Books: Love at Arms

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"A little knowledge of history would afford you an answer. Such
political alliances are daily made, and daily broken when more profit
offers in another quarter. But cemented by marriage, the tie, whilst
continuing political, becomes also one of blood. In the case of Urbino
and Babbiano it enters also into consideration that I have no son. It
might well be, Valentina," he pursued, with a calculating coldness that
revolted her, "that a son of yours would yet more strongly link the two
duchies. In time both might become united under him into one great power
that might vie successfully with any in Italy. Now leave me, child. As
you see, I am suffering, and when it is thus with me, and this evil
tyrant has me in its clutches, I prefer to be alone."

There was a pause, and whilst his eyes were upon hers, hers were upon the
ground in avoidance of his glance. A frown marred her white brow, her
lips were set and her hands clenched. Pity for his physical ills fought
a while with pity for her own mental torment. At last she threw back her
beautiful head, and the manner of that action was instinct with
insubordination.

"It grieves me to harass your Highness in such a season," she assured
him, "but I must beg your indulgence. These things may be as you say.
Your plans may be the noblest that were ever conceived, since to their
consummation would be entailed the sacrifice of your own flesh and blood
--in the person of your niece. But I will have no part in them. It may
be that I lack a like nobility of soul; it may be that I am all unworthy
of the high station to which I was born, through no fault of my own. And
so, my lord," she ended, her voice, her face, her gesture, all imparting
an irrevocable finality to her words, "I will not wed this Duke of
Babbiano--no, not to cement alliances with a hundred duchies."

"Valentina!" he exclaimed, roused out of his wonted calm. "Do you forget
that you are my niece?"

"Since you appear to have forgotten it."

"These woman's whims----" he began, when she interrupted him.

"Perhaps they will serve to remind you that I am a woman, and perhaps if
you remember that, you may consider how very natural it is that, being a
woman, I should refuse to wed for--for political ends."

"To your chamber," he commanded, now thoroughly aroused. "And on your
knees beg Heaven's grace to help you to see your duty, since no words of
mine prevail."

"Oh, that the Duchess were returned from Mantua," she sighed. "The good
Monna Elizabetta might melt you to some pity."

"Monna Elizabetta is too dutiful herself to do aught but urge you to
dutifulness. There, child," he added, in a more wheedling tone, "set
aside this disobedient mood, which is unlike you and becomes you ill.
You shall be wed with a splendour and magnificence that will set every
princess in Italy green with envy. Your dowry is set at fifty thousand
ducats, and Giuliano della Rovere shall pronounce the benediction.
Already I have sent orders to Ferrara, to the incomparable Anichino, for
the majestate girdle; I will send to Venice for gold leaf and----"

"But do you not heed me that I will not wed?" she broke in with
passionate calm, her face white, her bosom heaving.

He rose, leaning heavily upon a gold-headed cane, and looked at her a
moment without speaking, his brows contracted. Then:

"Your betrothal to Gian Maria is proclaimed," he announced in a voice
cold with finality. "I have passed my word to the Duke, and your
marriage shall take place so soon as he returns. Now go. Such scenes as
these are wearisome to a sick man, and they are undignified."

"But, your Highness," she began, an imploring note now taking the place
that lately had been held by defiance.

"Go!" he blazed, stamping his foot, and then to save his dignity--for he
feared that she might still remain--he himself turned on his heel and
passed from the apartment.

Left to herself, she stood there a moment, allowed a sigh to escape her,
and brushed an angry tear from her brown eyes. Then, with a sudden
movement that seemed to imply suppression of her mood, she walked to the
door by which she entered, and left the chamber.

She went down the long gallery, whose walls glowed with the new frescoes
from the wonder-working brush of Andrea Mantegna; she crossed her ante-
chamber and gained the very room where some hours ago she had received
the insult of Gian Maria's odious advances. She passed through the now
empty room, and stepped out on to the terrace that overlooked the
paradise-like gardens of the Palace.

Close by the fountain stood a white marble seat, over which, earlier that
day, one of her women had thrown a cloak of crimson velvet. There she
now sat herself to think out the monstrous situation that beset her. The
air was warm and balmy and heavy with the scent of flowers from the
garden below. The splashing of the fountain seemed to soothe her, and
for a little while her eyes were upon that gleaming water, which rose
high in a crystal column, then broke and fell, a shower of glittering
jewels, into the broad marble basin. Then, her eyes growing tired, they
strayed to the marble balustrade, where a peacock strode with overweening
dignity; they passed on to the gardens below, gay with early blossoms, in
their stately frames of tall, boxwood hedges, and flanked by myrtles and
tall cypresses standing gaunt and black against the deep saffron of the
vesper sky.

Saving the splashing of the fountain, and the occasional harsh scream of
the peacock, all was at peace, as if by contrast with the tumult that
raged in Valentina's soul. Then another sound broke the stillness--a
soft step, crunching the gravel of the walk. She turned, and behind her
stood the magnificent Gonzaga, a smile that at once reflected pleasure
and surprise upon his handsome face.

"Alone, Madonna?" he said, in accents of mild wonder, his fingers softly
stirring the strings of the lute he carried, and without which he seldom
appeared about the Court.

"As you see," she answered, and her tone was the tone of one whose
thoughts are taken up with other things.

Her glance moved away from him again, and in a moment it seemed as if she
had forgotten his presence, so absorbed grew the expression of her face.

But Gonzaga was not easily discouraged. Patience was the one virtue that
Valentina more than any woman--and there had been many in his young life
--had inculcated into a soul that in the main was anything but virtuous.
He came a step nearer, and leant lightly against the edge of her seat,
his shapely legs crossed, his graceful body inclining ever so slightly
towards her.

"You are pensive, Madonna," he murmured, in his rich, caressing voice.

"Why then," she reproved him, but in a mild tone, "do you intrude upon my
thoughts?"

"Because they seem sad thoughts, Madonna." he answered, glibly, "and I
were a poor friend did I not seek to rouse you out of them."

"You are that, Gonzaga?" she questioned, without looking at him. "You
are my friend?"

He seemed to quiver and then draw himself upright, whilst across his face
there swept a shade of something that may have been good or bad or partly
both. Then he leant down until his head came very near her own.

"Your friend?" quoth he. "Ah, more than your friend. Count me your very
slave, Madonna."

She looked at him now, and in his countenance she saw a reflection of the
ardour that had spoken in his voice. In his eyes there was a glance of
burning intensity. She drew away from him, and at first he accounted
himself repulsed, but pointing to the space she had left:

"Sit here beside me, Gonzaga," she said quietly, and he, scarce crediting
his own good fortune that so much favour should be showered upon him,
obeyed her in a half-timid fashion that was at odd variance with his late
bold words.

He laughed lightly, perhaps to cover the embarrassment that beset him,
and dropping his jewelled cap, he flung one white-cased leg over the
other and took his lute in his lap, his fingers again wandering to the
strings.

"I have a new song, Madonna," he announced, with a gaiety that was
obviously forced. "It is in ottava rima, a faint echo of the immortal
Niccolo Correggio, composed in honour of one whose description is beyond
the flight of human song."

"Yet you sing of her?"

"It is no better than an acknowledgment of the impossibility to sing of
her. Thus----" And striking a chord or two, he began, a mezza voce:

"Quando sorriderán' in ciel
Gli occhi tuoi ai santi--"

She laid a hand upon his arm to stay him.

"Not now, Gonzaga," she begged, "I am in no humour for your song, sweet
though I doubt not that it be."

A shade of disappointment and ruffled vanity crossed his face. Women had
been wont to listen greedily to his strambotti, enthralled by the cunning
of the words and the seductive sweetness of his voice.

"Ah, never look so glum," she cried, smiling now at his crestfallen air.
"If I have not hearkened now, I will again. Forgive me, good Gonzaga,"
she begged him, with a sweetness no man could have resisted. And then a
sigh fluttered from her lips; a sound that was like a sob came after it,
and her hand closed upon his arm.

"They are breaking my heart, my friend. Oh, that you had left me at
peace in the Convent of Santa Sofia!"

He turned to her, all solicitude and gentleness, to inquire the reason of
her outburst.

"It is this odious alliance into which they seek to force me with that
man from Babbiano. I have told Guidobaldo that I will not wed this Duke.
But as profitably might I tell Fate that I will not die. The one is as
unheeding as the other."

Gonzaga sighed profoundly, in sympathy, but said nothing.

Here was a grief to which he could not minister, a grievance that he
could do nothing to remove. She turned from him with a gesture of
impatience.

"You sigh," she exclaimed, "and you bewail the cruelty of the fate in
store for me. But you can do nothing for me. You are all words,
Gonzaga. You can call yourself more than my friend--my very slave. Yet,
when I need your help, what do you offer me? A sigh!"

"Madonna, you are unjust," he was quick to answer, with some heat. "I
did not dream--I did not dare to dream--that it was my help you sought.
My sympathy, I believed, was all that you invited, and so, lest I should
seem presumptuous, it was all I offered. But if my help you need; if you
seek a means to evade this alliance that you rightly describe as odious,
such help as it lies in a man's power to render shall you have from me."

He spoke almost fiercely and with a certain grim confidence, for all that
as yet no plan had formed itself in his mind.

Indeed, had a course been clear to him, there had been perhaps less
confidence in his tone, for, after all, he was not by nature a man of
action, and his character was the very reverse of valiant. Yet so
excellent an actor was he as to deceive even himself by his acting, and
in this suggestion of some vague fine deeds that he would do, he felt
himself stirred by a sudden martial ardour, and capable of all. He was
stirred, too, by the passion with which Valentina's beauty filled him--a
passion that went nearer to making a man of him than Nature had succeeded
in doing.

That now, in the hour of her need, she should turn so readily to him for
assistance, he accepted as proof that she was not deaf to the voice of
this great love he bore her, but of which he never yet had dared to show
a sign. The passing jelousy that he had entertained for that wounded
knight they had met at Acquasparta was laid to rest by her present
attitude towards him, the knight, himself forgotten.

As for Valentina, she listened to his ready speech and earnest tone with
growing wonder both at him and at herself. Her own words had been little
more than a petulant outburst. Of actually finding a way to elude her
uncle's wishes she had no thought--unless it lay in carrying out that
threat of hers to take the veil. Now, however, that Gonzaga spoke so
bravely of doing what man could do to help her to evade that marriage,
the thought of active resistance took an inviting shape.

A timid hope--a hope that was afraid of being shattered before it grew to
any strength--peeped now from the wondering eyes she turned on her
companion.

"Is there a way, Gonzaga?" she asked, after a pause.

Now during that pause his mind had been very busy. Something of a poet,
he was blessed with wits of a certain quickness, and was a man of very
ready fancy. Like an inspiration an idea had come to him; out of this
had sprung another, and yet another, until a chain of events by which the
frustration of the schemes of Babbiano and Urbino might be accomplished,
was complete.

"I think," he said slowly, his eyes upon the ground, "that I know a way."

Her glance was now eager, her lip tremulous, and her face a little pale.
She leant towards him.

"Tell me," she besought him feverishly.

He set his lute on the seat beside him, and his eyes looked round in
apprehensive survey.

"Not here," he muttered. "There are too many ears in the Palace of
Urbino. Will it please you to walk in the gardens? I will tell you
there."

They rose together, so ready was her assent. They looked at each other
for a second. Then, side by side, they passed down the wide marble steps
that led from the terrace to the box-flanked walks of the gardens. Here,
among the lengthening shadows, they paced in silence for a while, what
time Gonzaga sought for words in which to propound his plan. At length,
grown impatient, Valentina urged him with a question.

"What I counsel, Madonna," he answered her, "is open defiance."

"Such a course I am already pursuing. But whither will it lead me?"

"I do not mean the mere defiance of words--mere protestations that you
will not wed Gian Maria. Listen, Madonna! The Castle of Roccaleone is
your property. It is perhaps the stoutest fortress in all Italy, to-day.
Lightly garrisoned and well-provisioned it might withstand a year's
siege."

She turned to him, having guessed already the proposal in his mind, and
for all that at first her eyes looked startled, yet presently they
kindled to a light of daring that augured well for a very stout
adventure. It was a wildly romantic notion, this of Gonzaga's, worthy of
a poet's perfervid brain, and yet it attracted her by its unprecedented
flavour.

"Could it be done?" she wondered, her eyes sparkling at the anticipation
of such a deed.

"It could, indeed it could," he answered, with an eagerness no whit less
than her own. "Immure yourself in Roccaleone, and thence hurl defiance
at Urbino and Babbiano, refusing to surrender until they grant your
terms--that you are to marry as you list."

"And you will help me in this?" she questioned, her mind--in its
innocence--inclining more and more to the mad project.

"With all my strength and wit," he answered, readily and gallantly. "I
will so victual the place that it shall be able to stand siege for a
whole year, should the need arise, and I will find you the men to arm it
--a score will, I should think, be ample for our needs, since it is
mainly upon the natural strength of the place that we rely."

"And then," said she, "I shall need a captain."

Gonzaga made her a low bow.

"If you will honour me with the office, Madonna, I shall serve you
loyally whilst I have life."

A smile quivered for a second on her lips, but was gone ere the courtier
had straightened himself from his bow, for far was it from her wishes to
wound his spirit. But the notion of this scented fop in the role of
captain, ruling a handful of rough mercenaries, and directing the
operations for the resistance of an assiduous siege, touched her with its
ludicrous note. Yet, if she refused him this, it was more than likely he
would deem himself offended, and refuse to advance their plans. It
crossed her mind--in the full confidence of youth--that if he should fail
her when the hour of action came, she was of stout enough heart to aid
herself. And so she consented, whereat again he bowed, this time in
gratitude. And then a sudden thought occurred to her, and with it came
dismay.

"But for all this, Gonzaga--for the men and the victualling--money will
be needed."

"If you will let my friendship be proven also in that----" he began.

But she interrupted him, struck suddenly with a solution to the riddle.

"No, no!" she exclaimed. His face fell a little. He had hoped to place
her in his debt in every possible way, yet here was one in which she
raised a barrier. Upon her head she wore a fret of gold, so richly laced
with pearls as to be worth a prince's ransom. This she now made haste to
unfasten with fingers that excitement set a-tremble. "There!" she cried,
holding it out to him. "Turn that to money, my friend. It should yield
you ducats enough for this enterprise."

It next occurred to her that she could not go alone into that castle with
just Gonzaga and the men he was about to enrol. His answer came with a
promptness that showed he had considered, also, that.

"By no means," he answered her. "When the time comes you must select
such of your ladies--say three or four--as appear suitable and have your
trust. You may take a priest as well, a page or two, and a few
servants."

Thus, in the gloaming, amid the shadows of that old Italian garden, was
the plot laid by which Valentina was to escape alliance with his Highness
of Babbiano. But there was more than that in it, although that was all
that Valentina saw. It was, too, a plot by which she might become the
wife of Messer Romeo Gonzaga.

He was an exiled member of that famous Mantua family, which has bred some
scoundrels and one saint. With the money which, at parting, a doting
mother had bestowed upon him, he was cutting a brave figure at the Urbino
court, where he was tolerated by virtue of his kinship with Guidobaldo's
Duchess, Monna Elizabetta. But his means were running low, and it
behoved him to turn his attention to such quarters as might yield him
profit. Being poor-spirited, and--since his tastes had not inclined that
way--untrained in arms, it would have been futile for him to have sought
the career common to adventurers of his age. Yet an adventurer at heart
he was, and since the fields of Mars were little suited to his nature, he
had long pondered upon the possibilities afforded him by the lists of
Cupid. Guidobaldo--purely out of consideration for Monna Elizabetta--had
shown him a high degree of favour, and upon this he had been vain enough
to found great hopes--for Guidobaldo had two nieces. High had these
hopes run when he was chosen to escort the lovely Valentina della Rovere
from the Convent of Santa Sofia to her uncle's court. But of late they
had withered, since he had learnt what were her uncle's plans for this
lady's future. And now, by her own action, and by the plot into which
she had entered with him, they rose once more.

To thwart Guidobaldo might prove a dangerous thing, and his life might
pay the forfeit if his schemes miscarried--clement and merciful though
Guidobaldo was. But if they succeeded, and if by love or by force he
could bring Valentina to wed him, he was tolerably confident that
Guidobaldo, seeing matters had gone too far--since Gian Maria would
certainly refuse to wed Gonzaga's widow--would let them be. To this end
no plan could be more propitious than that into which he had lured her.
Guidobaldo might besiege them in Roccaleone and might eventually reduce
them by force of arms--a circumstance, however, which, despite his words,
he deemed extremely remote. But if only he could wed Valentina before
they capitulated, he thought that he would have little cause to fear any
consequences of Guidobaldo's wrath. After all, in so far as birth and
family were concerned, Romeo Gonzaga was nowise the inferior of his
Highness of Urbino. Guidobaldo had yet another niece, and he might
cement with her the desired alliance with Babbiano.

Alone in the gardens of the Palace, Gonzaga paced after night had fallen,
and with his eyes to the stars that began to fleck the violet sky, he
smiled a smile of cunning gratification. He bethought him how well
advised had been his suggestion that they should take a priest to
Roccaleone. Unless his prophetic sense led him deeply into error, they
would find work for that priest before the castle was surrendered.

CHAPTER VIII

AMONG THE DREGS OF WINE

And so it befell that whilst by Guidobaldo's orders the preparations for
Valentina's nuptials went forward with feverish haste--whilst painters,
carvers, and artificers in gold and silver applied themselves to their
hurried tasks; whilst messengers raced to Venice for gold leaf and
ultramarine for the wedding-chests whilst the nuptial bed was being
brought from Rome and the chariot from Ferrara; whilst costly stuffs were
being collected, and the wedding-garments fashioned--the magnificent
Romeo Gonzaga was, on his side, as diligently contriving to render vain
all that toil of preparation.

On the evening of the third day of his conspiring he sat in the room
allotted to him in the Palace of Urbino, and matured his plans. And so
well pleased was he with his self-communion that, as he sat at his
window, there was a contented smile upon his lips.

He allowed his glance to stray adown the slopes of that arid waste of
rocks, to the River Metauro, winding its way to the sea, through fertile
plains, and gleaming here silver and yonder gold in the evening light.
Not quite so complacently would he have smiled had he deemed the
enterprise upon which he was engaging to be of that warlike character
which he had represented to Valentina. He did not want for cunning, nor
for judgment of the working of human minds, and he very reasonably opined
that once the Lady Valentina immured herself in Roccaleone and sent word
to her uncle that she would not wed Gian Maria, nor return to the Court
of Urbino until he passed her his ducal word that she should hear no more
of the union, the Duke would be the first to capitulate.

He contended that this might not happen at once--nor did he wish it to;
messages would pass, and Guidobaldo would seek by cajolery to win back
his niece. This she would resist, and, in the end her uncle would see
the impassable nature of the situation, and agree to her terms that it
might be ended. That it should come to arms, and that Guidobaldo should
move to besiege Roccaleone, he did not for a moment believe--for what
manner of ridicule would he not draw upon himself from the neighbouring
States? At the worst, even if a siege there was, it would never be
carried out with the rigour of ordinary warfare; there would be no
assaults, no bombarding; it would be a simple investment, with the object
of intercepting resources, so as to starve the garrison into submission--
for they would never dream of such victualling as Gonzaga was preparing.

Thus communed Gonzaga with himself, and the smile enlivening the corners
of his weak mouth grew more thoughtful. He dreamed great dreams that
evening; he had wondrous visions of a future princely power that should
come to be his own by virtue of this alliance that he was so skilfully
encompassing--a fool in a fool's paradise, with his folly for only
company.

But for all that, his dreams were wondrous sweet to indulge and his
visions truly alluring to contemplate. There were plans to be formed and
means to be devised for the flight to Roccaleone. There were
calculations to be made; the estimating of victuals, arms, and men; and
once these calculations were complete, there were all these things to be
obtained. The victuals he had already provided for, whilst of arms he
had no need to think; Roccaleone should be well stocked with them. But
the finding of the men gave him some concern. He had decided to enrol a
score, which was surely the smallest number with which he could make a
fair show of being martially in earnest. But even though the number was
modest, where was he to find twenty fellows who reeked so little of their
lives as to embark upon such an enterprise--even if lured by generous
pay--and thereby incur the ducal displeasure of Guidobaido?

He dressed himself with sober rigour for once in his foppish life, and
descended, after night had fallen, to a tavern in a poor street behind
the Duomo, hoping that there, among the dregs of wine, he might find what
he required.

By great good fortune he chanced upon an old freebooting captain, who
once had been a meaner sort of condottiero, but who was sorely reduced by
bad fortune and bad wine.

The tavern was a dingy, cut-throat place, which the delicate Gonzaga had
not entered without a tremor, invoking the saints' protection, and
crossing himself ere he set foot across the threshold. Some pieces of
goat were being cooked on the embers, in a great fireplace at the end of
the room farthest from the door. Before this, Ser Luciano--the taverner
--squatted on his heels and fanned so diligently that a cloud of ashes
rose ceiling high and spread itself, together with the noisome smoke,
throughout the squalid chamber. A brass lamp swung from the ceiling, and
shone freely through that smoke, as shines the moon through an evening
mist. So foully stank the place that at first Gonzaga was moved to get
him thence. Only the reflection that nowhere in Urbino was he as likely
as here to find the thing he sought, impelled him to stifle his natural
squeamishness and remain. He slipped upon some grease, and barely saved
himself from measuring his length upon that filthy floor, a matter which
provoked a malicious guffaw from a tattered giant who watched with
interest his mincing advent.

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