Books: Love at Arms

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"When Roccaleone capitulates----"

"It will not capitulate," thundered Francesco.

"Well, then--when it is taken."

"Nor will it be taken," the Provost insisted, with an assurance that
carried conviction. "If Gian Maria had time unlimited at his command, he
might starve us into submission. But he has not. An enemy is menacing
his own frontiers, and in a few days--a week, at most--he will be forced
to get him hence to defend his crown."

"The greater reason for him to use stern measures and bombard us as he
threatens," answered Cappoccio shrewdly but rather in the tone of a man
who expects to have his argument disproved. And Francesco, if he could
not disprove it, could at least contradict it.

"Believe it not," he cried, with a scornful laugh. "I tell you that Gian
Maria will never dare so much. And if he did, are these walls that will
crumble at a few cannon-shots? Assault he might attempt; but I need not
tell a soldier that twenty men who are stout and resolute, as I will
believe you are for all your craven words, could hold so strong a place
as this against the assault of twenty times the men the Duke has with
him. And for the rest, if you think I tell you more than I believe
myself, I ask you to remember how I am included in Gian Maria's threat.
I am but a soldier like you, and such risks as are yours are mine as
well. Do you see any sign of faltering in me, any sign of doubting the
issue, or any fear of a rope that shall touch me no more than it shall
touch you? There, Cappoccio! A less merciful provost would have hanged
you for your words--for they reek of sedition. Yet I have stood and
argued with you, because I cannot spare a brave man such as you will
prove yourself. Let us hear no more of your doubtings. They are
unworthy. Be brave and resolute, and you shall find yourself well
rewarded when the baffled Duke shall be forced to raise this siege."

He turned without waiting for the reply of Cappoccio--who stood
crestfallen, his cheeks reddened by shame of his threat to get him hence
--and conducted Valentina calmly across the yard and up the steps of the
hall.

It was his way never to show a doubt that his orders would be obeyed, yet
on this occasion scarce had the door of the hall closed after them when
he turned sharply to the following Ercole.

"Get you an arquebuse," he said quickly, "and take my man Lanciotto, with
you. Should those dogs still prove mutinous, fire into any that attempt
the gates--fire to kill--and send me word. But above all, Ercole, do not
let them see you or suspect your presence; that were to undermine such
effect as my words may have produced."

From out of a woefully pale face Valentina raised her brown eyes to his,
in a look that was as a stab to the observing Gonzaga.

"I needed a man here," she said, "and I think that Heaven it must have
been that sent you to my aid. But do you think," she asked, and with her
eyes she closely scanned his face for any sign of doubt, "that they are
pacified?"

"I am assured of it, Madonna. Come, there are signs of tears in your
eyes, and--by my soul!--there is naught to weep at."

"I am but a woman, after all," she smiled up at him, "and so, subject to
a woman's weakness. It seemed as if the end were indeed come just now.
It had come, but for you. If they should mutiny----"

"They shall not, while I am here," he answered, with a cheering
confidence. And she, full of faith in this true knight of hers, went to
seek her ladies, and to soothe in her turn any alarm to which they might
have fallen a prey.

Francesco went to disarm, and Gonzaga to take the air upon the ramparts,
his heart a very bag of gall. His hatred for the interloper was as
nothing now to his rage against Valentina, a rage that had its birth in a
wondering uncomprehension of how she should prefer that coarse,
swashbuckling bully to himself, the peerless Gonzaga. And as he walked
there, under the noontide sky, the memory of Francesco's assurance that
the men would not mutiny returned to him, and he caught himself most
ardently desiring that they might, if only to bear it home to Valentina
how misplaced was her trust, how foolish her belief in that loud boaster.
He thought next--and with increasing bitterness--of his own brave
schemes, of his love for Valentina, and of how assured he had been that
his affections were returned, before this ruffler came amongst them. He
laughed in bitter scorn as the thought returned to her preferring
Francesco to himself. Well, it might be so now--now that the times were
warlike, and this Francesco was such a man as shone at his best in them.
But what manner of companion would this sbirro make in times of peace?
Had he the wit, the grace, the beauty even that was Gonzaga's?
Circumstance, it seemed to him, was here to blame, and he roundly cursed
that same Circumstance. In other surroundings, he was assured that
she would not have cast an eye upon Francesco whilst he, himself, was by;
and if he recalled their first meeting at Acquasparta, it was again to
curse Circumstance for having placed the knight in such case as to appeal
to the tenderness that is a part of woman's nature.

He reflected--assured that he was right--that if Francesco had not come
to Roccaleone, he might by now have been wed to Valentina; and once wed,
he could throw down the bridge and march out of Roccaleone, assured that
Gian Maria would not care to espouse his widow, and no less assured that
Guidobaldo--who was at heart a kind and clement prince--would be content
to let be what was accomplished, since there would be naught gained
beyond his niece's widowhood in hanging Gonzaga. It was the specious
argument that had lured him upon this rash enterprise, the hopes that he
was confident would have fructified but for the interloping of Francesco.

He stood looking down at the tented plain, with black rage and black
despair blotting the beauty from the sunlight of that May morning, and
then it came to him that since there was naught to be hoped from his old
plans, might it not be wise to turn his attention to new ones that would,
at least, save him from hanging? For he was assured that whatever might
betide the others, his own fate was sealed, whether Roccaleone fell or
not. It would be remembered against him that the affair was of his
instigating, and from neither Gian Maria nor Guidobaldo might he look for
mercy.

And now the thought of extricating himself from his desperate peril
turned him cold by its suddenness. He stood very still a moment; then
looked about him as though he feared that some watching spy might read on
him the ugly intention that of a sudden had leapt to life in his heart.
Swiftly it spread, and took more definite shape, the reflection of it
showing now upon his smooth, handsome face, and disfiguring it beyond
belief. He drew away from the wall, and took a turn or two upon the
ramparts, one hand behind him, the other raised to support his drooping
chin. Thus he brooded for a little while. Then, with another of his
furtive glances, he turned to the north-western tower, and entered the
armoury. There he rummaged until he had found the pen, ink and paper
that he sought, and with the door wide open--the better that he might
hear the sound of approaching steps--he set himself feverishly to write.
It was soon done, and he stood up, waving the sheet to dry the ink. Then
he looked it over again, and this is what he had written:

"I have it in my power to stir the garrison to mutiny and to throw open
the gates of Roccaleone. Thus shall the castle fall immediately into
your hands, and you shall have a proof of how little I am in sympathy
with this rebellion of Monna Valentina's. What terms do you offer me if
I accomplish this? Answer me now, and by the same means as I am
employing, but dispatch not your answer if I show myself upon the
ramparts.
"ROMEO GONZAGA."

He folded the paper, and on the back he wrote the superscription--"To the
High and Mighty Duke of Babbiano." Then opening a large chest that stood
against the wall, he rummaged a moment, and at last withdrew an arbalest
quarrel. About the body of this he tied his note. Next, from the wall
he took down a cross-bow, and from a corner a moulinet for winding it.
With his foot in the stirrup he made the cord taut and set the shaft in
position.

And now he closed the door, and, going to the window, which was little
more than an arrow-slit, he shouldered his arbalest. He took careful aim
in the direction of the ducal tent, and loosed the quarrel. He watched
its light, and it almost thrilled him with pride in his archery to see it
strike the tent at which he had aimed, and set the canvas shuddering.

In a moment there was a commotion. Men ran to the spot, others emerged
from the tent, and amongst the latter Gonzaga recognised the figures of
Gian Maria and Guidobaldo.

The bolt was delivered to the Duke of Babbiano, who, with an upward
glance at the ramparts, vanished into the tent once more.

Gonzaga moved from his eerie, and set wide the door of the tower, so that
his eyes could range the whole of the sun-bathed ramparts. Returning to
his window, he waited impatiently for the answer. Nor was his impatience
to endure long. At the end of some ten minutes Gian Maria reappeared,
and, summoning an archer to his side, he delivered him something and made
a motion of his hand towards Roccaleone. Gonzaga moved to the door, and
stood listening breathlessly. At the least sign of an approach, he would
have shown himself, and thus, by the provision made in his letter have
cautioned the archer against shooting his bolt. But all was quiet, and
so Gonzaga remained where he was until something flashed like a bird
across his vision, struck sharply against the posterior wall, and fell
with a tinkle on the broad stones of the rampart. A moment later the
answer from Gian Maria was in his hands.

He swiftly unwound it from the shaft that had brought it, and dropped the
bolt into a corner. Then unfolding the letter, he read it, leaning
against one of the merlons of the wall.

"If you can devise a means to deliver Roccaleone at once into my hands
you shall earn my gratitude, full pardon for your share in Monna
Valentina's rebellion, and the sum of a thousand gold florins.
"GIAN MARIA."

As he read, a light of joy leapt to his eyes. Gian Maria's terms were
very generous. He would accept them, and Valentina should realise when
too late upon what manner of broken reed she leaned in relying upon
Messer Francesco. Would he save her now, as he so loudly boasted? Would
there indeed be no mutiny, as he so confidently prophesied? Gonzaga
chuckled evilly to himself. She should learn her lesson, and when she
was Gian Maria's wife, she might perhaps repent her of her treatment of
Romeo Gonzaga.

He laughed softly to himself. Then suddenly he turned cold, and he felt
his skin roughening. A stealthy step sounded behind him.

He crumpled the Duke's letter in his hand, and in the alarm of the
moment, he dropped it over the wall. Seeking vainly to compose the
features that a chilling fear had now disturbed, he turned to see who
came.

Behind him stood Peppe, his solemn eyes bent with uncanny intentness upon
Gonzaga's face.

"You were seeking me?" quoth Romeo, and the quaver in his voice sorted
ill with his arrogance.

The fool made him a grotesque bow.

"Monna Valentina desires that you attend her in the garden, Illustrious."

CHAPTER XIX

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT

Peppe's quick eyes had seen Gonzaga crumple and drop the paper, no less
than he had observed the courtier's startled face, and his suspicions had
been aroused. He was by nature prying, and experience had taught him
that the things men seek to conceal are usually the very things it
imports most to have knowledge of. So when Gonzaga had gone, in
obedience to Valentina's summons, the jester peered carefully over the
battlements.

At first he saw nothing, and he was concluding with disappointment that
the thing Gonzaga had cast from him was lost in the torrential waters of
the moat. But presently, lodged on a jutting stone, above the foaming
stream into which it would seem that a miracle had prevented it from
falling, he espied a ball of crumpled paper. He observed with
satisfaction that it lay some ten feet immediately below the postern-gate
by the drawbridge.

Secretly, for it was not Peppy's way to take men into his confidence
where it might be avoided, he got himself a coil of rope. Having
descended and quietly opened the postern, he made one end fast and
lowered the other to the water with extreme care, lest he should
dislodge, and so lose, that paper.

Assuring himself again that he was unobserved, he went down, hand over
hand, like a monkey, his feet against the rough-hewn granite of the wall.
Then, with a little swinging of the rope, he brought himself nearer that
crumpled ball, his legs now dangling in the angry water, and by a mighty
stretch that all but precipitated him into the torrent, he seized the
paper and transferred it to his teeth. Then hand over hand again, and
with a frantic haste, for he feared observation not only from the castle
sentries but also from the watchers in the besieger's camp, he climbed
back to the postern, exulting in that he had gone unobserved, and
contemptuous for the vigilance of those that should have observed him.

Softly he closed the wicket, locked it and shot home the bolts at top and
base, and went to replace the key on its nail in the guard-room, which he
found untenanted. Next, with that mysterious letter in his hand, he
scampered off across the courtyard and through the porch leading to the
domestic quarters, nor paused until he had gained the kitchen, where Fra
Domenico was roasting the quarter of a lamb that he had that morning
butchered. For now that the siege was established, there was no more
fish from the brook, nor hares and ortolans from the country-side.

The friar cursed the fool roundly, as was his wont upon every occasion,
for he was none so holy that he disdained the milder forms of objurgatory
oaths. But Peppe for once had no vicious answer ready, a matter that led
the Dominican to ask him was he ill.

Never heeding him, the fool unfolded and smoothed the crumpled paper in a
corner by the fire. He read it and whistled, then stuffed it into the
bosom of his absurd tunic.

"What ails you?" quoth the friar. "What have you there?"

"A recipe for a dish of friar's brains. A most rare delicacy, and
rendered costly by virtue of the scarcity of the ingredients." And with
that answer Peppe was gone, leaving the monk with an ugly look in his
eyes, and an unuttered imprecation on his tongue.

Straight to the Count of Aquila went the fool with his letter. Francesco
read it, and questioned him closely as to what he knew of the manner in
which it had come into Gonzaga's possession. For the rest, those lines,
far from causing him the uneasiness Peppe expected, seemed a source of
satisfaction and assurance to him.

"He offers a thousand gold florins," he muttered, "in addition to
Gonzaga's liberty and advancement. Why, then, I have said no more than
was true when I assured the men that Gian Maria was but idly threatening
us with bombardment. Keep this matter secret, Peppe."

"But you will watch Messer Gonzaga?" quoth the fool.

"Watch him? Why, where is the need? You do not imagine him so vile that
this offer could tempt him?"

Peppe looked up, his great, whimsical face screwed into an expression of
cunning doubt.

"You do not think, lord, that he invited it?"

"Now, shame on you for that thought. Messer Gonzaga may be an idle lute-
thrummer, a poor-spirited coward; but a traitor----! And to betray Monna
Valentina! No, no."

But the fool was far from reassured. He had had the longer acquaintance
of Messer Gonzaga, and his shrewd eyes had long since taken the man's
exact measure. Let Francesco scorn the notion of betrayal at Romeo's
hands; Peppe would dog him like a shadow. This he did for the remainder
of that day, clinging to Gonzaga as if he loved him dearly, and furtively
observing the man's demeanour. Yet he saw nothing to confirm his
suspicions beyond a certain preoccupied moodiness on the courtier's part.

That night, as they supped, Gonzaga pleaded toothache, and with
Valentina's leave he quitted the table at the very outset of the meal.
Peppe rose to follow him, but as he reached the door, his natural enemy,
the friar--ever anxious to thwart him where he could--caught him by the
nape of the neck, and flung him unceremoniously back into the room.

"Have you a toothache too, good-for-naught?" quoth the frate. "Stay you
here and help me to wait upon the company."

"Let me go, good Fra Domenico," the fool whispered, in a voice so earnest
that the monk left his way clear. But Valentina's voice now bade him
stay with them, and so his opportunity was lost.

He moved about the room a very dispirited, moody fool with no quip for
anyone, for his thoughts were all on Gonzaga and the treason that he was
sure he was hatching. Yet faithful to Francesco, who sat all
unconcerned, and not wishing to alarm Valentina, he choked back the
warning that rose to his lips, seeking to convince himself that his fears
sprang perhaps from an excess of suspicion. Had he known how well-
founded indeed they were he might have practised less self-restraint.

For whilst he moved sullenly about the room, assisting Fra Domenico with
the dishes and platters, Gonzaga paced the ramparts beside Cappoccio, who
was on sentry duty on the north wall.

His business called for no great diplomacy, nor did Gonzaga employ much.
He bluntly told Cappoccio that he and his comrades had allowed Messer
Francesco's glib tongue to befool them that morning, and that the
assurances Francesco had given them were not worthy of an intelligent
man's consideration.

"I tell you, Cappoccio," he ended, "that to remain here and protract this
hopeless resistance will cost you your life at the unsavoury hands of the
hangman. You see I am frank with you."

Now for all that what Gonzaga told him might sort excellently well with
the ideas he had himself entertained, Cappoccio was of a suspicious
nature, and his suspicions whispered to him now that Gonzaga was actuated
by some purpose he could not gauge.

He stood still, and leaning with both hands upon his partisan, he sought
to make out the courtier's features in the dim light of the rising moon.

"Do you mean," he asked, and in his voice sounded the surprise with which
Gonzaga's odd speech had filled him, "that we are foolish to have
listened to Messer Francesco, and that we should be better advised to
march out of Roccaleone?"

"Yes; that is what I mean."

"But why," he insisted, his surprise increasing, "do you urge such a
course upon us?"

"Because, Cappoccio," was the plausible reply, "like yourselves, I was
lured into this business by insidious misrepresentations. The assurances
that I gave Fortemani, and with which he enrolled you into his service,
were those that had been given to me. I did not bargain with such a
death as awaits us here, and I frankly tell you that I have no stomach
for it."

"I begin to understand," murmured Cappoccio, sagely wagging his head, and
there was a shrewd insolence in his tone and manner. "When we leave
Roccaleone you come with us?"

Gonzaga nodded.

"But why do you not say these things to Fortemani?" questioned Cappoccio,
still doubting.

"Fortemani!" echoed Gonzaga. "By the Host, no! The man is bewitched by
that plausible rogue, Francesco. Far from resenting the fellow's
treatment of him, he follows and obeys his every word, like the mean-
spirited dog that he is."

Again Cappoccio sought to scrutinise Gonzaga's face. But the light was
indifferent.

"Are you dealing with me fairly?" he asked. "Or does some deeper purpose
lie under your wish that we should rebel against the lady?"

"My friend," answered Gonzaga, "do you but wait until Gian Maria's herald
comes for his answer in the morning. Then you will learn again the terms
on which your lives are offered you. Do nothing until then. But when
you hear yourselves threatened with the rope and the wheel, bethink you
of what course you will be best advised in pursuing. You ask me what
purpose inspires me. I have already told you--for I am as open as the
daylight with you--that I am inspired by the purpose of saving my own
neck. Is not that purpose enough?"

A laugh of such understanding as would have set a better man on fire with
indignation was the answer he received.

"Why, yes, it is more than enough. To-morrow, then, my comrades and I
march out of Roccaleone. Count upon that."

"But do not accept my word. Wait until the herald comes again. Do
nothing until you have heard the terms he brings."

"Why, no, assuredly not."

"And do not let it transpire among your fellows that it is I who have
suggested this."

"Why no. I'll keep your secret," laughed the bravo offensively,
shouldering his partisan and resuming his sentinel's pacing.

Gonzaga sought his bed. A fierce joy consumed him at having so
consummately planned Valentina's ruin, yet he did not wish to face her
again that night.

But when on the morrow the herald wound his horn again beneath the castle
walls, Gonzaga was prominent in the little group that attended Monna
Valentina. The Count of Aquila was superintending the work to which he
had set a half-score of men. With a great show, and as much noise as
possible--by which Francesco intended that the herald should be
impressed--they were rolling forward four small culverins and some three
cannons of larger calibre, and planting them so that they made a menacing
show in the crenels of the parapet.

Whilst watching and directing the men, he kept his ears open for the
message, and he heard the herald again recite the terms on which the
garrison might surrender, and again the threat to hang every man from the
castle-walls if they compelled him to reduce them by force of arms. He
brought his message to an end by announcing that in his extreme clemency
Gian Maria accorded them another half-hour's grace in which to resolve
themselves upon their course. Should the end of that time still find
them obstinate, the bombardment would commence. Such was the message
that in another of his arrow-borne letters Gonzaga had suggested Gian
Maria should send.

It was Francesco who stepped forward to reply. He had been stooping over
one of the guns, as if to assure himself of the accuracy of its aim, and
as he rose he pronounced himself satisfied in a voice loud enough for the
herald's hearing. Then he advanced to Valentina's side, and whilst he
stood there delivering his answer he never noticed the silent departure
of the men from the wall.

"You will tell his Highness of Babbiano," he replied, "that he reminds us
of the boy in the fable who cried 'Wolf!' too often. Tell him, sir, that
his threats leave this garrison as unmoved as do his promises. If so be
that he intends in truth to bombard us, let him begin forthwith. We are
ready for him, as you perceive. Maybe he did not suppose us equipped
with cannon; but there they stand. Those guns are trained upon his camp,
and the first shot he fires upon us shall be a signal for such a reply as
he little dreams of. Tell him, too, that we expect no quarter, and will
yield none. We are unwilling for bloodshed, but if he drives us to it
and executes his purpose of employing cannon, then the consequences be
upon his own head. Bear him that answer, and tell him to send you no
more with empty threats."

The herald bowed upon the withers of his horse. The arrogance, the cold
imperiousness of the message struck him dumb with amazement. Amazement
was his, too, that Roccaleone should be armed with cannon, as with his
own eyes he saw. That those guns were empty he could not guess, nor
could Gian Maria when he heard a message that filled him with rage, and
would have filled him with dismay, but that he counted upon the mutiny
which Gonzaga had pledged himself to stir up.

As the herald was riding away a gruff laugh broke from Fortemani, who
stood behind the Count.

Valentina turned to Francesco with eyes that beamed admiration and a
singular tenderness.

"Oh, what had I done without you, Messer Francesco?" she cried, for
surely the twentieth time since his coming. "I tremble to think how
things had gone without your wit and valour to assist me." She never
noticed the malicious smile that trembled on Gonzaga's pretty face.
"Where did you find the powder?" she asked innocently, for her mind had
not yet caught that humour of the situation that had drawn a laugh from
Fortemani.

"I found none," answered Francesco, smiling from the shadow of his helm.
"My threats"--and he waved his hand in the direction of that formidable
array of guns--"are as empty as Gian Maria's. Yet I think they will
impress him more than his do us. I will answer for it, Madonna, that
they deter him from bombarding us--if so be that he ever intended to. So
let us go and break our fast with a glad courage."

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