Books: Love at Arms

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"Behold," announced Peppino gravely, "Italy's latest translation of the
Golden Ass of Apuleius."

Upon seeing the noble niece of Guidobaldo kneeling there with Francesco's
head still pillowed in her lap, the new-comer cast up his arms in a
gesture of dismay.

"Saints in Heaven!" he exclaimed, hurrying towards them. "What
occupation have you found? Who is this ugly fellow?"

"Ugly?" was all she answered him, in accents of profound surprise.

"Who is he?" the young man insisted, his tone growing heated. "And what
does he here and thus, with you? Gesù! What would his Highness say?
How would he deal with me were he to learn of this? Who is the man,
Madonna?"

"Why, as you see, Messer Gonzaga," she answered, with some heat, "a
wounded knight."

"A knight he?" gibed Gonzaga. "A thief more likely, a prowling
masnadiero. What is your name?" he roughly asked the Count.

Drawing himself a little away from Valentina, and reclining entirely upon
his elbow, Francesco motioned him with a wave of the hand to come no
nearer.

"I beg, lady, that you will bid your pretty page stand back a little. I
am still faint, and his perfumes overpower me."

Under the mask of the polite request Gonzaga detected the mocking,
contemptuous note, and it gave fuel to his anger.

"I am no page, fool," he answered, then clapping his hands together, he
raised his voice to shout--"Olá, Beltrame! To me!"

"What would you do?" cried the lady, rising to confront him.

"Carry this ruffian in bonds to Urbino, as is my duty."

"Sir, you may wound your pretty hands in grasping me," replied the Count,
in chill indifference.

"Ah! You would threaten me with violence, vassal?" cried the other,
retreating some paces farther as he spoke. "Beltrame!" he called again.
"Are you never coming?" A voice answered him from the thicket, and with a
clank of steel a half-dozen men flung themselves into the glade.

"Your orders, sir?" craved he that led them, his eyes wandering to the
still prostrate Count.

"Tie me up this dog," Gonzaga bade him. But before the fellow could move
a foot to carry out the order Valentina barred his way.

"You shall not," she commanded, and so transformed was she from the
ingenuous child that lately had talked with him, that Francesco gaped in
pure astonishment. "In my uncle's name, I bid you leave this gentleman
where he lies. He is a wounded knight whom I have been pleased to tend--
a matter which seems to have aroused Messer Gonzaga's anger against him."

Beltrame paused, and looked from Valentina to Gonzaga, undecided.

"Madonna," said Gonzaga, with assumed humility, "your word is law with
us. But I would have you consider that, what I bid Beltrame do is in the
interest of his Highness, whose territory is infested by these
vagabonding robbers. It is a fact that may not have reached you in your
convent retreat, no more than has sufficient knowledge reached you yet--
in your incomparable innocence--to distinguish between rogues and honest
men. Beltrame, do my bidding."

Valentina's foot tapped the ground impatiently, and into her eyes there
came a look of anger that heightened her likeness to her martial uncle.
But Peppe it was who spoke.

"For all that there seem to be fools enough, already, meddling in this
business," he said, in tones of mock lament, "permit that I join their
number, Ser Romeo, and listen to my counsel."

"Out, fool," cried Gonzaga, cutting at him with his riding-switch, "we
need not your capers."

"No, but you need my wisdom," retorted Ser Peppe, as he leapt beyond
Gonzaga's reach. "Hear me, Beltrame! For all that we do not doubt
Messer Gonzaga's keen discrimination in judging 'twixt a rogue and an
honest man, I do promise you, as surely as though I were Fate herself,
that if you obey him now and tie up that gentleman, you will yourself be
tied up for it, later on, in a yet uglier fashion."

Beltrame looked alarmed, Gonzaga incredulous. Valentina thanked Peppe
with her eyes, thinking that he had but hit upon a subterfuge to serve
her wishes, whilst Francesco, who had now risen to his feet, looked on
with an amused smile as though the matter concerned him nowise
personally. And then, in the very crux of the situation, Fanfulla and
Fra Domenico appeared upon the scene.

"You are, well-returned, Fanfulla!" the Count called to him, "This pretty
gentleman would have had me bound."

"Have you bound?" echoed Fanfulla, in angry horror. "Upon what grounds,
pray?" he demanded, turning fiercely upon Gonzaga.

Impressed by Fanfulla's lordly air, Romeo Gonzaga grew amazingly humble
for one that but a moment back had been so overbearing.

"It would seem, sir, that my judgment was at fault in esteeming his
condition," he excused himself.

"Your judgment?" returned the hot Fanfulla. "And who bade you judge? Go
cut your milk-teeth, boy, and meddle not with men if you would live to be
a man yourself some day."

Valentina smiled, Peppe laughed outright, whilst even Beltrame and his
followers grinned, all of which added not a little to Gonzaga's choler.
But scant though his wisdom might be, it was yet enough to dictate
prudence.

"The presence of Madonna here restrains me," he answered, with elaborate
dignity. "But should we meet again, I shall make bold to show you what
manhood means."

"Perhaps--if by then you shall have come to it." And with a shrug
Fanfulla turned to give his attention to the Count, whom Fra Domenico was
already tending.

Valentina, to relieve the awkwardness of the moment, proposed to Gonzaga
that he should get his escort to horse, and have her litter in readiness,
so that they might resume their journey as soon as Fra Domenico should
have concluded his ministrations.

Gonzaga bowed, and with a vicious glance at the strangers and an angry
"Follow me!" to Beltrame and the others, he departed with the men-at-arms
at his heels.

Valentina remained with Fanfulla and Peppe, whilst Fra Domenico dressed
Francesco's wound, and, presently, when the task was accomplished, they
departed, leaving Fanfulla amid the Count alone. But ere she went she
listened to Francesco's thanks, and suffered him to touch her ivory
fingers with his lips.

There was much he might have said but that the presence of the other
three restrained him. Yet some little of that much she may have seen
reflected in his eyes, for all that day she rode pensive, a fond, wistful
smile at the corners of her lips. And although to Gonzaga she manifested
no resentment, yet did she twit him touching that mistake of his. Sore
in his dignity, he liked her playful mockery little yet he liked the
words in which she framed it less.

"How came you into so grievous an error, Ser Romeo?" she asked him, more
than once. "How could you deem him a rogue--he with so noble a mien and
so beautiful a countenance?" And without heeding the sullenness of his
answers, she would lapse with a sigh once more into reflection--a thing
that galled Gonzaga more, perhaps, than did her gibes.

CHAPTER V

GIAN MARIA

It was a week after the meeting 'twixt the niece of Guidobaldo and the
Count of Aquila, when the latter--his wound being wellnigh healed--rode
one morning under the great archway that was the main entrance to the
city of Babbiano. The Captain of the Gate saluted him respectfully as he
rode by, and permitted himself to marvel at the pallor of his
Excellency's face. And yet, the cause was not very far to seek. It
stood upon four spears, among a noisy flock of circling crows, above that
very Gate---called of San Bacolo--and consisted of four detruncated human
heads.

The sight of those dead faces grinning horribly, their long, matted hair
fluttering like rags in the April breeze, had arrested Francesco's
attention as he drew nigh. But when presently he came nearer and looked
with more intentness, a shudder of recognition ran through him, and a
great horror filled his soul and paled his cheek. The first of those
heads was that of the valiant and well-named Ferrabraccio; the next that
of Amerino Amerini; and the other two, those of his captured companions
on that night at Sant' Angelo.

So it would seem that Gian Maria had been busy during the week that was
sped, and that there, on the walls of Babbiano, lay rotting the only
fruits which that ill-starred conspiracy was likely to bear.

For a second it entered his mind to turn back. But his stout and
fearless nature drove him on, all unattended as he was, and in despite of
such vague forebodings as beset him. How much, he wondered, might Gian
Maria know of his own share in that mountain meeting, and how would it
fare with him if his cousin was aware that it had been proposed to the
Count of Aquila to supplant him?

He was not long, however, in learning that grounds were wanting for such
fears as he had entertained. Gian Maria received him with even more than
wonted welcome, for he laid much store by Francesco's judgment and was in
sore need of it at present.

Francesco found him at table, which had been laid for him amidst the
treasures of art and learning that enriched the splendid Palace library.
It was a place beloved by Gian Maria for the material comforts that it
offered him, and so he turned it to a score of vulgar purposes of his
own, yet never to that for which it was equipped, being an utter stranger
to letters and ignorant as a ploughboy.

Ensconced in a great chair of crimson leather, at a board overladen with
choice viands and sparkling with crystal flagons and with vessels and
dishes of gold and enamel, Francesco found his cousin, and the air that
had been heavy once with the scholarly smell of parchments and musty
tomes was saturated now with pungent odours of the table.

In stature Gian Maria was short and inclining, young though he was, to
corpulency. His face was round and pale and flabby; his eyes blue and
beady; his mouth sensual and cruel. He was dressed in a suit of lilac
velvet, trimmed with lynx fur, and slashed, Spanish fashion, in the
sleeves, to show the shirt of fine Rheims linen underneath. About his
neck hung a gold chain, bearing an Agnus Dei, which contained a relic of
the True Cross--for Gian Maria pushed his devoutness to great lengths.

His welcome of Francesco was more effusive than its wont. He bade the
two servants who attended him to lay a plate for his illustrious cousin,
and when Aquila shortly yet courteously declined, with the assurance that
he had dined already, the Duke insisted that, at least, he should drink a
Cup of Malvasia. When out of a vessel of beaten gold they had filled a
goblet for the Count, his Highness bade the servants go, and relaxed--if,
indeed, so much may be said of one who never knew much dignity--before
his visitor.

"I hear," said Aquila, when the first compliments were spent, "strange
stories of a conspiracy in your Duchy, and on the walls at the Gate of
San Bacolo I beheld four heads, of men whom I have known and honoured."

"And who dishonoured themselves ere their heads were made a banquet for
the crows. There, Francesco!" He shuddered, and crossed himself. "It
is unlucky to speak of the dead at table."

"Let us speak, then, of their offence alone," persisted Francesco subtly.
"In what did it lie?

"In what?" returned the Duke amusedly. His voice was thin and inclining
to shrillness. "It is more than I can say. Masuccio knew. But the dog
would not disclose his secret nor the names of the conspirators until his
task should be accomplished and he had taken them at the treason he knew
they had gathered to ripen. But," he continued, an olive poised 'twixt
thumb and forefinger, "it seems they were not to be captured as easily as
he thought. He told me the traitors numbered six, and that they were to
meet a seventh there. The men who returned from the venture tell me too,
and without shame, that there were but some six or seven that beset them.
Yet they gave the Swiss trouble enough, and killed some nine of them
besides a half-score of more or less grievously wounded, whilst they but
slew two of their assailants and captured another two. Those were the
four heads you saw at the Porta San Bacolo."

"And Masuccio?" inquired Francesco. "Has he not told you since who were
those others that escaped?"

His Highness paused to masticate the olive.

"Why, there lies the difficulty," said he at length. "The dog is dead.
He was killed in the affray. May he rot in hell for his obstinate
reticence. No, no!" he checked himself hastily. "He's dead, and the
secret of this treason, as well as the names of the traitors, have
perished with him. Yet I am a clement man, Francesco, and sorely though
that dog has wronged me by his silence, I thank Heaven for the grace to
say--God rest his vile soul!"

The Count flung himself into a chair, as much to dissemble such signs of
relief as might show upon his face, as because he wished to sit.

"But surely Masuccio left you some information!" he exclaimed.

"The very scantiest," returned Gian Maria, in chagrined accents. "It was
ever the way of that secretive vassal. Damn him! He frankly told me
that if I knew, I would talk. Heard you ever of such insufferable
insolence to a prince? All that he would let me learn was that there was
a conspiracy afoot to supplant me, and that he was going to capture the
conspirators, together with the man whom they were inviting to take my
place. Ponder it, Francesco! Such are the murderous plans my loving
subjects form for my undoing--I who rule them with a rod of gold, the
most clement, just and generous prince in Italy. Cristo buono! Do you
marvel that I lost patience and had their hideous heads set upon spears?"

"But did you not say that two of these conspirators were brought back
captive?"

The Duke nodded, his mouth too full for words.

"Then, at their trial, what transpired?"

"Trial? There was no trial." Gian Maria chewed vigorously for a moment.
"I tell you I was so heated with anger at this base ingratitude, that I
had not even the wit to have the names of their associates tortured out
of them. Within a half-hour of their arrival in Babbiano, the heads of
these men whom it had pleased Heaven to deliver up to me were where you
saw them to-day."

"You sent them thus to their death?" gasped Francesco, rising to his feet
and eyeing his cousin with mingled wonder and anger. "You sent men of
such families as these to the headsman, without a trial? I think, Gian
Maria, that you must be mad if so rashly you can shed such blood as
this."

The Duke sank back in his chair to gape at his impetuous cousin. Then,
in sullen anger: "To whom do you speak?" he demanded.

"To a tyrant who calls himself the most clement, just and generous prince
in Italy, and who lacks the wisdom to see that he is undermining with his
own hands, and by his own rash actions, a throne that is already
tottering. Can you not think that this might mean a revolution? It
amounts to murder, and though dukes resort to it freely enough in Italy,
it is not openly and defiantly wrought, as is this."

Anger there was in the Duke's soul, but there was still more fear--so
much, that it shouldered the anger aside.

"I have provided against rebellion," he announced, with an ease that he
vainly strove to feel. "I have given the command of my guards to Martino
Armstadt, and he has engaged for me a company of five hundred Swiss
lanzknechte that were lately in the pay of the Baglioni of Perugia."

"And you deem this security?" rejoined Francesco, with a smile of scorn.
"To hedge your throne with foreign spears commanded by a foreigner?"

"This and God's grace," was the pious answer.

"Bah!" answered Francesco, impatient at the hypocrisy. "Win the hearts
of your people. Let that be your buckler."

"Hush!" whispered Gian Maria. "You blaspheme. Does not every act of my
self-sacrificing life point to such an aim? I live for my people. But,
by my soul, they ask too much when they ask that I should die for them.
If I serve those who plot against my life, as I have served these men you
speak of, who shall blame me? I tell you, Francesco, I wish I might have
those others who escaped, that I might do as much by them. By the living
God, I do! And as for the man who was to have supplanted me----" He
paused, a deadly smile on his sensual mouth completing the sentence more
effectively than lay within the power of words. "Who could it have
been?" he mused. "I've vowed that if Heaven will grant me that I
discover him, I'll burn a candle to Santa Fosca every Saturday for a
twelvemonth and go fasting on the Vigil of the Dead. Who--who could it
have been, Franceschino?"

"How should I know?" returned Francesco, evading the question.

"You know so much, Checco mio. Your mind is so quick to fathom matters
of this kind. Think you, now, it might have been the Duca Valentino?"

Francesco shook his head.

"When Caesar Borgia comes he will know no need to resort to such poor
means. He will come in arms to reduce you by his might."

"God and the saints protect me!" gasped the Duke. "You talk of it as if
he were already marching."

"Then I talk of it advisedly. The event is none so remote as you would
make yourself believe. Listen, Gian Maria! I have not ridden from
Aquila for just the pleasure of passing the time of day with you.
Fabrizio da Lodi and Fanfulla degli Arcipreti have been with me of late."

"With you?" cried the Duke, his little eyes narrowing themselves as they
glanced up at his cousin. "With you--eh?" He shrugged his shoulders
and spread his palms before him. "Pish! See into what errors even so
clear a mind as mine may fall. Do you know, Francesco, that marking
their absence since that conspiracy was laid, I had a half-suspicion they
were connected with it." And he devoted his attention to a honeycomb.

"You have not in all your Duchy two hearts more faithful to Babbiano,"
was the equivocal reply. "It was on the matter of this very peril that
threatens you that they came to me."

"Ah!" Gian Maria's white face grew interested.

And now the Count of Aquila talked to the Duke of Babbiano much as
Fabrizio da Lodi had talked to the Count that night at Sant' Angelo. He
spoke of the danger that threatened from the Borgia, of the utter lack of
preparation, and of Gian Maria's contempt of the counsels given him. He
alluded to the discontent rife among his subjects at this state of
things, and to the urgent need to set them right. When he had done, the
Duke sat silent a while, his eyes bent thoughtfully upon his platter, on
which the food lay now unheeded.

"An easy thing, is it not, Francesco, to say to a man: this is wrong, and
that is wrong. But who is there, pray, to set it right for me?"

"That, if you will say but the word, I will attempt to do."

"You?" cried the Duke, and far from manifesting satisfaction at having
one offer himself to undertake to right this very crooked business, Gian
Maria's face reflected an incredulous anger and some little scorn. "And
how, my marvellous cousin, would you set about it?" he inquired, a sneer
lurking in his tone.

"I would place such matters as the levying of money by taxation in the
hands of Messer Despuglio, and at whatever sacrifice to your own
extravagance, I would see that for months to come the bulk of these
moneys is applied to the levying and arming of suitable men. I have some
skill as a condottiero--leastways, so more than one foreign prince has
been forced to acknowledge. I will lead your army when I have raised it,
and I will enter into alliances for you with our neighbouring States,
who, seeing us armed, will deem us a power worthy of their alliance. And
so, what man can do to stem the impending flood of this invasion, that
will I do to defend your Duchy. Make me your gonfalonier, and in a month
I will tell you whether it lies in my power or not to save your State."

The eyes of Gian Maria had narrowed more and more whilst Francesco spoke,
and into his shallow face had crept an evil, suspicious look. As the
Count ceased, he gave vent to a subdued laugh, bitter with mockery.

"Make you my gonfalonier?" he muttered, in consummate amusement. "And
since when has Babbiano been a republic--or is it your aim to make it
one, and establish yourself as its chief magistrate?"

"If you misapprehend me so----" began Francesco, but his cousin
interrupted him with heightening scorn.

"Misapprehend you, Messer Franceschino? No, no. I understand you but
too well." He rose suddenly from his interrupted meal, and came a step
nearer his cousin. "I hear rumours of this growing love my people are
manifesting for the Count of Aquila, and I have let them go unheeded.
That rogue Masuccio warned me ere he died, and I answered him with my
whip across his face. But I am by no means sure that I have been
proceeding wisely. I had a dream two nights ago---- But let that be!
When it so happens that in any State there is a man whom the people
prefer to him who rules them, and when it so happens that this man is of
as good blood and high birth as are you, he becomes a danger to him that
sits the throne. I need scarce remind you," he added, with a horrid
grin, "of how the Borgias deal with such individuals, nor need I add that
a Sforza may see fit to emulate those very conclusive measures of
precaution. The family of Sforza has bred as yet no fools, nor shall I
prove myself the first by placing in another's hands the power to make
himself my master. You see, my gentle cousin, how transparent your aims
become under my eyes. I am keen of vision, Franceschino, keen of
vision!" He tapped his nose and chuckled a malicious appreciation of his
own acute perceptions.

Francesco regarded him with an eye of stony scorn. He might have
answered, had he been so disposed, that the Duchy of Babbiano was his to
take whenever he pleased. He might have told him that, and defied him.
But he went more slowly than did this man of a family that bred no fools.

"Do you know me, then, so little, Gian Maria," said he, not without
bitterness, "that you think I hunger for so empty a thing as this ducal
pomp you clutch so fearfully? I tell you, man, that I prefer my liberty
to an imperial throne. But I waste breath with you. Yet, some day, when
your crown shall have passed from you and your power have been engulfed
in the Borgia's rapacious maw, remember my offer which might have saved
you and which with insults you disregarded, as you disregarded the advice
your older counsellors gave you."

Gian Maria shrugged his fat shoulders.

"If by that other advice you mean the counsel that I should take
Guidobaldo's niece to wife, you may give ease unto your patriotic soul.
I have consented to enter into this alliance. And now," he ended, with
another of his infernal chuckles, "you see how little I need dread this
terrible son of Pope Alexander. Allied with Urbino and the other States
that are its friends, I can defy the might of Caesar Borgia. I shall
sleep tranquil of nights beside my beauteous bride, secure in the
protection her uncle's armies will afford me, and never needing so much
as my valiant cousin's aid as my gonfalonier."

The Count of Aquila changed colour despite himself, and the Duke's
suspicious eyes were as quick to observe it as was his mind to
misinterpret its meaning. He registered a vow to set a watch on this
solicitous cousin who offered so readily to bear his gonfalon.

"I felicitate you, at least," said Francesco gravely, "upon the wisdom of
that step. Had I known of it I had not troubled you with other proposals
for the safety of your State. But, may I ask you, Gian Maria, what
influences led you to a course which, hitherto, you have so obstinately
refused to follow?"

The Duke shrugged his shoulders.

"They plagued me so," he lamented, with a grimace, "that in the end I
consented. I could withstand Lodi and the others, but when my mother
joined them with her prayers--I should say, her commands--and pointed out
again my peril to me, I gave way. After all a man must wed. And since
in my station he need not let his marriage weigh too much upon him, I
resolved on it for the sake of security and peace."

Since it was the salvation of Babbiano that he aimed at, the Count of
Aquila should have rejoiced at Gian Maria's wise resolve, and no other
consideration should have tempered so encompassing a thing as that joy of
his should have been. Yet, when later he left his cousin's presence, the
only feeling that he carried with him was a deep and bitter resentment
against the Fate that willed such things, blent with a sorrowing pity for
the girl that was to wed his cousin and a growing hatred for the cousin
who made him pity her.

CHAPTER VI

THE AMOROUS DUKE

From a window of the Palace of Babbiano the Lord of Aquila watched the
amazing bustle in the courtyard below, and at his side stood Fanfulla
degli Arcipreti, whom he had summoned from Perugia with assurances that,
Masuccio being dead, no peril now menaced him.

It was a week after that interview at which Gian Maria had made known his
intentions to his cousin, and his Highness was now upon the point of
setting out for Urbino, to perform the comedy of wooing the Lady
Valentina. This was the explanation of that scurrying of servitors and
pages, that parading of men-at-arms, and that stamping of horses and
mules in the quadrangle below. Francesco watched the scene with a smile
of some bitterness, his companion with one of supreme satisfaction.

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