With trembling fingers he unlocked the door and set it wide to Gian Maria’s men, who, in answer to his signal, were now hurrying forward with a bridge composed of pine trees, that they had hastily and roughly put together during the previous day. This, with some efforts and more noise than Gonzaga relished, was thrust across the moat. One of the men crept across, and assisted Gonzaga to make fast his end.
A moment later Gian Maria and Guidobaldo stood in the castle-yard, and after them came almost every man of the five score that Gian Maria had brought to that siege. This was what Francesco had confidently expected, knowing that it was not his cousin’s way to run any risks.
The Duke of Babbiauo, whose face was disfigured by a bristling hedge of reddish stubble–for in obedience to the vow he had made, he now carried a fortnight’s growth of beard on his round face–turned to Gonzaga.
“Is all well?” he asked, in a friendly tone, whilst Guidobaldo contemptuously eyed the popinjay.
Gonzaga assured them that the whole thing had been effected without disturbing the garrison at their prayers. Now that he deemed himself well protected his usual serenity of manner returned.
“You may felicitate yourself, Highness,” he ventured to say, with a grin, to Guidobaldo, “that you have reared your niece in devout ways.”
“Did you address me?” quoth the Duke of Urbino coldly. “I trust it may not again be necessary.”
Before the look of loathing in his handsome face Gonzaga cringed. Gian Maria laughed in his piping treble.
“Have I not served your Highness faithfully?” fawned the gallant.
“So has the meanest scullion in my kitchens, the lowliest groom in my stables–and with more honour to himself,” answered the proud Duke. “Yet he does not go the length of jesting with me.” His eye carried a menace so eloquent that Gonzaga drew back, afraid; but Gian Maria clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner.
“Be of good heart, Judas,” he laughed, his pale face a-grin, “I shall find room for you in Babbiano, and work too, if you do it as well as this. Come; the men are here now. Let us go forward whilst they are at their prayers. But we must not disturb them,” he added, more seriously. “I will not be guilty of an impiety. We can lie in wait for them without.”
He laughed gaily, for he seemed in a preposterously good humour, and bidding Gonzaga lead the way he followed, with Guidobaldo at his side. They crossed the courtyard, where his men were ranged, armed to the teeth, and at the door of the archway leading to the inner court they paused for Gonzaga to open it.
A moment the gallant stood staring. Then he turned a face of consternation on the Dukes. His knees shook visibly.
“It is locked,” he announced, in a husky voice.
“We made too much noise in entering,” suggested Guidobaldo, “and they have taken the alarm.”
The explanation relieved the growing uneasiness in Gian Maria’s mind. He turned with an oath to his men.
“Here, some of you,” his sharp voice commanded. “Beat me down this door. By the Host! Do the fools think to keep me out so easily?”
The door was broken down, and they advanced. But only some half-dozen paces, for at the end of that short gallery they found the second door barring their progress. Through this, too, they broke, Gian Maria fiercely blaspheming at the delay. Yet when it was done he was none so eager to lead the way.
In the second courtyard he deemed it extremely probable that they should find Valentina’s soldiers awaiting them. So bidding his men pass on, he remained behind with Guidobaldo until he heard word that the inner court was likewise empty.
And now the entire hundred of his followers were assembled there to overpower the twenty that served Monna Valentina; and Guidobaldo–despite Gian Maria’s scruples–strode coolly forward to the chapel door.
* * *
Within the chapel Mass had started. Fra Domenico at the foot of the altar had pattered through the Confiteor, his deep voice responded to by the soprano of the ministering page. The Kyrie was being uttered when the attention of the congregation was attracted by the sound of steps approaching the chapel door to the accompaniment of an ominous clank of steel. The men rose in a body, fearing treachery, and cursing–despite the sanctity of the place–the circumstance that they were without weapons.
Then the door opened, and down the steps rang the armed heels of the new- comers, so that every eye was turned upon them, including that of Fra Domenico, who had pronounced the last “Christe eleison” in a quavering voice.
A gasp of relief, followed by an angry cry from Valentina, went up when they recognised those that came. First stepped the Count of Aquila in full armour, sword at side and dagger on hip, carrying his head-piece on the crook of his left arm. Behind him towered the bulk of Fortemani, his great face flushed with a strange excitement, a leather hacketon over his steel cuirass, girt, too, with sword and dagger, and carrying his shining morion in his hand. Last came Lanciotto and Zaccaria, both fully equipped and armed at all points.
“Who are you that come thus accoutred into God’s House to interrupt the holy Mass?” cried the bass voice of the friar.
“Patience, good father,” answered Francesco calmly, “The occasion is our justification.”
“What does this mean, Fortemani?” demanded Valentina imperiously, her eyes angrily set upon her captain, utterly ignoring the Count. “Do you betray me too?”
“It means, Madonna,” answered the giant bluntly, “that your lap-dog, Messer Gonzaga, is at this very moment admitting Gian Maria and his forces to Roccaleone, by the postern.”
There was a hoarse cry from the men, which Francesco silenced by a wave of his mailed hand.
Valentina looked wildly at Fortemani, and then, as if drawn by a greater will than her own, her eyes were forced to travel to the Count. He instantly advanced, and bowed his head before her.
“Madonna, this is no hour for explanations. Action is needed, and that at once. I was wrong in not disclosing my identity to you before you discovered it by such unfortunate means and with the assistance of the only traitor Roccaleone has harboured, Romeo Gonzaga–who, as Fortemani has just told you, is at this moment admitting my cousin and your uncle to the castle. But that my object was ever other than to serve you, or that I sought, as was represented to you, to turn this siege to my own political profit, that, Madonna, I implore you in your own interests to believe untrue.”
She sank on to her knees and with folded hands began to pray to the Mother of Mercy, deeming herself lost, for his tone carried conviction, and he had said that Gian Maria was entering the castle.
“Madonna,” he cried, touching her lightly on the shoulder; “let your prayers wait until they can be of thanksgiving. Listen. By the vigilance of Peppe there, who, good soul that he is, never lost faith in me or deemed me a dastard, we were informed last night–Fortemani and I– of this that Gonzaga was preparing. And we have made our plans and prepared the ground. When Gian Maria’s soldiers enter, they will find the outer doors barred and locked, and we shall gain a little time while they break through them. My men, as you will observe, are even now barring the door of the chapel to impose a further obstacle. Now while they are thus engaged we must act. Briefly, then, if you will trust us we will bear you out of this, for we four have worked through the night to some purpose.”
She looked at him through a film of tears, her face drawn and startled. Then she put her hands to her brow in a gesture of bewildered helplessness.
“But they will follow us,” she complained.
“Not so,” he answered, smiling. “For that, too, have we provided. Come, Madonna, time presses.”
A long moment she looked at him. Then brushing aside the tears that dimmed her sight, she set a hand on either of his shoulders, and stood so, before them all, gazing up into his calm face.
“How shall I know that what you say is true–that I may trust you?” she asked, but her voice was not the voice of one that demands an overwhelming proof ere she will believe.
“By my honour and my knighthood,” he answered, in a ringing voice, “I make oath here, at the foot of God’s altar, that my purpose–my only purpose–has been, is, and shall be to serve you, Monna Valentina.”
“I believe you,” she cried; to sob a moment later:
“Forgive me, Francesco, and may God, too, forgive my lack of faith in you.”
He softly breathed her name in such sweet accents that a happy peace pervaded her, and the bright courage of yore shone in her brown eyes.