Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
unfitting the dignity and the station of his niece, and if Gian Maria
would wed her he must come to Urbino and let the ceremony be performed
by a cardinal. Well was it then for Gian Maria that he mastered his
wonted hastiness and curbed the hot, defiant retort that rose to his
lips. Had he done so, an enduring rupture between them would probably
have ensued; for Guidobaldo was not one to permit himself to be
hectored, and, after all, he amply realised that Gian Maria had more
need of him than he of Gian Maria. And this in that moment the Duke of
Babbiano realised too, and realising it he set himself to plead
where otherwise he might have demanded, to beg as a favour that
which otherwise he might have commanded with a threat. And so he won
Guidobaldo--although reluctant--to his wishes in the matter, and in
his good-nature the Duke of Urbino consented to pocket the dignity that
prompted him to see the ceremony performed with princely pomp.
This being settled, Gian Maria blessed Gonzaga who rendered it all
possible, and came most opportunely to his aid where without him he
should have been forced to resort to cannon and bloodshed.
With Gonzaga the only shadow of doubt that remained to mar the perfect
certainty of his success lay in his appreciation of Francesco's daring
character and resourceful mind, and now as if the gods were eager to
favour him to the very last degree--a strange weapon to combat this was
unexpectedly thrust into his hand.
It happened that Alvari was not the only messenger who travelled that
day to Roccaleone. There followed him by some hours, the Count of
Aquila's servant, Zaccaria, who rode hard and reached the approaches of
the castle by sunset. His destination being the fortress itself, he was
forced to wait in the woods until night had fallen, and even then his
mission was fraught with peril.
It befell that somewhere near the second hour of night, the moon being
overcast at the time--for there were threats of a storm in the sky--the
sentinel on the eastern wall heard a sound of splashing in the moat
below, accompanied by the stertorous breathing of a swimmer whose mouth
is not well above water. He challenged the sound, but receiving no reply
he turned to go and give the alarm, and ran into the arms of Gonzaga,
who had come up to take the air.
“Illustrious,” he exclaimed, “there is someone swimming the moat.”
“Eh?” cried Gonzaga, a hundred suspicions of Gian Maria running through
his mind. “Treachery?”
“It is what I thought.”
Gonzaga took the man by the sleeve of his doublet, and drew him back to
the parapet. They peered over, and from out of the blackness they were
hailed by a faint “Olá!”
“Who goes there?” demanded Romeo.
“A friend,” came the answer softly. “A messenger from Babbiano with
letters for the Lord Count of Aquila. Throw me a rope, friends, before I
drown in this trough.”
“You rave, fool!” answered him Gonzaga. “We have no counts at
Roccaleone.”
“Surely, sir sentinel,” replied the voice, “my master, Messer Francesco
del Falco, is here. Throw me a rope, I say.”
“Messer Fran----” began Gonzaga. Then he made a noise like a man
choking. It was as if a sudden light of revelation had flooded his
brain. “Get a rope,” he harshly bade the sentry. “In the armoury yard.
Despatch, fool!” he added sharply, now fearing interruption.
In a moment the man was back, and the rope was lowered to the visitor
below. A few seconds later Zaccaria stood on the ramparts of Roccaleone,
the water dripping from his sodden garments, and gathering in a pool
about his feet.
“This way,” said Gonzaga, leading the man towards the armoury tower,
where a lanthorn was burning. By the light of it he surveyed the
newcomer, and bade the sentry close the door and remain within call,
without.
Zaccaria looked startled at the order. This was scarcely the reception
he had expected after so imperilling his life to reach the castle with
his letter.
“Where is my lord?” he inquired, through teeth that chattered from
the cold of his immersion, wondering vaguely who this very magnificent
gentleman might be.
“Is Messer Francesco del Falco your lord?” asked Romeo.
“He is, sir. I have had the honour to serve him these ten years. I bring
him letters from Messer Fanfulla degli Arcipreti. They are very urgent.
Will you lead me to him?”
“You are very wet,” murmured Gonzaga solicitously. “You will take your
death from cold, and the death of a man so brave as to have found a way
through Gian Maria's lines were truly deplorable.” He stepped to the
door. “Olá!” he called to the sentry. “Take this brave fellow up there
and find him a change of raiment.” He pointed to the upper chamber of
the tower, where, indeed, such things were stored.
“But my letters, sir!” cried Zaccaria impatiently. “They are very
urgent, and hours have I wasted already in waiting for the night.”
“Surely you can wait until you have changed your garments? Your life, I
take it, is of more account than the loss of a few moments.”
“But my orders from Messer degli Arcipreti were that I must not lose an
instant.”
“Oh, si, si!” cried Gonzaga, with a show of good-tempered impatience.
“Give me the letters, then, and I will take them to the Count while you
are stripping those wet clothes.”
Zaccaria eyed him a moment in doubt. But he looked so harmless in his
finery, and the expression of his comely face was so winning and honest,
that the man's hesitancy faded as soon as it sprang up. Removing his
cap, he drew from within the crown the letter, which he had placed there
to keep dry. This package he now handed to Gonzaga, who, with a final
word of instruction to the sentry touching the finding of raiment for
the messenger, stepped out to go his errand. But outside the door he
paused, and called the sentry to him again.
“Here is a ducat for you,” he whispered. “Do my bidding and you shall
have more. Detain him in the tower till I return, and on no account let
him be seen or heard by anyone.”
“Yes, Excellency,” the man replied. “But what if the captain comes and
finds me absent from my post?”
“I will provide for that. I will tell Messer Fortemani that I have
employed you on a special matter, and ask him to replace you. You are
dispensed sentry duty for to-night.”
The man bowed, and quietly withdrew to attend to his prisoner, for in
that light he now regarded Zaccaria.
Gonzaga sought Fortemani in the guard-room below, and did as he had
promised the sentry.
“But,” snapped Ercole, reddening, “by whose authority have you done
this? By what right do you send sentinels on missions of your own?
Christo Santo! Is the castle to be invaded while you send my watchmen to
fetch your comfitbox or a book of verses?”
“You will remember----” began Romeo, with an air of overwhelming
dignity.
“Devil take you and him that sent you!” broke in the bully. “The Messer
Provost shall hear of this.”
“On no account,” cried Gonzaga, now passing from anger to alarm, and
snatching the skirts of Fortemani's cloak as the captain was in the act
of going out to execute his threat. “Ser Ercole be reasonable, I beg
of you. Are we to alarm the castle and disturb Monna Valentina over a
trumpery affair such as this? Man, they will laugh at you.”
“Eh?” There was nothing Ercole relished less than to be laughed at. He
pondered a moment, and it occurred to him that perhaps he was making
much of nothing. Then:
“You, Aventano,” he called, “take your partisan, and patrol the eastern
rampart. There, Messer Gonzaga, I have obeyed your wishes; but Messer
Francesco shall hear of it when he comes his rounds.”
Gonzaga left him. Francesco would not make his rounds for another hour,
and by then it would not matter what Fortemani told him. In one way or
another he would be able to account for his action.
He crossed the courtyard, and mounted the steps leading to his own
chamber. Once there, he closed and barred the door. He kindled a light,
and flinging the letter on the table, he sat and contemplated its
exterior and the great red seal that gleamed in the yellow light of his
taper.
So! This knight-errant, this man whom he had accounted a low-born hind,
was none other than the famous Count of Aquila, the well-beloved of the
people of Babbiano, the beau-ideal of all military folk from Sicily to
the Alps. And he had never suspected it! Dull-witted did he now account
himself. Enough descriptions had he heard of that famous condottiero,
that mirror of Italian chivalry. He might have known that there did
not live two men of such commanding ways as he had seen instanced at
Roccaleone. What was his object there? Was it love of Valentina, or was
it----? He paused, as in his mind he made a swift review of the politics
of Babbiano. A sudden possibility occurred to him that made his eyes
sparkle and his hands tremble with eagerness. Was this but a political
scheme to undermine his cousin's throne, to which Gonzaga had heard it
rumoured that Francesco del Falco was an aspirant? If it were so, what a
vengeance would be his to unmask him! How it must humble Valentina! The
letter lay before him. Within it the true facts would be disclosed. What
did his friend Fanfulla write him?
He took the letter up and made a close inspection of the seal. Then
softly, quietly, slowly he drew his dagger. If his suspicions were
unfounded, his dagger heated in the taper should afford him the means to
conceal the fact that he had tampered with that missive. He slipped his
blade under the seal, and worked it cautiously until it came up and set
the letter open. He unfolded it, and as he read his eyes dilated. He
seemed to crouch on his chair, and the hand that held the paper shook.
He drew the candle nearer, and shading his eyes he read it again, word
for word:
“MY DEAR LORD COUNT,--I have delayed writing until the time when the
signs I observed should have become more definite, as they have now
done, so that I may delay no longer. This, then, goes by the hand of
Zaccaria, to tell you that to-day has word been sent Gian Maria giving
him three days in which to return to Babbiano, or to abandon all hope
of his crown, of which the people will send the offer then to you at
Aquila, where you are believed to be. So now, my dear lord, you have the
tyrant at your mercy, tossed between Scylla and Charybdis. Yours it is
to resolve how you will act; but I rejoice in being the one to send you
word that your presence at Roccaleone and your stubborn defence of
the fortress has not been vain, and that presently you are to reap the
well-earned reward of it. The people have been stirred to this extreme
action by the confusion prevailing here.
“News has reached us that Caesar Borgia is arming, at Rome, a condotta
to invade Babbiano, and the people are exasperated at Gian Maria's
continued absence in such a season. They are short-sighted in this, for
they overlook the results that must attend the alliance with Urbino. May
God protect and prosper your Excellency, whose most devoted servant is
“FANFULLA DEGLI AROIPRETI.”
CHAPTER XXII. A REVELATION
“Francesco,” said Valentina, and the name came from her lips as if it
were an endearment, “why that frowning, careworn look?”
They were in the dining-room alone, where the others had left them, and
they were still seated at the table at which they had supped. Francesco
raised his dark, thoughtful eyes, and as they lighted now on Valentina
the thoughtfulness that was in them gave place to tenderness.
“I am fretted by this lack of news,” he acknowledged. “I would I knew
what is being done in Babbiano. I had thought that ere now Caesar Borgia
had stirred Gian Maria's subjects into some manner of action. I would I
knew!”
She rose, and coming close to him, she stood with one hand resting upon