Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
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.
Perspiring, and with nerves unstrung, the courtier picked his way to a
table by the wall, and seated himself upon the coarse deal bench before
it, praying that he might be left its sole occupant.
On the opposite wall hung a blackened crucifix and a small holy-water
stoup that had been dry for a generation, and was now a receptacle for
dust and a withered sprig of rosemary. Immediately beneath this--in the
company of a couple of tatterdemalions worthy of him--sat the giant
who had mocked his escape from falling, and as Gonzaga took his seat he
heard the fellow's voice, guttural, bottle-thickened and contentious.
“And this wine, Luciano? Sangue della Madonna! Will you bring it before
dropping dead, pig?”
Gonzaga shuddered and would have crossed himself again for protection
against what seemed a very devil incarnate, but that the ruffian's
blood-shot eye was set upon him in a stony stare.
“I come, cavaliere, I come,” cried the timid host, leaping to his
feet, and leaving the goat to burn while he ministered to the giant's
unquenchable thirst.
The title caused Gonzaga to start, and he bent his eyes again on the
man's face. He found it villainous of expression, inflamed and blotched;
the hair hung matted about a bullet head, and the eyes glared fiercely
from either side of a pendulous nose. Of the knightly rank by which
the taverner addressed him the fellow bore no outward signs. Arms he
carried, it is true; a sword and dagger at his belt, whilst beside him
on the table stood a rusty steel-cap. But these warlike tools served
only to give him the appearance of a roving masnadiero or a cut-throat
for hire. Presently abandoning the comtemplation of Gonzaga he turned to
his companions, and across to the listener floated a coarse and boasting
tale of a plunderous warfare in Sicily ten years agone. Gonzaga became
excited. It seemed indeed as if this were man who might be useful to
him. He made pretence to sip the wine Luciano had brought him, and
listened avidly to that swashbuckling story, from which it appeared that
this knave had once been better circumstanced and something of a leader.
Intently he listened, and wondered whether such men as he boasted he
had led in that campaign were still to be found and could be brought
together.
At the end of perhaps a half-hour the two companions of that thirsty
giant rose and took their leave of him. They cast a passing glance upon
Gonzaga, and were gone.
A little while he hesitated. The ruffian seemed to have lapsed into a
reverie, or else he slept with open eyes. Calling up his courage the