Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  Then he thundered to Giacomo to marshal his men, and he called upon those of his courtiers who were knights to put on their armour that they might support him. Lastly he bade a page go help him to arm, that he might lead his little force in person.

  I saw Madonna Paola’s eyes gleam with a sudden light of admiration, and I guessed that in the matter of Giovanni’s valour her opinions were undergoing the same change as the verses had caused them to undergo in the matter of his intellect.

  Myself, I was amazed. For here was a Lord Giovanni I seemed never to have known, and I was eager to behold the sequel to so fine a prologue.

  CHAPTER IX. THE FOOL-AT-ARMS

  That valorous bearing that the Lord Giovanni showed whilst, with Madonna Paola’s glance upon him, his fear of seeming afraid was greater than his actual fear of our assailants, he cast aside like a mantle once he was within the walls of his Castle, and under the eyes of none save the page and myself, for I followed idly at a respectful distance.

  He stood irresolute and livid of countenance, his eagerness to arm and to lead his mercenaries and his knights all departed out of him. It was that curiosity of mine to see the sequel to his stout words that had led me to follow him, and what I saw was, after all, no more than I might have looked for — the proof that his big talk of sallying forth to battle was but so much acting. Yet it must have been acting of such a quality as to have deceived even his very self.

  Now, however, by the main steps, he halted in the cool gloom of the gallery, and I saw that fear had caught his heart in an icy grip and was squeezing it empty. In his irresolution he turned about, and his gloomy eye fell upon me loitering in the porch. At that he turned to the page who followed in obedience to his command.

  “Begone!” he growled at the lad, “I will have Boccadoro, there, to help me arm.” And with a poor attempt at mirth— “The act is a madness,” he muttered, “and so it is fitting that folly should put on my armour for it. Come with me, you,” he bade me, and I, obediently, gladly, went forward and up the wide stone staircase after him, leaving the page to speculate as he listed on the matter of his abrupt dismissal.

  I read the Lord Giovanni’s motives, as clearly as if they had been written for me by his own hand. The opinion in which I might hold him was to him a matter of so small account that he little cared that I should be the witness of the weakness which he feared was about to overcome him — nay, which had overcome him already. Was I not the one man in Pesaro who already knew his true nature, as revealed by that matter of the verses which I had written, and of which he had assumed the authorship? He had no shame before me, for I already knew the very worst of him, and he was confident that I would not talk lest he should destroy me at my first word. And yet, there was more than that in his motive for choosing me to go with him in that hour, as I was to learn once we were closeted in his chamber.

  “Boccadoro,” he cried, “can you not find me some way out of this?” Under his beard I saw the quiver of his lips as he put the question.

  “Out of this?” I echoed, scarce understanding him at first.

  “Aye, man — out of this Castle, out of Pesaro. Bestir those wits of yours. Is there no way in which it might be done, no disguise under which I might escape?”

  “Escape?” quoth I, looking at him, and endeavouring to keep from my eyes the contempt that was in my heart. Dear God! Had revenge been all I sought of him, how I might have gloated over his miserable downfall!

  “Do not stand there staring with those hollow eyes,” he cried, anger and fear blending horridly in his voice and rendering shrill its pitch. “Find me a way. Come, knave, find me a way, or I’ll have you broken on the wheel. Set your wits to save that long, lean body from destruction. Think, I bid you.”

  He was moving restlessly as he spoke, swayed by the agitation of terror that possessed him like a devil. I looked at him now without dissembling my scorn. Even in such an hour as this the habit of hectoring cruelty remained him.

  “What shall it avail me to think?” I asked him in a voice that was as cold and steady as his was hot and quavering. “Were you a bird I might suggest flight across the sea to you. But you are a man, a very human, a very mortal man, although your father made you Lord of Pesaro.”

  Even as I was speaking, the thunder of the besiegers reached our ears — such a dull roar it was as that of a stormy sea in winter time. Maddened by his terror he stood over me now, his eyes flashing wildly in his white face.

  “Another word in such a tone,” he rasped, his fingers on his dagger, “and I’ll make an end of you. I need your help, animal!”

  I shook my head, my glance meeting his without fear. I was of twice his strength, we were alone, and the hour was one that levelled ranks. Had he made the least attempt to carry out his threat, had he but drawn an inch of the steel he fingered, I think I should have slain him with my hands without fear or thought of consequences.

  “I have no help for you such as you need,” I answered him. “I am but the Fool of Pesaro. Whoever looked to a Fool for miracles?”

  “But here is death,” he almost moaned.

  “Lord of Pesaro,” I reminded him, “your mercenaries are under arms by your command, and your knights are joining them. They wait for the fulfilment of your promise to lead them out against the enemy. Shall you fail them in such an hour as this?”

  He sank, limp as an empty scabbard, to a chair.

  “I dare not go. It is death,” he answered miserably.

  “And what but death is it to remain here?” I asked, torturing him with more zest than ever he had experienced over the agonies of some poor victim on the rack. “In bearing yourself gallantly there lies a slender chance for you. Your people seeing you in arms and ready to defend them may yet be moved to a return of loyalty.”

  “A fig for their loyalty,” was his peevish, craven answer. “What shall it avail me when I’m slain!”

  God! was there ever such a coward as this, such a weak-souled, water-hearted dastard?

  “But you may not be slain,” I urged him. And then I sounded a fresh note. “Bethink you of Madonna Paola and of the brave things you promised her.”

  He flushed a little, then paled again, then sat very still. Shame had touched him at last, yet its grip was not enough to make a man of him. A moment he remained irresolute, whilst that shame fought a hard battle with his fears.

  But those fears proved stronger in the end, and his shame was overthrown by them.

  “I dare not,” he gasped, his slender, delicate hands clutching at the arms of his chair. “Heaven knows I am not skilled in the use of arms.”

  “It asks no skill,” I assured him. “Put on your armour, take a sword and lay about you. The most ignorant scullion in your kitchens could perform it given that he had the spirit.”

  He moistened his lips with his tongue, and his eyes looked dead as a snake’s. Suddenly he rose and took a step towards the armour that was piled about a great leathern chair. Then he paused and turned to me once more.

  “Help me to put it on,” he said in a voice that he strove to render steady. Yet scarcely had I reached the pile and taken up the breast-plate, when he recoiled again from the task. He broke into a torrent of blasphemy.

  “I will not sacrifice myself,” he almost screamed. “Jesus! not I. I will find a way out of this. I will live to return with an army and regain my throne.”

  “A most wise purpose. But, meanwhile, your men are waiting for you; Madonna Paola di Santafior is waiting for you, and — hark! — the bellowing crowd is waiting for you.”

  “They wait in vain,” he snarled. “Who cares for them? The Lord of Pesaro am I.”

  “Care you, then, nothing for them? Will you have your name written in history as that of a coward who would not lift his sword to strike one blow for honour’s sake ere he was driven out like a beast by the mere sound of voices?”

  That touched him. His vanity rose in arms.

  “Take up that corselet,” he commanded hoarsely. I did
his bidding, and, without a word, he raised his arms that I might fit it to his breast. Yet in the instant that I turned me to pick up the back-piece, a crash resounded through the chamber. He had hurled the breastplate to the ground in a fresh access of terror-rage. He strode towards me, his eyes glittering like a madman’s.

  “Go you!” he cried, and with outstretched arms he pointed wildly across the courtyard. “You are very ready with your counsels. Let me behold your deeds, Do you put on the armour and go out to fight those animals.”

  He raved, he ranted, he scarce knew what he said or did, and yet the words he uttered sank deep into my heart, and a sudden, wild ambition swelled my bosom.

  “Lord of Pesaro,” I cried, in a voice so compelling that it sobered him, “if I do this thing what shall be my reward?”

  He stared at me stupidly for a moment. Then he laughed in a silly, crackling fashion.

  “Eh?” he queried. “Gesu!” And he passed a hand over his damp brow, and threw back the hair that cumbered it. “What is the thing that you would do, Fool?”

  “Why, the thing you bade me,” I answered firmly. “Put on your armour, and shut down the visor so that all shall think it is the Lord Giovanni, Tyrant of Pesaro, who rides. If I do this thing, and put to rout the rabble and the fifty men that Cesare Borgia has sent, what shall be my reward?”

  He watched me with twitching lips, his glare fixed upon me and a faint colour kindling in his face. He saw how easy the thing might be. Perhaps he recalled that he had heard that I was skilled in arms — having spent my youth in the exercise of them, against the time when I might fling the challenge that had brought me to my Fool’s estate. Maybe he recalled how I had borne myself against long odds on that adventure with Madonna Paola, years ago. Just such a vanity as had spurred him to have me write him verses that he might pretend were of his own making, moved him now to grasp at my proposal. They would all think that Giovanni’s armour contained Giovanni himself. None would ever suspect Boccadoro the Fool within that shell of steel. His honour would be vindicated, and he would not lose the esteem of Madonna Paola. Indeed, if I returned covered with glory, that glory would be his; and if he elected to fly thereafter, he might do so without hurt to his fair name, for he would have amply proved his mettle and his courage.

  In some such fashion I doubt not that the High and Mighty Giovanni Sforza reasoned during the seconds that we stood, face to face and eye to eye, in that room, the cries of the impatient ones below almost drowned in the roar of the multitude beyond.

  At last he put out his hands to seize mine, and drawing me to the light he scanned my face, Heaven alone knowing what it was he sought there.

  “If you do this,” said he, “Biancomonte shall be yours again, if it remains in my power to bestow it upon you now or at any future time. I swear it by my honour.”

  “Swear it by your fear of Hell or by your hope of Heaven and the compact is made,” I answered, and so palsied was he and so fallen in spirit that he showed no resentment at the scorn of his honour my words implied, but there and then took the oath I that demanded.

  “And now,” I urged, “help me to put on this armour of yours.”

  Hurriedly I cast off my jester’s doublet and my head-dress with its jangling bells, and with a wild exultation, a joy so fierce as almost to bring tears to my eyes, I held my arms aloft whilst that poor craven strapped about my body the back and breast plates of his corselet. I, the Fool, stood there as arrogant as any knight, whilst with his noble hands the Lord of Pesaro, kneeling, made secure the greaves upon my legs, the sollerets with golden spurs, the cuissarts and the genouilleres. Then he rose up, and with hands that trembled in his eagerness, he put on my brassarts and shoulder-plates, whilst I, myself, drew on my gauntlets. Next he adjusted the gorget, and handed me, last of all, the helm, a splendid head-piece of black and gold, surmounted by the Sforza lion.

  I took it from him and passed it over my head. Then ere I snapped down the visor and hid the face of Boccadoro, I bade him, unless he would render futile all this masquerade, to lock the door of his closet, and lie there concealed till my return. At that a sudden doubt assailed him.

  “And what,” quoth he, “if you do not return?”

  In the fever that had possessed me this was a thing that had not entered into my calculations, nor should it now. I laughed, and from the hollow of my helmet not a doubt but the sound must have seemed charged with mockery. I pointed to the cap and doublet I had shed.

  “Why, then, Illustrious, it will but remain for you to complete the change.”

  “Dog!” he cried; “beast, do you deride me?”

  My answer was to point out towards the yard.

  “They are clamouring,” said I. “They wax impatient. I had better go before they come for you.” As I spoke I selected a heavy mace for only weapon, and swinging it to my shoulder I stepped to the door. On the threshold he would have stayed me, purged by his fear of what might befall him did I not return. But I heeded him not.

  “Fare you well, my Lord of Pesaro,” said I. “See that none penetrates to your closet. Make fast the door.”

  “Stay!” he called after me. “Do you hear me? Stay!”

  “Others will hear you if you commit this folly,” I called back to him. “Get you to cover.” And so I left him.

  Below, in the courtyard, my coming was hailed by a great, enthusiastic clamour. They had all but abandoned hope of seeing the Lord Giovanni, so long had he been about his arming. As they brought forward my charger, I sought with my eyes Madonna Paola. I beheld her by her brother — who, it seemed, was not going with us — in the front rank of the spectators. Her cheeks were tinged with a slight flush of excitement, and her eyes glowed at the brave sight of armed men.

  I mounted, and as I rode past her to take my place at the head of that company, I lowered my mace and bowed. She detained me a moment, setting her hand upon the glossy neck of my black charger.

  “My Lord,” she said, in a low voice, intended for my ear alone, “this is a brave and gallant thing you do, and however slight may be your hope of prevailing, yet your honour will be safe-guarded by this act, and men will remember you with respect should it come to pass that a usurper shall possess anon your throne. Bear you that in mind to lend you a glad courage. I shall pray for you, my Lord, till you return.”

  I bowed, answering never a word lest my voice should betray me; and musing on the matter of the strange roads that lead to a woman’s heart, I passed on, to gain the van.

  Two months ago, knowing Giovanni as he was, he had been detestable to her, and she contemplated with loathing the danger in which she stood of being allied to him by marriage. Since then he had made good use of a poor jester’s mental gifts to incline her by the fervour of some verses to a kindlier frame of mind, and now, making good use of that same jester’s courage, he completed her subjection by the display of it. She was prepared to wed the Lord Giovanni with a glad heart and a proud willingness whensoever he should desire it.

  But Giacomo was beside me now, and in the quadrangle a silence reigned, all waiting for my command. From without there came such a din as seemed to argue that all hell was at the Castle gates. There were shouts of defiance and screams of abuse, whilst a constant rain of stones beat against the raised drawbridge.

  They thought, no doubt, that Giovanni and his followers were at their prayers, cowering with terror. No notion had they of the armed force, some six score strong, that waited to pour down upon them. I briskly issued my command, and four men detached themselves and let down the bridge. It fell with a crash, and ere those without had well grasped the situation we had hurled ourselves across and into them with the force of a wedge, flinging them to right and to left as we crashed through with hideous slaughter. The bridge swung up again when the last of Giacomo’s mercenaries was across, and we were shut out, in the midst of that fierce human maelstrom.

  For some five minutes there raged such a brief, hot fight as will be remembered as long as Pesaro stands. No
longer than that did it take for the crowd of citizens to realise that war was not their trade, and that they had better leave the fighting to Cesare Borgia’s men; and so they fell away and left us a clear road to come at the men-at-arms. But already some forty of our saddles were empty, and the fight, though brief, had proved exhausting to many of us.

  Before us, like an array of mirrors in the October sun, shone the serried ranks of the steel-cased Borgia soldiers, their lances in rest, waiting to receive us. Their leader, a gigantic man whose head was armed by no more than a pot of burnished steel, from which escaped the long red ringlets of his hair, was that same Ramiro del’ Orca who had commanded the party pursuing Madonna Paola three years ago. He was, since, become the most redoubtable of Cesare’s captains, and his name was, perhaps, the best hated in Italy for the grim stories that were connected with it.

  As we rode on he backed to join the foremost rank of his soldiers, and his voice — a voice that Stentor might have envied — trumpeted a laugh at sight of us.

  “Gesu!” he roared, so that I heard him above the thunder of our hoofs. “What has come to Giovanni Sforza. Has he, perchance, become a man since Madonna Lucrezia divorced him? I will bear her the news of it, my good Giovanni — my living thunderbolt of Jove!”

  His men echoed his boisterous mood, infected by it, and this, I argued, boded ill for the courage of those that followed me. Another moment and we had swept into them, and many there were who laughed no more, or went to laugh with those in Hell.

  For myself I singled out the blustering Ramiro, and I let him know it by a swinging blow of my mace upon his morion. It was a most finely-tempered piece of steel, for my stroke made no impression on it, though Ramiro winced and raised his stout sword to return the compliment.

  “Body of God!” he croaked, “you become a very god of war, Giovanni. To me, then, my lusty Mars! We’ll make a fight of it that poets shall sing of over winter fires. Look to yourself!”