Gonzaga’s face fell at that. Then he suddenly stiffened, and put on an expression of haughtiness.
“It is my intent to lead this company myself,” he loftily informed the ruffler.
“Body of God!” gasped Ercole, upon whose mind intruded a grotesque picture of such a company as he would assemble, being led by this mincing carpet-knight. Then recollecting himself: “If that be so,” said he, “you had best, yourself, enrol it. Felicissima notte!” And he waved him a farewell across the table.
Here was a poser for Gonzaga. How was he to go about such a business as that? It was beyond his powers. Thus much he protested frankly.
“Now attend to me, young sir,” was the other’s answer. “The matter stands thus: If I can repair to certain friends of mine with the information that an affair is afoot, the particulars of which I may not give them, but in which I am to lead them myself, sharing such risk as there may be, I do not doubt but that by this time to-morrow I can have a score of them enrolled–such is their confidence in Ercole Fortemani. But if I take them to enter a service unknown, under a leader equally unknown, the forming of such a company would be a mighty tedious matter.”
This was an argument to the force of which Gonzaga could not remain insensible. After a moment’s consideration, he offered Ercole fifty gold florins in earnest of good faith and the promise of pay, thereafter, at the rate of twenty gold florins a month for as long as he should need his services and Ercole, who in all his free-lancing days had never earned the tenth of such a sum, was ready to fall upon this most noble gentleman’s neck, and weep for very joy and brotherly affection.
The matter being settled, Gonzaga produced a heavy bag which gave forth a jangle mighty pleasant to the ears of Fortemani, and let it drop with a chink upon the table.
“There are a hundred florins for the equipment of this company. I do not wish to have a regiment of out-at-elbow tatterdemalions at my heels.” And his eye swept in an uncomplimentary manner over Ercole’s apparel. “See that you dress them fittingly.”
“It shall be done, Magnificent,” answered Ercole, with a show of such respect as he had not hitherto manifested. “And arms?”
“Give them pikes and arquebuses, if you will; but nothing more. The place we are bound for is well stocked with armour–but even that may not be required.”
“May not be required?” echoed the more and more astonished swashbuckler. Were they to be paid on so lordly a scale, clothed and fed, to induce them upon a business that might carry no fighting with it? Surely he had never sold himself into a more likely or promising service, and that night he dreamt in his sleep that he was become a gentleman’s steward, and that at his heels marched an endless company of lacqueys in flamboyant liveries. On the morrow he awoke to the persuasion that at last, of a truth, was his fortune made, and that hereafter there would be no more piketrailing for his war-worn old arms.
Conscientiously he set about enrolling the company, for, in his way, this Ercole Fortemani was a conscientious man–boisterous and unruly if you will; a rogue, in his way, with scant respect for property; not above cogging dice or even filching a purse upon occasion when hard driven by necessity–for all that he was gently born and had held honourable employment; a drunkard by long habit, and a swaggering brawler upon the merest provocation. But for all that, riotous and dishonest though he might be in the general commerce of life, yet to the hand that hired him he strove–not always successfully, perhaps, but, at least, always earnestly–to be loyal.
Chapter IX.
The “Tratta Di Corde”
Whilst the bustle of preparation went on briskly in Urbino, Gian Maria, on his side, was rapidly disposing of affairs in Babbiano, that he might return to the nuptials for which he was impatient. But he had chanced upon a deeper tangle than he had reckoned with, and more to do than he had looked for.
On the day of his departure from Urbino, he had ridden as far as Cagli, and halted at the house of the noble Messer Valdicampo. This had been placed at his disposal, and there he proposed to lie the night. They had supped–the Duke, de’ Alvari, Gismondo Santi, Messér Valdicampo, his wife and two daughters, and a couple of friends, potential citizens of Cagli, whom he had invited, that they might witness the honour that was being done his house. It waxed late, and the torpor that ensues upon the generous gratification of appetite was settling upon the company when Armstadt–Gian Maria’s Swiss captain–entered and approached his master with the air of a man who is the bearer of news. He halted a pace or two from the Duke’s high-backed chair, and stood eyeing Gian Maria in stupid patience.
“Well, fool?” growled the Duke, turning his head.
The Swiss approached another step. “They have brought him, Highness,” he said in a confidential whisper.
“Am I a wizard that I must read your thoughts?” hectored Gian Maria. “Who has brought whom?”
Armstadt eyed the company in hesitation. Then, stepping close to the Duke, he murmured in his ear:
“The men I left behind have brought the fool–Ser Peppe.”
A sudden brightening of the eye showed that Gian Maria understood. Without apology to the board, he turned and whispered back to his captain to have the fellow taken to his chamber, there to await him. “Let a couple of your knaves be in attendance, and do you come too, Martino.”
Martin bowed, and withdrew, whereupon Gian Maria found grace to crave his host’s pardon, with the explanation that the man had brought him news he had been expecting. Valdicampo, who for the honour of having a Duke sleep beneath his roof would have stomached improprieties far more flagrant, belittled the matter and dismissed it. And presently Gian Maria rose with the announcement that he had far to journey on the morrow, and so, with his host’s good leave, would be abed.
Valdicampo, himself, then played the part of chamberlain, and taking up one of the large candle branches, he lighted the Duke to his apartments. He would have carried his good offices, and his candles, as far as Gian Maria’s very bed-chamber, but that in the ante-room his Highness, as politely as might be, bade him set down the lights and leave him.
The Duke remained standing for a moment, deliberating whether to afford knowledge to Alvari and Santi–who had followed him and stood awaiting his commands–of what he was about to do. In the end he decided that he would act alone and upon his sole discretion. So he dismissed them.
When they had gone and he was quite alone, he clapped his hands together, and in answer to that summons the door of his bedroom opened, revealing Martin Armstadt on the threshold.
“He is there?” inquired the Duke.
“Awaiting your Highness,” answered the Swiss, and he held the door for Gian Maria to enter.
The bedchamber apportioned the Duke in the Palazzo Valdicampo was a noble and lofty room, in the midst of which loomed the great carved bed of honour, with its upright pillars and funereal canopy.
On the overmantel stood two five-armed sconces with lighted tapers. Yet Gian Maria did not seem to deem that there was light enough for such purpose as he entertained, for he bade Martin fetch him the candelabra that had been left behind. Then he turned his attention to the group standing by the window, where the light from the overmantel fell full upon it.
This consisted of three men, two being mercenaries of Armstadt’s guard, in corselet and morion, and the third, who stood captive between, the unfortunate Ser Peppe. The fool’s face was paler than its wont, whilst the usual roguery had passed from his eyes and his mouth, fear having taken possession of its room. He met the Duke’s cruel glance with one of alarm and piteous entreaty.
Having assured himself that Peppe had no weapons, and that his arms were pinioned behind him, Gian Maria bade the two guards withdraw, but hold themselves in readiness in the ante-chamber with Armstadt. Then he turned to Peppe with a scowl on his low brow.
“You are not so merry as you were this morning, fool,” he scoffed.
Peppino squirmed a little, but his nature, schooled by the long habit of jest, prompted a bold whimsicality in his reply.
“The circumstances are scarcely as propitious–to me. Your Highness, though, seems in excellent goodhumour.”
Gian Maria looked at him angrily a moment. He was a slow-witted man, and he could devise no ready answer, no such cutting gibe as it would have pleasured him to administer. He walked leisurely to the fire-place, and leant his elbow on the overmantel.