Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
the hesitating captain. “Fool!” he blazed at the latter. “Brute beast,
for what do you wait? Did you not hear me?”
Without a second's delay the captain now raised his sword, and his deep,
guttural voice barked an order to his men which brought their lances
below the horizontal. The mob, too, had heard that fierce command, and
awakening to their peril, those nearest the cavalcade would have fallen
back but that the others, pressing tightly from behind, held them in the
death-tide that now swept by with clattering arms and hoarse cries.
Shrieks filled the air where lately threats had been loudly tossed. But
some there were in that crowd that would be no passive witnesses of this
butchery. Half the stones of the borgo went after that cavalcade, and
fell in a persistent shower upon them, rattling like giant hail upon
their armour, dinting many a steel-cap to its wearer's sore discomfort.
The Duke himself was struck twice, and on Santi's unprotected scalp an
ugly wound was opened from which the blood flowed in profusion to dye
his snowy locks.
In this undignified manner they reached, at last, the Palazzo Ducale,
leaving a trail of dead and maimed to mark the way by which they had
come.
In a white heat of passion Gian Maria sought his apartments, and came
not forth again until, some two hours later, the presence was announced
him of the emissary from Caesar Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, who sought
an audience.
Still beside himself, and boiling with wrath at the indignities he
had received, Gian Maria--in no mood for an interview that would
have demanded coolness and presence of mind from a keener brain than
his--received the envoy, a gloomy, priestly-faced Spaniard, in the
throne-room of the Palace. The Duke was attended by Alvari, Santi, and
Fabrizio da Lodi, whilst his mother, Caterina Colonna, occupied a chair
of crimson velvet on which the Sforza lion was wrought in gold.
The interview was brief, and marked by a rudeness at its close that
contrasted sharply with the ceremoniousness of its inception. It soon
became clear that the ambassador's true mission was to pick a quarrel
with Babbiano on his master's behalf, to the end that the Borgia might
be afforded a sound pretext for invading the Duchy. He demanded,
at first politely and calmly, and later--when denied--with arrogant
insistance, that Gian Maria should provide the Duke of Valentinois with
a hundred lances--equivalent to five hundred men--as some contribution
on his part towards the stand which Caesar Borgia meant to make against
the impending French invasion.
Gian Maria never heeded the restraining words which Lodi whispered in
his ear, urging him to temporise, and to put off this messenger until
the alliance with the house of Urbino should be complete and their
position strengthened sufficiently to permit them to brave the anger of
Caesar Borgia. But neither this nor the wrathful, meaning glances which
his cunning mother bent upon him served to curb him. He obeyed only the
voice of his headstrong mood, never dreaming of the consequences with
which he might be visited.
“You will bear to the Duca Valentino this message from me,” he said,
in conclusion. “You will tell him that what lances I have in Babbiano I
intend to keep, that with them I may defend my own frontiers against his
briganding advances. Messer da Lodi,” he added, turning to Fabrizio and
without so much as waiting to see if the envoy had anything further to
say, “let this gentleman be reconducted to his quarters, and see that he
has safe conduct hence until he is out of our Duchy.”
When the envoy, crimson of face and threatening of eye, had withdrawn
under Lodi's escort, Monna Caterina rose, the very incarnation of
outraged patience, and poured her bitter invective upon her rash son's
head.
“Fool!” she stormed at him. “There goes your Duchy--in the hollow of
that man's hand.” Then she laughed in bitterness. “After all, in casting
it from you, perhaps you have chosen the wiser course, for, as truly as
there is a God in Heaven, you are utterly unfitted to retain it.”
“My lady mother,” he answered her, with such dignity as he could muster
from the wretched heap in which his wits now seemed to lie, “you will
be well advised to devote yourself to your woman's tasks, and not to
interfere in a man's work.”
“Man's work!” she sneered. “And you perform it like a petulant boy or a
peevish woman.”
“I perform it, Madonna, as best seems to me, for it happens that I am
Duke of Babbiano,” he answered sullenly. “I do not fear any Pope's son
that ever stepped. The alliance with Urbino is all but completed. Let
that be established, and if Valentino shows his teeth--by God we'll show
ours.”
“Aye, but with this difference, that his are a wolf's teeth, and yours a
lamb's. Besides, this alliance with Urbino is all incomplete as yet. You
had been better advised to have sent away the envoy with some indefinite
promise that would have afforded you respite enough in which to seal
matters with the house of Montefeltro. As it is, your days are numbered.
Upon that message you have sent him Caesar will act at once. For my own
part, I have no mind to fall a prey to the invader, and I shall leave
Babbiano, and seek refuge in Naples. And if a last word of advice I may
offer you, it is that you do the same.”
Gian Maria rose and came down from the dais, eyeing her in a sort of
dull amazement. Then he looked, as if for help, to Alvari, to Santi,
and lastly to Lodi, who had returned while Caterina was speaking. But no
word said any of them, and grave were the eyes of all.
“Poor-spirited are you all!” he sneered. Then his face grew dark and his
tone concentrated. “Not so am I,” he assured them, “if in the past I may
have seemed it sometimes. I am aroused at length, sirs. I heard a voice
in the streets of Babbiano to-day, and I saw a sight that has put a
fire into my veins. This good-tempered, soft, indulgent Duke you knew
is gone. The lion is awake at last, and you shall see such things as you
had not dreamt of.”
They regarded him now with eyes in which the gravity was increased by a
light of fearsome wonder and inquiry. Was his mind giving way under the
prodigious strain that had been set upon it that day? If not madness,
what else did that wild boasting argue?
“Are you all dumb?” he asked them, his eyes feverish. “Or do you deem
that I promise more than is mine to fulfil. You shall judge, and soon.
To-morrow, my lady mother, whilst you journey south, as you have told
us, I go north again, back to Urbino. Not a day will I now waste. Within
the week, sirs, by God's grace, I shall be wed. That will give us Urbino
for a buckler, and with Urbino comes Perugia and Camerino. But more than
that. There is a princely dowry comes to us with the Lady Valentina. How
think you will I spend it? To the last florin it shall go to the arming
of men. I will hire me every free condotta in Italy. I will raise me
such an army as has never before been seen at any one time, and with
this I shall seek out the Duca Valentino. I'll not sit here at home
awaiting the pleasure of his coming, but I'll out to meet him, and with
that army I shall descend upon him as a thunderbolt out of Heaven. Aye,
my lady mother,” he laughed in his madness, “the lamb shall hunt the
wolf, and rend it so that it shall never stand again to prey on other
lambs. This will I do, my friends, and there shall be such fighting as
has not been seen since the long-dead days of Castracani.”
They stared at him, scarce believing now that he was sane, and
marvelling deeply whence had sprung this sudden martial fervour in one
whose nature was more indolent than active, more timid than warlike.
And yet the reason was not far to seek, had they but cared to follow the
line of thought to which he, himself, had given them the clue when he
referred to the voice he had heard, and the sights he had seen in the
streets of Babbiano. The voice was the voice that had acclaimed his
cousin Francesco Duke. That it was through that a fierce jealousy had
fired him. This man had robbed him at once of the love of his people
and of Valentina, and thereby had set in his heart the burning desire
to outdo him and to prove wrong in their preference both his people and
Valentina. He was like a gamer who risks all on a single throw, and his
stake was to be the dowry of his bride, the game a tilt with the forces
of the Borgia. If he won he came out covered with glory, and not only
the saviour of his people and the champion of their liberty, but a
glorious figure that all Italy--or, at least, that part of it that
had known the iron heel of Valentino--should revere. Thus would he
set himself right, and thus crush from their minds the memory of his
rebellious cousin with whom he was about to deal.
His mother turned to him now, and her words were words of caution,
prayers that he should adventure on naught so vast and appalling to her
woman's mind, without due thought and argument in council. A servant
entered at that moment, and approached the Duke.
“Madonna,” Gian Maria announced, breaking in upon her earnest words,
“I am fully resolved upon my course. If you will but delay a moment and
resume your seat, you shall witness the first scene of this great
drama that I am preparing.” Then turning to the waiting servant: “Your
message?” he demanded.
“Captain Armstadt has returned, Highness, and has brought his
Excellency.”
“Fetch lights and then admit them,” he commanded briefly. “To your
places, sirs, and you, my mother. I am about to sit in judgment.”
Amazed and uncomprehending, they obeyed his wild gestures, and resumed
their places by the throne even as he walked back to the dais and sat
himself upon the ducal chair. Servants entered, bearing great candelabra
of beaten gold which they set on table and overmantel. They withdrew,
and when the doors opened again, a clank of mail, reaching them from
without, increased the astonishment of the company.
This rose yet higher, and left them cold and speechless, when into the
chamber stepped the Count of Aquila with a man-at-arms on either side
of him, marking him a prisoner. With a swift, comprehensive glance that
took in the entire group about the throne--and without manifesting the
slightest surprise at Lodi's presence--Francesco stood still and awaited
his cousin's words.
He was elegantly dressed, but without lavishness, and if he had the air
of a great lord, it was rather derived from the distinction of his face
and carriage. He was without arms, and bareheaded save for the gold coif
he always wore, which seemed to accentuate the lustrous blackness of
his hair. His face was impassive, and the glance as that of a man rather
weary of the entertainment provided him.
There was an oppressive silence of some moments, during which his cousin
regarded him with an eye that glittered oddly. At last Gian Maria broke
into speech, his voice shrill with excitement.
“Know you of any reason,” he demanded, “why your head should not be
flaunted on a spear among those others on the Gate of San Bacolo?”
Francesco's eyebrows shot up in justifiable astonishment.
“I know of many,” he answered, with a smile, an answer which by its
simplicity seemed to nonplus the Duke.
“Let us hear some of them,” he challenged presently.
“Nay, let us hear, rather, some reason why my poor head should be so
harshly dealt with. When a man is rudely taken, as I have been, it is
a custom, which perhaps your Highness will follow, to afford him some
reason for the outrage.”
“You smooth-tongued traitor,” quoth the Duke, with infinite malice, made
angrier by his cousin's dignity. “You choicely-spoken villain! You would
learn why you have been taken? Tell me, sir, what did you at Acquasparta
on the morning of the Wednesday before Easter?”