Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
“How shall I know that what you say is true--that I may trust you?”
she asked, but her voice was not the voice of one that demands an
overwhelming proof ere she will believe.
“By my honour and my knighthood,” he answered, in a ringing voice, “I
make oath here, at the foot of God's altar, that my purpose--my only
purpose--has been, is, and shall be to serve you, Monna Valentina.”
“I believe you,” she cried; to sob a moment later:
“Forgive me, Francesco, and may God, too, forgive my lack of faith in
you.”
He softly breathed her name in such sweet accents that a happy peace
pervaded her, and the bright courage of yore shone in her brown eyes.
“Come, sirs!” he cried now, with a sudden briskness that startled them
into feverish obedience. “You, Fra Domenico, cut off your sacerdotals,
and gird high your habit. There is climbing for you. Here, a couple of
you, move aside that altar-step. My men and I have spent the night in
loosening its old hinges.”
They raised the slab, and in the gap beneath it was disclosed a flight
of steps leading down to the dungeons and cellars of Roccaleone.
Down this they went in haste but in good order, marshalled by Francesco,
and when the last had passed down, he and Lanciotto, aided by others
below, who had seized a rope that he had lowered them, replaced the slab
from underneath, so that no trace should remain of the way by which they
had come.
A postern had been unbarred below by Fortemani, who had led the way with
a half-dozen of the men; and a huge scaling ladder that lay in readiness
in that subterranean gallery was rushed out across the moat, which at
this point was a roaring torrent.
Fortemani was the first to descend that sloping bridge, and upon
reaching the ground he made fast the lower end.
Next went a dozen men at Francesco's bidding, armed with the pikes
that had been left overnight in the gallery. At a word of command they
slipped quietly away. Then came the women, and lastly, the remainder of
the men.
Of the enemy they caught no glimpse; not so much as a sentry, for every
one of Gian Maria's men had been pressed into the investment of the
castle. Thus they emerged from Roccaleone, and made their way down that
rough bridge into the pleasant meadows to the south. Already Fortemani
and his dozen men had disappeared at the trot, making for the front of
the castle, when Francesco stepped last upon the bridge, and closed the
postern after him. Then he glided rapidly to the ground, and with the
assistance of a dozen ready hands he dragged away the scaling ladder.
They carried it some yards from the brink of the torrent, and deposited
it in the meadow. With a laugh of purest relish Francesco stepped to
Valentina's side.
“It will exercise their minds to discover how we got out,” he cried,
“and they will be forced to the conclusion that we are angels all, with
wings beneath our armour. We have not left them a single ladder or a
strand of rope in Roccaleone by which to attempt to follow us, even if
they discover how we came. But come, Valentina mia, the comedy is not
finished yet. Already Fortemani will have removed the bridge by which
they entered and engaged such few men as may have been left behind, and
we have the High and Mighty Gian Maria in the tightest trap that was
ever fashioned.”
CHAPTER XXV. THE CAPITULATION OF ROCCALEONE
In the sunshine of that bright May morning Francesco and his men went
merrily to work to possess themselves of the ducal camp, and the first
business of the day was to arm those soldiers who had come out unarmed.
Of weapons there was no lack, and to these they helped themselves
in liberal fashion, whilst here and there a man would pause to don a
haubergeon or press a steel cap on his head.
Three sentries only had been left to guard the tents, and of these
Fortemani and a couple of his men had made prisoners whilst the others
were removing the bridge by which the invaders had entered. And now
beneath the open postern by the drawbridge gaped a surging torrent that
no man would have the hardihood to attempt to swim.
In that opening, presently, appeared Gian Maria, his face red for
once, and behind him a clamouring crowd of men-at-arms who shared their
master's rage at the manner in which they had been trapped.
At the rear of the tents Valentina and her ladies awaited the issue of
the parley that now seemed toward. The bulk of the men were busy at Gian
Maria's cannons, and under Francesco's supervision they were training
them upon the drawbridge.
From the castle a mighty shout went up. The men disappeared from the
postern to reappear a moment later on the ramparts, and Francesco
laughed deep down in his throat as he perceived the purpose of this.
They had bethought them of the guns that were mounted there, and were
gone to use them against Valentina's little army. Gun after gun they
tried, and a fierce cry of rage burst forth when they realised by what
dummies they had been held in check during the past week. This was
followed by a silence of some moments, terminated at last by the sound
of a bugle.
Answering that summons to a parley, and with a last word of injunction
to Fortemani, who was left in charge of the men at the guns, Francesco
rode forward on one of Gian Maria's horses, escorted by Lanciotto and
Zaccaria similarly mounted, and each armed with a loaded arquebuse.
Under the walls of Roccaleone he drew rein, laughing to himself at this
monstrous change of sides. As he halted--helmet on head, but beaver
open--a body came hurtling over the battlements and splashed into the
foaming waters below. It was the corpse of Aventano, which Gian Maria
had peremptorily bidden them to remove from his sight.
“I desire to speak with Monna Valentina della Rovere,” cried the furious
Duke.
“You may speak with me, Gian Maria,” answered Francesco's voice,
clear and metallic. “I am her representative, her sometime Provost of
Roccaleone.”
“Who are you?” quoth the Duke, struck by a familiar note in that mocking
voice.
“Francesco del Falco, Count of Aquila.”
“By God! You!”
“An age of marvels, is it not?” laughed Francesco.
“Which will you lose, my cousin--a wife or a duchy?”
Rage struck Gian Maria speechless for a moment. Then he turned to
Guidobaldo and whispered something; but Guidobaldo, who seemed vastly
interested now in this knight below, merely shrugged his shoulders.
“I will lose neither, Messer Francesco,” roared the Duke. “Neither, by
God!” he screamed. “Neither, do you hear me?”
“I should be deaf else,” was the easy answer, “But you are gravely at
fault. One or the other you must relinquish, and it is yours to make a
choice between them. The game has gone against you, Gian Maria, and you
must pay.”
“But have I no voice in the bartering of my niece?” asked Guidobaldo,
with cold dignity. “Is it for you, Lord Count, to say whether your
cousin shall wed her or not?”
“Why, no. He may wed her if he will, but he will be a duke no longer. In
fact, he will be an outcast with no title to lay claim to, if indeed the
Babbianians will leave him a head at all; whilst I, at least, though
not a duke with a tottering throne, am a count with lands, small
but securely held, and shall become a duke if Gian Maria refuses to
relinquish me your niece. So that if he be disposed to marry her,
will you be disposed to let her marry a homeless vagrant or a headless
corpse?”
Guidobaldo's face seemed to change, and his eyes looked curiously at the
white-faced Duke beside him.
“So you are the other pretender to my niece's hand, Lord Count?” he
asked, in his coldest voice.
“I am, Highness,” answered Francesco quietly. “The matter stands thus:
Unless Gian Maria is in Babbiano by morning, he forfeits his crown, and
it passes to me by the voice of the people; but if he will relinquish
his claim to Monna Valentina in my favour, then I shall journey straight
to Aquila, and I shall trouble Babbiano no more. If he refuses, and
insists upon this wedding, abhorrent to Monna Valentina, why, then, my
men shall hold him captive behind those walls until it be too late for
him to reach his duchy in time to save the crown. In the meantime I will
ride to Babbiano in his stead, and--reluctant though I be to play the
duke--I shall accept the throne and silence the people's importunities.
He can then endeavour to win your Highness's consent to the union.”
For perhaps the first time in his life Guidobaldo was guilty of an act
of positive discourtesy. He broke into a laugh--a boisterous, amused
laugh that cut into Gian Maria's heart like a knife.
“Why, Lord Count,” he said, “I confess that you have us very much in
your hands to mould us as you will. Now, you are such a soldier and such
a strategist as it would pleasure me to have about my person in Urbino.
What says your Highness?” he continued, turning now to the almost
speechless Gian Maria. “I have yet another niece with whom we might
cement the union of the two duchies; and she might prove more willing.
Women, it seems, will insist upon being women. Do you not think that
Monna Valentina and this your valiant cousin----”
“Heed him not!” screamed Gian Maria, now in a white heat of passion.
“He is a smooth-tongued dog that would argue the very devil out of hell.
Make no terms with the hind! I have a hundred men, and----” He swung
suddenly round. “Let down that drawbridge, cowards!” he bawled at them,
“and sweep me those animals from my tents.”
“Gian Maria, I give you warning,” cried Francesco, loudly and firmly. “I
have trained your own guns on to that bridge, and at the first attempt
to lower it I'll blow it into splinters. You come not out of Roccaleone
save at my pleasure and upon my terms, and if you lose your duchy by
your obstinacy, it will be your own work; but answer me now, that I may
take my course.”
Guidobaldo, too, restrained Gian Maria, and countermanded his order for
the lowering of the bridge. And now on his other side Gonzaga crept up
to him, and whispered into his ear the suggestion that he should wait
until night had fallen.
“Wait until night, fool!” blazed the Duke, turning on him, in a fierce
joy at finding one whom he might rend. “If I wait until then, my throne
is lost to me. This comes of sorting with traitors. It is your fault,
you Judas!” he cried more fiercely still, his face distorted; “but you
at least shall pay for what you have done.”
Gonzaga saw a sudden flash of steel before his eyes, and a piercing
scream broke from him as Gian Maria's dagger buried itself in his
breast. Too late Guidobaldo put forward a hand to stay the Duke.
And so, by a strangely avenging justice, the magnificent Gonzaga
sank dead on the very spot on which he had so cravenly and dastardly
poniarded Aventano.
“Throw me that carrion into the moat,” growled Gian Maria, still
quivering with rage that had prompted his ferocious act.
He was obeyed, and thus murdered and murderer were united in a common
grave.
After the first attempt to restrain Gian Maria, Guidobaldo had looked
on in unconcern, deeming the act a very fitting punishment of a man with
whose treachery he, at least, had never been in sympathy.
As he saw the body vanish in the torrent below, Gian Maria seemed to
realise what he had done. His anger fell from him, and with bent head he
piously crossed himself. Then turning to an attendant who stood at his
elbow:
“See that a Mass is said for his soul to-morrow,” he solemnly bade him.
As if the act had served to pacify him and restore him to his senses,
Gian Maria now stepped forward and asked his cousin, in calmer tones
than he had hitherto employed, to make clear the terms on which he would
permit him to return to Babbiano within the time to which his people
limited him.