Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
warrior as are you. What man is there in all Italy--or, indeed, what
woman or what child--that has not heard of the prowess of the Lord of
Aquila? Your knightly deeds in the wars 'twixt Pisa and Florence, your
feats of arms and generalship in the service of the Venetians, are
matters for the making of epic song.”
“Messer Fabrizio!” murmured Paolo, seeking to restrain his eulogistic
interlocutor, what time a faint tinge crept into his bronzed cheeks. But
Da Lodi continued, all unheeding:
“And shall you, my lord, who have borne yourself so valiantly as a
condottiero in the service of the stranger, hesitate to employ your
skill and valour against the enemies of your own homeland? Not so,
Excellency. We know the patriotic soul of Francesco del Falco, and we
count upon it.”
“And you do well,” he answered firmly. “When the time comes you shall
find me ready. But until then, and touching such preparation as must be
made--why do you not address his Highness as you do me?”
A sad smile crossed the noble face of Lodi, whilst Ferrabraccio laughed
outright in chill contempt, and with characteristic roughness made
answer:
“Shall we speak to him,” he cried, “of knightly deeds, of prowess, and
of valour? I would as lief enjoin Roderigo Borgia to fulfil the sacred
duties of his Vicarship; I might as profitably sprinkle incense on a
dunghill. What we could say to Gian Maria we have said, and since it had
been idle to have appealed to him as we have appealed to you, we
have shown him yet another way by which Babbiano might be saved and
Valentino's onslaught averted.”
“Ah! And this other way?” inquired the Count, his glance wandering back
to Fabrizio.
“An alliance with the house of Urbino,” answered Lodi. “Guidobaldo has
two nieces. We have sounded him, and we have found him well disposed
towards such a marriage as we suggested. Allied thus to the house of
Montefeltro, we should receive not only assistance from Guidobaldo,
but also from the lords of Bologna, Perugia, Camerino, and some smaller
states whose fortunes are linked already to that of Urbino. Thus we
should present to Cesar Borgia a coalition so strong that he would never
dare to bring a lance into our territory.”
“I heard some talk of it,” said Paolo. “It would have been a wise step
indeed. Pity that the negotiations came to naught!”
“But why did they come to naught? Body of Satan!--why?” roared the
impetuous Ferrabraccio, as with his mighty fist he smote the table
a blow that well-nigh shattered it. “Because Gian Maria was not in a
marrying mood! The girl we proposed to him was beautiful as an angel;
but he would not so much as look. There was a woman in Babbiano who----”
“My lord,” cut in Fabrizio hastily, fearing the lengths to which the
other might go, “it is as Ferrabraccio says. His Highness would not
marry. And this it is has led us to invite you to meet us here to-night.
His Highness will do nothing to save the Duchy, and so we turn to you.
The people are with us; in every street of Babbiano are you spoken of
openly as the duke they would have govern them and defend their homes.
In the sacred name of the people, then,” the old man concluded, rising,
and speaking in a voice shaken by emotion, “and with the people's
voice, of which we are but the mouthpiece, we now offer you the crown
of Babbiano. Return with us to-night, my lord, and to-morrow, with but
twenty spears for escort, we shall ride into Babbiano and proclaim
you Duke. Nor need you fear the slightest opposition. One man only
of Babbiano--that same Masuccio whom you tell us that you saw
to-night--remains faithful to Gian Maria; faithful because he and the
fifty Swiss mercenaries at his heels are paid to be so. Up, my lord!
Let your own good sense tell you whether an honest man need scruple
to depose a prince whose throne knows no defence beyond the hired
protection of fifty foreign spears.”
A silence followed that impassioned speech. Lodi remained standing,
the others sat, their eager glances turned upon the Count, their ears
anxiously alert for his reply. Thus they remained for a brief spell,
Aquila himself so still that he scarcely seemed to breathe.
He sat, gripping the arms of his chair, his head fallen forward until
his chin rested on his breast, a frown darkening his lofty brow. And
whilst they waited for his answer, a mighty battle was fought out within
his soul. The power so suddenly, so unexpectedly, thrust within his
reach, and offered him if he would but open his hands to grasp it,
dazzled him for one little moment. As in a flash he saw himself Lord of
Babbiano. He beheld a proud career of knightly deeds that should cause
his name and that of Babbiano to ring throughout the length and breadth
of Italy. From the obscure state that it was, his patriotism and
his skill as a condottiero should render it one of the great Italian
powers--the rival of Florence, of Venice or Milan. He had a vision of
widened territories, and of neighbouring lords becoming vassals to his
might. He saw himself wresting Romagna mile by mile from the sway of the
ribald Borgia, hunting him to the death as he was wont to hunt the boar
in the marshes of Commachio, or driving him into the very Vatican to
seek shelter within his father's gates--the last strip of soil that he
would leave him to lord it over. He dreamt of a Babbiano courted by the
great republics, and the honour of its alliance craved by them that they
might withstand the onslaughts of French and Spaniard. All this he saw
in that fleeting vision of his, and Temptation caught his martial spirit
in a grip of steel. And then another picture rose before his eyes. What
would he do in times of peace? His was a soul that pined in palaces. He
was born to the camp, and not to the vapid air of courts. In exchange
for this power that was offered him what must he give? His glorious
liberty. Become their lord in many things, to be their slave in more.
Nominally to rule, but actually to be ruled, until, should he fail to
do his rulers' will, there would be some night another meeting such as
this, in which men would plot to encompass his downfall and to supplant
him as he was invited to supplant Gian Maria. Lastly, he bethought
him of the man whose power he was bidden to usurp. His own cousin, his
father's sister's son, in whose veins ran the same blood as in his own.
He raised his head at last, and met those anxious faces on which the
fitful light was casting harsh shadows. The pale ghost of a smile
hovered for a second on the corners of his stern mouth.
“I thank you, sirs, for the honour you have done me,” he made answer
slowly, “an honour of which I fear I am all unworthy.”
In strenuous chorus their voices rose to contradict him.
“At least, then, an honour which I cannot accept.”
There was a moment's silence, and their faces from eager that they had
been, grew downcast to the point of sullenness.
“But why, my lord?” cried old Fabrizio at last, his arms outstretched
towards the Count, his voice quivering with intensity. “Santissima
Vergine! Why?”
“Because--to give you but one reason out of many--the man you ask me to
overthrow and supplant is of my own blood.” And but that his tone was
calm they might have held that he rebuked them.
“I had thought,” hazarded seriously the gay Fanfulla, “that with such a
man as your Excellency, patriotism and the love of Babbiano would have
weighed even more than the ties of blood.”
“And you had thought well, Fanfulla. Did I not say that the reason I
gave you was but one of many? Tell me, sirs, what cause have you to
believe that I should rule you wisely and well? It so chances that in
the crisis now threatening Babbiano a captain is needed for its ruler.
But let not this delude you, for there may come a season in the fortunes
of the State when such a man might be as unfitted for dominion as is the
present Duke in this. What then? A good knight-errant is an indifferent
courtier and a bad statesman. Lastly, my friends--since you must know
all that is in my heart--there remains the fact that I love myself a
little. I love my liberty too well, and I have no mind to stifle in
the scented atmosphere of courts. You see I am frank with you. It is my
pleasure to roam the world, my harness on my back, free as the blessed
wind of heaven. Shall a ducal crown and a cloak of purple----” He broke
off sharply with a laugh. “There, my friends! You have had reasons and
to spare. Again I thank you, and deplore that being such as I am, I may
not become such as you would have me.”
He sank back in his chair, eyeing them with a glance never so wistful,
and after a second's silence, Da Lodi's voice implored him, in accents
that trembled with pathetic emphasis, to reconsider his resolve. The old
man would have proceeded to fresh argument, but Aquila cut him short.
“I have already so well considered it, Messer Fabrizio,” he answered
resolutely, “that nothing now could sway me. But this, sirs, I will
promise you: I will ride with you to Babbiano, and I will seek to reason
with my cousin. More will I do; I will seek at his hands the office of
Gonfalonier, and if he grant it me; I will so reorganise our forces, and
enter into such alliances with our neighbours as shall ensure, at least
in some degree, the safety of our State.”
Still they endeavoured to cajole him, but he held firm against their
efforts, until in the end, with a sorrowful mien, Da Lodi thanked him
for his promise to use his influence with Gian Maria.
“For this, at least, we thank your Excellency, and on our part we shall
exert such power as we still wield in Babbiano to the end that the high
office of Gonfalonier be conferred upon you. We had preferred to see you
fill with honour a position higher still, and should you later come to
consider----”
“Dismiss your hopes of that,” put in the Count, with a solemn shake
of his head. And then, before another word was uttered, young Fanfulla
degli Arcipreti leapt of a sudden to his feet, his brows knit, and an
expression of alarm spreading upon his comely face. A second he
remained thus; then, going swiftly to the door, he opened it, and stood
listening, followed by the surprised glances of the assembled company.
But it needed not the warning cry with which he turned, to afford them
the explanation of his odd behaviour. In the moment's tense silence that
had followed his sudden opening of the door they had caught from without
the distant fall of marching feet.
CHAPTER II. ON A MOUNTAIN PATH
“Armed men, my lords!” had been Fanfulla's cry. “We are betrayed!”
They looked at one another with stern eyes, and with that grimness that
takes the place which fear would hold in meaner souls.
Then Aquila rose slowly to his feet, and with him rose the others,
looking to their weapons. He softly breathed a name--“Masuccio Torri.”
“Aye,” cried Lodi bitterly, “would that we had heeded your warning!
Masuccio it will be, and at his heels his fifty mercenaries.”
“Not less, I'll swear, by the sound of them,” said Ferrabraccio. “And we
but six, without our harness.”
“Seven,” the Count laconically amended, resuming his hat and loosening
his sword in its scabbard.
“Not so, my lord,” exclaimed Lodi, laying a hand upon the Count's arm.
“You must not stay with us. You are our only hope--the only hope of
Babbiano. If we are indeed betrayed--though by what infernal means I
know not--and they have knowledge that six traitors met here to-night to
conspire against the throne of Gian Maria, at least, I'll swear, it is
not known that you were to have met us. His Highness may conjecture,
but he cannot know for sure, and if you but escape, all may yet he
well--saving with us, who matter not. Go, my lord! Remember your promise
to seek at your cousin's hand the gonfalon, and may God and His blessed