Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  ‘My lord! My lord! A moment! Pity!’

  He paused, and half-turned, his fingers already upon the latch.

  ‘I will have pity, Madonna, if you will teach me pity — if you will show me pity.’ He came back to her slowly, very grave now. ‘This husband of yours has been taken in treason. If you would not have him strangled this night, if you would ever hold him warm and living in your arms again, it is yours to rescue him from what impends.’

  He was looking deep and earnestly into her eyes, and she bore the glance, returned it wildly, in silence for a dozen heart-beats. Then at last, her lids dropped. She bowed her head. Her pallor seemed to deepen until her flesh was as if turned to wax.

  ‘What...what do you require of me?’ she breathed in a small, fluttering voice.

  There was never a man more versed than he in the uses of ambiguity.

  He had employed it now so as to produce in her the maximum of terror — so as to convey to her a suggestion that he asked the maximum price. Thus when he made clear his real meaning, there would be reaction from her worst dread, and in that reaction he would trap her. The great sacrifice he demanded, would be dwarfed in her view by relief, would seem small by comparison with the sacrifice his ambiguity had led her to fancy he required.

  So when she asked that faint, piteous question, ‘What do you require of me?’ he answered swift and sharply with words that he had rendered unexpected:

  ‘All that is known to you of this conspiracy in which he was taken.’

  He caught the upward flash of her eyes; their look of amazement, almost of relief, and knew that he had made her malleable. She swayed where she stood. He steadied her with ready hands, and gently pressed her back into her chair.

  And now he proceeded to hammer the metal he had softened.

  ‘Come, Madonna, use dispatch, I beg,’ he urged her, his voice level but singularly compelling. ‘Do not strain a patience that has its roots in mercy. Consider that the information I require of you, and for which I offer you so generous a price, the torture can extract for me from this husband of yours. I will be frank with you as at an Easter shrift. It is true I do not wish to embroil myself with the Most Serene Republic, and that I seek to gain my ends by gentle measures. But, by the Host! if my gentle measures do not prevail with you, why then Prince Sinibaldi shall be squeezed dry upon the rack, and what is left of him flung to the stranglers afterwards — aye, though he were an envoy of the Empire itself. My name,’ he ended, almost grimly, ‘is Cesare Borgia. You know what repute I enjoy in Venice.’

  She stared at him, considering, confused, and voiced the very question that perplexed her.

  ‘You offer me his life — his life and freedom — in exchange for this information?’

  ‘That is what I offer.’

  She pressed her hands to her brows, seeking to fathom the mystery of an offer that appeared to hold such extraordinary elements of contradiction.

  ‘But then...’ she began, tremulously, and paused for lack of words in which to frame her doubts.

  ‘If you need more assurance, Madonna, you shall have it,’ he said. ‘You shall have the assurance of my oath. I swear to you by my honour and my hope of Heaven that neither in myself nor through another shall I procure the hurt of so much as a hair of Sinibaldi’s head, provided that I know all of the treason that was plotting to be done this night and that thus I may be able to avoid the trap that I believe is set for me.’

  That resolved her doubts. She saw the reason of the thing; understood that after all he but offered Sinibaldi’s life in exchange for his own safety. Yet even then she hesitated, thinking of her husband.

  ‘He may blame me...’ she began, faltering.

  Cesare’s eyes gleamed. He leaned over her. ‘He need never know,’ he urged her insidiously.

  ‘You...you pledge your word,’ she insisted, as if to convince herself that all would be well.

  ‘Already have I pledged it, Madonna,’ he answered, and he could not altogether repress a note of bitterness. For he had pledged it reluctantly, because he conceived that no less would satisfy her. It was a bargain he would have avoided, had there been a way. For he did not lightly forgive, and he did not relish the notion of Sinibaldi’s going unpunished. But he had perceived that unless he gave this undertaking he would be without the means to parry the blow that might be struck at any moment.

  ‘I have pledged it, Madonna,’ he repeated, ‘and I do not forswear myself.’

  ‘You mean that you will not even allow him to know that you know? That you will but use the information I may give you to procure your own safety?’

  ‘That is what I mean,’ he assured her, and waited, confident now that he was about to have the thing he desired and for which he had bidden something recklessly.

  And at last he got the story — the sum total of her knowledge. Last night Ranieri and Prince Sinibaldi had sat late alone together. Her suspicions had earlier been aroused that her husband was plotting something with this friend of the fallen Malatesta. Driven by these suspicions, jealous perhaps to find herself excluded from her husband’s confidence in this matter, she had played the eavesdropper, and she had overheard that it was against Cesare Borgia’s life that they conspired.

  ‘The Lord Ranieri,’ she said, ‘spoke of this banquet at the Palazzo Pubblico, urging that the opportunity it afforded would be a rare one. It was Ranieri, my lord, who was the villain, the tempter in this affair.’

  ‘Yes, yes, no doubt,’ said Cesare impatiently. ‘It matters not which was the tempter, which the tempted. The story of it!’

  ‘Ranieri knew that you would be returning to sleep at Sigismondo’s Castle, and that it was planned to escort you thither in procession by torchlight. At some point on your way — but where I cannot tell you, for this much I did not learn — at some point on your way, then, Ranieri spoke of two crossbow-men that were to be ambushed, to shoot you.’

  She paused a moment. But Cesare offered no comment, betrayed no faintest perturbation at the announcement. So she proceeded.

  ‘But there was a difficulty. Ranieri did not account it insuperable, but to make doubly sure he desired it should be removed. He feared that if mounted guards chanced to ride beside you, it might not be easy for the crossbow-men to shoot past them. Foot-guards would not signify, as the men could shoot over their heads. But it was necessary, he held, to make quite sure that none but foot-guards should be immediately about your person, so that riding clear above them you should offer a fair mark. To make sure of this it was that he proposed to seduce one of your captains — I think it would be this man Graziani, whom the soldier told you had been wounded. Ranieri was satisfied that Graziani was disaffected towards your highness, and that he might easily be bought to lend a hand in their enterprise.’

  Valentinois smiled slowly, thoughtfully. He knew quite well the source of Ranieri’s rash assumption. Then, as he considered further, that smile of his grew faintly cruel, reflecting his mind.

  ‘That is all I overheard, my lord,’ she added after an instant’s pause.

  He stirred at that: threw back his head and laughed shortly. ‘Enough, as God lives,’ he snorted.

  She looked at him, and the sight of his countenance and the blaze of his tawny eyes filled her with fresh terror. She started to her feet, and appealed to him to remember his oath. At that appeal he put aside all trace of wrath, and smiled again.

  ‘Let your fears have rest,’ he bade her. ‘I have sworn, and by what I have sworn I shall abide. Nor I nor man of mine shall do hurt to Prince Sinibaldi.’

  She wanted to pour out her gratitude and her deep sense of his magnanimity. But words failed her for a moment, and ere she had found them, he was urging her to depart.

  ‘Madonna, you were best away, I think. You are overwrought. I fear that I have tried you sorely.’

  She confessed to her condition, and professed that she would be glad of his leave to return home at once.

  ‘The prince shall follow you,’ he pr
omised her, as he conducted her to the door. ‘First, however, we shall endeavour to make our peace with him, and I do not doubt but that we shall succeed. Be content,’ he added, observing the fresh panic that stared at him from her blue eyes — for she suddenly bethought her of what manner of peace it was Cesare’s wont to make with his enemies. ‘He shall be treated by me with all honour. I shall endeavour by friendliness to win him from these traitors who have seduced him.’

  ‘It is so — it is so!’ she exclaimed, seizing with avidity upon that excuse which he so generously implied for the man who would have contrived his murder. ‘It was none of his devising. He was lured to it by the evil counsels of others.’

  ‘How can I doubt it, since you assure me of it?’ he replied with an irony so subtle that it escaped her. He bowed, and opened the door.

  IV

  Following her out into the great hall, where instantly silence fell and a hundred eyes became levelled upon them, he beckoned the President of the Council, who hovered near, awaiting him. Into the President’s care he surrendered the princess, desiring him to conduct her thence and to her litter.

  Again he bowed to her, profoundly in farewell, and as she passed out of the hall, her hand upon the arm of the President, he stepped up to his place at the board again, and with a light jest and a laugh, invited the return of mirth, as if no thought or care troubled his mind.

  He saw that Capello watched him with saucer eyes, and he could imagine the misgivings that filled the Venetian Orator’s heart as a result of that long interview which had ended in the withdrawal of Sinibaldi’s lady from the feast. Messer Capello should be abundantly entertained, he thought with grim humour, and when the President had returned from escorting the princess to her litter, Cesare raised a finger and signed to the steel-clad antient who stood waiting as he had been bidden.

  Barbo clanked forward, and the talk and laughter rippled down to an expectant hush.

  ‘Bring in the Prince Sinibaldi,’ Cesare commanded, and therewith he fetched consternation back into that hall.

  The portly, slimy Capello was so wrought upon by his perturbation at this command that he heaved himself to his feet, and made so bold as to go round to Cesare’s chair.

  ‘Magnificent,’ he muttered fearfully, ‘what is this of Prince Sinibaldi?’

  The Duke flung at him a glance contemptuously over his shoulder.

  ‘Wait, and you shall see,’ he said.

  ‘But, my lord, I implore you to consider that the Most Serene...’

  ‘A little patience, sir,’ snapped Cesare, and the glance of his eyes drove back the flabby ambassador like a blow. He hung there behind the Duke’s chair, very white, and breathing labouredly. His fleshiness troubled him at such times as these.

  The double doors were flung open, and Barbo re-entered. He was followed by four men-at-arms of Graziani’s condotta, and in their midst walked Prince Sinibaldi, the envoy-extraordinary of the Most Serene Republic. But his air and condition were rather those of a common malefactor. His wrists were still pinioned behind his back; he was without hat or cloak; his clothes were in some disarray, as a result of his struggles, and his mien was sullen.

  The company’s amazement deepened, and a murmur ran round the board.

  At a sign from the Duke the guards fell back a little from their prisoner, leaving him face to face with Cesare.

  ‘Untie his wrists,’ the Duke commanded, and Barbo instantly slashed through the prince’s bonds.

  Conscious of the eyes upon him, the Venetian rallied his drooping spirits. He flung back his head, drew himself up, a tall figure full now of dignity and scorn, his eyes set boldly upon Cesare’s impassive face. Suddenly, unbidden, he broke into a torrent of angry speech.

  ‘Is it by your commands, my lord duke, that these indignities are put upon the inviolable person of an envoy?’ he demanded. ‘The Most Serene whose mouthpiece I have the honour to be, whose representative I am, is not likely to suffer with patience such dishonour.’

  Within the Duke’s reach stood an orange that had been injected with rose attar to be used as a perfume ball. He took it up in his long fingers and delicately sniffed it.

  ‘I trust,’ said he in that quiet voice which he could render so penetrating and so sweetly sinister, ‘that I apprehend you amiss when I apprehend that you threaten. It is not wise to threaten us, excellency — not even for an envoy of the Most Serene.’ And he smiled upon the Venetian, but with such a smile that Sinibaldi quailed and lost on the instant much of his fine arrogance — as many another bold fellow had done when face to face with the young Duke of Valentinois.

  Capello in the background wrung his hands and with difficulty suppressed a groan.

  ‘I do not threaten, my lord...’ began Sinibaldi.

  ‘I am relieved to hear it,’ said the Duke.

  ‘I protest,’ Sinibaldi concluded. ‘I protest against the treatment I have received. These ruffianly soldiers...’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Duke, and again he sniffed his orange. ‘Your protest shall have all attention. Never suppose me capable of overlooking anything that is your due. Continue, then, I beg. Let us hear, my lord, your version of the night’s affair. Condescend to explain the error of which you have been the victim, and I promise you the blunderers shall be punished. I will punish them the more gladly since it is in my nature not to like blunderers. You were saying that these ruffianly soldiers...But continue, pray.’

  Sinibaldi did not continue. Instead he began at the beginning of the tale he had prepared during the ample leisure that had been accorded him for the task. And it was a crafty tale, most cunningly conceived, and based as all convincing tales should be upon actualities. It was, in fact, precisely such a tale as Graziani might have told had he been there to speak, and being therefore true — though not true of Sinibaldi — would bear testing and should carry conviction.

  ‘I was bidden, Magnificent, in secret tonight to a meeting held at the house of my Lord Ranieri, whose guest it happens that I have been since my coming to Rimini. I went urged by the promise that a matter of life and death was to be dealt with, which concerned me closely.

  ‘I found a small company assembled there, but before they would reveal to me the real purpose of that gathering, they desired me to make an irrevocable oath that whether or not I became a party to the matters that were to be disclosed to me, I would never divulge a single word of it nor the name of any of those whom I met there.

  ‘Now I am not a fool, Magnificent.’

  ‘Who implies it?’ wondered Cesare aloud.

  ‘I am not a fool, and I scented treason instantly, as they knew I must. It is to be assumed that by some misconception they had come to think that I had ends to serve by listening to treason, by becoming a party to it. Therein lay their mistake — a mistake that was near to costing me my life, and has occasioned me this indignity of which I complain. I will not trouble your magnificence with my personal feelings. They matter nothing. I am an envoy, and just as I know and expect what is due to me, so do I know and fulfil — what is due from me. These fools should have considered that more fully. Since they did not...’

  ‘God give us patience!’ broke in the Duke. ‘Will you go over that again? This is mere oratory, sir. Your tale, sir — your tale. Let the facts plead for you.’

  Sinibaldi inclined his head with dignity.

  ‘Indeed, your highness is right — as ever. To my tale then. Where was I? Ah, yes!

  ‘When an oath of that nature was demanded of me I would at once have drawn back. But I perceived that already I had gone too far in thoughtlessly joining that assembly and that they would never suffer me to depart again and spread the alarm of what was doing there. They dared not for their lives’ sake. So much was clear. Therefore, for my own life’s sake, and in self-defence I took the oath imposed. But having taken it, I announced plainly that I desired to hear no more of any plot. I warned them that they were rash in having set their hands to any secret business, and that if — as I conceive
d — it had for aim your highness’ hurt then they were more than rash since your magnificence has as many eyes as Argus. Upon that I begged them to suffer me to depart since I was sworn to silence.

  ‘But men of their sort are easily fearful of betrayal, and do not lay much store by oaths. They refused to consent to my departure, protesting that I was bent upon denouncing them. From words we passed soon enough to blows. They set upon me, and a fight ensued in which one of them fell to my sword. Then the noise of our brawling brought in a patrol — but for which it is odds I should have left my life there. When these soldiers broke in the plotters flung themselves from a window into the river, whilst I remained, having naught to fear since I was innocent of all evil. It was thus that I alone came to be taken by these fellows who would listen to no assurances I offered them.’

  From behind the Duke’s chair came a deep sigh of relief uttered by the quaking Capello. He advanced a step.

  ‘You see, my lord, you see...’ he was beginning.

  ‘Peace, man!’ the Duke bade him sharply. ‘Be assured I see as far as any man, and need not borrow your eyes to help me, Ser Capello.’ Then turning again to Sinibaldi, and speaking very courteously, ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘it grieves me you should have been mishandled by my soldiery. But I trust to your generosity to see that until we had this explanation, the appearances were against you; and you will acquit us, I am sure, of any discourtesy to the Most Serene. Let me add even that in the case of anyone less accredited than yourself, or representing a power upon whose friendship I did not so implicitly depend as I do upon that of Venice: (he said it with all the appearance of sincerity and with no slightest trace of irony) ‘I might be less ready to accept that explanation, and I might press for the names of the men who, you are satisfied, were engaged in treason.’

  ‘Those names, Magnificent, already I should have afforded you but for the oath that binds me,’ answered Sinibaldi.

  ‘That too I understand; and so, my lord, out of deference and to mark my esteem of you and of the Republic you represent, I do not ask a question you might have a difficulty in answering. Let us forget this unhappy incident.’