“Come, sirs!” he cried now, with a sudden briskness that startled them into feverish obedience. “You, Fra Domenico, cut off your sacerdotals, and gird high your habit. There is climbing for you. Here, a couple of you, move aside that altar-step. My men and I have spent the night in loosening its old hinges.”
They raised the slab, and in the gap beneath it was disclosed a flight of steps leading down to the dungeons and cellars of Roccaleone.
Down this they went in haste but in good order, marshalled by Francesco, and when the last had passed down, he and Lanciotto, aided by others below, who had seized a rope that he had lowered them, replaced the slab from underneath, so that no trace should remain of the way by which they had come.
A postern had been unbarred below by Fortemani, who had led the way with a half-dozen of the men; and a huge scaling ladder that lay in readiness in that subterranean gallery was rushed out across the moat, which at this point was a roaring torrent.
Fortemani was the first to descend that sloping bridge, and upon reaching the ground he made fast the lower end.
Next went a dozen men at Francesco’s bidding, armed with the pikes that had been left overnight in the gallery. At a word of command they slipped quietly away. Then came the women, and lastly, the remainder of the men.
Of the enemy they caught no glimpse; not so much as a sentry, for every one of Gian Maria’s men had been pressed into the investment of the castle. Thus they emerged from Roccaleone, and made their way down that rough bridge into the pleasant meadows to the south. Already Fortemani and his dozen men had disappeared at the trot, making for the front of the castle, when Francesco stepped last upon the bridge, and closed the postern after him. Then he glided rapidly to the ground, and with the assistance of a dozen ready hands he dragged away the scaling ladder. They carried it some yards from the brink of the torrent, and deposited it in the meadow. With a laugh of purest relish Francesco stepped to Valentina’s side.
“It will exercise their minds to discover how we got out,” he cried, “and they will be forced to the conclusion that we are angels all, with wings beneath our armour. We have not left them a single ladder or a strand of rope in Roccaleone by which to attempt to follow us, even if they discover how we came. But come, Valentina mia, the comedy is not finished yet. Already Fortemani will have removed the bridge by which they entered and engaged such few men as may have been left behind, and we have the High and Mighty Gian Maria in the tightest trap that was ever fashioned.”
Chapter XXV.
The Capitulation Of Roccaleone
In the sunshine of that bright May morning Francesco and his men went merrily to work to possess themselves of the ducal camp, and the first business of the day was to arm those soldiers who had come out unarmed. Of weapons there was no lack, and to these they helped themselves in liberal fashion, whilst here and there a man would pause to don a haubergeon or press a steel cap on his head.
Three sentries only had been left to guard the tents, and of these Fortemani and a couple of his men had made prisoners whilst the others were removing the bridge by which the invaders had entered. And now beneath the open postern by the drawbridge gaped a surging torrent that no man would have the hardihood to attempt to swim.
In that opening, presently, appeared Gian Maria, his face red for once, and behind him a clamouring crowd of men-at-arms who shared their master’s rage at the manner in which they had been trapped.
At the rear of the tents Valentina and her ladies awaited the issue of the parley that now seemed toward. The bulk of the men were busy at Gian Maria’s cannons, and under Francesco’s supervision they were training them upon the drawbridge.
From the castle a mighty shout went up. The men disappeared from the postern to reappear a moment later on the ramparts, and Francesco laughed deep down in his throat as he perceived the purpose of this. They had bethought them of the guns that were mounted there, and were gone to use them against Valentina’s little army. Gun after gun they tried, and a fierce cry of rage burst forth when they realised by what dummies they had been held in check during the past week. This was followed by a silence of some moments, terminated at last by the sound of a bugle.
Answering that summons to a parley, and with a last word of injunction to Fortemani, who was left in charge of the men at the guns, Francesco rode forward on one of Gian Maria’s horses, escorted by Lanciotto and Zaccaria similarly mounted, and each armed with a loaded arquebuse.
Under the walls of Roccaleone he drew rein, laughing to himself at this monstrous change of sides. As he halted–helmet on head, but beaver open–a body came hurtling over the battlements and splashed into the foaming waters below. It was the corpse of Aventano, which Gian Maria had peremptorily bidden them to remove from his sight.
“I desire to speak with Monna Valentina della Rovere,” cried the furious Duke.
“You may speak with me, Gian Maria,” answered Francesco’s voice, clear and metallic. “I am her representative, her sometime Provost of Roccaleone.”
“Who are you?” quoth the Duke, struck by a familiar note in that mocking voice.
“Francesco del Falco, Count of Aquila.”
“By God! You!”
“An age of marvels, is it not?” laughed Francesco.
“Which will you lose, my cousin–a wife or a duchy?”
Rage struck Gian Maria speechless for a moment. Then he turned to Guidobaldo and whispered something; but Guidobaldo, who seemed vastly interested now in this knight below, merely shrugged his shoulders.
“I will lose neither, Messer Francesco,” roared the Duke. “Neither, by God!” he screamed. “Neither, do you hear me?”
“I should be deaf else,” was the easy answer, “But you are gravely at fault. One or the other you must relinquish, and it is yours to make a choice between them. The game has gone against you, Gian Maria, and you must pay.”
“But have I no voice in the bartering of my niece?” asked Guidobaldo, with cold dignity. “Is it for you, Lord Count, to say whether your cousin shall wed her or not?”
“Why, no. He may wed her if he will, but he will be a duke no longer. In fact, he will be an outcast with no title to lay claim to, if indeed the Babbianians will leave him a head at all; whilst I, at least, though not a duke with a tottering throne, am a count with lands, small but securely held, and shall become a duke if Gian Maria refuses to relinquish me your niece. So that if he be disposed to marry her, will you be disposed to let her marry a homeless vagrant or a headless corpse?”
Guidobaldo’s face seemed to change, and his eyes looked curiously at the white-faced Duke beside him.
“So you are the other pretender to my niece’s hand, Lord Count?” he asked, in his coldest voice.
“I am, Highness,” answered Francesco quietly. “The matter stands thus: Unless Gian Maria is in Babbiano by morning, he forfeits his crown, and it passes to me by the voice of the people; but if he will relinquish his claim to Monna Valentina in my favour, then I shall journey straight to Aquila, and I shall trouble Babbiano no more. If he refuses, and insists upon this wedding, abhorrent to Monna Valentina, why, then, my men shall hold him captive behind those walls until it be too late for him to reach his duchy in time to save the crown. In the meantime I will ride to Babbiano in his stead, and–reluctant though I be to play the duke–I shall accept the throne and silence the people’s importunities. He can then endeavour to win your Highness’s consent to the union.”
For perhaps the first time in his life Guidobaldo was guilty of an act of positive discourtesy. He broke into a laugh–a boisterous, amused laugh that cut into Gian Maria’s heart like a knife.
“Why, Lord Count,” he said, “I confess that you have us very much in your hands to mould us as you will. Now, you are such a soldier and such a strategist as it would pleasure me to have about my person in Urbino. What says your Highness?” he continued, turning now to the almost speechless Gian Maria. “I have yet another niece with whom we might cement the union of the two duchies; and she might prove more willing. Women, it seems, will insist upon being women. Do you not think that Monna Valentina and this your valiant cousin—-“