Books: Love at Arms

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In a moment the man was back, and the rope was lowered to the visitor
below. A few seconds later Zaccaria stood on the ramparts of Roccaleone,
the water dripping from his sodden garments, and gathering in a pool
about his feet.

"This way," said Gonzaga, leading the man towards the armoury tower,
where a lanthorn was burning. By the light of it he surveyed the
newcomer, and bade the sentry close the door and remain within call,
without.

Zaccaria looked startled at the order. This was scarcely the reception
he had expected after so imperilling his life to reach the castle with
his letter.

"Where is my lord?" he inquired, through teeth that chattered from the
cold of his immersion, wondering vaguely who this very magnificent
gentleman might be.

"Is Messer Francesco del Falco your lord?" asked Romeo.

"He is, sir. I have had the honour to serve him these ten years. I
bring him letters from Messer Fanfulla degli Arcipreti. They are very
urgent. Will you lead me to him?"

"You are very wet," murmured Gonzaga solicitously. "You will take your
death from cold, and the death of a man so brave as to have found a way
through Gian Maria's lines were truly deplorable." He stepped to the
door. "Olá!" he called to the sentry. "Take this brave fellow up there
and find him a change of raiment." He pointed to the upper chamber of
the tower, where, indeed, such things were stored.

"But my letters, sir!" cried Zaccaria impatiently. "They are very
urgent, and hours have I wasted already in waiting for the night."

"Surely you can wait until you have changed your garments? Your life, I
take it, is of more account than the loss of a few moments."

"But my orders from Messer degli Arcipreti were that I must not lose an
instant."

"Oh, si, si!" cried Gonzaga, with a show of good-tempered impatience.
"Give me the letters, then, and I will take them to the Count while you
are stripping those wet clothes."

Zaccaria eyed him a moment in doubt. But he looked so harmless in his
finery, and the expression of his comely face was so winning and honest,
that the man's hesitancy faded as soon as it sprang up. Removing his
cap, he drew from within the crown the letter, which he had placed there
to keep dry. This package he now handed to Gonzaga, who, with a final
word of instruction to the sentry touching the finding of raiment for the
messenger, stepped out to go his errand. But outside the door he paused,
and called the sentry to him again.

"Here is a ducat for you," he whispered. "Do my bidding and you shall
have more. Detain him in the tower till I return, and on no account let
him be seen or heard by anyone."

"Yes, Excellency," the man replied. "But what if the captain comes and
finds me absent from my post?"

"I will provide for that. I will tell Messer Fortemani that I have
employed you on a special matter, and ask him to replace you. You are
dispensed sentry duty for to-night."

The man bowed, and quietly withdrew to attend to his prisoner, for in
that light he now regarded Zaccaria.

Gonzaga sought Fortemani in the guard-room below, and did as he had
promised the sentry.

"But," snapped Ercole, reddening, "by whose authority have you done this?
By what right do you send sentinels on missions of your own? Christo
Santo! Is the castle to be invaded while you send my watchmen to fetch
your comfitbox or a book of verses?"

"You will remember----" began Romeo, with an air of overwhelming dignity.

"Devil take you and him that sent you!" broke in the bully. "The Messer
Provost shall hear of this."

"On no account," cried Gonzaga, now passing from anger to alarm, and
snatching the skirts of Fortemani's cloak as the captain was in the act
of going out to execute his threat. "Ser Ercole be reasonable, I beg of
you. Are we to alarm the castle and disturb Monna Valentina over a
trumpery affair such as this? Man, they will laugh at you."

"Eh?" There was nothing Ercole relished less than to be laughed at. He
pondered a moment, and it occurred to him that perhaps he was making much
of nothing. Then:

"You, Aventano," he called, "take your partisan, and patrol the eastern
rampart. There, Messer Gonzaga, I have obeyed your wishes; but Messer
Francesco shall hear of it when he comes his rounds."

Gonzaga left him. Francesco would not make his rounds for another hour,
and by then it would not matter what Fortemani told him. In one way or
another he would be able to account for his action.

He crossed the courtyard, and mounted the steps leading to his own
chamber. Once there, he closed and barred the door. He kindled a light,
and flinging the letter on the table, he sat and contemplated its
exterior and the great red seal that gleamed in the yellow light of his
taper.

So! This knight-errant, this man whom he had accounted a low-born hind,
was none other than the famous Count of Aquila, the well-beloved of the
people of Babbiano, the beau-ideal of all military folk from Sicily to
the Alps. And he had never suspected it! Dull-witted did he now account
himself. Enough descriptions had he heard of that famous condottiero,
that mirror of Italian chivalry. He might have known that there did not
live two men of such commanding ways as he had seen instanced at
Roccaleone. What was his object there? Was it love of Valentina, or was
it----? He paused, as in his mind he made a swift review of the politics
of Babbiano. A sudden possibility occurred to him that made his eyes
sparkle and his hands tremble with eagerness. Was this but a political
scheme to undermine his cousin's throne, to which Gonzaga had heard it
rumoured that Francesco del Falco was an aspirant? If it were so, what a
vengeance would be his to unmask him! How it must humble Valentina! The
letter lay before him. Within it the true facts would be disclosed.
What did his friend Fanfulla write him?

He took the letter up and made a close inspection of the seal. Then
softly, quietly, slowly he drew his dagger. If his suspicions were
unfounded, his dagger heated in the taper should afford him the means to
conceal the fact that he had tampered with that missive. He slipped his
blade under the seal, and worked it cautiously until it came up and set
the letter open. He unfolded it, and as he read his eyes dilated. He
seemed to crouch on his chair, and the hand that held the paper shook.
He drew the candle nearer, and shading his eyes he read it again, word
for word:

"MY DEAR LORD COUNT,--I have delayed writing until the time when the
signs I observed should have become more definite, as they have now done,
so that I may delay no longer. This, then, goes by the hand of Zaccaria,
to tell you that to-day has word been sent Gian Maria giving him three
days in which to return to Babbiano, or to abandon all hope of his crown,
of which the people will send the offer then to you at Aquila, where you
are believed to be. So now, my dear lord, you have the tyrant at your
mercy, tossed between Scylla and Charybdis. Yours it is to resolve how
you will act; but I rejoice in being the one to send you word that your
presence at Roccaleone and your stubborn defence of the fortress has not
been vain, and that presently you are to reap the well-earned reward of
it. The people have been stirred to this extreme action by the confusion
prevailing here.

"News has reached us that Caesar Borgia is arming, at Rome, a condotta to
invade Babbiano, and the people are exasperated at Gian Maria's continued
absence in such a season. They are short-sighted in this, for they
overlook the results that must attend the alliance with Urbino. May God
protect and prosper your Excellency, whose most devoted servant is
"FANFULLA DEGLI AROIPRETI."

CHAPTER XXII

A REVELATION

"Francesco," said Valentina, and the name came from her lips as if it
were an endearment, "why that frowning, careworn look?"

They were in the dining-room alone, where the others had left them, and
they were still seated at the table at which they had supped. Francesco
raised his dark, thoughtful eyes, and as they lighted now on Valentina
the thoughtfulness that was in them gave place to tenderness.

"I am fretted by this lack of news," he acknowledged. "I would I knew
what is being done in Babbiano. I had thought that ere now Caesar Borgia
had stirred Gian Maria's subjects into some manner of action. I would I
knew!"

She rose, and coming close to him, she stood with one hand resting upon
his shoulder, her eyes smiling down upon his upturned face.

"And shall such a trifle fret you--you who professed a week ago that you
would this siege might last for ever?"

"Account me not fickle, anima mia," he answered her, and he kissed the
ivory fingers that rested on his shoulder. "For that was before the
world changed for me at the magic of your bidding. And so," he repeated,
"I would I knew what is toward at Babbiano!"

"But why sigh over a wish so idle?" she exclaimed. "By what means can
news reach you here of the happenings of the world without?"

He pondered a moment, seeking words in which to answer her. A score of
times during that week had he been on the point of disclosing himself, of
telling her who and what he was. Yet ever had he hesitated, putting off
that disclosure until the season should appear more fitting. This he now
considered the present. She trusted him, and there was no reason to
remain silent longer. Perhaps already he had delayed too long, and so he
was about to speak when she started from his side, and crossed hastily to
the window, alarmed by the sound of approaching steps. A second later
the door opened, and Gonzaga appeared.

A moment he hesitated in the doorway, looking from one to the other, and
Francesco, lazily regarding him in his turn, noted that his cheeks were
pale and that his eyes glittered like those of a man with the fever.
Then he stepped forward, and, leaving the door open behind him, he
advanced into the room.

"Monna Valentina, I have something to communicate to you." His voice
shook slightly. "Messer--Francesco, will you give us leave?" And his
feverish eyes moved to the open door with an eloquence that asked no
words.

Francesco rose slowly, endeavouring to repress his surprise and glanced
across at Valentina, as if awaiting her confirmation or refusal of this
request that he should leave them.

"A communication for me?" she marvelled, a slight frown drawing her brows
together. "Of what nature, sir?"

"Of a nature as important as it is private."

She raised her chin, and with a patient smile she seemed to beg of
Francesco that he would suffer her to humour this mood of Gonzaga's. In
quick obedience Francesco inclined his head.

"I shall be in my chamber until the hour of my rounds, Madonna," he
announced, and with that took his departure.

Gonzaga attended him to the door, which he closed after him, and
composing his features to an expression of sorrowing indignation, he came
back and stood facing Valentina across the table.

"Madonna," he said, "I would to Heaven this communication I have to make
to you came from other lips. In the light of what has passed--here at
Roccaleone--through my folly--you--you may think my mission charged with
vindictiveness."

Perplexity stared at him from her eyes.

"You fill me with alarm, my good Gonzaga," she answered him, though
smiling.

"Alas it has fallen to my unfortunate lot to do more than that. I have
made the discovery of as foul a piece of treachery here in your fortress
as ever traitor hatched."

She looked at him more seriously now. The vehemence of his tone, and the
suggestion of sorrow that ran through it and gave it so frank an accent,
commanded her attention.

"Treachery!" she echoed, in a low voice, her eyes dilating. "And from
whom?"

He hesitated a moment, then waving his hand:

"Will you not sit, Madonna?" he suggested nervously.

Mechanically she seated herself at the table, her eyes ever on his face,
alarm spreading in her heart, born of suspense.

"Be seated too," she bade him, "and tell me."

He drew up a chair, sat down opposite to her, and taking a deep breath:
"Heard you ever of the Count of Aquila?" he inquired.

"It were odd if I had not. The most valiant knight in Italy, fame dubs
him."

His eyes were intently on her face, and what he saw there satisfied him.

"You know how he stands with the people of Babbiano?"

"I know that he is beloved of them."

"And do you know that he is a pretender to the throne of Babbiano? You
will remember that he is cousin to Gian Maria?"

"His relationship to Gian Maria I know. That he pretends to the throne
of Babbiano I was not aware. But whither are we straying?"

"We are not straying, Madonna," answered Gonzaga, "we are making a
straight line for the very heart and soul of this treachery I spoke of.
Would you believe me if I told you that here, in Roccaleone, we have an
agent of the Count of Aquila one who in the Count's interest is
protracting this siege with the pretended aim of driving Gian Maria off."

"Gonzaga----" she began, more than half guessing the drift of his
explanation. But he interrupted her with unusual brusqueness.

"Wait, Madonna," he cried, his eyes upon her face, his hand imperiously
raised. "Hear me out in patience. I am not talking idly. Of what I
tell you I am armed with proof and witness. Such an agent of--of the
Count's interests we have among us, and his true object in protracting
this siege, and encouraging and aiding you in your resistance, is to
outwear the patience of the people of Babbiano with Gian Maria, and drive
them in the hour of their approaching peril from Caesar Borgia's armies
to bestow the throne on Aquila."

"Where learnt you this foul lie?" she asked him, her cheeks crimson, her
eyes on fire.

"Madonna," he said, in a patient voice, "this that you call a lie is
already an accomplished fact. I am not laying before you the fruits of
idle speculation. I have upon me the most positive proof that such a
result as was hoped for has already been reached. Gian Maria has
received from his subjects a notification that unless he is in his
capital within three days from this, they will invest the Lord of Aquila
with the ducal crown."

She rose, her anger well controlled, her voice calm.

"Where is this proof? No, no; I don't need to see it. Whatever it is,
what shall it prove to me? That your words, in so far as the politics of
Babbiano are concerned, may be true; our resistance of Gian Maria may
indeed be losing him his throne and doing good service to the cause of
the Count of Aquila; but how shall all this prove that lie of yours, that
Messer Francesco--for it is clearly of him you speak--that Messer
Francesco should be this agent of the Count's? It is a lie, Gonzaga, for
which you shall be punished as you deserve."

She ceased, and stood awaiting his reply, and as she watched him his calm
demeanour struck a chill into her heart. He was so confident, so full of
assurance; and that, in Gonzaga, she had learnt to know meant a strong
bulwark 'twixt himself and danger. He sighed profoundly.

"Madonna, these cruel words of yours do not wound me, since they are no
more than I expected. But it will wound me--and sorely--if when you
shall have learnt the rest you do not humbly acknowledge how you have
wronged me, how grossly you have misjudged me. You think I come to you
with evil in my heart, urged by a spirit of vindictiveness against Messer
Francesco. Instead, I come to you with nothing but a profound sorrow
that mine must be the voice to disillusion you, and a deep indignation
against him that has so foully used you to his own ends. Wait, Madonna!
In a measure you are right. It was not strictly true to say that this
Messer Francesco is the agent of the Count of Aquila."

"Ah! You are recanting already?"

"Only a little--an insignificant little. He is no agent because----" He
hesitated, and glanced swiftly up. Then he sighed, lowered his voice,
and with consummately simulated sorrow, he concluded "Because he is,
himself, Francesco del Falco. Count of Aquila."

She swayed a moment, and the colour died from her cheeks, leaving them
ivory pale. She leaned heavily against the table, and turned over in her
mind what she had heard. And then, as suddenly as it had gone, the blood
rushed back into her face, mounting to her very temples.

"It's a lie!" she blazed at him; "a lie for which you shall be whipped."

He shrugged his shoulders, and cast Francesco's letter on to the table.

"There, Madonna, is something that will prove all that I have said."

She eyed the paper coldly. Her first impulse was to call Fortemani and
carry out her threat of having Gonzaga whipped, refusing so much as to
see this thing that he so confidently termed a proof; but it may be that
his confidence wrought upon her, touching a chord of feminine curiosity.
That he was wrong she never doubted; but that he believed himself right
she was also assured, and she wondered what this thing might be that had
so convinced him. Still she did not touch it, but asked in an
indifferent voice:

"What is it?"

"A letter that was brought hither to-night by a man who swam the moat,
and whom I have ordered to be detained in the armoury tower. It is from
Fanfulla degli Arcipreti to the Count of Aquila. If your memory will
bear you back to a certain day at Acquasparta, you may recall that
Fanfulla was the name of a very gallant cavalier who addressed this
Messer Francesco with marked respect."

She took that backward mental glance he bade her, and remembered. Then
she remembered, too, how that very evening Francesco had said that he was
fretting for news of Babbiano, and that when she had asked how he hoped
that news could reach him at Roccaleone, Gonzaga had entered before he
answered her. Indeed, he had seemed to hesitate upon that answer. A
sudden chill encompassed her at that reflection. Oh, it was impossible,
absurd! And yet she took the letter from the table. With knit brows she
read it, whilst Gonzaga watched her, scarce able to keep the satisfaction
from gleaming in his eyes.

She read it slowly, and as she read her face grew deathly pale. When she
had finished she stood silent for a long minute, her eyes upon the
signature and her mind harking back to what Gonzaga had said, and drawing
comparison between that and such things as had been done and uttered, and
nowhere did she find the slightest gleam of that discrepancy which so
ardently she sought.

It was as if a hand were crushing the heart in her bosom. This man whom
she had trusted, this peerless champion of her cause, to be nothing but a
self-seeker, an intriguer, who, to advance his own ends, had made a pawn
of her. She thought of how for a moment he had held her in his arms and
kissed her, and at that her whole soul revolted against the notion that
here was no more than treachery.

"It's all a plot against him!" she cried, her cheeks scarlet again.
"It's an infamous thing of your devising, Messer Gonzaga, an odious lie!"

"Madonna, the man that brought the letter is still detained. Confront
him with Messer Francesco; or apply the question to him, and learn his
master's true name and station. As for the rest, if that letter is
insufficient proof for you, I beg that you will look back at facts. Why
should he lie to you? and say that his name was Francesco Franceschi?
Why should he have urged you--against all reason--to remain here, when he
brought you news that Gian Maria was advancing? Surely had he but sought
to serve you he had better accomplished this by placing his own castle of
Aquila at your disposal, and leaving here an empty nest for Gian Maria,
as I urged."

She sank to a chair, a fever in her mind.

"I tell you, Madonna, there is no mistake. What I have said is true.
Another three days would he have held Gian Maria here, whilst if you gave
him that letter, it is odds he would slip away in the night of to-morrow,
that he might be in Babbiano on the third day to take the throne his
cousin treats so lightly. Sainted God!" he cried out. "I think this is
the most diabolically treacherous plot that ever mind of man conceived
and human heartlessness executed."

"But--but----" she faltered, "all this is presupposing that Messer
Francesco is indeed the Count of Aquila. May there--may it not be that
this letter was meant for some other destination?"

"Will you confront this messenger with the Count?"

"With the Count?" she inquired dully. "With Messer Francesco, you mean?"
She shuddered, and with strange inconsistence: "No," she said, in a
choking voice, her lip twisting oddly at the corner. "I do not wish to
see his face again."

A light gleamed in Gonzaga's eye, and was extinguished on the instant.

"Best make certain," he suggested, rising. "I have ordered Fortemani to
bring Lanciotto here. He will be waiting now, without. Shall I admit
them?"

She nodded without speaking, and Gonzaga opened the door, and called
Fortemani. A voice answered him from the gloom of the banqueting-hall.

"Bring Lanciotto here," he commanded.

When Francesco's servant entered, a look of surprise on his face at these
mysterious proceedings, it was Valentina who questioned him, and that in
a voice as cold as though the issue concerned her no whit.

"Tell me, sirrah," she said, "and as you value your neck, see that you
answer me truly--what is your master's name?"

Lanciotto looked from her to Gonzaga, who stood by, a cynical curl on his
sensual lips.

"Answer Monna Valentina," the courtier urged him. "State your master's
true name and station."

"But, lady," began Lanciotto, bewildered.

"Answer me!" she stormed, her small clenched hands beating the table in
harsh impatience. And Lanciotto, seeing no help for it, answered:

"Messer Francesco del Falco, Count of Aquila."

Something that began in a sob and ended in a laugh burst from the lips of
Valentina. Ercole's eyes were wide at the news, and he might have gone
the length of interposing a question, when Gonzaga curtly bade him go to
the armoury tower, and bring thence the soldier and the man Gonzaga had
left in his care.

"I will leave no shadow of doubt in your mind, Madonna," he said in
explanation.

They waited in silence--for Lanciotto's presence hindered conversation--
until Ercole returned accompanied by the man-at-arms and Zaccaria, who
had now changed his raiment. Before they could question the new-comer,
such questions as they might have put were answered by the greeting that
passed between him and his fellow-servant Lanciotto.

Gonzaga turned to Valentina. She sat very still, her tawny head bowed
and in her eyes a look of sore distress. And in that instant a brisk
step sounded without. The door was thrust open, and Francesco himself
stood upon the threshold, with Peppe's alarmed face showing behind him.
Gonzaga instinctively drew back a pace, and his countenance lost some of
its colour.

At sight of Francesco, Zaccaria rushed forward and bowed profoundly.

"My lord!" he greeted him.

And if one little thing had been wanting to complete the evidence against
the Count, that thing, by an odd mischance, Francesco himself seemed to
supply. The strange group in that dining-room claiming his attention,
and the portentous air that hung about those present, confirmed the
warning Peppe had brought him that something was amiss. He disregarded
utterly his servant's greeting, and with eyes of a perplexity that may
have worn the look of alarm he sought the face of Valentina.

She rose upon the instant, an angry red colouring her cheeks. His very
glance, it seemed, was become an affront unbearable after what had
passed--for the memory of his kiss bit like a poisoned fang into her
brain. An odd laugh broke from her. She made a gesture towards
Francesco.

"Fortemani, you will place the Count of Aquila under arrest," she
commanded, in a stern, steady voice, "and as you value your life you will
see that he does not elude you."

The great bully hesitated. His knowledge of Francesco's methods was not
encouraging.

"Madonna!" gasped Francesco, his bewilderment increasing.

"Did you hear me, Fortemani," she demanded. "Remove him."

"My lord?" cried Lanciotto, laying hand to his sword his eyes upon his
master's, ready to draw and lay about him at a glance of bidding.

"Sh! Let be," answered Franeesco coldly. "Here, Messer Fortemani." And
he proffered his dagger, the only weapon that he carried.

Valentina, calling Gonzaga to attend her, made shift to quit the
apartment. At that Francesco seemed to awaken to his position.

"Madonna, wait," he cried, and he stepped deliberately before her. "You
must hear me. I have surrendered in earnest of my faith and confident
that once you have heard me----"

"Captain Fortemani," she cried, almost angrily, "will you restrain your
prisoner? I wish to pass."

Ercole, with visible reluctance, laid a hand on Francesco's shoulder; but
it was unnecessary. Before her words, the Count recoiled as if he had
been struck. He stood clear of her path with a gasp at once of unbelief
and angry resignation. An instant his eyes rested on Gonzaga, so
fiercely that the faint smile withered on the courtier's lips, and his
knees trembled under him as he hastened from the room in Valentina's
wake.

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