The Viper of Milan: A Romance of Lombardy
Carrara, who in this moment's interval, he thought, could not have gone
astray.
Della Scala had been gone four hours or more, but to the light-hearted
German it seemed he had only an instant ago turned from his tent.
He had employed the time in writing some verses (in imitation of the
fashionable Petrarch, a production with which he was perfectly
satisfied, and put aside to be fair copied by some one, a better adept
in spelling than himself), in teaching Vittore to dance, and in changing
his doublet.
Count Conrad was very careful of his doublets. He had a great many, and
kept them carefully locked in the large coffer that stood at the head of
his tent bed.
The one he donned to-day was elegant in the extreme; peacock purple over
an under garment of rose, curiously slashed with cream. Vittore, who had
become his page, was silent at the magnificence.
Conrad sighed as he smoothed the ruffles at his wrists to think that it
might not be the latest mode. He felt far from civilization, though only
twice seven miles outside Milan, and secretly regretted that Valentine
Visconti had ever dazzled him into the imprudence of losing her
brother's favor and with it the joys of a splendid court. Still he had
exquisite leathern shoes with points a yard long, caught up and fastened
by a chain to his knee; also a cap, garnished with a ruby and a curling
feather, and, taking it from Vittore, he stepped out to begin his
espionage of Carrara.
"Vittore, follow me," he said. "I have it in trust to see this
black-browed duke gets into no mischief. Also," he continued, "'tis in
my mind to find Vincenzo. Della Scala was severe this noon. I fear me
the boy has gone to practice sword-play."
The camp was quiet and tranquil. It struck Conrad, however, that many of
Carrara's men were engaged with their horses and in packing the wagons;
but carried on so openly, in broad daylight, it aroused no suspicions on
the part of the easy Von Schulembourg, who made toward Carrara's tent,
singing gayly.
The air was heavy, the sky black about the horizon.
"There will be a storm to-night, Vittore. Let me see, art thou afraid of
thunder?" and as he spoke, the Count passed without ceremony into
Carrara's tent.
The Duke was there, but not expecting Conrad, and as he raised his eyes
at his sudden entrance, his look would have struck any save the
light-hearted fop as strained and anxious; but the German had personally
no doubt of Carrara, and the Duke's ready smile deceived him utterly.
"So your men move to-night, my lord?" he said. "The Prince never
mentioned it to me."
"It was a final resolve," answered Carrara. "I have my orders here," and
he tapped a parchment beside him.
"Ah!" Conrad never even took the parchment up, but glanced through the
opening of the tent at the threatening sky. "You move nearer Milan, of
course?"
Giacomo kept his black eyes on the floor.
"Nearer Milan," he replied. "Yes; but we do not break camp until the
morning, Count. You and the rest remain here to join the Prince."
Carrara looked also out into the thunder-laden air, but not at the
sky--at the castle, frowning black above the encampment.
"An officer of mine," said Conrad carelessly, "said something to me of
some prisoners."
"Yonder at the castle, Count. Will you question them with me?" asked
Giacomo smoothly.
"Question them!" laughed the Count. "You may have that task, my
lord!--and I shall know then where you are," he added under his breath.
Carrara kept his eyes down, lest even Conrad should see the excitement
in them.
"Possibly even I may not question them to-night, Count," he returned
with a smile. "I intend to rest now, as we march at dawn."
Conrad rose, with a pleasant feeling of having done his duty, though in
his heart a little annoyed that Della Scala had not trusted him with the
movement of the army.
"The thought of his wife has made him crazy," he said to himself.
"Giving Giacomo credit for treachery, still he entrusts him with orders
he withholds even the knowledge of from me." And leaving Carrara, he
went in search of Vincenzo.
Giacomo sat silent till the Count's laughter had died away in the
distance, then rose with a passionate exclamation at his own luck and
Mastino's blindness.
Without a question the Count (left in trust, Carrara knew as plainly as
if he had been told) had swallowed his lies, and left him to do as he
pleased while he reveled with Vincenzo d'Este. Seeking the entrance once
more, Carrara looked out into the heavy evening.
In that great castle Visconti was a prisoner.
Though with his own eyes he had seen Gian Visconti bound between the
soldiers, he could not rest for his impatience to see him again and have
it confirmed before any other eyes should recognize this rare prize.
To-night Carrara's army was to desert to Milan. That had been already
arranged with Visconti's disguised messenger. It should still desert,
but Visconti was now a prisoner, his life in Carrara's hands--there must
be slightly other terms between them.
To be in a position to dictate to such a man! Giacomo stood in the
gathering dusk, waiting for the dark, his eyes on the castle that held
Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milan--a prisoner.
* * * * *
"The storm nears: how hot, good St. Hubert, how hot!" And Conrad tossed
the damp curls back from his forehead. The entrance of his tent was
flung open to admit what little air there might be, showing to the
soldiers without Conrad and Vincenzo bending over a game of chess; on a
table near were flasks of wine and elegant glasses; along the floor
Vittore lay, half in a heavy sleep.
The tent was lit by jeweled lamps, and by their dull light Vincenzo's
beauty shone with an almost unearthly brilliancy. He was clothed in
white, his thick black hair falling about his shoulders.
Evidently Mastino's reproof was already forgotten. He leaned forward
with flushed cheeks and parted lips, eager and intent on a victory at
chess; war and the price of it far from his thoughts.
"Hark!" said Conrad. "Thunder!"
A low rumble filled the tent, d'Este took no heed.
"I take thy knight," he said, "it ruins thee."
Conrad laughed, he did not take the game so seriously.
"I will visit Carrara," he said, rising, "and go the rounds."
"Thou wilt finish the game," said Vincenzo angrily. "Does it pall the
moment thou failest to win?"
"My faith, I fail when it palls. But doubtless thou wilt win yet, if
thou dost not grow too hot," and Conrad fanned the boy with the points
of his sleeves.
Vincenzo's lustrous eyes flashed.
"Doubtless I shall, Count," he drew from his finger an emerald ring,
"and I will stake this on it."
He dropped it on the table with a rattle, and Conrad was animated at
once.
"And I this," he cried, "my forfeit if the game is not mine in four
moves!"
He placed his pearl thumb-ring beside Vincenzo's emerald.
"Four moves!" cried Vincenzo scornfully, and leaned back with shining
eyes. Conrad reached for the glasses with a glance of good humor at the
dozing page.
"A night from the infernal regions!" he said, as he poured out the wine.
"How does Visconti feel to-night? Methinks some kinsfolk of his from
below are abroad."
Vincenzo emptied his glass and moved.
Conrad emptied his and counter-moved. "I hope thy emerald was not a
lady's gift," he laughed.
Vincenzo bit his lip, reflected long, and moved again.
Conrad turned to the slender flasks and lifted them, one after the
other; empty all.
"Vittore!" he called. "Vittore!"
The boy rose, rubbing his eyes, half-dazed.
"Bring us more wine, Vittore." Conrad turned to the board again and
laughed at Vincenzo's intent face. "My move," he said; his plump hand
hesitated scarcely a breath. "Check, Messer Vincenzo."
"This is no light to play by," cried Vincenzo, and in annoyance he moved
with too little thought.
Conrad waited provokingly till fresh wine had been brought and drunk,
patted Vittore's head, and turned to the game again.
"Mate, Messer Vincenzo, in three moves." And he leaned back with the
calm air of a conqueror.
Vincenzo rose in a passion, dashing his glass to the ground.
"I question thy fair play," he cried.
"And I thy discretion," returned the Count, and his eyes were suddenly
wrathful. "Thou art a child, and canst not play; and so like a child cry
out: 'You cheat.'"
"I said no word of cheating," returned Vincenzo. "Is the accusation one
you are accustomed to, Count Conrad?"
Conrad crimsoned. "Play another time with thy equals, boy, and take
better care not to insult thy betters!"
"Betters!" And Vincenzo laughed in reckless scorn, his hand on his
toy-like dagger. "A d'Este demeans himself to play with thee--thou
German upstart!"
But Conrad was to be moved no more. With a smile more provoking than any
reply he picked up the rings and slipped them on his finger.
But Vincenzo, hot-tempered and passionate, sprang forward with boyish
passion.
"Thou shalt not have the emerald," he cried.
"Must I fight for it?" smiled Conrad, and glanced at Vincenzo's little
dagger. "The emerald seems worth it--only I should be afraid of hurting
thee." And as he spoke he poured out more wine, drinking it gracefully.
"I will fight only with an equal," said Vincenzo.
Conrad turned on him, and for all his smile his blue eyes were dark.
"Thou reckless boy!" he said. "The Germans are the lords of Italy. What
is thy family but a fief to the Emperor?"
Vittore had watched the scene in terror. Tomaso had let him know Della
Scala had left Schulembourg in trust, and he felt his master was hardly
acting as the Duke had meant. In childlike fashion, eager to stop the
quarrel, he spoke his thoughts.
"My lord," he said, "shall I not accompany you to the Duke of Padua's
tent, as the Prince commanded?"
"Commanded!" cried Vincenzo, catching at the words. "Aye, Count Conrad,
remember my brother's commands!"
"I remember none," returned the Count haughtily. "What dost thou mean,
boy?"
But Vittore lost his courage under the angry glance.
"Only, my lord, what you said," he stammered, "about keeping watch upon
the Duke of Padua."
"So you were left as a spy?" sneered Vincenzo, "is that it? Make haste,
Count Conrad, hurry to Carrara's tent as you were told, and see what he
is doing."
Conrad, flushed with wine, allowed the boyish sneer to goad him into
fury.
"I play the spy at no one's bidding," he said. "I do not leave my tent
to-night." And he flung himself on the couch.
"But what did the Duke order? It will go ill with you when he hears of
disobedience," sneered Vincenzo.
"Let it go well or ill, I will not leave my tent to-night on any errand,
save I choose." And Count Conrad's words were heard by another than
Vincenzo and Vittore, Giacomo Carrara, who listened outside.
The storm-wind was beginning to howl and the rain to fall in heavy
drops, but the Duke of Padua only thanked his good fortune for such
propitious weather, as he turned away and made rapidly toward the castle
to question the prisoners.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE TERRORS OF THE NIGHT
The storm had risen, the low whispering of the wind, the distant rumbles
of the thunder, gathering unheeded, burst suddenly into a tempest.
Its very fury spoke it brief, yet many cowered and shrank before it, as
if its termination must be the termination of the world. And to no one
did it strike more fear than to the solitary prisoner in the castle of
Brescia--Gian Visconti. In obedience to Carrara's orders, he had been
placed in a separate chamber, as far from the other prisoners as space
allowed. His chamber was a circular, vault-like space, once serving as
antechamber to a gloomy suite of rooms beyond, in which Barnabas