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 Count's impassive face remained inscrutable, a mask of patient
wonder. By the sudden clenching of his hands alone did he betray how
that thrust had smitten him, and his hands none there remarked. Fabrizio
da Lodi, standing behind the Duke, went pale to the lips.
“I do not recall that I did anything there of much account,” he
answered. “I breathed the good spring air in the woods.”
“And nothing else?” sneered Gian Maria.
“I can bethink me of little else that signifies. I met a lady there with
whom I had some talk, a friar, a fool, a popinjay, and some soldiers.
But,”--he shifted abruptly, his tone growing haughty--“whatever I did,
I did as best seemed to me, and I have yet to learn that the Count of
Aquila must give account of what he does and where he does it. You
have not told me yet, sir, by what right, or fancied right, you hold me
prisoner.”
“Have I not, indeed? See you no link between your offence and your
presence near Sant' Angelo on that day?”
“If I am to apprehend that you have had me brought here with this
indignity to set me riddles for your amusement, I am enlightened and yet
amazed. I am no court buffoon.”
“Words, words,” snapped the Duke. “Do not think to beguile me with
them.” With a short laugh he turned from Francesco to those upon the
dais. “You will be marvelling, sirs, and you, my lady mother, upon what
grounds I have had this traitor seized. You shall learn. On the night of
the Tuesday before Easter seven traitors met at Sant' Angelo to plot
my overthrow. Of those, the heads of four may be seen on the walls
of Babbiano now; the other three made off, but there stands one of
them--the one that was to have occupied this throne after they had
unseated me.”
The eyes of all were now upon the young Count, whilst his own glance
strayed to the face of Lodi, on which there was written a consternation
so great that it must have betrayed him had the Duke but chanced to look
his way. A pause ensued which none present dared to break. Gian
Maria seemed to await an answer from Francesco; but Francesco stood
impassively regarding him, and made no sign that he would speak. At
length, unable longer to endure the silence:
“E dunque?” cried the Duke. “Have you no answer?”
“I would submit,” returned Francesco, “that I have heard no question.
I heard a wild statement, extravagant and mad, the accusation of one
demented, a charge of which no proofs can be forthcoming, else I take
it you had not withheld them. I ask you, sirs, and you, Madonna,” he
continued, turning to the others, “has his Highness said anything to
which an answer can by any means be necessary?”
“Is it proofs you lack?” cried Gian Maria, but less confidently than
hitherto, and, so, less fiercely. A doubt had arisen in his mind born of
this strange calm on the part of Francesco--a calm that to Gian Maria's
perceptions seemed hardly the garb of guilt, but belonged rather to one
who is assured that no peril threatens him. “Is it proofs you lack?”
quoth the Duke again, and then with the air of a man launching an
unanswerable question: “How came you by the wound you had that day in
the woods?”
A smile quivered on Francesco's face, and was gone.
“I asked for proofs, not questions,” he protested wearily. “What shall
it prove if I had a hundred wounds?”
“Prove?” echoed the Duke, less and less confident of his ground, fearing
already that he had perhaps gone too fast and too far upon the road of
his suspicions. “It proves to me, when coupled with your presence there,
that you were in the fight the night before.”
Francesco stirred at that. He sighed and smiled at once. Then assuming a
tone of brisk command:
“Bid these men begone,” he said, pointing to his guards. “Then hear me
scatter your foul suspicions as the hurricane scatters the leaves in
autumn.”
Gian Maria stared at him in stupefaction. That overwhelming assurance,
that lofty, dignified bearing which made such a noble contrast with
his own coarse hectoring, were gradually undermining more and more
his confidence. With a wave of his hand he motioned the soldiers to
withdraw, obeying almost unconsciously the master-mind of his cousin by
which he was as unconsciously being swayed.
“Now, Highness,” said Francesco, as soon as the men were gone, “before
I refute the charge you make, let me clearly understand it. From the
expressions you have used I gather it to be this: A conspiracy was laid
a little time ago at Sant' Angelo which had for object to supplant you
on the throne of Babbiano and set me in your place. You charge me with
having had in that conspiracy a part--the part assigned to me. It is so,
is it not?”
Gian Maria nodded.
“You have put it very clearly,” he sneered. “If you can make out your
innocence as clearly, I shall be satisfied that I have wronged you.”
“That this conspiracy took place we will accept as proven, although to
the people of Babbiano the proof may have seemed scant. A man, since
dead, had told your Highness that such a plot was being hatched. Hardly,
perhaps, in itself, evidence enough to warrant setting the heads of four
very valiant gentlemen on spears, but no doubt your Highness had other
proofs to which the rest of us had no access.”
Gian Maria shivered at the words. He recalled what Francesco had said
on the occasion of their last talk upon this very subject; he remembered
the manner of his own reception that day in Babbiano.
“We must be content that it is so,” calmly pursued Francesco. “Indeed,
your Highness's action in the matter leaves no doubt. We will accept,
then, that such a plot was laid, but that I had a part in it, that I was
the man chosen to take your place--need I prove the idleness of such a
charge?”
“You need, in truth. By God! you need, if you would save your head.”
The Count stood in an easy posture, his hands clasped behind his back,
and smiled up at his cousin's pale face and scowling brow.
“How mysterious are the ways of your justice, Cousin,” he murmured, with
infinite relish; “what a wondrous equity invests your methods! You have
me dragged here by force, and sitting there, you say to me: 'Prove that
you have not conspired against me, or the headsman shall have you!' By
my faith! Soloman was a foolish prattler when compared with you.”
Gian Maria smote the gilded arm of his chair a blow for which he was to
find his hand blackened on the morrow.
“Prove it!” he screamed, like a child in a pet. “Prove it, prove it,
prove it!”
“And have my words not already proven it?” quoth the Count, in a voice
of such mild wonder and gentle protest that it left Gian Maria gasping.
Then the Duke made a hasty gesture of impatience.
“Messer Alvari,” he said, in a voice of concentrated rage, “I think you
had best recall the guard.”
“Wait!” the Count compelled him, raising his hand. And now it was
seen that the easy insouciance was gone from his face: the smile had
vanished, and in its place there was a look of lofty and contemptuous
wrath. “I will repeat my words. You have dragged me here before you by
force, and, sitting there on the throne of Babbiano, you say: 'Prove
that you have not conspired against me if you would save your head.'”
A second he paused, and noted the puzzled look with which all regarded
him.
“Is this a parable?” sneered the uncomprehending Duke.
“You have said it,” flashed back Francesco. “A parable it is. And if you
consider it, does it not afford you proof enough?” he asked, a note of
triumph in his voice. “Do not our relative positions irrefutably show
the baselessness of this your charge? Should I stand here and you
sit there if what you allege against me were true?” He laughed almost
savagely, and his eyes flashed scornfully upon the Duke. “If more
plainly still you need it, Gian Maria, I tell you that had I plotted to
occupy your tottering throne, I should be on it now, not standing here
defending myself against a foolish charge. But can you doubt it? Did you
learn no lesson as you rode into Babbiano to-day? Did you not hear them
acclaim me and groan at you. And yet,” he ended, with a lofty pity,
“you tell me that I plotted. Why, if I desired your throne, my only need
would be to unfurl my banner in the streets of your capital, and within
the hour Gian Maria would be Duke no more. Have I proved my innocence,
Highness?” he ended quietly, sadly almost. “Are you convinced how little
is my need for plots?”
But the Duke had no answer for him. Speechless, and in a sort of dazed
horror, he sat and scowled before him at his cousin's handsome face,
what time the others watched him furtively, in silence, trembling for
the young man who, here, in his grasp, had dared say such things to him.
Presently he covered his face with his hands, and sat so, as one
deeply in thought, a little while. At last he withdrew them slowly and
presented a countenance that passion and chagrin had strangely ravaged
in so little time. He turned to Santi, who stood nearest.
“The guard,” he said hoarsely, with a wave of the hand, and Santi went,
none daring to utter a word. They waited thus an odd group, all very
grave save one, and he the one that had most cause for gravity. Then the
captain re-entered, followed by his two men, and Gian Maria waved a hand
towards the prisoner.
“Take him away,” he muttered harshly, his face ghastly, and passion
shaking him like an aspen. “Take him away, and await my orders in the
ante-chamber.”
“If it is farewell, Cousin,” said Francesco, “may I hope that you will
send a priest to me? I have lived a faithful Christian.”
Gian Maria returned him no answer, but his baleful eye was upon Martino.
Reading the significance of that glance, the captain touched Francesco
lightly on the arm. A moment the Count stood, looking from the Duke to
the soldiers; a second his glance rested on those assembled there; then,
with a light raising of his shoulders, he turned on his heel, and with
his head high passed out of the ducal chamber.
And silence continued after he was gone until Caterina Colonna broke it
with a laugh that grated on Gian Maria's now very tender nerves.
“You promised bravely,” she mocked him, “to play the lion. But so far,
we have only heard the braying of an ass.”
CHAPTER XI. WANDERING KNIGHTS
That taunt of his mother's stirred Gian Maria. He rose from his ducal
chair and descended from the dais on which it stood, possessed by a
tempestuous mood that would not brook him to sit still.
“The braying of an ass?” he muttered, facing Caterina. Then he laughed
unpleasantly. “The jaw-bone of an ass did sore execution on one
occasion, Madonna, and it may again. A little patience, and you shall
see.” Next, and with a brisker air, he addressed the four silent
courtiers, “You heard him, sirs,” he exclaimed, “How do you say that I
shall deal with such a traitor?” He waited some seconds for an answer,
and it seemed to anger him that none came. “Have you, then, no counsel
for me?” he demanded harshly.
“I had not thought,” said Lodi hardily, “that this was a case in which
your Highness needed counsel. You were drawn to conclude that the Lord
of Aquila was a traitor, but from what we have all heard, your Highness
should now see that he is not.”
“Should I so?” the Duke returned, standing still and fixing upon
Fabrizio an eye that was dull as a snake's. “Messer da Lodi, your
loyalty is a thing that has given signs of wavering of late. Now, if
by the grace of God and His blessed saints I have ruled as a merciful
prince who errs too much upon the side of clemency, I would enjoin you
not to try that clemency too far. I am but a man, after all.”
He turned from the fearless front presented by the old statesman, to
face the troubled glances of the others.
“Your silence, sirs, tells me that in this matter your judgement runs