Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
all that there was to learn, and since the knowledge but confirmed his
fears that Gian Maria would delay action no longer, he fell a prey to
the most passionate impatience at his own detention.
In the grey hours of the morning he grew calmer, and by the light of
a lamp that he had called Ercole to replenish, he sat down to write a
letter to Valentina, which he thought should carry conviction of his
honesty to her heart. Since she would not hear him, this was the only
course. At the end of an hour--his moribund light grown yellow now that
the sun was risen--his letter was accomplished, and he summoned Ercole
again, to charge him to deliver it at once to Monna Valentina.
“I shall await her return from chapel,” answered Ercole. He took the
letter and departed. As he emerged into the courtyard he was startled to
see the fool dash towards him, gasping for breath, and with excitement
in every line of his quaint face.
“Quickly, Ercole!” Peppe enjoined him. “Come with me.”
“Devil take you, spawn of Satan--whither?” growled the soldier.
“I will tell you as we go. We have not a moment to spare. There is
treachery afoot---- Gonzaga----” he gasped, and ended desperately: “Will
you come?”
Fortemani needed no second bidding. The chance of catching pretty Messer
Romeo at a treachery was too sweet a lure. Snorting and puffing--for
hard drinking had sorely impaired his wind--the great captain hurried
the fool along, listening as they went to the gasps in which he brought
out his story. It was not much, after all. Peppe had seen Messer Gonzaga
repair to the armoury tower. Through an arrow-slit he had watched him
take down and examine an arbalest, place it on the table and sit down to
write.
“Well?” demanded Ercole. “What else?”
“Naught else. That is all,” answered the hunchback.
“Heaven and hell!” roared the swashbuckler, coming to a standstill and
glowering down upon his impatient companion. “And you have made me run
for this?”
“And is it not enough?” retorted Peppe testily. “Will you come on?”
“Not a foot farther,” returned the captain, getting very angry. “Is this
a miserable jest? What of the treachery you spoke of?”
“A letter and an arbalest!” panted the maddened Peppe, grimacing
horribly at this delay. “God, was there ever such a fool! Does this mean
nothing to that thick, empty thing you call a head? Have you forgotten
how Gian Maria's offer of a thousand florins came to Roccaleone? On an
arbalest quarrel, stupid! Come on, I say, and afterwards you shall have
my motley--the only livery you have a right to wear.”
In the shock of enlightenment Ercole forgot to cuff the jester for his
insolence, and allowed himself once more to be hurried along, across the
outer court and up the steps that led to the battlements.
“You think----” he began.
“I think you had best tread more softly,” snapped the fool, under his
breath, “and control that thunderous wheeze, if you would surprise Ser
Romeo.”
Ercole accepted the hint, meek as a lamb, and leaving the fool behind
him on the steps, he went softly up, and approached the armoury tower.
Peering cautiously through the arrow-slit, and favoured by the fact that
Gonzaga's back was towards him, he saw that he was no more than in time.
The courtier was bending down, and by the creaking sound that reached
him Ercole guessed his occupation to be the winding of the arbalest
string. On the table at his side lay a quarrel swathed in a sheet of
paper.
Swiftly and silently Ercole moved round the tower, and the next instant
he had pushed open the unfastened door and entered.
A scream of terror greeted him, and a very startled face was turned upon
him by Gonzaga, who instantly sprang upright. Then, seeing who it was,
the courtier's face reassumed some of its normal composure, but his
glance was uneasy and his cheek pale.
“Sant Iddio!” he gasped. “You startled me, Ercole. I did not hear you
coming.”
And now something in the bully's face heightened the alarm in Gonzaga.
He still made an effort at self-control, as planting himself between
Ercole and the table, so as to screen the tell-tale shaft, he asked him
what he sought there.
“That letter you have written Gian Maria,” was the gruff, uncompromising
answer, for Ercole reeked nothing of diplomatic issues.
Gonzaga's mouth jerked itself open, and his upper lip shuddered against
his teeth.
“What---- Wha----”
“Give me that letter,” Ercole insisted, now advancing upon him, and
wearing an air of ferocity that drove back into Gonzaga's throat such
resentful words as he bethought him of. Then, like an animal at bay--and
even a rat will assert itself then--he swung aloft the heavy arbalest he
held, and stood barring Ercole's way.
“Stand back!” he cried; “or by God and His saints, I'll beat your brains
out.”
There was a guttural laugh from the swashbuckler, and then his arms
were round Gonzaga's shapely waist, and the popinjay was lifted from his
feet. Viciously he brought down the cross-bow, as he had threatened; but
it smote the empty air. The next instant Gonzaga was hurtled, bruised,
into a corner of the tower.
In a rage so great that he felt it draining him of his very strength
and choking the breath in his body, he made a movement to rise and fling
himself again upon his aggressor. But Fortemani was down upon him, and
for all his struggles contrived to turn him over on his face, twisting
his arms behind him, and making them fast with a belt that lay at hand.
“Lie still, you scorpion!” growled the ruffler, breathing hard from his
exertions. He rose, took the shaft with the letter tied about it, read
the superscription--“To the High and Mighty Lord Gian Maria Sforza”--and
with a chuckle of mingled relish and scorn, he was gone, locking the
door.
Left alone, Gonzaga lay face downward where he had been flung, able to
do little more than groan and sweat in the extremity of his despair,
whilst he awaited the coming of those who would probably make an end of
him. Not even from Valentina could he hope for mercy, so incriminating
was the note he had penned. His letter was to enjoin the Duke to hold
his men in readiness at the hour of the Angelus next morning, and to
wait until Gonzaga should wave a handkerchief from the battlements. At
that he was to advance immediately to the postern, which he would find
open, and the rest, Gonzaga promised him, would be easy. He would take
the whole garrison at their prayers and weaponless.
When Francesco read it a light leapt to his eye and an oath to his
lips; but neither glance nor oath were of execration, as Ercole stood
expecting. A sudden idea flashed through the Count's mind, so strange
and humorous and yet so full of promise of easy accomplishment, that he
burst into a laugh.
“Now may God bless this fool for the most opportune of traitors!” he
exclaimed, in surprise at which Fortemani's mouth fell open, and the
eyes of Peppe grew very round.
“Ercole, my friend, here is a bait to trap that lout my cousin, such as
I could never have devised myself.”
“You mean----?”
“Take it back to him,” cried the Count, holding out the letter with a
hand that trembled in the eagerness of his spirit. “Take it back, and
get him by fair means or foul to shoot it as he intended; or if he
refuses, why, then, do you seal it up and shoot it yourself. But see
that it gets to Gian Maria!”
“May I not know what you intend?” quoth the bewildered Ercole.
“All in good time, my friend. First do my bidding with that letter.
Listen! It were best that having read it you agree to join him in his
betrayal of Roccaleone, your own fears as to the ultimate fate awaiting
you at Gian Maria's hands being aroused. Urge him to promise you money,
immunity, what you will, as your reward; but make him believe you
sincere, and induce him to shoot his precious bolt. Now go! Lose no
time, or they may be returning from chapel, and your opportunity will
be lost. Come to me here, afterwards, and I will tell you what is in my
mind. We shall have a busy night of it to-night, Ercole, and you must
set me free when the others are abed. Now go!”
Ercole went, and Peppe, remaining, plagued the Count with questions
which he answered until in the end the fool caught the drift of his
scheme, and swore impudently that a greater jester than his Excellency
did not live. Then Ercole returned.
“Is it done? Has the letter gone?” cried Francesco. Fortemani nodded.
“We are sworn brothers in this business, he and I. He added a line to
his note to say that he had gained my cooperation, and that, therefore,
immunity was expected for me too.”
“You have done well, Ercole.” Francesco applauded him. “Now return me
the letter I gave you for Monna Valentina. There is no longer the need
for it. But return to me to-night toward the fourth hour, when all are
abed, and bring with you my men, Lanciotto and Zaccaria.”
CHAPTER XXIV. THE INTERRUPTED MASS
The morning of that Wednesday of Corpus Christi, fateful to all
concerned in this chronicle, dawned misty and grey, and the air was
chilled by the wind that blew from the sea. The chapel bell tinkled out
its summons, and the garrison trooped faithfully to Mass.
Presently came Monna Valentina, followed by her ladies, her pages, and
lastly, Peppe, wearing under his thin mask of piety an air of eager
anxiety and unrest. Valentina was very pale, and round her eyes there
were dark circles that told of sleeplessness, and as she bowed her
head in prayer, her ladies observed that tears were falling on the
illuminated Mass-book over which she bent. And now came Fra Domenico
from the sacristy in the white chasuble that the Church ordains for the
Corpus Christi feast, followed by a page in a clerkly gown of black, and
the Mass commenced.
There were absent only from the gathering Gonzaga and Fortemani, besides
a sentry and the three prisoners. Francesco and his two followers.
Gonzaga had presented himself to Valentina with the plausible tale that,
as the events of which Fanfulla's letter had given them knowledge might
lead Gian Maria at any moment to desperate measures, it might be well
that he should reinforce the single man-at-arms patrolling the walls.
Valentina, little recking now whether the castle held or fell, and still
less such trifles as Gonzaga's attendance at Mass, had assented without
heeding the import of what he said.
And so, his face drawn and his body quivering with the excitement of
what he was about to do, Gonzaga had repaired to the ramparts so soon
as he had seen them all safely into chapel. The sentinel was that same
clerkly youth Aventano, who had read to the soldiers that letter Gian
Maria had sent Gonzaga. This the courtier accepted as a good omen. If a
man there was among the soldiery at Roccaleone with whom he deemed that
he had an account to settle, that man was Aventano.
The mist was rapidly lightening, and the country grew visible for miles
around. In the camp of Gian Maria he observed a coming and going of men
that argued an inordinate bustle for so early an hour. They awaited his
signal.
He approached the young sentinel, growing more and more nervous as the
time for action advanced. He cursed Fortemani, who had selfishly refused
to take an active part in the admission of Gian Maria. Here was a task
that Fortemani could perform more satisfactorily than he. He had urged
this fact on Ercole's attention, but the swashbuckler had grinned and
shook his head. To Gonzaga fell the greater reward, and so Gonzaga must
do the greater work. It was only fair, the knave had urged; and
while Gonzaga was about it, he would watch the chapel door against
interruption. And so Gonzaga had been forced to come alone to try
conclusions with the sentry.
He gave the young man a nervous but pleasant “Good-morrow,” and observed