Now through the ranks of Fortemani’s men there had run an inevitable dismay at Francesco’s arrest, and a resentment against Valentina who had encompassed it. His hand it was that had held them together, his judgment–of which they had had unequivocal signs–that had given them courage. He was a leader who had shown himself capable of leading, and out of confidence for whom they would have undertaken anything that he bade them. Whom had they now? Fortemani was but one of themselves, placed in command over them by an event purely adventitious. Gonzaga was a fop whose capers they mimicked and whose wits they despised; whilst Valentina, though brave enough and high-spirited, remained a girl of no worldly and less military knowledge, whose orders it might be suicidal to carry out.
Now by none were these opinions more strongly entertained than by Ercole Fortemani himself. Never had he performed anything with greater reluctance than the apprehension of Francesco, and when he thought of what was likely to follow his consternation knew no bounds. He had come to respect and, in his rough way, even to love their masterful Provost, and since learning his true identity, in the hour of arresting him, his admiration had grown to something akin to reverence for the condottiero whose name to the men-at-arms of Italy was like the name of some patron saint.
To ensure the safe keeping of his captive, he had been ordered by Gonzaga, who now resumed command of Roccaleone, to spend the night in the ante-room of Francesco’s chamber. These orders he had exceeded by spending a considerable portion of the night in the Count’s very room.
“You have but to speak,” the bully had sworn, by way of showing Francesco the true nature of his feelings, “and the castle is yours. At a word from you my men will flock to obey you, and you may do your will at Roccaleone.”
“Foul traitor that you are,” Francesco had laughed at him. “Do you forget under whom you have taken service? Let be what is, Ercole. But if a favour you would do me, let me see Zaccaria–the man that came to Roccaleone to-night.”
This Ercole had done for him. Now Zaccaria was fully aware of the contents of the letter he had carried, having been instructed by Fanfulla against the chance arising of his being compelled, for his safety, to destroy it–an expedient to which he now bitterly repented him that he had not had recourse. From Zaccaria, then, Francesco learnt all that there was to learn, and since the knowledge but confirmed his fears that Gian Maria would delay action no longer, he fell a prey to the most passionate impatience at his own detention.
In the grey hours of the morning he grew calmer, and by the light of a lamp that he had called Ercole to replenish, he sat down to write a letter to Valentina, which he thought should carry conviction of his honesty to her heart. Since she would not hear him, this was the only course. At the end of an hour–his moribund light grown yellow now that the sun was risen–his letter was accomplished, and he summoned Ercole again, to charge him to deliver it at once to Monna Valentina.
“I shall await her return from chapel,” answered Ercole. He took the letter and departed. As he emerged into the courtyard he was startled to see the fool dash towards him, gasping for breath, and with excitement in every line of his quaint face.
“Quickly, Ercole!” Peppe enjoined him. “Come with me.”
“Devil take you, spawn of Satan–whither?” growled the soldier.
“I will tell you as we go. We have not a moment to spare. There is treachery afoot—- Gonzaga—-” he gasped, and ended desperately: “Will you come?”
Fortemani needed no second bidding. The chance of catching pretty Messer Romeo at a treachery was too sweet a lure. Snorting and puffing–for hard drinking had sorely impaired his wind–the great captain hurried the fool along, listening as they went to the gasps in which he brought out his story. It was not much, after all. Peppe had seen Messer Gonzaga repair to the armoury tower. Through an arrow-slit he had watched him take down and examine an arbalest, place it on the table and sit down to write.
“Well?” demanded Ercole. “What else?”
“Naught else. That is all,” answered the hunchback.
“Heaven and hell!” roared the swashbuckler, coming to a standstill and glowering down upon his impatient companion. “And you have made me run for this?”
“And is it not enough?” retorted Peppe testily. “Will you come on?”
“Not a foot farther,” returned the captain, getting very angry. “is this a miserable jest? What of the treachery you spoke of?”
“A letter and an arbalest!” panted the maddened Peppe, grimacing horribly at this delay. “God, was there ever such a fool! Does this mean nothing to that thick, empty thing you call a head? Have you forgotten how Gian Maria’s offer of a thousand florins came to Roccaleone? On an arbalest quarrel, stupid! Come on, I say, and afterwards you shall have my motley–the only livery you have a right to wear.”
In the shock of enlightenment Ercole forgot to cuff the jester for his insolence, and allowed himself once more to be hurried along, across the outer court and up the steps that led to the battlements.
“You think—-” he began.
“I think you had best tread more softly,” snapped the fool, under his breath, “and control that thunderous wheeze, if you would surprise Ser Romeo.”
Ercole accepted the hint, meek as a lamb, and leaving the fool behind him on the steps, he went softly up, and approached the armoury tower. Peering cautiously through the arrow-slit, and favoured by the fact that Gonzaga’s back was towards him, he saw that he was no more than in time.
The courtier was bending down, and by the creaking sound that reached him Ercole guessed his occupation to be the winding of the arbalest string. On the table at his side lay a quarrel swathed in a sheet of paper.
Swiftly and silently Ercole moved round the tower, and the next instant he had pushed open the unfastened door and entered.
A scream of terror greeted him, and a very startled face was turned upon him by Gonzaga, who instantly sprang upright. Then, seeing who it was, the courtier’s face reassumed some of its normal composure, but his glance was uneasy and his cheek pale.
“Sant Iddio!” he gasped. “You startled me, Ercole. I did not hear you coming.”
And now something in the bully’s face heightened the alarm in Gonzaga. He still made an effort at self-control, as planting himself between Ercole and the table, so as to screen the tell-tale shaft, he asked him what he sought there.
“That letter you have written Gian Maria,” was the gruff, uncompromising answer, for Ercole reeked nothing of diplomatic issues.
Gonzaga’s mouth jerked itself open, and his upper lip shuddered against his teeth.
“What—- Wha—-”
“Give me that letter,” Ercole insisted, now advancing upon him, and wearing an air of ferocity that drove back into Gonzaga’s throat such resentful words as he bethought him of. Then, like an animal at bay–and even a rat will assert itself then–he swung aloft the heavy arbalest he held, and stood barring Ercole’s way.
“Stand back!” he cried; “or by God and His saints, I’ll beat your brains out.”
There was a guttural laugh from the swashbuckler, and then his arms were round Gonzaga’s shapely waist, and the popinjay was lifted from his feet. Viciously he brought down the cross-bow, as he had threatened; but it smote the empty air. The next instant Gonzaga was hurtled, bruised, into a corner of the tower.
In a rage so great that he felt it draining him of his very strength and choking the breath in his body, he made a movement to rise and fling himself again upon his aggressor. But Fortemani was down upon him, and for all his struggles contrived to turn him over on his face, twisting his arms behind him, and making them fast with a belt that lay at hand.
“Lie still, you scorpion!” growled the ruffler, breathing hard from his exertions. He rose, took the shaft with the letter tied about it, read the superscription–“To the High and Mighty Lord Gian Maria Sforza”–and with a chuckle of mingled relish and scorn, he was gone, locking the door.
Left alone, Gonzaga lay face downward where he had been flung, able to do little more than groan and sweat in the extremity of his despair, whilst he awaited the coming of those who would probably make an end of him. Not even from Valentina could he hope for mercy, so incriminating was the note he had penned. His letter was to enjoin the Duke to hold his men in readiness at the hour of the Angelus next morning, and to wait until Gonzaga should wave a handkerchief from the battlements. At that he was to advance immediately to the postern, which he would find open, and the rest, Gonzaga promised him, would be easy. He would take the whole garrison at their prayers and weaponless.