Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
“A curse on you and him that sent you,” was the answering greeting he
received. Then the man checked his anger and broke into a laugh at sight
of the fear that sprang into the jester's eyes.
“I crave your pardon--most humbly do I crave it, Illustrious,” said the
fool, still in fear. “I was pursued.”
“Pursued?” echoed the other, in a tone not free from a sudden
uneasiness. “And, pray, by whom?”
“By the very fiend, disguised in the gross flesh and semblance of a
Dominican brother.”
“Do you jest?” came the angry question.
“Jest? Had you caught his villainous sandal between your shoulders, as
did I, you would know how little I have a mind to jest.”
“Now answer me a plain question, if you have the wit to answer with,”
quoth the other, anger ever rising in his voice. “Is there hereabouts a
monk?”
“Aye, is there--may a foul plague rot him!--lurking in the bushes
yonder. He is over-fat to run, or you had seen him at my heels, arrayed
in that panoply of avenging wrath that is the cognisance of the Church
Militant.”
“Go bring him hither,” was the short answer.
“Gesù!” gasped the fool, in very real affright. “I'll not go near him
till his anger cools--not if you made me straight and bribed me with the
Patrimony of St. Peter.”
The man turned from him impatiently, and rising his voice:
“Fanfulla!” he called over his shoulder, and then, after a moment's
pause, again: “Olá, Fanfulla!”
“I am here, my lord,” came an answering voice from behind a clump of
bushes on their right, and almost immediately the very splendid youth
who had gone to sleep in its shadow stood up and came round to them.
At sight of the fool he paused to take stock of him, what time the fool
returned the compliment with wonder-stricken interest. For however much
Fanfulla's raiment might have suffered in yesternight's affray, it was
very gorgeous still, and in the velvet cap upon his head a string of
jewels was entwined. Yet not so much by the richness of his trappings
was the fool impressed, as by the fact that one so manifestly noble
should address by such a title, and in a tone of so much deference, this
indifferently apparelled fellow over whom he had stumbled. Then his gaze
wandered back to the man who lay supported on his elbow, and he noticed
now the gold net in which his hair was coiffed, and which was by no
means common to mean folk. His little twinkling eyes turned their
attention full upon the face before him, and of a sudden a gleam of
recognition entered them. His countenance underwent a change, and from
grotesque that it had been, it became more grotesque still in its hasty
assumption of reverence.
“My Lord of Aquila!” he murmured, scrambling to his feet.
Scarcely had he got erect when a hand gripped him by the shoulder, and
Fanfulla's dagger flashed before his startled eyes.
“Swear on the cross of this, never to divulge his Excellency's presence
here, or take you the point of it in your foolish heart.”
“I swear, I swear!” he cried, in fearful haste, his hand upon the hilt,
which Fanfulla now held towards him.
“Now fetch the priest, good fool,” said the Count, with a smile at the
hunchback's sudden terror. “You have nothing to fear from us.”
When the jester had left them to go upon his errand, Francesco turned to
his companion.
“Fanfulla, you are over-cautious,” he said, with an easy smile. “What
shall it matter that I am recognised?”
“I would not have it happen for a kingdom while you are so near Sant'
Angelo. The six of us who met last night are doomed--those of us who are
not dead already. For me, and for Lodi if he was not taken, there may be
safety in flight. Into the territory of Babbiano I shall never again set
foot whilst Gian Maria is Duke, unless I be weary of this world. But of
the seventh--yourself--you heard old Lodi swear that the secret could
not have transpired. Yet should his Highness come to hear of your
presence in these parts and in my company, suspicion might set him on
the road that leads to knowledge.”
“Ah! And then?”
“Then?” returned the other, eyeing Francesco in surprise. “Why, then,
the hopes we found on you--the hopes of every man in Babbiano worthy of
the name--would be frustrated. But here comes our friend the fool, and,
in his wake, the friar.”
Fra Domenico--so was he very fitly named, this follower of St.
Dominic--approached with a solemnity that proceeded rather from his
great girth than from any inflated sense of the dignity of his calling.
He bowed before Fanfulla until his great crimson face was hidden, and he
displayed instead a yellow, shaven crown. It was as if the sun had set,
and the moon had risen in its place.
“Are you skilled in medicine?” quoth Fanfulla shortly.
“I have some knowledge, Illustrious.”
“Then see to this gentleman's wounds.”
“Eh? Dio mio! You are wounded, then?” he began, turning to the Count,
and he would have added other questions as pregnant, but that Aquila,
drawing aside his hacketon at the shoulder, answered him quickly:
“Here, sir priest.”
His lips pursed in solicitude, the friar would have gone upon his
knees, but that Francesco, seeing with what labour the movement must be
fraught, rose up at once.
“It is not so bad that I cannot stand,” said he, submitting himself to
the monk's examination.
The latter expressed the opinion that it was nowise dangerous, however
much it might be irksome, whereupon the Count invited him to bind it up.
To this Fra Domenico replied that he had neither unguents nor linen, but
Fanfulla suggested that he might get these things from the convent of
Acquasparta, hard by, and proffered to accompany him thither.
This being determined, they departed, leaving the Count in the company
of the jester. Francesco spread his cloak, and lay down again, whilst
the fool, craving his permission to remain, disposed himself upon his
haunches like a Turk.
“Who is your master, fool?” quoth the Count, in an idle spirit.
“There is a man who clothes and feeds me, noble sir, but Folly is my
only master.”
“To what end does he do this?”
“Because I pretend to be a greater fool than he, so that by contrast
with me he seems unto himself wise, which flatters his conceit. Again,
perhaps, because I am so much uglier than he that, again by contrast, he
may account himself a prodigy of beauty.”
“Odd, is it not?” the Count humoured him.
“Not half so odd as that the Lord of Aquila should lie here, roughly
clad, a wound in his shoulder, talking to a fool.”
Francesco eyed him with a smile.
“Give thanks to God that Fanfulla is not here to hear you, or they had
been your last words for pretty though he be, Messer Fanfulla is a very
monster of bloodthirstiness. With me it is different. I am a man of very
gentle ways, as you may have heard, Messer Buffoon. But see that you
forget at once my station and my name, or you may realise how little
they need buffoons in the Court of Heaven.”
“My lord, forgive. I shall obey you,” answered the hunchback, with a
stricken manner. And then through the glade came a voice--a woman's
voice, wondrous sweet and rich--calling: “Peppino! Peppino!”
“It is my mistress calling me,” quoth the fool, leaping to his feet.
“So that you own a mistress, though Folly be your only master,” laughed
the Count. “It would pleasure me to behold the lady whose property you
have the honour to be, Ser Peppino.”
“You may behold her if you but turn your head,” Peppino whispered.
Idly, with a smile upon his lips that was almost scornful, the Lord of
Aquila turned his eyes in the direction in which the fool was already
walking. And on the instant his whole expression changed. The amused
scorn was swept from his countenance, and in its place there sat now a
look of wonder that was almost awe.
Standing there, on the edge of the clearing, in which he lay, he beheld
a woman. He had a vague impression of a slender, shapely height, a
fleeting vision of a robe of white damask, a camorra of green velvet,
and a choicely wrought girdle of gold. But it was the glory of her
peerless face that caught and held his glance in such ecstatic awe; the
miracle of her eyes, which, riveted on his, returned his glance with
one of mild surprise. A child she almost seemed, despite her height and
womanly proportions, so fresh and youthful was her countenance.
Raised on his elbow, he lay there for a spell, and gazed and gazed,
his mind running on visions which godly men have had of saints from
Paradise.
At last the spell was broken by Peppino's voice, addressing her, his
back servilely bent. Francesco bethought him of the deference due to one
so clearly noble, and leaping to his feet, his wound forgotten, he bowed
profoundly. A second later he gasped for breath, reeled, and swooning,
collapsed supine among the bracken.
CHAPTER IV. MONNA VALENTINA
In after years the Lord of Aquila was wont to aver in all solemnity that
it was the sight of her wondrous beauty set up such a disorder in his
soul that it overcame his senses, and laid him swooning at her feet.
That he, himself, believed it so, it is not ours to doubt, for all that
we may be more prone to agree with the opinion afterwards expressed
by Fanfulla and the friar--and deeply resented by the Count--that in
leaping to his feet in over-violent haste his wound re-opened, and the
pain of this, combining with the weak condition that resulted from his
loss of blood, had caused his sudden faintness.
“Who is this, Peppe?” she asked the fool, and he, mindful of the oath
he had sworn, answered her brazenly that he did not know, adding that it
was--as she might see---some poor wounded fellow.
“Wounded?” she echoed, and her glorious eyes grew very pitiful. “And
alone?”
“There was a gentleman here, tending him, Madonna; but he is gone with
Fra Domenico to the Convent of Acquasparta to seek the necessaries to
mend his shoulder.”
“Poor gentleman,” she murmured, approaching the fallen figure. “How came
he by his hurt?”
“That, Madonna, is more than I can tell.”
“Can we do nothing for him until his friends return?” was her next
question, bending over the Count as she spoke. “Come, Peppino,” she
cried, “lend me your aid. Get me water from the brook, yonder.”
The fool looked about him for a vessel, and his eye falling upon the
Count's capacious hat, he snatched it up, and went his errand. When he
returned, the lady was kneeling with the unconscious man's head in
her lap. Into the hatful of water that Peppe brought her she dipped a
kerchief, and with this she bathed the brow on which his long black hair
lay matted and disordered.
“See how he has bled, Peppe,” said she. “His doublet is drenched, and
he is bleeding still! Vergine Santa!” she cried, beholding now the
ugly wound that gaped in his shoulder, and turning pale at the sight.
“Assuredly he will die of it--and he so young, Peppino, and so comely to
behold!”
Francesco stirred, and a sigh fluttered through his pallid lips. Then
he raised his heavy lids, and their glances met and held each other. And
so, eyes that were brown and tender looked down into feverish languid
eyes of black, what time her gentle hand held the moist cloth to his
aching brow.
“Angel of beauty!” he murmured dreamily, being but half-awake as yet to
his position. Then, becoming conscious of her ministrations, “Angel of
goodness!” he added, with yet deeper fervour.
She had no answer for him, saving such answer--and in itself it was
eloquent enough--as her blushes made, for she was fresh from a convent
and all innocent of worldly ways and tricks of gallant speech.
“Do you suffer?” she asked at last.
“Suffer?” quoth he, now waking more and more, and his voice sounding
a note of scorn. “Suffer? My head so pillowed and a saint from Heaven