Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  Francesco had put on his harness, and came arrayed from head to foot in resplendent steel, to do worthy honour to the occasion. A bunch of plumes nodded in his helm, and for all that his beaver was open, yet the shadows of the head-piece afforded at the distance sufficient concealment to his features.

  The sight of her uncle left Valentina unmoved. Well-beloved though he was of his people, between himself and his niece he had made no effort ever to establish relations of affection. Less than ever did he now seek to prevail by the voice of kinship. He came in the panoply of war, as a prince to a rebel subject, and in precisely such a tone did he greet her.

  “Monna Valentina,” he said — seeming entirely to overlook the circumstance that she was his kinswoman— “deeply though this rebellion grieves me, you are not to think that your sex shall gain you any privileges or any clemency. We will treat you precisely as we would any other rebel subject who acted as you have done.”

  “Highness,” she replied, “I solicit no privilege beyond that to which my sex gives me the absolute right, and which has no concern with war and arms. I allude to the privilege of disposing of myself, my hand and heart, as it shall please me. Until you come to recognise that I am a woman endowed with a woman’s nature, and until, having realised it, you are prepared to submit to it, and pass me your princely word to urge the Duke of Babbiano’s suit no further with me, here will I stay in spite of you, your men-at-arms, and your paltry ally, Gian Maria, who imagines that love may be made successfully in armour, and that a way to a woman’s heart is to be opened with cannon-shot.”

  “I think we shall bring you to a more subjective and dutiful frame of mind, Madonna,” was the grim answer.

  “Dutiful to whom?”

  “To the State, a princess of which you have had the honour to be born.”

  “And what of my duty to myself, to my heart, and to my womanhood? Is no account to be taken of that?”

  “These are matters, Madonna, that are not to be discussed in shouts from the walls of a castle — nor, indeed, do I wish to discuss them anywhere. I am here to summon you to surrender. If you resist us, you do so at your peril.”

  “Then at my peril I will resist you — gladly. I defy you. Do your worst against me, disgrace your manhood and the very name of chivalry by whatsoever violence may occur to you, yet I promise you that Valentina della Rovere never shall become the wife of his Highness of Babbiano.”

  “You refuse to open your gates?” he returned, in a voice that shook with anger.

  “Utterly and finally.”

  “And you think to persist in this?”

  “As long as I have life.”

  The Prince laughed sardonically.

  “I wash my hands of the affair and of its consequences,” he answered grimly. “I leave it in the care of your future husband, Gian Maria Sforza, and if, in his very natural eagerness for the nuptials, he uses your castle roughly, the blame of it must rest with you. But what he does, he does with my full sanction, and I have come hither to advise you of it since you appeared in doubt. I beg that you will remain there for a few moments, to hear what his Highness himself may have to say. I trust his eloquence may prove more persuasive.”

  He saluted ceremoniously, and, wheeling his horse about, he rode away. Valentina would have withdrawn, but Francesco urged her to remain, and await the Duke of Babbiano’s coming. And so they paced the battlements, Valentina in earnest talk with Francesco, Gonzaga following in moody silence with Fortemani, and devouring them with his eyes.

  From their eminence they surveyed the bustling camp in the plain, where tents, green, brown, and white, were being hastily erected by half-stripped soldiers. The little army altogether, may have numbered a hundred men, which, in his vainglory, Gian Maria accounted all that would be needed to reduce Roccaleone. But the most formidable portion of his forces rolled into the field even as they watched. It was heralded by a hoarse groaning of the wheels of bullock-carts to the number of ten, on each of which was borne a cannon. Other carts followed with ammunition and victuals for the men encamped.

  They looked on with interest at the busy scene that was toward, and as they watched they saw Guidobaldo ride into the heart of the camp, and dismount. Then from out of a tent more roomy and imposing than the rest advanced the short, stout figure of Gian Maria, not to be recognised at that distance save by the keen eyes of Francesco that were familiar with his shape.

  A groom held a horse for him and assisted him to mount, and then, attended by the same trumpeter that had escorted Guidobaldo, he rode forward towards the castle. At the edge of the moat he halted, and at sight of Valentina and her company, he doffed his feathered hat, and bowed his straw-coloured head.

  “Monna Valentina,” he called, and when she stepped forth in answer, he raised his little, cruel eyes in a malicious glance and showed the round moon of his white face to be whiter even, than its wont — a pallor atrabilious and almost green.

  “I am grieved that his Highness, your uncle, should not have prevailed with you. Where he has failed, I may have little hope of succeeding — by the persuasion of words. Yet I would beg you to allow me to have speech of your captain, whoever he may be.”

  “My captains are here in attendance,” she answered tranquilly.

  “So! You have a plurality of them; to command — how many men?”

  “Enough,” roared Francesco, interposing, his voice sounding hollow from his helmet, “to blow you and your woman besieging scullions to perdition.”

  The Duke stirred on his horse, and peered up at the speaker. But there was too little of his face visible for recognition, whilst his voice was altered and his figure dissembled in its steel casing.

  “Who are you, rogue?” he asked.

  “Rogue in your teeth, be you twenty times a Duke,” returned the other, at which Valentina laughed outright.

  Never from the day when he had uttered his first wail had his Highness of Babbiano heard words of such import from the lips of living man. A purple flush mottled his cheeks at the indignity of it.

  “Attend to me, knave!” he bellowed. “Whatever betide the rest of this misguided garrison when ultimately it falls into my hands, for you I can promise a rope and a cross-beam.”

  “Bah!” sneered the knight. “First catch your bird. Be none so sure that Roccaleone ever will fall into your hands. While I live you do not enter here, and my life, Highness, is for me a precious thing, which I’ll not part with lightly.”

  Valentina’s eyes were mirthless now as she turned them upon that gleaming, martial figure standing so proudly at her side, and seeming so well-attuned to the proud defiance he hurled at the princely bully below.

  “Hush, sir!” she murmured. “Do not anger him further.”

  “Aye,” groaned Gonzaga, “in God’s name say no more, or you’ll undo us hopelessly.”

  “Madonna,” said the Duke, without further heeding Francesco, “I give you twenty-four hours in which to resolve upon your action. Yonder you see them bringing the cannon into camp. When you wake to-morrow you shall find those guns trained upon your walls. Meanwhile, enough said. May I speak a word with Messer Gonzaga ere I depart.”

  “So that you depart, you may say a word to whom you will,” she answered contemptuously. And, turning aside, she motioned Gonzaga to the crenel she abandoned.

  “I’ll swear that mincing jester is trembling already with the fear of what is to come,” bawled the Duke, “and perhaps fear will show him the way to reason. Messer Gonzaga!” he called, raising his voice. “As I believe the men of Roccaleone are in your service, I call upon you to bid them throw down that drawbridge, and in the name of Guidobaldo as well as my own, I promise them free pardon and no hurt — saving only that rascal at your side. But if your knaves resist me, I promise you that when I shall have dashed Roccaleone stone from stone, not a man of you all will I spare.”

  Shaking like an aspen Gonzaga stood there, his voice palsied and making no reply, whereupon Francesco leant forward agai
n.

  “We have heard your terms,” he answered, “and we are not like to heed them. Waste not the day in vain threats.”

  “Sir, my terms were not for you. I know you not; I addressed you not, nor will I suffer myself to be addressed by you.”

  “Linger there another moment,” answered the vibrating voice of the knight, “and you will find yourself addressed with a volley of arquebuse-shot. Olá, there!” he commanded, turning and addressing an imaginary body of men on the lower ramparts of the garden, to his left. “Arquebusiers to the postern! Blow your matches! Make ready! Now, my Lord Duke, will you draw off, or must we blow you off?”

  The Duke’s reply took the form of a bunch of blasphemous threats of how he would serve his interlocutor when he came to set hands on him.

  “Present arms!” roared the knight to his imaginary arquebusiers, whereupon, without another word, the Duke turned his horse and rode off in disgraceful haste, his trumpeter following hot upon his heels, pursued by a derisive burst of laughter from Francesco.

  CHAPTER XVIII. TREACHERY

  “Sir,” gulped Gonzaga, as they were descending from the battlements, “you will end by having us all hanged. Was that a way to address a prince?”

  Valentina frowned that he should dare rebuke her knight. But Francesco only laughed.

  “By St. Paul! How would you have had me address him?” he inquired. “Would you have had me use cajolery with him — the lout? Would you have had me plead mercy from him, and beg him, in honeyed words, to be patient with a wilful lady? Let be, Messer Gonzaga, we shall weather it yet, never doubt it.”

  “Messer Gonzaga’s courage seems of a quality that wanes as the need for it increases,” said Valentina.

  “You are confounding courage, Madonna, with foolhardy recklessness,” the courtier returned. “You may learn it to your undoing.”

  That Gonzaga was not the only one entertaining this opinion they were soon to learn, for, as they reached the courtyard a burly, black-browed ruffian, Cappoccio by name, thrust himself in their path.

  “A word with you, Messer Gonzaga, and you, Ser Ercole.” His attitude was full of truculent insolence, and all paused, Francesco and Valentina turning from him to the two men whom he addressed, and waiting to hear what he might have to say to them. “When I accepted service under you, I was given to understand that I was entering a business that should entail little risk to my skin. I was told that probably there would be no fighting, and that if there were, it would be no more than a brush with the Duke’s men. So, too, did you assure my comrades.”

  “Did you indeed?” quoth Valentina, intervening, and addressing herself to Fortemani, to whom Cappoccio’s words had been directed.

  “I did, Madonna,” answered Ercole. “But I had Messer Gonzaga’s word for it.”

  “Did you,” she continued, turning to Gonzaga, “permit their engagement on that understanding?”

  “On some such understanding, yes, Madonna,” he was forced to confess.

  She looked at him a moment in amazement. Then:

  “Msser Gonzaga,” she said at length, “I think that I begin to know you.”

  But Cappoccio, who was nowise interested in the extent of Valentina’s knowledge of the man, broke in impetuously:

  “Now we have heard what has passed between this new Provost here and his Highness of Babbiano. We have heard the terms that were offered, and his rejection of them, and I am come to tell you, Ser Ercole, and you, Messer Gonzaga, that I for one will not remain here to be hanged when Roccaleone shall fall into the hands of Gian Maria. And there are others of my comrades who are of the same mind.”

  Valentina looked at the rugged, determined features of the man, and fear for the first time stole into her heart and was reflected on her countenance. She was half-turning to Gonzaga, to vent upon him some of the bitterness of her humour — for him she accounted to blame — when once again Francesco came to the rescue.

  “Now, shame on you, Cappoccio, for a paltry hind! Are these words for the ears of a besieged and sorely harassed lady, craven?”

  “I am no craven,” the man answered hoarsely, his face flushing under the whip of Francesco’s scorn. “Out in the open I will take my chances, and fight in any cause that pays me. But this is not my trade — this waiting for the death of a trapped rat.”

  Francesco met his eyes steadily for a moment, then glanced at the other men, to the number of a half-score or so — all, in fact, whom the duties he had apportioned them did not hold elsewhere. They hung in the rear of Cappoccio, all ears for what was being said, and their countenances plainly showing how their feelings were in sympathy with their spokesman.

  “And you a soldier, Cappoccio?” sneered Francesco. “Shall I tell you in what Fortemani was wrong when he enlisted you? He was wrong in not hiring you for scullion duty in the castle kitchen.”

  “Sir Knight!”

  “Bah! Do you raise your voice to me? Do you think I am of your kind, animal, to be affrighted by sounds — however hideous?”

  “I am not affrighted by sounds.”

  “Are you not? Why, then, all this ado about a bunch of empty threats cast at us by the Duke of Babbiano? If you were indeed the soldier you would have us think you, would you come here and say, ‘I will not die this way, or that’? Confess yourself a boaster when you tell us that you are ready to die in the open.”

  “Nay! That am I not.”

  “Then, if you are ready to die out there, why not in here? Shall it signify aught to him that dies where he gets his dying done? But reassure yourself, you woman,” he added, with a laugh, and in a voice loud enough to be heard by the others, “you are not going to die — neither here, nor there.”

  “When Roccaleone capitulates — —”

  “It will not capitulate,” thundered Francesco.

  “Well, then — when it is taken.”

  “Nor will it be taken,” the Provost insisted, with an assurance that carried conviction. “If Gian Maria had time unlimited at his command, he might starve us into submission. But he has not. An enemy is menacing his own frontiers, and in a few days — a week, at most — he will be forced to get him hence to defend his crown.”

  “The greater reason for him to use stern measures and bombard us as he threatens,” answered Cappoccio shrewdly but rather in the tone of a man who expects to have his argument disproved. And Francesco, if he could not disprove it, could at least contradict it.

  “Believe it not,” he cried, with a scornful laugh. “I tell you that Gian Maria will never dare so much. And if he did, are these walls that will crumble at a few cannon-shots? Assault he might attempt; but I need not tell a soldier that twenty men who are stout and resolute, as I will believe you are for all your craven words, could hold so strong a place as this against the assault of twenty times the men the Duke has with him. And for the rest, if you think I tell you more than I believe myself, I ask you to remember how I am included in Gian Maria’s threat. I am but a soldier like you, and such risks as are yours are mine as well. Do you see any sign of faltering in me, any sign of doubting the issue, or any fear of a rope that shall touch me no more than it shall touch you? There, Cappoccio! A less merciful provost would have hanged you for your words — for they reek of sedition. Yet I have stood and argued with you, because I cannot spare a brave man such as you will prove yourself. Let us hear no more of your doubtings. They are unworthy. Be brave and resolute, and you shall find yourself well rewarded when the baffled Duke shall be forced to raise this siege.”

  He turned without waiting for the reply of Cappoccio — who stood crestfallen, his cheeks reddened by shame of his threat to get him hence — and conducted Valentina calmly across the yard and up the steps of the hall.

  It was his way never to show a doubt that his orders would be obeyed, yet on this occasion scarce had the door of the hall closed after them when he turned sharply to the following Ercole.

  “Get you an arquebuse,” he said quickly, “and take my man Lanciotto,
with you. Should those dogs still prove mutinous, fire into any that attempt the gates — fire to kill — and send me word. But above all, Ercole, do not let them see you or suspect your presence; that were to undermine such effect as my words may have produced.”

  From out of a woefully pale face Valentina raised her brown eyes to his, in a look that was as a stab to the observing Gonzaga.

  “I needed a man here,” she said, “and I think that Heaven it must have been that sent you to my aid. But do you think,” she asked, and with her eyes she closely scanned his face for any sign of doubt, “that they are pacified?”

  “I am assured of it, Madonna. Come, there are signs of tears in your eyes, and — by my soul! — there is naught to weep at.”

  “I am but a woman, after all,” she smiled up at him, “and so, subject to a woman’s weakness. It seemed as if the end were indeed come just now. It had come, but for you. If they should mutiny — —”

  “They shall not, while I am here,” he answered, with a cheering confidence. And she, full of faith in this true knight of hers, went to seek her ladies, and to soothe in her turn any alarm to which they might have fallen a prey.

  Francesco went to disarm, and Gonzaga to take the air upon the ramparts, his heart a very bag of gall. His hatred for the interloper was as nothing now to his rage against Valentina, a rage that had its birth in a wondering uncomprehension of how she should prefer that coarse, swashbuckling bully to himself, the peerless Gonzaga. And as he walked there, under the noontide sky, the memory of Francesco’s assurance that the men would not mutiny returned to him, and he caught himself most ardently desiring that they might, if only to bear it home to Valentina how misplaced was her trust, how foolish her belief in that loud boaster. He thought next — and with increasing bitterness — of his own brave schemes, of his love for Valentina, and of how assured he had been that his affections were returned, before this ruffler came amongst them. He laughed in bitter scorn as the thought returned to her preferring Francesco to himself. Well, it might be so now — now that the times were warlike, and this Francesco was such a man as shone at his best in them. But what manner of companion would this sbirro make in times of peace? Had he the wit, the grace, the beauty even that was Gonzaga’s? Circumstance, it seemed to him, was here to blame, and he roundly cursed that same Circumstance. In other surroundings, he was assured that she would not have cast an eye upon Francesco whilst he, himself, was by; and if he recalled their first meeting at Acquasparta, it was again to curse Circumstance for having placed the knight in such case as to appeal to the tenderness that is a part of woman’s nature.