on fire, or that
the army of some enemy had mysteriously landed under cover of night and could put
the citizens to the edge of the sword. But the doleful, intermittent sounds of all these
fills, which disturbed the silence at regular and distant intervals, were an invitation to the
faithful pray for a passing soul, and it was soon evident that no disaster threatened the
town, but that the king alone was in danger.
Indeed, it had been plain for several days past that the greatest uneasiness prevailed in
Castel Nuovo; the officers of the crown were assembled regularly twice a day, and
persons of importance, whose right it was to make their way into the king's apartments,
came out evidently bowed down with grief. But although the king's death was regarded
as a misfortune that nothing could avert, yet the whole town, on learning for certain of
the approach of his last hour, was affected with a sincere grief, easily understood when
one learns that the man about to die, after a reign of thirty-three years, eight months,
and a few days, was Robert of Anjou, the most wise, just, and glorious king who had
ever sat on the throne of Sicily. And so he carried with him to the tomb the eulogies and
regrets of all his subjects.
Soldiers would speak with enthusiasm of the long wars he had waged with Frederic and
Peter of Aragon, against Henry VII and Louis of Bavaria; and felt their hearts beat high,
remembering the glories of campaigns in Lombardy and Tuscany; priests would
gratefully extol his constant defence of the papacy against Ghibelline attacks, and the
founding of convents, hospitals, and churches throughout his kingdom; in the world of
letters he was regarded as the most learned king in Christendom; Petrarch, indeed,
would receive the poet's crown from no other hand, and had spent three consecutive
days answering all the questions that Robert had deigned to ask him on every topic of
human knowledge. The men of law, astonished by the wisdom of those laws which now
enriched the Neapolitan code, had dubbed him the Solomon of their day; the nobles
applauded him for protecting their ancient privileges, and the people were eloquent of
his clemency, piety, and mildness. In a word, priests and soldiers, philosophers and
poets, nobles and peasants, trembled when they thought that the government was to
fall into the hands of a foreigner and of a young girl, recalling those words of Robert,
who, as he followed in the funeral train of Charles, his only son, turned as he reached
the threshold of the church and sobbingly exclaimed to his barons about him, "This day
the crown has fallen from my head: alas for me! alas for you!"
Now that the bells were ringing for the dying moments of the good king, every mind was
full of these prophetic words: women prayed fervently to God; men from all parts of the
town bent their steps towards the royal palace to get the earliest and most authentic