“What is this, Gonzaga?” she inquired, her manner excited, for the fool had told her that it was the knight Francesco who sought admittance, and at the very mention of the name she had flushed, then paled, then started for the ramparts. “Why is this knight denied admittance since he bears a message for me?” And from where she stood she sought with admiring eyes the graceful shape of the Count of Aquila–the knight-errant of her dreams. Francesco bared his head, and bent to the withers of his horse in courteous greeting. She turned to Gonzaga impatiently.
“For what do you wait?” she cried. “Have you not understood my wishes? Let the bridge be lowered.”
“Bethink you, Madonna,” he remonstrated. “You do not know this man. He may be a spy of Gian Maria’s–a hireling paid to betray us.”
“You fool,” she answered sharply. “Do you not see that it is the wounded knight we met that day you were escorting me to Urbino?”
“What shall that signify?” demanded he. “Is it proof of his honesty of purpose or loyalty to you? Be advised, Madonna, and let him deliver his message from where he is. He is safer there.”
She measured him with a determined eye.
“Messer Gonzaga, order them to lower the bridge,” she bade him.
“But, lady, bethink you of your peril.”
“Peril?” she echoed. “Peril from two men, and we a garrison of over twenty? Surely the man is a coward who talks so readily of perils. Have the drawbridge lowered.”
“But if—-” he began, with a desperate vehemence, when again she cut him short.
“Am I to be obeyed? Am I mistress, and will you bid them lower the bridge, or must I, myself, go see to it?”
With a look of despairing anger and a shrug of the shoulders he turned from her, and despatched one of his men with an order. A few moments later, with a creaking of hinges and a clanking of chains, the great bridge swung down and dropped with a thud to span the gulf. Instantly the Count spurred his horse forward, and followed by Lanciotto rode across the plank and under the archway of the entrance tower into the first courtyard.
Now, scarcely had he drawn rein there when through a door at the far end appeared the gigantic figure of Fortemani, half-clad and sword in hand. At sight of Francesco the fellow leaped down a half-dozen steps, and advanced towards him with a burst of oaths.
“To me!” he shouted, in a voice that might have waked the dead. “Olá! Olá! What devil’s work is this? How come you here? By whose orders was the bridge let down?”
“By the orders of Monna Valentina’s captain,” answered Francesco, wondering what madman might be this.
“Captain?” cried the other, coming to a standstill and his face turning purple. “Body of Satan! What captain? I am captain here.”
The Count looked him over in surprise.
“Why, then,” said he, “you are the very man I seek. I congratulate you on the watch you keep, Messer Capitano. Your castle is so excellently patrolled that had I been minded for a climb I had scaled your walls and got within your gates without arousing any of your slumbering sentries.”
Fortemani eyed him with a lowering glance. The prosperity of the past four days had increased the insolence inherent in the man.
“Is that your affair?” he growled menacingly. “You are over-bold, sir stranger, to seek a quarrel with me, and over-pert to tell me how I shall discharge my captaincy. By the Passion! You shall be punished.”
“Punished–I?” echoed Francesco, on whose brow there now descended a scowl as black as Ercole’s own.
“Aye, punished, young sir. Ercole Fortemani is my name.”
“I have heard of you,” answered the Count contemptuously, “and of how you belie that name of yours, for they tell me that a more drunken, cowardly, good-for-nothing rogue is not to be found in Italy–no, not even in the Pope’s dominions. And have a care how you cast the word ‘punishment’ at your betters, animal. The moat is none so distant, and the immersion may profit you. For I’ll swear you’ve not been washed since they baptized you–if, indeed, you be a son of Mother Church at all.”
“Sangue di Cristo!” spluttered the enraged bully, his face mottled. “This to me? Come down from that horse.”
He laid hold of Francesco’s leg to drag him to the ground, but the Count wrenched it free by a quick motion that left a gash from his spur upon the captain’s hands. Simultaneously he raised his whip, and would have laid the lash of it across the broad of Fortemani’s back–for it had angered him beyond words to have a ruffian of this fellow’s quality seeking to ruffle it with him–but at that moment a female voice, stern and imperative, bade them hold in their quarrel.
Fortemani fell back nursing his lacerated hand and muttering curses, whilst Francesco turned in the direction whence that voice had come. Midway on the flight of stone steps he beheld Valentina, followed by Gonzaga, Peppe, and a couple of men-at-arms, descending from the battlements.
Calm and queenly she stood, dressed in a camorra of grey velvet with black sleeves, which excellently set off her handsome height. Gonzaga was leaning forward, speaking into her ear, and for all that his voice was subdued, some of his words travelled down to Francesco on the still, morning air.
“Was I not wise, Madonna, in that I hesitated to admit him? You see what manner of man he is.”
The blood flamed in Francesco’s cheeks, nor did it soften his chagrin to note the look which Valentina flashed down at him.
Instantly he leapt to the ground, and flinging his reins to Lanciotto he went forward to the foot of that stone staircase, his broad hat slung back upon his shoulders, to meet that descending company.
“Is this seemly, sir?” she questioned angrily. “Does it become you to brawl with my garrison the moment you are admitted?”
The blood rose higher in Francesco’s face, and now suffused his temples and reached his hair. Yet his voice was well restrained as he made answer:
“Madonna, this knave was insolent.”
“An insolence that you no doubt provoked,” put in Gonzaga, a dimple showing on his woman’s check. But the sterner rebuke fell from the lips of Valentina.
“Knave?” she questioned, with flushed countenance. “If you would not have me regret your admittance, Messer Francesco, I pray you curb your words. Here are no knaves. That, sir, is the captain of my soldiers.”
Francesco bowed submissively, as patient under her reproof as he had been hasty under Fortemani’s.
“It was on the matter of this captaincy that we fell to words,” he answered, with more humility. “By his own announcement I understood this nobleman”–and his eyes turned to Gonzaga–“to be your captain.”
“He is the captain of my castle,” she informed him.
“As you see, Ser Francesco,” put in Peppe, who had perched himself upon the balustrade, “we suffer from no lack of captains here. We have also Fra Domenico, who is captain of our souls and of the kitchen; myself am captain of—-”
“Devil take you, fool,” snapped Gonzaga, thrusting him roughly from his perch. Then turning abruptly to the Count: “You bear a message for us, sir?” he questioned loftily.
Swallowing the cavalier tone, and overlooking the pronoun Gonzaga employed, Francesco inclined his head again to the lady.
“I should prefer to deliver it in more privacy than this.” And his eye travelled round the court and up the steps behind, where was now collected the entire company of Fortemani. Gonzaga sneered and tossed his golden curls, but Valentina saw naught unreasonable in the request, and bidding Romeo attend her and Francesco follow, she led the way.
They crossed the quadrangle, and, mounting the steps down which Fortemani had dashed to meet the Count, they passed into the banqueting-hall, which opened directly upon the south side of the courtyard. The Count, following in her wake, ran the gauntlet of scowls of the assembled mercenaries. He stalked past them unmoved, taking their measure as he went, and estimating their true value with the unerring eye of the practised condottiero who has had to do with the enrolling of men and the handling of them. So little did he like their looks that on the threshold of the hall he paused and stayed Gonzaga.
“I am loath to leave my servant at the mercy of those ruffians, sir. May I beg that you will warn them against offering him violence?”
“Ruffians?” cried the lady angrily, before Gonzaga could offer a reply. “They are my soldiers.”
Again he bowed, and there was a cold politeness in the tones in which he answered her:
“I crave your pardon, and I will say no more–unless it be to deplore that I may not felicitate you on your choice.”