Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
parallel with mine. And you are wise, for in such a case there can be
but one course. My cousin has uttered words to-day which no man has ever
said to a prince and lived. Nor shall we make exception to that rule. My
Lord of Aquila's head must pay the price of his temerity.”
“My son,” cried Caterina, in a voice of horror. Gian Maria faced her in
a passion, his countenance grown mottled.
“I have said it,” he growled. “I will not sleep until he dies.”
“Yet never may you wake again,” she answered. And with that preamble
she launched upon his head the bitterest criticism he had ever heard. By
stinging epithets and contemptuous words, she sought to make him see the
folly of what he meditated. Was he indeed tired of ruling Babbiano?
If that were so, she told him, he had but to wait for Caesar Borgia's
coming. He need not precipitate matters by a deed that must lead to a
revolt, a rising of the people to avenge their idol.
“You have given me but added reasons,” he answered her stoutly. “There
is no room in my Duchy for a man whose death, if it pleased me to
encompass it, would be avenged upon me by my own people.”
“Then send him from your dominions,” she urged. “Banish him, and all may
be well. But if you slay him, I should not count your life worth a day's
purchase.”
This advice was sound, and in the end they prevailed upon him to adopt
it. But it was not done save at the cost of endless prayers on the part
of those courtiers, and the persuasions of Caterina's biting scorn and
prophecies of the fate that surely awaited him did he touch the life of
one so wellbeloved. At last, against his will, he sullenly consented
that the banishment of his cousin should content him. But it was with
infinite bitterness and regret that he passed his word, for his jealousy
was of a quality that nothing short of Francesco's death could have
appeased. Certain it is that nothing but the fear of the consequences,
which his mother had instilled into his heart, could have swayed him to
be satisfied that the Count of Aquila should be banished.
He sent for Martino and bade him return the Count his sword, and he
entrusted the message of exile to Fabrizio da Lodi, charging him to
apprise Francesco that he was allowed twenty-four hours' grace in which
to take himself beyond the dominions of Gian Maria Sforza.
That done--and with an exceedingly ill grace--the Duke turned on his
heel, and with a sullen brow he left the ducal chamber, and passed,
unattended, to his own apartments.
Rejoicing, Fabrizio da Lodi went his errand, which he discharged with
certain additions that might have cost him his head had knowledge of
them come to Gian Maria. In fact, he seized the opportunity to again
press upon Francesco the throne of Babbiano.
“The hour is very ripe,” he urged the Count, “and the people love you
as surely prince was never loved. It is in their interests that I plead.
You are their only hope. Will you not come to them?”
If for a moment Francesco hesitated, it was rather in consideration of
the manner in which the crown was offered than in consequence of any
allurement that the offer may have had for him. Once--that night at
Sant' Angelo--he had known temptation, and for a moment had listened to
the seductions in the voice that invited him to power. But not so now.
A thought he gave to the people who had such faith in him, and showered
upon him such admiring love, and whom, as a matter of reciprocity, he
wished well, and would have served in any capacity but this. He shook
his head, and with a smile of regret declined the offer.
“Have patience, old friend,” he added. “I am not of the stuff that goes
to make good princes, although you think it. It is a bondage into which
I would not sell myself. A man's life for me, Fabrizio--a free life that
is not directed by councillors and at the mercy of the rabble.”
Fabrizio's face grew sad. He sighed profoundly, yet since it might not
be well for him that he should remain over-long in talk with one who,
in the Duke's eyes, was attainted with treason, he had not leisure to
insist with persuasions, which, after all, he clearly saw must in the
end prove barren.
“What was the salvation of the people of Babbiano,” he murmured, “was
also your Excellency's, since did you adopt the course I urge there
would be no need to go in banishment.”
“Why, this exile suits me excellently well,” returned Francesco. “Idle
have I been over-long, and the wish to roam is in my veins again. I'll
see the world once more, and when I weary of my vagrancy I can withdraw
to my lands of Aquila, and in that corner of Tuscany, too mean to draw
a conqueror's eye, none will molest me, and I shall rest. Babbiano, my
friend, shall know me no more after to-night. When I am gone, and the
people realise that they may not have what they would, they may
rest content perhaps with what they may.” And he waved a hand in the
direction of the doors leading to the ducal chamber. With that he took
his leave of his old friend, and, carrying in his hand the sword and
dagger which Captain Armstadt had returned to him, he repaired briskly
to the northern wing of the Palace, in which he had his lodging.
In the ante-room he dismissed those of his servants who had been taken
from the ranks of the Duke's people, and bade his own Tuscan followers,
Zaccaria and Lanciotto, see to the packing of his effects, and make all
ready to set out within the hour.
He was no coward, but he had no wish to die just yet if it might be
honourably avoided. Life had some sweets to offer Francesco del
Falco, and this spurred him to hasten, for he well knew his cousin's
unscrupulous ways. He was aware that Gian Maria had been forced by
weight of argument to let him go, and he shrewdly feared that did he
linger, his cousin might veer round again, and without pausing to seek
advice a second time, have him disposed of out of hand and reckless of
consequences.
Whilst Lanciotto was left busy in the ante-room the Count passed into
his bedchamber attended by Zaccaria, to make in his raiment such changes
as were expedient. But scarce had he begun when he was interrupted by
the arrival of Fanfulla degli Arcipreti, whom Lanciotto ushered in.
Francesco's face lighted at sight of his friend, and he held out his
hand.
“What is it that has happened?” cried the young gallant, adding that
which showed his question to be unnecessary, for from Fabrizio da Lodi
he had had the whole story of what was befallen. He sat himself upon the
bed, and utterly disregarding the presence of Zaccaria--whom he knew
to be faithful--he attempted to persuade the Count where Fabrizio had
failed. But Paolo cut him short ere he had gone very far.
“Have done with that,” he said, and for all that he said it with
a laugh, determination sounded sturdy in his accents. “I am a
knight-errant, not a prince, and I'll not be converted from one to the
other. It were making a helot of a free man, and you do not love me,
Fanfulla, if you drive this argument further. Do you think me sad,
cast down, at the prospect of this banishment? Why, boy, the blood runs
swifter through my veins since I heard the sentence. It frees me from
Babbiano in an hour when perhaps my duty--the reciprocation of the
people's love--might otherwise have held me here, and it gives me
liberty to go forth, my good Fanfulla, in quest of such adventure as
I choose to follow.” He threw out his arms, and displayed his splendid
teeth in a hearty laugh.
Fanfulla eyed him, infected by the boisterous gladness of his mood.
“Why, true indeed, my lord,” he acknowledged, “you are too fine a bird
to sing in a cage. But to go knight-erranting----” He paused, and spread
his hands in protest. “There are no longer dragons holding princesses
captive.”
“Alas no. But the Venetians are on the eve of war, and they will find
work for these hands of mine. I want not for friends among them.”
Fanfulla sighed.
“And so we lose you. The stoutest arm in Babbiano leaves us in the hour
of need, driven out by that loutish Duke. By my soul, Ser Francesco, I
would I might go with you. Here is nothing to be done.”
Francesco paused in the act of drawing on a boot, and raised his eyes to
stare a moment at his friend.
“But if you wish it, Fanfulla, I shall rejoice to have your company.”
And now the idea of it entered Fanfulla's mind in earnest, for his
expression had been more or less an idle one. But since Francesco
invited him, why not indeed?
And thus it came to pass that at the third hour of that warm May night
a party of four men on horseback and two sumpter mules passed out of
Babbiano and took the road that leads to Vinamare, and thence into the
territory of Urbino. These riders were the Count of Aquila and Fanfulla
degli Arcipreti, followed by Lanciotto leading a mule that bore the arms
of those knights-errant, and Zaccaria leading another with their general
baggage.
All night they rode beneath the stars, and on until some three hours
after sunrise, when they made halt in a hollow of the hills not far from
Fabriano. They tethered their horses in a grove of peaceful laurel and
sheltering mulberry, at the foot of a slope that was set with olive
trees, grey, gnarled and bent as aged cripples, and beside the river
Esino at a spot where it was so narrow that an agile man might leap its
width. Here, then, they spread their cloaks, and Zaccaria unpacked
his victuals, and set before them a simple meal of bread and wine and
roasted fowl, which to their hunger made more appeal than a banquet at
another season. And when they had eaten they laid them down beside the
stream, and there beguiled in pleasant talk the time until they fell
asleep. They rested them through the heat of the day, and waking some
three hours after noon, the Count rose up and went some dozen paces down
the stream to a spot where it fell into a tiny lake--a pool deep and
blue as the cloudless heavens which it mirrored. Here he stripped off
his garments and plunged headlong in, to emerge again, some moments
later, refreshed and reinvigorated in body and in soul.
As Fanfulla awoke he beheld an apparition coming towards him, a figure
lithe and stalwart as a sylvian god, the water shining on the ivory
whiteness of his skin and glistening in his sable hair as the sunlight
caught it.
“Tell me now, Fanfulla, lives there a man of so depraved a mind that he
would prefer a ducal crown to this?”
And the courtier, seeing Francesco's radiant mien, understood perhaps,
at last, how sordid was the ambition that could lure a man from such a
god-like freedom, and from the holy all-consuming joys it brought him.
His thoughts being started upon that course, it was of this they talked
what time the Count resumed his garments--his hose of red, his knee-high
boots of untanned leather, and his quilted brigandine of plain brown
cloth, reputed dagger-proof. He rose at last to buckle on his belt
of hammered steel, from which there hung, behind his loins, a stout,
lengthy dagger, the only weapon that he carried.
At his command the horses were saddled and the sumpters laden once more.
Lanciotto held his stirrup, and Zaccaria did like service for Fanfulla,
and presently they were cantering out of that fragrant grove on to the
elastic sward of broad, green pasture-lands. They crossed the stream at
a spot where the widened sheet of water scarce went higher than their
horses' hocks; then veering to the east they rode away from the hills
for a half-league or so until they gained a road. Here they turned
northward again, and pushed on towards Cagli.
As the bells were ringing the Ave Maria the cavalcade drew up before
the Palazzo Valdicampo, where two nights ago Gian Maria had been
entertained. Its gates were now as readily thrown wide to welcome the