Love-at-arms being a narrative excerpted from the chronicles of Urbino, during the dominion of the high and mighty Messer Guidobaldo da Montefeltro
sped, and that there, on the walls of Babbiano, lay rotting the only
fruits which that ill-starred conspiracy was likely to bear.
For a second it entered his mind to turn back. But his stout and
fearless nature drove him on, all unattended as he was, and in despite
of such vague forebodings as beset him. How much, he wondered, might
Gian Maria know of his own share in that mountain meeting, and how would
it fare with him if his cousin was aware that it had been proposed to
the Count of Aquila to supplant him?
He was not long, however, in learning that grounds were wanting for such
fears as he had entertained. Gian Maria received him with even more than
wonted welcome, for he laid much store by Francesco's judgment and was
in sore need of it at present.
Francesco found him at table, which had been laid for him amidst the
treasures of art and learning that enriched the splendid Palace library.
It was a place beloved by Gian Maria for the material comforts that it
offered him, and so he turned it to a score of vulgar purposes of
his own, yet never to that for which it was equipped, being an utter
stranger to letters and ignorant as a ploughboy.
Ensconced in a great chair of crimson leather, at a board overladen with
choice viands and sparkling with crystal flagons and with vessels and
dishes of gold and enamel, Francesco found his cousin, and the air that
had been heavy once with the scholarly smell of parchments and musty
tomes was saturated now with pungent odours of the table.
In stature Gian Maria was short and inclining, young though he was, to
corpulency. His face was round and pale and flabby; his eyes blue and
beady; his mouth sensual and cruel. He was dressed in a suit of lilac
velvet, trimmed with lynx fur, and slashed, Spanish fashion, in the
sleeves, to show the shirt of fine Rheims linen underneath. About his
neck hung a gold chain, bearing an Agnus Dei, which contained a relic of
the True Cross--for Gian Maria pushed his devoutness to great lengths.
His welcome of Francesco was more effusive than its wont. He bade the
two servants who attended him to lay a plate for his illustrious cousin,
and when Aquila shortly yet courteously declined, with the assurance
that he had dined already, the Duke insisted that, at least, he should
drink a Cup of Malvasia. When out of a vessel of beaten gold they had
filled a goblet for the Count, his Highness bade the servants go, and
relaxed--if, indeed, so much may be said of one who never knew much
dignity--before his visitor.
“I hear,” said Aquila, when the first compliments were spent, “strange
stories of a conspiracy in your Duchy, and on the walls at the Gate of
San Bacolo I beheld four heads, of men whom I have known and honoured.”
“And who dishonoured themselves ere their heads were made a banquet for
the crows. There, Francesco!” He shuddered, and crossed himself. “It is
unlucky to speak of the dead at table.”
“Let us speak, then, of their offence alone,” persisted Francesco
subtly. “In what did it lie?
“In what?” returned the Duke amusedly. His voice was thin and inclining
to shrillness. “It is more than I can say. Masuccio knew. But the dog
would not disclose his secret nor the names of the conspirators until
his task should be accomplished and he had taken them at the treason
he knew they had gathered to ripen. But,” he continued, an olive poised
'twixt thumb and forefinger, “it seems they were not to be captured as
easily as he thought. He told me the traitors numbered six, and that
they were to meet a seventh there. The men who returned from the venture
tell me too, and without shame, that there were but some six or seven
that beset them. Yet they gave the Swiss trouble enough, and killed some
nine of them besides a half-score of more or less grievously wounded,
whilst they but slew two of their assailants and captured another two.
Those were the four heads you saw at the Porta San Bacolo.”
“And Masuccio?” inquired Francesco. “Has he not told you since who were
those others that escaped?”
His Highness paused to masticate the olive.
“Why, there lies the difficulty,” said he at length. “The dog is dead.
He was killed in the affray. May he rot in hell for his obstinate
reticence. No, no!” he checked himself hastily. “He's dead, and the
secret of this treason, as well as the names of the traitors, have
perished with him. Yet I am a clement man, Francesco, and sorely though
that dog has wronged me by his silence, I thank Heaven for the grace to
say--God rest his vile soul!”
The Count flung himself into a chair, as much to dissemble such signs of
relief as might show upon his face, as because he wished to sit.
“But surely Masuccio left you some information!” he exclaimed.
“The very scantiest,” returned Gian Maria, in chagrined accents. “It was
ever the way of that secretive vassal. Damn him! He frankly told me that
if I knew, I would talk. Heard you ever of such insufferable insolence
to a prince? All that he would let me learn was that there was a
conspiracy afoot to supplant me, and that he was going to capture the
conspirators, together with the man whom they were inviting to take
my place. Ponder it, Francesco! Such are the murderous plans my loving
subjects form for my undoing--I who rule them with a rod of gold, the
most clement, just and generous prince in Italy. Cristo buono! Do
you marvel that I lost patience and had their hideous heads set upon
spears?”
“But did you not say that two of these conspirators were brought back
captive?”
The Duke nodded, his mouth too full for words.
“Then, at their trial, what transpired?”
“Trial? There was no trial.” Gian Maria chewed vigorously for a moment.
“I tell you I was so heated with anger at this base ingratitude, that I
had not even the wit to have the names of their associates tortured out
of them. Within a half-hour of their arrival in Babbiano, the heads of
these men whom it had pleased Heaven to deliver up to me were where you
saw them to-day.”
“You sent them thus to their death?” gasped Francesco, rising to his
feet and eyeing his cousin with mingled wonder and anger. “You sent men
of such families as these to the headsman, without a trial? I think,
Gian Maria, that you must be mad if so rashly you can shed such blood as
this.”
The Duke sank back in his chair to gape at his impetuous cousin. Then,
in sullen anger: “To whom do you speak?” he demanded.
“To a tyrant who calls himself the most clement, just and generous
prince in Italy, and who lacks the wisdom to see that he is undermining
with his own hands, and by his own rash actions, a throne that is
already tottering. Can you not think that this might mean a revolution?
It amounts to murder, and though dukes resort to it freely enough in
Italy, it is not openly and defiantly wrought, as is this.”
Anger there was in the Duke's soul, but there was still more fear--so
much, that it shouldered the anger aside.
“I have provided against rebellion,” he announced, with an ease that he
vainly strove to feel. “I have given the command of my guards to Martino
Armstadt, and he has engaged for me a company of five hundred Swiss
lanzknechte that were lately in the pay of the Baglioni of Perugia.”
“And you deem this security?” rejoined Francesco, with a smile of scorn.
“To hedge your throne with foreign spears commanded by a foreigner?”
“This and God's grace,” was the pious answer.
“Bah!” answered Francesco, impatient at the hypocrisy. “Win the hearts
of your people. Let that be your buckler.”
“Hush!” whispered Gian Maria. “You blaspheme. Does not every act of my
self-sacrificing life point to such an aim? I live for my people. But,
by my soul, they ask too much when they ask that I should die for them.
If I serve those who plot against my life, as I have served these men
you speak of, who shall blame me? I tell you, Francesco, I wish I might
have those others who escaped, that I might do as much by them. By the
living God, I do! And as for the man who was to have supplanted me----”
He paused, a deadly smile on his sensual mouth completing the sentence
more effectively than lay within the power of words. “Who could it
have been?” he mused. “I've vowed that if Heaven will grant me that I
discover him, I'll burn a candle to Santa Fosca every Saturday for a
twelvemonth and go fasting on the Vigil of the Dead. Who--who could it
have been, Franceschino?”
“How should I know?” returned Francesco, evading the question.
“You know so much, Checco mio. Your mind is so quick to fathom matters
of this kind. Think you, now, it might have been the Duca Valentino?”
Francesco shook his head.
“When Caesar Borgia comes he will know no need to resort to such poor
means. He will come in arms to reduce you by his might.”
“God and the saints protect me!” gasped the Duke. “You talk of it as if
he were already marching.”
“Then I talk of it advisedly. The event is none so remote as you would
make yourself believe. Listen, Gian Maria! I have not ridden from Aquila
for just the pleasure of passing the time of day with you. Fabrizio da
Lodi and Fanfulla degli Arcipreti have been with me of late.”
“With you?” cried the Duke, his little eyes narrowing themselves as they
glanced up at his cousin. “With you--eh?” He shrugged his shoulders and
spread his palms before him. “Pish! See into what errors even so clear
a mind as mine may fall. Do you know, Francesco, that marking their
absence since that conspiracy was laid, I had a half-suspicion they were
connected with it.” And he devoted his attention to a honeycomb.
“You have not in all your Duchy two hearts more faithful to Babbiano,”
was the equivocal reply. “It was on the matter of this very peril that
threatens you that they came to me.”
“Ah!” Gian Maria's white face grew interested.
And now the Count of Aquila talked to the Duke of Babbiano much as
Fabrizio da Lodi had talked to the Count that night at Sant' Angelo. He
spoke of the danger that threatened from the Borgia, of the utter lack
of preparation, and of Gian Maria's contempt of the counsels given him.
He alluded to the discontent rife among his subjects at this state of
things, and to the urgent need to set them right. When he had done, the
Duke sat silent a while, his eyes bent thoughtfully upon his platter, on
which the food lay now unheeded.
“An easy thing, is it not, Francesco, to say to a man: this is wrong,
and that is wrong. But who is there, pray, to set it right for me?”
“That, if you will say but the word, I will attempt to do.”
“You?” cried the Duke, and far from manifesting satisfaction at having
one offer himself to undertake to right this very crooked business, Gian
Maria's face reflected an incredulous anger and some little scorn. “And
how, my marvellous cousin, would you set about it?” he inquired, a sneer
lurking in his tone.
“I would place such matters as the levying of money by taxation in
the hands of Messer Despuglio, and at whatever sacrifice to your own
extravagance, I would see that for months to come the bulk of these
moneys is applied to the levying and arming of suitable men. I have some
skill as a condottiero--leastways, so more than one foreign prince has
been forced to acknowledge. I will lead your army when I have raised it,
and I will enter into alliances for you with our neighbouring States,
who, seeing us armed, will deem us a power worthy of their alliance. And
so, what man can do to stem the impending flood of this invasion, that
will I do to defend your Duchy. Make me your gonfalonier, and in a month
I will tell you whether it lies in my power or not to save your State.”
The eyes of Gian Maria had narrowed more and more whilst Francesco
spoke, and into his shallow face had crept an evil, suspicious look. As