Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
“Those guns are empty?” she gasped. “And you could talk so boldly and
threaten so defiantly!”
Mirth crept now into her face, and thrust back the alarm, a little of
which had peeped from her eyes even as she was extolling Francesco.
“There!” he cried joyously. “You are smiling now, Madonna. Nor have
you cause for aught else. Shall we descend? This early morning work has
given me the hunger of a wolf.”
She turned to go with him, and in that moment, Peppe, his owlish face
spread over with alarm, dashed up the steps from the courtyard.
“Madonna!” he gasped, breathless. “Messer Francesco! The
men--Cappoccio---- He is haranguing them. He--is inciting them to
treachery.”
So, in gasps, he got out his tale, which swept the mirth again from
Valentina's eyes, and painted very white her cheek. Strong and brave
though she was, she felt her senses swimming at that sudden revulsion
from confidence to fear. Was all indeed ended at the very moment when
hope had reached its high meridian?
“You are faint, Madonna; lean on me.”
It was Gonzaga who spoke. But beyond the fact that the words had been
uttered, she realised nothing. She saw an arm advanced, and she took it.
Then she dragged Gonzaga with her to the side overlooking the courtyard,
that with her own eyes she might have evidence of what was toward.
She heard an oath--a vigorous, wicked oath--from Francesco, followed by
a command, sharp and rasping.
“To the armoury yonder, Peppe! Fetch me a two-handed sword--the stoutest
you can find. Ercole, come with me. Gonzaga---- Nay, you had best stay
here. See to Monna Valentina.”
He stepped to her side now, and rapidly surveyed the surging scene
below, where Cappoccio was still addressing the men. At sight of
Francesco, they raised a fierce yell, as might a pack of dogs that have
sighted their quarry.
“To the gates!” was the shout. “Down the drawbridge! We accept the
terms of Gian Maria. We will not die like rats.”
“By God, but you shall, if I so will it!” snarled Francesco through his
set teeth. Then turning his head in a fever of impatience “Peppe,” he
shouted, “will you never bring that sword?”
The fool came up at that moment, staggering under the weight of a great,
double-edged two-hander, equipped with lugs, and measuring a good six
feet from point to pummel. Francesco caught it from him, and bending, he
muttered a swift order in Peppino's ear.
“...In the box that stands upon the table in my chamber,” Gonzaga
overheard him say. “Now go, and bring it to me in the yard. Speed you,
Peppino!”
A look of understanding flashed up from the hunchback's eyes, and as he
departed at a run Francesco hoisted the mighty sword to his shoulder as
though its weight were that of a feather. In that instant Valentina's
white hand was laid upon the brassart that steeled his fore-arm.
“What will you do?” she questioned, in a whisper, her eyes dilating with
alarm.
“Stem the treachery of that rabble,” he answered shortly. “Stay you
here, Madonna. Fortemani and I will pacify them--or make an end of
them.” And so grimly did he say it that Gonzaga believed it to lie
within his power.
“But you are mad!” she cried, and the fear in her eyes increased. “What
can you do against twenty?”
“What God pleases,” he answered, and for a second put the ferocity from
his heart that he might smile reassurance.
“But you will be killed,” she cried. “Oh! don't go, don't go! Let them
have their way, Messer Francesco. Let Gian Maria invest the castle. I
care not, so that you do not go.”
Her voice, and the tale it told of sweet anxiety for his fate overruling
everything else in that moment--even her horror of Gian Maria--quickened
his blood to the pace of ecstasy. He was taken by a wild longing to
catch her in his arms--this lady hitherto so brave and daunted now by
the fear of his peril only. Every fibre of his being urged him to gather
her to his breast, whilst he poured courage and comfort into her ear. He
fainted almost with desire to kiss those tender eyes, upturned to his
in her piteous pleading that he should not endanger his own life. But
suppressing all, he only smiled, though very tenderly.
“Be brave, Madonna, and trust in me a little. Have I failed you yet?
Need you then fear that I shall fail you now?”
At that she seemed to gather courage. The words reawakened her
confidence in his splendid strength.
“We shall laugh over this when we break our fast,” he cried. “Come,
Ercole!” And without waiting for more, he leapt down the steps with an
agility surprising in one so heavily armed as he.
They were no more than in time. As they gained the courtyard the
men came sweeping along towards the gates, their voices raucous and
threatening. They were full of assurance. All hell they thought could
not have hindered them, and yet at sight of that tall figure, bright
as an angel, in his panoply of glittering steel, with that great sword
poised on his left shoulder, some of the impetuousness seemed to fall
from them.
Still they advanced, Cappoccio's voice shouting encouragement. Almost
were they within range of that lengthy sword, when of a sudden it
flashed from his shoulder, and swept a half-circle of dazzling light
before their eyes. Round his head it went, and back again before them,
handled as though it had been a whip, and bringing them, silent, to a
standstill. He bore it back to his shoulder, and alert for the first
movement, his blood on fire, and ready to slay a man or two should the
example become necessary, he addressed them.
“You see what awaits you if you persist in this,” he said, in a
dangerously quiet voice. “Have you no shame, you herd of cowardly
animals! You are loud-voiced enough where treason to the hand that pays
you is in question; but there, it seems, your valour ends.”
He spoke to them now in burning words. He recapitulated the arguments
which yesterday he had made use of to quell the mutinous spirit of
Cappoccio. He assured them that Gian Maria threatened more than he could
accomplish; and so, perhaps, more than he would fulfil if they were so
foolish as to place themselves in his power. Their safety, he pointed
out to them, lay here, behind these walls. The siege could not long
endure. They had a stout ally in Caesar Borgia, and he was marching
upon Babbiano by then, so that Gian Maria must get him home perforce ere
long. Their pay was good, he reminded them, and if the siege were soon
raised they should be well rewarded.
“Gian Maria threatens to hang you when he captures Roccaleone. But even
should he capture it, do you think he would be allowed to carry out so
inhuman a threat? You are mercenaries, after all, in the pay of Monna
Valentina, on whom and her captains the blame must fall. This is Urbino,
not Babbiano, and Gian Maria is not master here. Do you think the noble
and magnanimous Guidobaldo would let you hang? Have you so poor an
opinion of your Duke? Fools! You are as safe from violence as are those
ladies in the gallery up there. For Guidobaldo would no more think of
harming you than of permitting harm to come to them. If any hanging
there is it will be for me, and perhaps for Messer Gonzaga who hired
you. Yet, do I talk of throwing down my arms? What think you holds me
here? Interest--just as interest holds you--and if I think the risk
worth taking, why should not you? Are you so tame and so poor-spirited
that a threat is to vanquish you? Will you become a byword in Italy, and
when men speak of cowardice, will you have them say: 'Craven as Monna
Valentina's garrison'?”
In this strain he talked to them, now smiting hard with his scorn, now
cajoling them with his assurances, and breeding confidence anew in their
shaken spirits. It was a thing that went afterwards to the making of an
epic that was sung from Calabria to Piedmont, how this brave knight,
by his words, by the power of his will and the might of his presence,
curbed and subdued that turbulent score of rebellious hinds.
And from the wall above Valentina watched him, her eyes sparkling with
tears that had not their source in sorrow nor yet in fear, for she knew
that he must prevail. How could it be else with one so dauntless?
Thus thought she now. But in the moment of his going, fear had chilled
her to the heart, and when she first saw him take his stand before them,
she had turned half-distraught, and begged Gonzaga not to linger at her
side, but to go lend what aid he could to that brave knight who stood so
sorely in need of it. And Gonzaga had smiled a smile as pale as January
sunshine, and his soft blue eyes had hardened in their glance. Not
weakness now was it that held him there, well out of the dangerous
turmoil. For he felt that had he possessed the strength of Hercules, and
the courage of Achilles, he would not in that instant have moved a step
to Francesco's aid. And as much he told her.
“Why should I, Madonna?” he had returned coldly. “Why should I raise a
hand to help the man whom you prefer to me? Why should I draw sword in
the cause of this fortress?”
She looked at him with troubled eyes. “What are you saying, my good
Gonzaga?”
“Aye--your good Gonzaga!” he mocked her bitterly. “Your lap-dog, your
lute-thrummer; but not man enough to be your captain; not man enough to
earn a thought that is kinder than any earned by Peppe or your hounds.
I may endanger my neck to serve you, to bring you hither to a place of
safety from Gian Maria's persecution, and be cast aside for one who, it
happens, has a little more knowledge of this coarse trade of arms. Cast
me aside if you will,” he pursued, with increasing bitterness, “but
having done so, do not ask me to serve you again. Let Messer Francesco
fight it out----”
“Hush, Gonzaga!” she interrupted. “Let me hear what he is saying.”
And her tone told the courtier that his words had been lost upon
the morning air. Engrossed in the scene below she had not so much as
listened to his bitter tirade. For now Francesco was behaving oddly. The
fool was returned from the errand on which he had been despatched, and
Francesco called him to his side. Lowering his sword he received a paper
from Peppe's hand.
Burning with indignation at having gone unheeded, Gonzaga stood gnawing
his lip, whilst Valentina craned forward to catch Francesco's words.
“I have here a proof,” he cried, “of what I tell you; proof of how
little Gian Maria is prepared to carry out his threats of cannon. It is
that fellow Cappoccio has seduced you with his talk. And you, like the
sheep you are, let yourselves be driven by his foul tongue. Now listen
to the bribe that Gian Maria offers to one within these walls if he can
contrive a means to deliver Roccaleone into his hands.” And to Gonzaga's
paralysing consternation, he heard Francesco read the letter with which
Gian Maria had answered his proposed betrayal of the fortress. He
went white with fear and he leant against the low wall to steady
the tell-tale trembling that had seized him. Then Francesco's voice,
scornful and confident, floated up to his ears. “I ask you, my friends,
would his Highness of Babbiano be disposed to the payment of a
thousand gold florins if by bombardment he thought to break a way into
Roccaleone? This letter was written yesterday. Since then we have made
a brave display of cannon ourselves; and if yesterday he dared not fire,
think you he will to-day? But here, assure yourselves, if there is one
amongst you that can read.”
He held out the letter to them. Cappoccio took it, and calling one
Aventano, he held it out in his turn. This Aventano, a youth who had
been partly educated for the Church, but had fallen from that lofty
purpose, now stood forward and took the letter. He scrutinised it, read
it aloud, and pronounced it genuine.
“Whom is it addressed to?” demanded Cappoccio.