Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
“Madonna,” he cried, “I would it might be mine to cut a road for you
through that besieging camp, and bear you away to some blessed place
where there are neither courts nor princes. But since this may not be,
Madonna mia, I would that this siege might last for ever.”
And then--was it the night breeze faintly stirring through his hair that
mocked him with the whisper, “So indeed would I?” He turned to her, his
hand, brown and nervous, fell upon hers, ivory-white, where it rested on
the stone.
“Valentina!” he cried, his voice no louder than a whisper, his eyes
ardently seeking her averted ones. And then, as suddenly as it had leapt
up, was the fire in his glance extinguished. He withdrew his hand from
hers, he sighed, and shifted his gaze to the camp once more. “Forgive,
forget, Madonna,” he murmured bitterly, “that which in my madness I have
presumed.”
Silent she stood for a long moment; then she edged nearer to him, and
her voice murmured back: “What if I account it no presumption?”
With a gasp he swung round to face her, and they stood very close,
glance holding glance, and hers the less timid of the two. They thus
remained for a little space. Then shaking his head and speaking with an
infinite sadness:
“It were better that you did, Madonna,” he made answer.
“Better? But why?”
“Because I am no duke, Madonna.”
“And what of that?” she cried, to add with scorn: “Out yonder sits a
duke. Oh, sir, how shall I account presumptuous in you the very words
that I would hear? What does your rank signify to me? I know you for the
truest knight, the noblest gentleman, and the most valiant friend
that ever came to the aid of distressed maiden. Do you forget the very
principles that have led me to make this resistance? That I am a woman,
and ask of life no more than is a woman's due--and no less.”
There she stopped; again the blood suffused her cheeks as she bethought
her of how fast she talked, and of how bold her words might sound. She
turned slightly from him, and leant now upon the parapet, gazing out
into the night. And as she stood thus, a very ardent voice it was that
whispered in her ear:
“Valentina, by my soul, I love you!” And there that whisper, which
filled her with an ecstasy that was almost painful in its poignancy,
ended sharply as if throttled. Again his hand sought hers, which was
yielded to him as she would have yielded her whole life at his sweet
bidding, and now his voice came less passionately.
“Why delude ourselves with cruel hopes, my Valentina?” he was saying.
“There is the future. There is the time when this siege shall be done
with, and when, Gian Maria having got him home, you will be free to
depart. Whither will you go?”
She looked at him as if she did not understand the question, and her
eyes were troubled, although in such light as there was he could scarce
see this.
“I will go whither you bid me. Where else have I to go?” she added, with
a note of bitterness.
He started. Her answer was so far from what he had expected.
“But your uncle----?”
“What duty do I owe to him? Oh, I have thought of it, and until--until
this morning, it seemed that a convent must be my ultimate refuge. I
have spent most of my young life at Santa Sofia, and the little that I
have seen of the world at my uncle's court scarce invites me to see
more of it. The Mother Abbess loved me a little. She would take me back,
unless----”
She broke off and looked at him, and before that look of absolute and
sweet surrender his senses swam. That she was niece to the Duke
of Urbino he remembered no more than that he was Count of Aquila,
well-born, but of none too rich estate, and certainly no more a
match for her in Guidobaldo's eyes than if he had been the simple
knight-errant that he seemed.
He moved closer to her, his hands--as if obeying a bidding greater than
his will, the bidding of that glance of hers, perhaps--took her by the
shoulders, whilst his whole soul looked at her from his eyes. Then, with
a stifled cry, he caught her to him. For a moment she lay, palpitant,
within his arms, her tall, bronze head on a level with his chin, her
heart beating against his heart. Stooping suddenly, he kissed her on the
lips. She suffered it with an unresistance that invited. But when it
was done, she gently put him from her; and he, obedient to her slightest
wish, curbed the wild ardour of his mood, and set her free.
“Anima mia!” he cried rapturously. “You are mine now, betide what may.
Not Gian Maria nor all the dukes in Christendom shall take you from me.”
She set her hand upon his lips to silence him, and he kissed the palm,
so that laughing she drew back again. And now from laughter she passed
to a great solemnity, and with arm outstretched towards the ducal camp:
“Win me a way through those lines,” said she, “and bear me away from
Urbino--far away where Guidobaldo's power and the vengeance of Gian
Maria may not follow us--and you shall have won me for your own. But
until then, let there be a truce to--to this, between us. Here is a
man's work to be done, and if I am weak as to-night, I may weaken you,
and then we should both be undone. It is upon your strength I count,
Franceschino mio, my true knight.”
He would have answered her. He had much to tell her--who and what he
was. But she pointed to the head of the steps, where a man's figure
loomed.
“Yonder comes the sentinel,” she said. “Leave me now, dear Francesco.
Go. It is growing late.”
He bowed low before her, obedient ever, like the true knight he was, and
took his leave of her, his soul on fire.
Valentina watched his retreating figure until it had vanished round the
angle of the wall. Then with a profound sigh, that was as a prayer of
thanksgiving for this great good that had come into her life, she leaned
upon the parapet and looked out into the darkness, her cheeks flushed,
her heart still beating high. She laughed softly to herself out of the
pure happiness of her mood. The camp of Gian Maria became a subject for
her scorn. What should his might avail whilst she had such a champion to
defend her now and hereafter?
There was an irony in that siege on which her fancy fastened. By coming
thus in arms against her Gian Maria sought to win her for his wife; yet
all that he had accomplished was to place her in the arms of the one
man whom she had learnt to love by virtue of this very siege. The mellow
warmth of the night, the ambient perfume of the fields were well-sorted
to her mood, and the faint breeze that breathed caressingly upon her
cheek seemed to re-echo the melodies her heart was giving forth. In that
hour those old grey walls of Roccaleone seemed to enclose for her a
very paradise, and the snatch of an old love song stole softly from her
parted lips. But like a paradise--alas!--it had its snake that crept up
unheard behind her, and was presently hissing in her ear. And its voice
was the voice of Romeo Gonzaga.
“It comforts me, Madonna, that there is one, at least, in Roccaleone has
the heart to sing.”
Startled out of her happy pensiveness by that smooth and now unutterably
sinister voice, she turned to face its owner.
She saw the white gleam of his face and something of the anger that
smouldered in his eye, and despite herself a thrill of alarm ran through
her like a shudder. She looked beyond him to a spot where lately she
had seen the sentry. There was no one there nor anywhere upon that wall.
They were alone, and Messer Gonzaga looked singularly evil.
For a moment there was a tense silence, broken only by the tumbling
waters of the torrent-moat and the hoarse challenge of a sentry's “Chi
va là?” in Gian Maria's camp. Then she turned nervously, wondering
how much he might have heard of what had passed between herself and
Francesco, how much have seen.
“And yet, Gonzaga,” she answered him, “I left you singing below when I
came away.”
“--To wanton it here in the moonlight with that damned swashbuckler,
that brigand, that kennel-bred beast of a sbirro!”
“Gonzaga! You would dare!”
“Dare?” he mocked her, beside himself with passion. “Is it you who speak
of daring--you, the niece of Guidobaldo da Montefeltro, a lady of the
noble and illustrious house of Rovere, who cast yourself into the arms
of a low-born vassal such as that, a masnadiero, a bandit, a bravo?
And can you yet speak of daring, and take that tone with me, when shame
should strike you either dead or dumb?”
“Gonzaga,” she answered him, her face as white as his own, but her voice
steady and hard with anger, “leave me now--upon the instant, or I will
have you flogged--flogged to the bone.”
A moment he stared at her like a man dazed. Then he tossed his arms
to Heaven, and letting them fall heavily to his sides, he shrugged his
shoulders and laughed evilly. But of going he made no shift.
“Call your men,” he answered her, in a choking voice. “Do your will on
me. Flog me to the bone or to the death--let that be the reward of all
that I have done, all that I have risked, all that I have sacrificed to
serve you. It were of a piece with your other actions.”
Her eyes sought his in the gloom, her bosom heaving wildly in her
endeavours to master herself before she spoke.
“Messer Gonzaga,” said she at last, “I'll not deny that you served me
faithfully in the matter of my escape from Urbino----”
“Why speak of it?” he sneered. “It was a service of which you but avail
yourself until another offered on whom you might bestow your favour and
the supreme command of your fortress. Why speak of it?”
“To show you that the service you allude to is now paid,” she riposted
sternly. “By reproaching me you have taken payment, and by insulting me
you have stamped out my gratitude.”
“A most convenient logic yours,” he mocked. “I am cast aside like an
outworn garment, and the garment is accounted paid for because through
much hard usage it has come to look a little threadbare.”
And now it entered her mind that perhaps there was some justice in what
he said. Perhaps she had used him a little hardly.
“Do you think, Gonzaga,” she said, and her tone was now a shade more
gentle, “that because you have served me you may affront me, and that
knight who has served me, also, and----”
“In what can such service as his compare with mine? What has he done
that I have not done more?”
“Why, when the men rebelled here----”
“Bah! Cite me not that. Body of God! it is his trade to lead such swine.
He is one of themselves. But for the rest, what has such a man as this
to lose by his share in your rebellion, compared with such a loss as
mine must be?”
“Why, if things go ill, I take it he may lose his life,” she answered,
in a low voice. “Can you lose more?”
He made a gesture of impatience.
“If things go ill--yes. It may cost him dearly. But if they go well,
and this siege is raised, he has nothing more to fear. Mine is a parlous
case. However ends this siege, for me there will be no escape from the
vengeance of Gian Maria and Guidobaldo. They know my share in it. They
know that your action was helped by me, and that without me you could
never have equipped yourself for such resistance. Whatever may betide
you and this Ser Franceseo, for me there will be no escape.”
She drew a deep breath, then set him the obvious question:
“Did you not consider it--did you not weigh these chances--before you
embarked upon this business, before you, yourself, urged me to this
step?”
“Aye, did I,” he answered sullenly.
“Then, why these complaints now?”
He was singularly, madly frank with her in his reply. He told her that
he had done it because he loved her, because she had given him signs
that his love was not in vain.
“I gave you signs?” she interrupted him. “Mother in Heaven! Recite these
signs that I may know them.”