Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
illustrious and glorious Count of Aquila, who was esteemed by Messer
Valdicampo no less than his more puissant cousin. Chambers were set at
his disposal, and at Fanfulla's; servants were bidden to wait upon them;
fresh raiment was laid out for them, and a noble supper was prepared to
do honour to Francesco. Nor did the generous Valdicampo's manner cool
when he learned that Francesco was in disgrace at the Court of Babbiano
and banished from the dominions of Duke Gian Maria. He expressed
sympathetic regret at so untoward a circumstance and discreetly
refrained from passing any opinion thereupon.
Yet later, as they supped, and when perhaps the choice wines had
somewhat relaxed his discretion, he permitted himself to speak of Gian
Maria's ways in terms that were very far from laudatory.
“Here, in my house,” he informed them, “he committed an outrage upon a
poor unfortunate, for which an account may yet be asked of me--since it
was under my roof that the thing befell, for all that I knew nothing of
it.”
Upon being pressed by Paolo to tell them more, he parted with the
information that the unfortunate in question was Urbino's jester Peppe.
At that, Paolo's glance became more intent. The memory of his meeting
with the fool and his mistress in the woods, a month ago, flashed now
across his mind, and it came to him that he could rightly guess the
source whence his cousin had drawn the information that had led to his
own arrest and banishment.
“Of what nature was the outrage?” he inquired.
“From what Peppe himself has told me it would seem that the fool was
possessed of some knowledge which Gian Maria sought, but on which Peppe
was bound by oath to silence. Gian Maria caused him to be secretly taken
and carried off from Urbino. His sbirri brought the fellow here, and to
make him speak the Duke improvised in his bedchamber a tratta di corde,
which had the desired result.”
The Count's face grew dark with anger. “The coward!” he muttered. “The
dastardly craven!”
“But bethink you, sir Count,” exclaimed Valdicampo, “that this poor
Peppe is a frail and deformed creature, lacking the strength of an
ordinary man, and do not judge him over-harshly.”
“It was not of him I spoke,” replied Francesco, “but of my cousin, that
cowardly tyrant, Gian Maria Sforza. Tell me, Messer Valdicampo--what has
become of Ser Peppe?”
“He is still here. I have had him tended, and his condition is already
much improved. It will not be long ere he is recovered, but for a few
days yet his arms will remain almost useless. They were all but torn
from his body.”
When the meal was done Francesco begged his host to conduct him to
Peppe's chamber. This Valdicampo did, and leaving Fanfulla in the
company of the ladies of his house, he escorted the Count to the room
where the poor, ill-used hunchback was abed tended by one of the women
of Valdicampo's household.
“Here is a visitor to see you, Ser Peppe,” the old gentleman announced,
setting down his candle on a table by the bed. The jester turned his
great head towards the newcomer's, and sought with melancoly eyes the
face of his visitor. At sight of him a look of terror spread itself upon
his countenance.
“My lord,” he cried, struggling into a sitting posture, “my noble,
gracious lord, have mercy on me. I could tear out this craven tongue of
mine. But did you know what agonies I suffered, and to what a torture
they submitted me to render me unfaithful, it may be that you, yourself,
would pity me.”
“Why, that I do,” answered Francesco gently. “Indeed, could I have seen
the consequences that oath would have for you, I had not bound you by
it.”
The fear in Peppe's face gave place to unbelief.
“And you forgive me, lord?” he cried. “I dreaded when you entered
that you were come to punish me for what wrong I may have done you in
speaking. But if you forgive me, it may be that Heaven will forgive me
also, and that I may not be damned. And that were a thousand pities, for
what, my lord, should I do in hell?”
“Deride the agonies of Gian Maria,” answered Francesco, with a laugh.
“It were almost worth burning for,” mused Peppe, putting forth a hand,
whose lacerated, swollen wrist bore evidence to the torture he had
suffered. At sight of it the Count made an exclamation of angry horror,
and hastened to inquire into the poor fool's condition.
“It is not so bad now,” Peppe answered him, “and it is only in
consequence of Messer Valdicampo's insistence that I have kept my bed. I
can scarce use my arms, it is true, but they are improving. To-morrow
I shall be up, and I hope to set out for Urbino, where my dear mistress
must be distressed with fears for my absence, for she is a very kind and
tenderhearted lady.”
This resolve of Peppe's prompted the Count to offer to conduct him
to Urbino on the morrow, since he, himself, would be journeying that
way--an offer which the fool accepted without hesitation and with lively
gratitude.
CHAPTER XII. THE FOOL'S INQUISITIVENESS
In the morning Francesco set out once more, accompanied by his servants,
Fanfulla, and the fool. The latter was now so far restored as to be able
to sit a mule, but lest the riding should over-tire him they proceeded
at little more than an ambling pace along the lovely valleys of the
Metauro. Thus it befell that when night descended it found them still
journeying, and some two leagues distant from Urbino. Another league
they travelled in the moonlight, and the fool was beguiling the time
for them with a droll story culled from the bright pages of Messer
Boccaccio, when of a sudden his sharp ears caught a sound that struck
him dumb in the middle of a sentence.
“Are you faint?” asked Francesco, turning quickly towards him, and
mindful of the fellow's sore condition.
“No, no,” answered the fool, with a readiness that dispelled the Count's
alarm on that score. “I thought I heard a sound of marching in the
distance.”
“The wind in the trees, Peppino,” explained Fanfulla.
“I do not think----” He stopped short and listened and now they all
heard it, for it came wafted to them on a gust of the fitful breeze that
smote their faces.
“You are right,” said Francesco. “It is the tramp of men. But what
of that, Peppe? Men will march in Italy. Let us hear the end of your
story.”
“But who should march in Urbino, and by night?” the fool persisted.
“Do I know or do I care?” quoth the Count. “Your story, man.”
For all that he was far from satisfied, the fool resumed his narrative.
But he no longer told it with his former irresistible humour. His mind
was occupied with that sound of marching, which came steadily nearer.
At length he could endure it no longer, and the apathy of his companions
fired him openly to rebel.
“My lord,” he cried, turning to the Count, and again leaving his story
interrupted, “they are all but upon us.”
“True!” agreed Francesco indifferently. “The next turn yonder should
bring us into them.”
“Then I beg you, Lord Count, to step aside. Let us pause here, under
the trees, until they have passed. I am full of fears. Perhaps I am a
coward, but I mislike these roving night-hands. It may be a company of
masnadieri.”
“What then?” returned the Count, without slackening speed. “What cause
have we to fear a party of robbers?”
But Fanfulla and the servants joined their advice to Peppe's, and
prevailed at last upon Francesco to take cover until this company should
have passed. He consented, to pacify them, and wheeling to the right
they entered the border of the forest, drawing rein well in the shadow,
whence they could survey the road and see who passed across the patch
of moonlight that illumined it. And presently the company came along
and swung into that revealing flood of light. To the astonishment of
the watchers they beheld no marauding party such as they had been led to
expect, but a very orderly company of some twenty men, soberly arrayed
in leather hacketons and salades of bright steel, marching sword
on thigh and pike on shoulder. At the head of this company rode a
powerfully-built man on a great sorrel horse, at sight of whom the
fool swore softly in astonishment. In the middle of the party came four
litters borne by mules, and at the side of one of them rode a slender,
graceful figure that provoked from Peppe a second oath. But the
profoundest objurgation of all was wrung from him at sight of a portly
bulk in the black habit of the Dominicans ambling in the rear, who just
then was in angry altercation with a fellow that was urging his mule
along with the butt of his partisan.
“May you be roasted on a gridiron like Saint Lawrence,” gasped the irate
priest. “Would you break my neck, brute beast that you are? Do you
but wait until we reach Roccaleone, and by St. Dominic, I'll get your
ruffianly commander to hang you for this ill-seasoned jest.”
But his tormentor laughed for answer, and smote the mule again, a blow
this time that almost caused it to rear up. The friar cried out in
angry alarm, and then, still storming and threatening his persecutor, he
passed on. After him came six heavily-laden carts, each drawn by a pair
of bullocks, and the rear of the procession was brought up by a flock of
a dozen bleating sheep, herded by a blasphemant man-at-arms. They passed
the astonished watchers, who remained concealed until that odd company
had melted away into the night.
“I could swear,” said Fanfulla, “that that friar and I have met before.”
“Nor would you do a perjury,” answered him the fool. “For it is that fat
hog Fra Domenico--he that went with you to the Convent of Acquasparta to
fetch unguents for his Excellency.”
“What does he in that company, and who are they?” asked the Count,
turning to the fool as they rode out of their ambush.
“Ask me where the devil keeps his lures,” quoth the fool, “and I'll
make some shift to answer you. But as for what does Fra Domenico in that
galley, it is more than I can hazard a guess on. He is not the only
one known to me,” Peppino added, “There was Ercole Fortemani, a great,
dirty, blustering ruffian whom I never saw in aught but rags, riding at
their heads in garments of most unwonted wholeness; and there was Romeo
Gonzaga, whom I never knew to stir by night save to an assignation.
Strange things must be happening in Urbino.”
“And the litters?” inquired Francesco, “Can you hazard no guess as to
their meaning?”
“None,” said he, “saving that they may account for the presence of
Messer Gonzaga. For litters argue women.”
“It seems, fool, that not even your wisdom shall avail us. But you heard
the friar say they were bound for Roccaleone?”
“Yes, I heard that. And by means of it we shall probably learn the rest
at the end of our journey.”
And being a man of extremely inquisitive mind, the fool set his
inquiries on foot the moment they entered the gates of Urbino in the
morning--for they had reached the city over-late to gain admittance that
same night, and were forced to seek shelter in one of the houses by the
river. It was of the Captain of the Gate that he sought information.
“Can you tell me, Ser Capitan,” he inquired, “what company was that that
travelled yesternight to Roccaleone?”
The captain looked at him a moment.
“There was none that I know of,” said he, “Certainly none from Urbino.”
“You keep a marvellous watch,” said the fool drily. “I tell you that a
company of men-at-arms some twenty strong went last night from Urbino to
Roccaleone.”
“To Roccaleone?” echoed the captain, with a musing air, more attentively
than before, as if the repetition of that name had suggested something
to his mind. “Why, it is the castle of Monna Valentina.”
“True, sapient sir. But what of the company, and why was it travelling
so, by night?”