“Aye, if they had them,” put in Gonzaga sourly; “but having no more than one apiece, they’ll not care to spare it.”
“Nay, there you wrong them,” cried Fortemani, with heat. “Give them a leader strong enough to hold them, to encourage and subject them, and they will go anywhere at his bidding.”
“And there,” put in Gonzaga quickly, “you bring us back to the main issue. Such a leader you have shown us that you are not. You have done worse. You have been insubordinate when you should not only have been orderly, but have enforced orderliness in others. And for that, by my lights, you should be hanged. Waste no more time on him, Madonna,” he concluded, turning to Valentina. “Let the example be made.”
“But, Madonna — —” began Fortemani, paling under the tan of his rugged countenance.
Gonzaga silenced him.
“Your words are vain. You have been insubordinate, and for insubordination there is but one penalty.”
The bully hung his head, deeming himself lost, and lacking the wit to retort as Francesco unexpectedly retorted for him.
“Madonna, there your adviser is at fault. The charge against the man is wrong. There has been no insubordination.”
“How?” she questioned, turning to the Count. “None, say you?”
“A Solomon is arisen,” sneered Gonzaga. Then peevishly; “Waste not words with him, Madonna,” he pursued. “Our business is with Fortemani.”
“But stay, my good Gonzaga. He may be right.”
“Your heart is over-tender,” answered Romeo impatiently. But she had turned from him now, and was begging Francesco to make his meaning clearer.
“Had he raised his hand against you, Madonna, or even against Messer Gonzaga, or had he disobeyed an order given him by either of you, then, and then only, could there be question of insubordination. But he has done none of these things. He is guilty of grossly misusing my servant, it is true, but there is no insubordination in that, since he was under no promise of loyalty to Lanciotto.”
They stared at him as though his words were words of recondite wisdom instead of the simple statement of a plain case. Gonzaga crestfallen, Fortemani with a light of hope and wonder shining in his eyes, and Madonna with a faint nodding of the head that argued agreement. They wrangled a while yet, Gonzaga bitter and vindictive and rashly scornful of both Francesco and Fortemani. But the Count so resolutely held the ground he had taken that in the end Valentina shrugged her shoulders, acknowledged herself convinced, and bade Francesco deliver judgment.
“You are in earnest, Madonna?” quoth Francesco in surprise, whilst a black scowl disfigured the serenity of Gonzaga’s brow.
“I am indeed. Deal with him as you account best and most just, and it shall fare with him precisely as you ordain.”
Francesco turned to the men-at-arms. “Unbind him, one of you,” he said shortly.
“I believe that you are mad,” cried Gonzaga, in a frenzy, but his mood sprang rather from the chagrin of seeing his interloper prevail where he had failed. “Madonna, do not heed him.”
“I pray you let be, my good Gonzaga,” she answered soothingly, and Gonzaga, ready to faint from spite, obeyed her.
“Leave him there, and go,” was Paolo’s next order to the men, and they departed, leaving the astonished Fortemani standing alone, unbound and sheepish.
“Now mark me well, Messer Fortemani,” Francesco admonished him. “You did a cowardly thing, unworthy of the soldier that you would have men believe you. And for that, I think, the punishment you received at my hands has been sufficient, in that the indignity to which I submitted you has shaken your standing with your followers. Go back to them now and retrieve what you have lost, and see that in the future you are worthier. Let this be a lesson to you, Messer Fortemani. You have gone perilously near hanging, and you have had it proved to you that in moments of peril your men are ready to raise their hands against you. Why is that? Because you have not sought their respect. You have been too much a fellow of theirs in their drinking and their brawling, instead of holding yourself aloof with dignity.”
“Lord, I have learnt my lesson!” answered the cowed bully.
“Then act upon it. Resume your command, and discipline your men to a better order. Madonna, here, and Messer Gonzaga will forget this thing. Is it not so, Madonna? Is it not so, Messer Gonzaga?”
Swayed by his will and by an intuition that told her that to whatever end he might be working, he was working wisely, Valentina gave Fortemani the assurance Francesco begged, and Gonzaga was forced grudgingly to follow her example.
Fortemani bowed low, his face pale and his limbs trembling as not even fear had made them tremble. He advanced towards Valentina, and sinking on one knee, he humbly kissed the hem of her gown.
“Your clemency, Madonna, shall give you no regret. I will serve you to the death, lady, and you, lord.” At the last words he raised his eyes to Francesco’s calm face. Then, without so much as a glance at the disappointed Gonzaga, he rose, and bowing again — a very courtier — he withdrew.
The closing of the door was to Gonzaga a signal to break out in a torrent of bitter reproofs against Francesco, reproofs that were stemmed midway by Valentina.
“You are beside yourself, Gonzaga,” she exclaimed. “What has been done, has been done with my sanction. I do not doubt the wisdom of it.”
“Do you not? God send you never may! But that man will know no peace until he is avenged on us.”
“Messer Gonzaga,” returned Francesco, with an incomparable politeness, “I am an older man than are you, and maybe that I have seen more warring and more of such men. There is a certain valour lurks in that bully for all his blustering boastfulness and swagger, and there is, too, a certain sense of justice. Mercy he has had to-day, and time will show how right I am in having pardoned him in Madonna’s name. I tell you, sir, that nowhere has Monna Valentina a more faithful servant than he is now likely to become.”
“I believe you, Messer Francesco. Indeed, I am sure your act was wisdom itself.”
Gonzaga gnawed his lip.
“I may be wrong,” said he, in grudging acquiescence. “I hope, indeed, I may be.”
CHAPTER XVI. GONZAGA UNMASKS
The four great outer walls of Roccaleone stood ranged into a mighty square, of which the castle proper occupied but half. The other half, running from north to south, was a stretch of garden, broken into three terraces. The highest of these was no more than a narrow alley under the southern wall, roofed from end to end by a trellis of vines on beams blackened with age, supported by uprights of granite, square and roughly hewn.
A steep flight of granite steps, weedy in the interstices of the old stone, and terminating in a pair of couchant lions at the base, led down to the middle terrace, which was called the upper garden. This was split in twain by a very gallery of gigantic box trees running down towards the lower terrace, and bearing eloquent witness to the age of that old garden. Into this gallery no sun ever penetrated by more than a furtive ray, and on the hottest day in summer a grateful cool dwelt in its green gloom. Rose gardens spread on either side of it, but neglect of late had left them rank with weeds.
The third and lowest of these terraces, which was longer and broader than either of those above, was no more than a smooth stretch of lawn, bordered by acacias and plane trees, from the extreme corner of which sprang a winding, iron-railed staircase of stone, leading to an eerie which corresponded diagonally with the Lion’s Tower, where the Count of Aquila was lodged.
On this green lawn Valentina’s ladies and a page beguiled the eventide in a game of bowls, their clumsiness at the unwonted pastime provoking the good-humoured banter of Peppe, who looked on, and their own still better-humoured laughter.
Fortemani, too, was there, brazening out the morning’s affair, which it almost seemed he must have forgotten, so self-possessed and mightily at his ease was he. He was of the kind with whom shame strikes never very deeply, and he ruffled it gaily there, among the women, rolli
ng his fierce eyes to ogle them seductively, tossing his gaudy new cloak with a high-born disdain — gloriously conscious that it would not rend in the tossing, like the cloaks to which grim Circumstance had lately accustomed him — and strutting it like any cock upon a dunghill.
But the lesson he had learnt was not likely to share the same forgetfulness. Indeed, its fruits were to be observed already in the more orderly conduct of his men, four of whom, partisan on shoulder, were doing duty on the walls of the castle. They had greeted his return amongst them with sneers and derisive allusions to his immersion, but with a few choicely-aimed blows he had cuffed the noisiest into silence and a more subservient humour. He had spoken to them in a rasping, truculent tone, issuing orders that he meant should be obeyed, unless the disobeyer were eager for a reckoning with him.
Indeed, he was an altered man, and when that night his followers, having drunk what he accounted enough for their good, and disregarding his orders that they should desist and get them to bed, he went in quest of Monna Valentina. He found her in conversation with Francesco and Gonzaga, seated in the loggia of the dining-room. They had been there since supper, discussing the wisdom of going or remaining, of fleeing or standing firm to receive Gian Maria. Their conference was interrupted now by Ercole with his complaint.
She despatched Gonzaga to quell the men, a course that Fortemani treated to a covert sneer. The fop went rejoicing at this proof that her estimate of his commanding qualities had nowise suffered by contrast with those of that swashbuckling Francesco. But his pride rode him to a bitter fall.
They made a mock of his remonstrances, and when he emulated Francesco’s methods, addressing them with sharp ferocity, and dubbing them beasts and swine, they caught the false ring of his fierceness, which was as unlike the true as the ring of lead is unlike that of silver. They jeered him insults, they mimicked his tenor voice, which excitement had rendered shrill, and they bade him go thrum a lute for his lady’s delectation, and leave men’s work to men.
His anger rose, and they lost patience; and from showing their teeth in laughter, they began to show them in snarls. At this his ferocity deserted him. Brushing past Fortemani, who stood cold and contemptuous by the doorway, watching the failure he had expected, he returned with burning cheeks and bitter words to Madonna Valentina.
She was dismayed at the tale he bore her, magnified to cover his own shame. Francesco sat quietly drumming on the sill, his eyes upon the moonlit garden below, and never by word or sign suggesting that he might succeed where Romeo had failed. At last she turned to him.
“Could you —— ?” she began, and stopped, her eyes wandering back to Gonzaga, loath to further wound a pride that was very sore already. On the instant Francesco rose.
“I might try, Madonna,” he said quietly, “although Messer Gonzaga’s failure gives me little hope. And yet, it may be that he has taken the keen edge from their assurance, and that, thus, an easier task awaits me. I will try, Madonna.” And with that he went.
“He will succeed, Gonzaga,” she said, after he had gone. “He is a man of war, and knows the words to which these fellows have no answer.”
“I wish him well of his errand,” sneered Gonzaga, his pretty face white now with sullenness. “And I’ll wager you he fails.”
But Valentina disdained the offer whose rashness was more than proven when, at the end of some ten minutes, Francesco re-entered, as imperturbable as when he went.
“They are quiet now, Madonna,” he announced.
She looked at him questioningly. “How did you accomplish it?” she inquired.
“I had a little difficulty,” he said, “yet not over-much.” His eye roved to Gonzaga, and he smiled. “Messer Gonzaga is too gentle with them. Too true a courtier to avail himself of the brutality that is necessary when we deal with brutes. You should not disdain to use your hands upon them,” he admonished the fop in all seriousness, and without a trace of irony. Nor did Gonzaga suspect any.
“I, soil my hands on that vermin?” he cried, in a voice of horror. “I would die sooner.”
“Or else soon after,” squeaked Peppe, who had entered unobserved. “Patrona mia, you should have seen this paladin,” he continued, coming forward. “Why, Orlando was never half so furious as he when he stood there telling them what manner of dirt they were, and bidding them to bed ere he drove them with a broomstick.”
“And they went?” she asked.
“Not at first,” said the fool. “They had drunk enough to make them very brave, and one who was very drunk was so brave as to assault him. But Ser Francesco fells him with his hands, and calling Fortemani he bids him have the man dropped in a dungeon to grow sober. Then, without waiting so much as to see his orders carried out, he stalks away, assured that no more was needed. Nor was it. They rose up, muttering a curse or two, maybe — yet not so loud that it might reach the ears of Fortemani — and got themselves to bed.”
She looked again at Francesco with admiring eyes, and spoke of his audacity in commending terms. This he belittled; but she persisted.
“You have seen much warring, sir,” she half-asked, halfasserted.
“Why, yes, Madonna.”
And here the writhing Gonzaga espied his opportunity.
“I do not call to mind your name, good sir,” he purred.
Francesco half-turned towards him, and for all that his mind was working with a lightning quickness, his face was indolently calm. To disclose his true identity he deemed unwise, for all connected with the Sforza brood must earn mistrust at the hands of Valentina. It was known that the Count of Aquila stood high in the favour of Gian Maria, and the news of his sudden fall and banishment could not have reached Guidobaldo’s niece, who had fled before the knowledge of it was in Urbino. His name would awaken suspicion, and any story of disgrace and banishment might be accounted the very mask to fit a spy. There was this sleek, venomous Gonzaga, whom she trusted and relied on, to whisper insidiously into her ear.
“My name,” he said serenely, “is, as I have told you. Francesco.”
“But you have another?” quoth Valentina, interest prompting the question.
“Why, yes, but so closely allied to the first as to be scarce worth reciting. I am Francesco Franceschi, a wandering knight.”
“And a true one, as I know.” She smiled at him so sweetly that Gonzaga was enraged.
“I have not heard the name before,” he murmured, adding:
“Your father was —— ?”
“A gentleman of Tuscany.”
“But not at Court?” suggested Romeo.
“Why, yes, at Court.”
Then with a sly insolence that brought the blood to Francesco’s cheeks, though to the chaste mind of Valentina’s it meant nothing— “Ah!” he rejoined. “But then, your mother —— ?”
“Was more discriminating, sir, than yours,” came the sharp answer, and from the shadows the fool’s smothered burst of laughter added gall to it.
Gonzaga rose heavily, drawing a sharp breath, and the two men stabbed each other with their eyes. Valentina, uncomprehending, looked from one to the other.
“Sirs, sirs, what have you said?” she cried. “Why all this war of looks?”
“He is over-quick to take offence, Madonna, for an honest man,” was Gonzaga’s answer. “Like the snake in the grass, he is very ready with his sting when we seek to disclose him.”
“For shame, Gonzaga,” she cried, now rising too. “What are you saying? Are you turned witless? Come, sirs, since you are both my friends, be friends each with the other.”
“Most perfect syllogism!” murmured the fool, unheeded.
“And you, Messer Francesco, forget his words. He means them not. He is very hot of fancy, but sweet at heart, this good Gonzaga.”
On the instant the cloud lifted from Francesco’s brow.
“Why, since you ask me,” he answered, inclining his head, “if he’ll but say he meant no malice by his words, I will confess as much for mine.”
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sp; Gonzaga, cooling, saw that haply he had gone too fast, and was the readier to make amends. Yet in his bosom he nursed an added store of poison, a breath of which escaped him as he was leaving Valentina, and after Francesco had already gone:
“Madonna,” he muttered, “I mistrust that man.”
“Mistrust him? Why?” she asked, frowning despite her faith in the magnificent Romeo.
“I know not why; but it is here. I feel it.” And with his hand he touched the region of his heart. “Say that he is no spy, and call me a fool.”
“Why, I’ll do both,” she laughed. Then more sternly, added: “Get you to bed, Gonzaga. Your wits play you false. Peppino, call my ladies.”
In the moment that they were left alone he stepped close up to her, spurred to madness by the jealous pangs he had that day endured. His face gleamed white in the candlelight, and in his eyes there was a lurking fierceness that gave her pause.
“Have your way, Madonna,” he said, in a concentrated voice; “but to-morrow, whether we go hence, or whether we stay, he remains not with us.”
She drew herself up to the full of her slender, graceful height, her eyes on a level with Gonzaga’s own.
“That,” she answered, “is as shall be decreed by me or him.”
He breathed sharply, and his voice hardened beyond belief in one usually so gentle of tone and manner.
“Be warned, Madonna,” he muttered, coming so close that with the slightest swaying she must touch him, “that if this nameless sbirro shall ever dare to stand ‘twixt you and me, by God and His saints, I’ll kill him! Be warned, I say.”
And the door re-opening at that moment, he fell back, bowed, and brushing past the entering ladies, gained the threshold. Here someone tugged at the prodigious foliated sleeves that spread beside him on the air like the wings of a bird. He turned, and saw Peppino motioning him to lower his head.
“A word in your ear, Magnificent. There was a man once went out for wool that came back shorn.”
Angrily cuffing the fool aside, he was gone.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 100
