The Viper of Milan
"Lovely in the midst of crime,
And yet unlovely through excess of guilt,
He dazzled through that dim-lit time,
And noble blood for a vain shadow spilt."
The Viper of Milan
A ROMANCE OF LOMBARDY
BY MARJORIE BOWEN
[Illustration: Decoration]
NEW YORK
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
MCMVI
_Copyright, 1906, by_
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
_To My Mother_
PUBLISHERS' PREFACE
So long as man retains his reminiscent interest in the past of which he
is the product, so long will he continue to take possession of that past
for the purposes of imaginative expression. And so long shall we have
the historical as that form of fiction which of all is perhaps the most
potent and the most perennial in its fascination.
It is significant that at this precise moment when the historical novel
shows so much apparent exhaustion, that there should appear such an
example as _The Viper of Milan_, which, while actually the latest of its
class, might almost be the first, so free is it from any trace of
fatigue or affectation. Here is a novel in which the author writes of
the past with as much _sans-gêne_ as though she were writing of the
present. She moves there so perfectly at home in the mind of her period
that she does not need to note all those minor details which are its
outer manifestation. She makes no attempt at an elaborate reconstruction
of an epoch, but surrenders herself rather to that plastic spirit of an
age which molds the souls of its men and women and makes them the
channel of characteristic expression in thought, feeling and action.
Actually, we know of no novel that gives a more concrete, vivid and
brilliant impression of the Italy of the early Renaissance; but as a
matter of fact there is a total absence of that set description which
forms the staple of the ordinary historical novel. The method of the
author is strictly dramatic and narrative, her story is given as
exclusively as possible through dialogue and action. What description
there is is wholly incidental, and there is never any slacking of the
emotional tension, any interruption of the swift course of events for
the sake of mere word-painting which, however gorgeous, is bound to be
obtrusive.
In all this, of course, Miss Bowen receives some assistance, some
inspiration, as it were, from that particular phase of the past with
which she deals. It would be difficult for anyone to write of Italy as
it emerges from the Middle Ages without catching something in the
narrative itself of that swift play of passion and impulse, of that
tense, highly-wrought tendency to dramatic climax, which starts into
life from the pages of the barest records of the period. And what a
period it was! At the moment which Miss Bowen has chosen, Visconti, that
sinister embodiment of the Lombard blend of Gothic vigor and Latin
cruelty, holds the stage in Northern Italy. He has just vanquished
Verona, seized Isotta d'Este and driven her husband, Della Scala, into
exile. From that point we are shown in a series of swift scenes the
coalition of the d'Estes under Della Scala against Visconti, the rapid
triumph of this reaction up to a certain point, and then its equally
rapid wasting under the assaults less of Milanese prowess than of
Milanese treachery. The final isolation of Della Scala from his allies,
and the supreme test to which his fidelity is subjected by the almost
diabolic genius of Visconti, make one of the most superb climaxes with
which we are familiar in romantic drama or in historical fiction.
Nor does the author seem to fall short of the opportunity offered her
for the vivid and moving portrayal of the great passions involved in so
high an action. For many it will constitute the prime marvel of an
extraordinary book that its author, a young girl of fifteen or sixteen,
who knew nothing of Italy, or of the Italian character, save, through
books, could have conceived and written it. But if we grant the
extraordinary precocity of talent implied in the mere writing of such a
book as _The Viper of Milan_, it is, perhaps, less remarkable than it at
first appears that Miss Bowen should have been so successful in grasping
the purely Italian side of her subject, in rendering the Italian
psychology. For is not youth the Italian age of life? Is there not
something in the ardent dreams and in the swift, uncontrollable impulses
of young natures, that finds _itself_ in the spirit of that race which
though the eldest is still the youngest race of Europe? The Italian
soul, complex as it may appear upon the surface, is in essence simple.
It is the soul of desire, of desire for the dream realized. Such is the
desire even of a Visconti, and the soul of such a man makes him as
simple to seize upon as the ogre of a fairy tale.
A fairy tale!--historical novels are all fairy tales, or approximate to
fairy tales, for the same reason, perhaps, that all the fairies, Puck,
Oberon and the rest of them, were once people in history. Under all the
complexity and confusion of man's mental life there lies the invincible
demand for the simple and the absolute in his view of the past as of the
universe. The scholar and the scientific historian seek to build up
stone by stone, from the dust-heap of the ages, the intricate web of the
past; but the historical novelist, closer to the imagination of the
race, seeks rather to reproduce the past in its broad outlines, in its
ideal aspects of sharply defined and sharply opposing forces.
We hear much to-day of the death of the historical novel as a form of
art. And this is because at its best to-day it has seemed a clever
reconstruction of the past, a _pastiche_, as the French call it, a work
of erudition, rather than an appropriation of the past for the purpose
of effecting a romantic release from the uncompromising and prosaic
conditions of the present. It is no wonder that the old romantic form of
Scott and Dumas, being reduced to so lifeless a formula, should
occasionally appear moribund. But it should be remembered that what
proceeds from the mind, and is part of it, can always be renewed from
the mind, and that forms in art are constantly being revitalized by some
fresh creative impulse. And so often as there shall appear a writer like
Miss Bowen capable of properly appraising the past, not as a shop
stuffed with strange articles of attire and antiquities, but as a
splendid stage set for the performance of a moving human drama, just so
often will the historical novel renew its attraction over the minds of
all men in new creations.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. GIAN GALEAZZO MARIA VISCONTI 3
II. "FRANCISCO" 15
III. THE HOSTAGE OF THE ESTES 25
IV. VALENTINE 35
V. THE PAINTER'S DAUGHTER 39
VI. THE RESCUE OF COUNT VON SCHULEMBOURG 51
VII. "GRAZIOSA'S BRACELET" 58
VIII. FOR A LADY'S GIFT 75
IX. THE RETURN OF THE DEAD 88
X. THE TURQUOISE GLOVES 99
XI. MASTINO DELLA SCALA 111
XII. GRAZIOSA'S LOVER 120
XIII. VALENTINE VISCONTI'S TOAST 133
XIV. THE TUMULT AT THE WESTERN GATE 144
XV. A PRISONER FROM MILAN 157
XVI. FOR A GAME OF CHESS 165
XVII. THE TERRORS OF THE NIGHT 172
XVIII. GIACOMO CARRARA'S REWARD 184
XIX. A SIGN FROM HEAVEN 190
XX. IN THE DUKE'S ABSENCE 199
XXI. THE DUKE'S RETURN 214
XXII. THE SECRET PASSAGE 226
XXIII. FOR LOVE OF AMBROGIO 231
XXIV. TREACHERY 238
XXV. IN CLOTH OF GOLD 243
XXVI. IN VISCONTI'S HANDS 255
XXVII. UNEQUAL ODDS 267
XXVIII. THE VIPER 272
XXIX. THE ORDEAL OF MASTINO DELLA SCALA 287
XXX. THE WEDDING 303
XXXI. THE PRIDE OF THE D'ESTES 314
XXXII. THE PRICE OF DISHONOR 327
XXXIII. THE STORM 334
XXXIV. AN INSTRUMENT OF GOD 344
The Viper of Milan
CHAPTER ONE
GIAN GALEAZZO MARIA VISCONTI
It is a day in early summer, as beautiful as such days were in the
Southern lands of 500 years ago. It is Italy steeped in golden sunlight
which lies like a haze over the spreading view; the year 1360, when
cities were beautiful and nature all-pervading. Here is Lombardy, spread
like a garden in the hollow of the hills, ringed about with the purple
Apennines, covered with flowers, white, yellow, purple, and pink. This
wide road, one of the finest in Italy, winds from Milan to Brescia, its
whole length through chestnut woods and plains covered with flowering
myrtle. Primroses in great clusters border its sides, and from the midst
of their delicate blooms spring the slender stems of poplar trees; these
are red-gold, bursting into bloom against a tender sky; tufts of young
green; clumps of wild violets.
But for all its unspoiled beauty, the road was one of common use, for
Milan was within hail. Villas, the summer dwellings of its wealthy
peers, stood back among the trees, surrounded by magnificent grounds.
Behind them beautiful open country spread into the blue distance,
fragrant and glorious with budding trees. And cold and magnificent the
great city itself, with its huge walls and gates, crowned and emphasized
the landscape's beauty. The lines of hundreds of turrets and spires,
bold and delicate, leaped up against the sky. And paramount, catching
the eye with color, weighing on the mind with meaning, were the city's
banners. They floated from the gates and the highest buildings, half a
score of them, all with the same device. Far off could that device be
read: a green Viper on a silver ground: the emblazonment of the
Visconti.
From afar the city was a vision of stately splendor, and the low
dwellings clustered round about her walls, in the shadow of the palaces,
appeared to the nearing traveler but a touch added of the picturesque. A
close survey, however, revealed semi-ruined huts; in their foul neglect
and unsightliness, a blot upon the scene. They were homes of peasants,
who, tattered and miserable, starved and unwashed, seemed their fitting
occupants. Here comes a band of them slowly dragging along the road
toward Milan, men, women, and children, leading a few rough-haired
mules, laden with scanty country produce. It was poor stuff, and a poor
living they made at it. The wealthy grew their own fruit and vegetables,
the poorer could not afford to buy. Crushed by hopeless oppression into
a perpetual dull acceptance, the crowd trudged along, with shuffling
feet and bent heads, unheeding the beauty and the sunshine, unnoticing
the glory of the spring, with dull faces from which all the soul had
been stamped out, and "fear" writ large across the blank. Every movement
showed them slaves, every line in their bent figures told they lived
under a rule of terror, too potent for them to dare even to raise their
eyes to question. A stream of gray and brown monotony along the glorious
road, decked with the fairest beauty of fair Italy, these miserable
peasants were strangely out of keeping, both with the radiant blossoming
country and the magnificent city they drew near.
Keeping close behind them walked a young man and a boy, better attired
than the others, yet travel-worn and weary-looking. The delicate cast of
their features bespoke them of another part of Italy, as did the soft
Latin tongue in which they held their whispering, excited conversation.
The elder, whom his companion called Tomaso, was a fair-haired youth of
about nineteen; the other, like enough to be a relative, a mere child of
ten or twelve. The sun was growing hot, and their stout cloaks of dull
red serge were flung back, showing their leathern doublets, to which the
elder boy wore attached a great pouch of undressed skin, which evidently
bore their day's provisions.
Suddenly, when Milan, clear and gray, was distant barely half a mile,
the group of wretched figures was roused from its shuffling apathy: and
the terror latent in their aspect leaped into life and motion.
Swept back by the others, the two Florentines gazed in amazement to
learn the cause of this panic. In the distance, brilliant between the
dark stone of the gateway of the city, fluttered a banner, blazoned with
the same device as those that blew above the walls. The peasants' eyes,
sharpened by fear, were quicker than Tomaso's: it was some seconds
before he could discern that the banner fluttered from the canopy of a
splendid coach, magnificent in gold and scarlet, issuing from the somber
shadow into the sunshine of the road; and as it drew nearer, he looked
with pleasure not unmixed with wonder at the rich gildings, fine silk,
the beauty of the four black horses, the size and magnificent liveries
of the huge negroes who walked at their heads. To him it was an
interesting sight, an incident of his travels. But to the Milanese
peasants it was the symbol of the dread power that ruled Lombardy with a
grip of blood, the device that kept Milan, the wealthiest, proudest city
in the north, cringing in silent slavery; the banner that had waved from
city after city, added by force or treachery to the dominions of Milan;
the banner of Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke.
With trembling hands and muttered threats to their slow beasts, the
hinds dragged their burdens to the roadside, forcing the children back
into the hedges; leaving clear the ways. Cowering and awestruck, in
fascinated expectation, they stared, toward that oncoming banner, and at
the horseman who rode behind.
Still at the same measured pace the coach advanced; a cumbrous
structure, swung high on massive gilded wheels, and open under an
embroidered canopy of scarlet silk. At the head of each black horse
walked a negro, richly dressed in scarlet and gold. The trappings of the
steeds were dazzling, in stamped leather and metal.
But this splendor of array the peasant folk of Lombardy were used to; it
was not that that made them crouch as if they would ask the earth to
hide them, shiver and shudder yet farther back as if the soft green bank
could save them.
In the coach sat two, a man and a woman, but both so old and shrivelled
that the distinguishing characteristics of their sex were well-nigh
lost. Both were richly clad in furs, and half-hidden in satin cushions,
nothing of the old man visible but his wrinkled face, gray beard, and,
loaded with rings, thin yellow hands, the fingers of which were
clutching nervously at his heavy silken robe. The woman, painted and
bedizened under a large red wig, weighed down by a gown of cloth of
gold, and with pearls around her neck, wrung her hands together, and
whispered incoherently below her breath. Both had sunk together among
the cushions in an attitude of despair, the man looking steadily in
front of him with white face, the woman casting terror-stricken eyes
over the wretched spectators in a mute appeal for help, if even from
them.
Behind them rode the single horseman who had struck the terror. His pace
was leisurely, his horse's bridle held by a pale-faced man with long
red hair, of a stealthy bearing, crushed and mean-looking, but
resplendent in a jeweled dress. The rider himself, slight and handsome,
about thirty, plainly attired in green, gave, at a first glance, small
token of the spell he exercised. He rode with ease and surety: in one
hand a half-rolled parchment from which he read aloud in a soft voice,
in the other a long whip with which he flicked and teased the occupants
of the carriage.
The coach and its occupants, the solitary rider, and the red-haired man,
were the whole of the procession.
At the rider's side hung a single dagger, the others were unarmed, yet
the crowd trembled under a spell of fear as if half Italy had backed
that man. No one gave sign of feeling, no one moved, though the wretched
couple looked around keenly and eagerly, with the helpless misery of
those who have fallen below everything save fear, and will stoop to ask
help of the lowest. And the Visconti banner floated out dreamily upon
the light spring breeze, and the rider rode at ease and read from the
parchment with a smiling face.
Suddenly the old man rose, and threw out his hands with a wild gesture
toward the crouching peasants. His frantic cry was stifled on his lips,
and a cut from the whip sent him back to his seat with a snarl of
impotent fury. The woman sobbed aloud, but sat still, for the tease of
the whip followed their slightest movements, though the horseman seemed
to heed nothing but the parchment from which he read.
"Beautiful the Tuscan flowers grew
Around the Florentine----"
The soft lines died away on his smiling lips: he raised his eyes and
looked straight at the old man, who, at the words, had turned in his
seat and was gazing over his shoulder with an intensity of hate.
But on the pause there followed a cold laugh as the old man winced,
faltered, and dropped his eyes from that charmed and steady gaze. Again
the whip circled round them, and the calm voice continued:
"But straight and firm the poplars grew
The Lombard ranks between."
The woman gazed around the crowd, desperate in hopeless misery. Hopeless
indeed. Not a finger was raised, not a word uttered, though, men alone,
they numbered more than fifty.
"Perchance thou wouldst not dare to turn
And draw the veil from off that face,
Fearing what secrets thou might'st learn
Both for thine own and her disgrace,"
read the horseman, and the cavalcade passed on its heavy way, and the
faint hope that had leaped to life within the wretched victims, at sight
of human eyes upon them, died within them.
But on the outside of the crowd, Tomaso and Vittore, kneeling with the
rest, as that banner drew near, now stirred uneasily, and, as the coach
came abreast, the woman made a convulsive movement with her hands. The
elder sprang to his feet and stepped forward impulsively. At sight of
him in the roadway the horseman drew rein, and the terror-stricken crowd
watched breathless, while the youth advanced boldly to his stirrup, hot
words upon his lips, defiance in his eyes. The red-haired man at the
bridle crouched, but before the lad could speak, the rider, leaning
forward, struck him a blow full across the face.
There was no need for a second. With a scream of pain, Tomaso fell back,
and then, as if noticing them for the first time, the horseman sent his
glance on the crowd. No sound or movement: they cowered beneath his eyes
in deprecating silence.
"Drive on," he said, and the dreary procession started again, winding
through the sun and shadow toward Brescia.
So great was the spell upon the peasants, that though the wounded boy
lay moaning in the road, not a man, scarce a child among them stirred
from his place till the banner of the Viper was a silver speck in the
distance.
Then with shaking hands the youth was dragged into the ditch amid a
babble of blame and fear. Vittore, rising from his stricken comrade,
gazed into the distance with horror-stricken eyes.
"Who was it?" he whispered at last to the woman near him. "Who was it?"
She turned a dull face up from the scattered vegetables she was
gathering together.
"Who art thou that thou knowest not?" she asked.
"I come from Florence," said the lad quickly, "traveling to Verona."
"To Verona! Thou art not on thy way to Verona here."
"I know it, but the company we traveled with was bound for Milan. Three
days ago we missed them, and thought to find them in the city where we
looked to spend the night, but now----"
He glanced at his companion and could scarce refrain from weeping.
"To Verona!" said an old peasant, turning sharply at the name. "To
Verona!"
The child dropped again to his knees beside Tomaso.
"Yes," he said, over his shoulder. "My cousin--he is done to death, I
fear me--and I were traveling by way of Milan to Della Scala's
court----"
He broke off, and wrung his hands. "Oh, help me, some one; Tomaso is
dying!"
With a certain dull humanity, kindness it could scarcely be called that
was so inert and full of apathy, one or two of them gave what help they
could.
"Thou art from Florence!" said the old man again. "Aye, indeed, I _know_
thou art from Florence, for thy mate here to have had such daring. Why
camest thou from _Florence_ to anywhere by way of Milan?"
For even to the dull mind of the peasantry, Florence, who alone of the
cities of Italy had preserved her liberty, seemed a country of the free,
a republic of equality.
"Tomaso's father sent for him to come to him in Della Scala's court, and
as last year my father was slain in the wars with Venice, since then I
have resided with my cousin--and so accompany him--having naught else to
do!"
The boy looked up bewildered; he was half-dazed with this sudden
misfortune.
"We go to Verona!" he repeated. "We have food and a little money--if
only this had not happened!"
He turned to his prostrate cousin and burst into tears.
The woman looked at him with pity: the old peasant shrugged his
shoulders.
"Thy cousin was over-bold! As well face the evil one--" he mumbled and
crossed himself, "as step into the path of the--" he stopped abruptly
and cast uneasy glances around him.
"And that?" cried the boy, his tears arrested, "that man on horseback?"
"That was the Visconti! Aye! Gian Galeazzo Maria, Duke of Milan!"
The lad gazed down the road with interest and new terror.
"The Duke of Milan! He who lately warred with Florence!" he cried
breathlessly.
"Aye, and beat her!" There was a touch of pride in the answer, for the
peasant was of Milan. But the boy did not notice the remark, he was too
absorbed in terrified conjecture.
"And they in the carriage--?" he whispered.
A silence fell. The crowd shuffled away from him, and turned their faces
to the city. Used to scenes of horror as they were, the cavalcade that
had just passed them seemed, even to their half hearts, to have chilled
the sunlight with its terror.
A young woman suddenly snatched her child up from the ground and
strained it to her, in a passion of distress.
"Oh, Luigi, Luigi, my little child, it was his father and mother, his
father and mother!"
She grasped the old man's arm. "Marked you how she looked at me?" she
cried.
The peasant checked her outbreak, but looked down the road with gloomy
eyes.
"They will never return from Brescia," he said; "they must be near
seventy--old for such an end. However, hush thee, woman, 'tis no affair
of ours!" Several anxious voices echoed him.
"Why should we care!" said one, "'tis a Visconti the less to crush us."
And Vittore saw the whole band turning off, pushing, driving, and urging
their beasts along. He dragged at his still senseless companion in a
sudden panic.
"Help me!" he said. "We would on; I dare not stay alone."
The old man laughed harshly.
"Where will you on to? Are we to drag you into Milan to be whipped to
death for harboring you; and Verona is in the hands of the
Visconti--his last and greatest victory!"
"But my uncle--Della Scala's court!" cried the boy distractedly. The old
man drew himself up in his rags and spoke with a mixture of pride and
awe.
"Mastino della Scala perished in the flames of his burning palace; his
wife is a prisoner, yonder in Milan, in the Visconti's hands. Thou hast
not much to look for from Della Scala's court," he said.
"Hold thy peace! Hold thy peace!" cried angry voices. "What hast thou to
do with such as he?" and the old man, whose better intelligence made him
a source of danger to the others, was dragged away.
"But thou wilt not leave me here?" said Vittore, in distress. "Where
shall I go? What shall I do?" But the peasant folk were not much moved
by his misfortunes, too much used to scenes like this.
"We risk our necks by staying by thee," growled one dark-browed man. "As
for thy companion, it is his own mad doing. He is dead, and we may be
dead this time to-morrow, and kicked into the ditch like him."
Even the woman listened blankly to his entreaties, and the throng
sullenly departed on its way.
"Any moment a soldier of the Visconti may come by, or the Visconti
himself may return, then anyone found tending one of his victims will be
in sorry plight." This, mumbled out with curses at the delay, was their
only answer.
The peasants of Lombardy lived in the shadow of an awful name. Gian
Galeazzo Maria Visconti knew neither fear of God nor man, neither pity
nor remorse.
The young Florentine sank down upon the grass, and looked after the
retreating train in mute distress. To seek for help would mean to leave
his cousin, and he could not move him. Tomaso lay in a deep swoon, for
the blow had driven him back upon a stone. Terribly wounded about the
face, Tomaso added to his young cousin's distress by his ghastly
appearance, his head bound in rough bandages, torn from Vittore's
clothing, and now darkly stained with blood. The boy wrung his hands and
looked up and down the road--no one in sight.
It was just after the victory in the long-standing wars between the
cities; Verona had fallen into the Visconti's hands; interchange of
traffic was for the time laid low; the road was likely to be deserted,
and for hours none passed.
The boy dragged Tomaso's head and shoulders as far into the shade as he
could manage, remoistened the bandages about his head, and tried to
force down his throat some of the food and drink they carried. But the
youth muttered between clenched teeth, and lay with wide-staring eyes,
inert and unresponsive. His consciousness had returned, but he was
delirious in fever. As the day wore on, new and sickening terror seized
on Vittore. The Visconti would return to Milan! Hiding his face in his
hands, he sobbed aloud. Since the bright dawn of the morning, what a
change in prospects! Della Scala's court a ruin--and Tomaso's
father--his uncle, the only parent he had ever known--what of him! And
Tomaso too! He must sit there and see him die beside him. As the
noontide waned, he had fallen again into stupor, and the boy looked at
his changed face distractedly.
"He is dead!" he cried, "I know he is dead!" But he dared not leave him;
besides, Milan held a terror, and he would scarcely dare to enter it.
Perhaps when the peasants returned they might have pity on them; if
not--again his sobs filled up the lonely outlook. The long hours dragged
by; a horseman passed, a mercenary laden with some plunder from Verona;
he did not even turn in his saddle. A few peasants slowly came back from
Milan, seeking their huts around the neighboring villas. But they were
as deaf to his cries as before; he could come with them if he liked; but
the other--he was dead and killed by the Visconti; let him lie there.
And now Vittore was in despair; the sun was beginning to drop behind the
trees, the delicate stems of the poplars stretched in long blue shadows,
the faint golden light lay across the primroses, making them fairylike.
Suddenly a step aroused him. Some one along the road. He started to his
feet, and there, still in the distance, but rapidly approaching, was the
figure of a traveler, his shadow thrown before him, his face set toward
Milan.
CHAPTER TWO
"FRANCISCO"
A gleam of hope sent Vittore forward. Here was some one who, alone and
on foot, must know the perils of travel, and might be kind-hearted;
though, with Tomaso dead, what even pity could do for him he scarcely
knew. Then again the boy's heart failed him. Perhaps this was no more
than some wandering robber. He paused, drew back, and the traveler came
on not noticing him, his gaze fixed keenly on the distant city.
By the roadside some boulders, half-hidden in violets and golden with
moss, offered a seat, and half-stumbling over them, the stranger
abruptly withdrew his eyes from Milan and saw for the first time the
boy, who from a few paces off was timorously observing him.
He was a powerful man of gigantic size, clothed in coarse leather,
undressed, patched, slashed, and travel-worn. His legs were bound with
straw and thongs of skin, the feet encased in rough wooden shoes stuffed
with grass.
A battered leathern cap covered his head, and from his shoulder hung a
ragged scarlet cloak. A dagger and a sword were stuck in his belt, a
leather pouch hung at his side. The man's face and bearing belied his
dress. He was not handsome, and a peculiar effect was given to the
expression by the half-shut brown eyes, but he had a grave and stately
bearing, and as he a little unclosed a searching gaze upon Vittore, the
boy felt renewed encouragement.
"Sir," cried the lad advancing, "I am in great distress. My cousin lies
there dead, or dying. Help me to get him to some shelter."
"I am a stranger here," replied the traveler, "and have no shelter for
myself to-night."
His accent, like his bearing, again belied his dress. He spoke in the
refined Tuscan tongue, the language of the better classes, and to
Vittore, who was gently nurtured, more familiar than the rough dialect
of Lombardy, which he and Tomaso could only badly comprehend.
"But what I can find for myself," he added, "thou art welcome to share.
Where is thy cousin?"
Vittore pointed to the recumbent figure half-hidden in the bank; the man
glanced across, then around him. The sun was almost set, a whole flock
of delicate little pink clouds lay trembling over Milan, its noble
outline already half in shadow.
"It will be dark soon," he said, "and perchance--" he broke off
abruptly. "Thy cousin, didst thou say?--what has happened to him?
Wounded in some roadside fray?"
He rose as he spoke and crossed over to the fallen boy. "And what are
you two doing traveling alone?" he demanded sternly.
"Alas, messer, we were going to Verona."
"To Verona, by way of Milan?"
"We had no choice. The company we traveled with were bound hither, but
three days ago we missed them, and came on here alone, lest perhaps they
had preceded us. But for this accident we thought to pass the night in
Milan--but now, what shall we do? and we hear that Verona has been
taken!"
The stranger was bending over Tomaso, and Vittore did not see his face.
"How did this happen?" he asked presently, touching the mark upon
Tomaso's face. And Vittore told him.
The stranger was quiet a long breath.
"So this is _Visconti's_ doing," he said at last. "Thy cousin is a brave
lad."
And he fell again into a silence which Vittore dared not break, while
under the stranger's care Tomaso opened his eyes, and feebly muttered
and tried to rise. But the other bade him wait a while, and turned to
Vittore again.
"And which way did Visconti ride?" he asked.
The boy pointed. "The peasants said it was toward Brescia."
"And he has not yet re-entered Milan?"
"No, messer." By now Vittore felt and showed respect.
"Then we will not enter Milan either," said the stranger, "since
Visconti has not."
The boy gazed on him, struck by his tone, and Tomaso's eyes,
half-closing, reopened and fixed themselves upon the stranger's face.
"Messer, you hate Visconti?" whispered Vittore.
The man laughed shortly. "There are many in Lombardy who hate Visconti,"
he said. "Perhaps I not less than others. Boy," he added, with sudden
intensity, "I have only two things to live for: one is to tell Visconti
to his face what one man's hatred is."
And leaving them half-terrified, he strode into the road, and shading
his eyes looked long and searchingly away from Milan; but the dusk was
settling fast, not a soul in sight, not a sound.
Presently, with an air of relief, born of new-sprung resolution, the
stranger returned to the expectant boys.
Revived by his tendance and by the cool evening air, Tomaso was helped
upon his feet, Vittore clasped his hands in joy to see him move again.
"Messer, how shall we thank thee!" he exclaimed.
"Call me Francisco," said the traveler. "Thou wert journeying to
Verona, didst thou say? What kinsman hast thou there?"
"My father," whispered Tomaso feebly, "Georgio Ligozzi." Leaning against
the stranger, indeed half-carried by him, Tomaso felt him start. "Thou
knewest him, messer?"
"He was put high in favor at Della Scala's court, and sent for us to
share his fortune," put in Vittore eagerly.
"Ah," said Francisco. "Della Scala's court has perished. I am from
Verona. I saw it burned."
Tomaso's head sunk dizzily upon his helper's shoulder. Vittore's young
heart swelled, then seemed to break within him. He choked back his sobs.
"And Della Scala--and my uncle: did they perish too?"
"Who can tell?" replied the stranger sternly. "Who shall say who
perished or who not on such a night as that on which Verona fell?"
"But Della Scala's wife, the Duchess, is yonder, prisoner in Milan."
"And that proves, thou thinkest, Della Scala must be dead! Maybe; who
knows? All the same, thou art a brave lad and a gallant for the
thought."
He paused to rest Tomaso on the boulders that had been his seat. "And
for that speech of thine I'll tell thee something, boy. I am the
Visconti's foe. For the sake of Della Scala, whom I knew, for the sake
of Verona, where I lived, for the sake of something dearer to a man than
life, I am sworn to hunt him down--and now, no more. We will see to
shelter."
Resting Tomaso's head against his knee, Francisco turned a trained and
searching gaze about him.
To the right, on some thickly wooded, slightly rising ground, could be
discerned the unmistakable outline of a great wall, built to a
monstrous height, no doubt the boundary of a villa of unusual size and
magnificence. Beneath the wall, half-hidden by a grove of chestnuts, was
the usual cluster of huts: the dwellings of the hinds and vassals of the
villa's noble owner. But no smoke trailed upward, nor did any sign of
life strike upon the ear.
"We will try those huts yonder," said Francisco. "They are far enough
from the road for security, yet not too far to hamper any return hither.
They seem deserted, but even if inhabited, they are scarce likely to
refuse me shelter for a wounded boy."
And Vittore, looking at his size and stern appearance, thankfully agreed
with him. Almost carrying Tomaso, Francisco led the way, and quickly
reached a footpath which, after many twistings, brought them out into a
turf-grown opening around three sides of which the cottages were built.
The fourth was the wall enclosing the grounds, and along it, bordering a
ditch, ran a pleasant path which, as they subsequently discovered, led
to a small stream, artificially extended, where it passed the villa, to
a lake of some not inconsiderable size.
But, as Francisco had surmised, the whole place stood empty and
deserted, though it could not have been long since the fagots had blazed
on the open hearths. Signs of occupation were too recent.
The wayfarers gazed about them wonderingly. It was a place of charm. The
fast-grown grass was thick with flowers; and a wooden bucket hung idly
from its chain above the wooden runnel.
Supporting Tomaso, Francisco turned into the nearest hut, and noted it
was better fashioned and better fitted than many of the like. A low
doorway admitted into the long divisions of the space, each lit by small
square openings in the walls. The light by now had faded, and save that
it was empty of life, little else would have been discernible, but a
portion of the roof had been broken away, as if by some pikeman's
reckless thrust, and through the gap some of the sweet spring dusk
showed them faintly their surroundings. A few stools, a wooden table,
roughly hewn, a broken earthenware bowl, and a rudely painted crucifix,
half-torn from the wall, completed the furniture.
"They fled in haste," said Francisco grimly. "Has Visconti been here
too?"
"See," cried Vittore, and he picked up from his feet a silver goblet.
The other turned from where he had laid Tomaso down and took it from him
eagerly.
The piece was heavily chased, bearing a raised shield wrought with the
German eagle and lettering "C.S."
"German," he said. "Plunder. Possibly from the villa. This may account
for its desertion. Yes--no doubt: the owner of the villa has crossed
Visconti's path."
And his teeth ground over the name as he set the goblet on the table,
where it gleamed with a faint ghostly light.
"Sleep," he said presently to Vittore. "Eat this and then sleep. Thou
canst do so with safety."
The boy, glancing up into his face, believed him, and was soon lost to
everything in the deep sleep of utter weariness of mind and body.
Francisco bent above Tomaso and gave him wine to swallow, and set water
by his side. The youth caught the hand that tended him and kissed it.
"I am grateful," he murmured. "To-morrow I shall be well."
"Aye, get better," said Francisco. "Thou mayst be of some service if
thou wilt. Nay," he added, checking Tomaso's feeble but eager impulse,
"I know not yet what I can do myself. But we have a cause in common,"
and he smiled faintly. "And now sleep. You sought Della Scala's court.
I will not desert thee."
Taking his tattered cloak from his shoulders, he laid it over him, and
Tomaso lay back on the ready spread couch of heather, and watched
peacefully.
There was no light in the hut, but the moonshine began to show across
the open doorway. Francisco pulled a stool to the table, and sitting,
drew out his dagger and carefully examined it; laid it ready. Then he
felt in his wallet as if to reassure himself of something, and then
Tomaso saw him slip something on his hand--it gleamed: a ring!
"Who is he?" thought the youth, not sure he gazed upon reality. "Who is
he?"
Then he dozed unwittingly, and, waking with a start, saw the moonlight
streaming through the broken roof, the faint stars, and near him Vittore
sleeping. The goblet still shone upon the crazy table, but the hut door
had been closed and, save for themselves, the place was empty.
Francisco stepped out into the spring night, fire beating at his
temples: _Visconti was abroad!_
The moon, half-shrouded in a misty vapor, was rising above the fragrant
chestnuts, and brilliant in the semi-dark, like flame behind a veil, the
clumps of wallflowers gave out intoxicating scent.
Francisco noticed them, and thought grimly they were the color of blood
just dry.
The spell of the moon and of the hour lay on everything; a weird
ghostliness seemed to step among the trees; a sighing came from the
great bushes in the garden of the villa: "Visconti is abroad!"
Francisco touched his dagger and went forward. Across his path two white
moths fluttered, white by day, now silver purple, illusive and
mysterious. To the man's fevered mood they seemed an omen; souls of the
dead allowed to take farewell of earth; and with straining eyes he
watched them float away and up, and out of sight. "Who had perchance
just died?"
Francisco's giant sinews tightened. He went forward swiftly to the road,
and strained his eyes and ears along its silver length.
Nothing to be heard! nothing to be seen! Had he lost his chance, had the
Duke re-entered Milan? Or had he gone too far to return that night? He
sat upon the boulders where he had rested previously, his face turned
toward Brescia, his hand upon his dagger.
The soft air was strengthening into a gentle wind; the poplar leaves
were dancing, and darkening clouds began to drive across the moon. But
the man heeded nothing the changing; light or dark, what matter once
Visconti had crossed his path? Long he waited. Not a sound save the
dancing of the leaves, the rising wind, the soft noises of the night. At
length Francisco leaped to his feet, and his breath came short and fast.
He could hear something. The wind was against him. He lay down; he put
his ear to the ground; then he leaped to his feet again, transformed. It
was unmistakable, though still far off; the thud of horses' flying feet.
Francisco waited.
With each second the wind rose; the clouds raced and gathered, and
darkened half the sky, and the man, straining every nerve, thought at
first it was the wind he heard mingling with the trample of the oncoming
hoofs. Then he knew it for screams of fury and wild shouting. "It is the
Visconti," he said, and involuntarily his tense arm sank and his muscles
loosened; those mad shrieks could freeze the marrow.
Nearer came the onset, trampling horse and yelling rider; and Francisco
set himself anew.
"He rides with his own soul for company," he muttered grimly.
Now the furious cries came clearly, terrible, inhuman; and in another
moment, horse and rider were in view.
"Yes. Visconti."
Standing in the stirrups, he lashed at the foaming horse in a blind rage
and horror. His cap was gone, and hair and cloak were blown about him.
He shouted wildly, cursed and shrieked.
For a breath Francisco paused. This could be no human rider; well was it
known in Lombardy that the Visconti trafficked with the fiend, and this
must be he; and the man shrank and turned his eyes, lest he should see
his damning face.
But the next instant his courage and his purpose had returned.
The horse was upon him. Swift as thought, Francisco leaped and clutched
the bridle in a hand of steel.
But the mad impetus defeated him. He was dragged forward like a reed;
only his own great strength for the moment saved him. And now his wild
shouts were added to the rider's. He struck upward with his dagger; he
tore blindly.
"Do you not know me, Visconti?" he called. "Do you not know me?"
But his dagger was dashed from him. The horse's foam blinded him as it
sprang desperately on. He heard Visconti's demon scream, and as the
earth whirled round with him, caught one fleeting glimpse of the white,
distorted, hated face--then, he was prone upon the ground, and Visconti,
spurring on his way, looked back upon him with triumphant yells.
"Fly, fly!" he screamed, "they are after us, but we escape them. Fly!"
The dawn was showing when Francisco, spent with the passion of failure
rather than from any hurt, came slowly back and picked his dagger from
the road. Not far from it he saw a parchment roll tossed from Visconti's
doublet in that frantic forward lunge--Visconti who had safely
disappeared within the walls of Milan!
Francisco picked up the roll.
It was inscribed with poetry and patched with blood.
CHAPTER THREE
THE HOSTAGE OF THE ESTES
"A hundred thousand florins--and no more, even if they refuse the
bargain."
It was the Visconti who spoke. In a small dark room in the Visconti
palace, he and the pale-faced, red-haired man, who had held the bridle
of his horse two days before in the procession that had wended toward
Brescia, were seated opposite to one another at the table; between them
a pile of papers over which the secretary bowed his shoulders.
"The demand is a hundred and fifty, my lord," he said, his voice meek,
his eyes furtive.
"They said two hundred to begin with," was the curt answer. "A hundred
thousand florins, or I go elsewhere."
The secretary's pen flew nervously across the parchment, filling it with
a cramped, mean writing that trailed unevenly along the page. Visconti's
secretary wrote a characteristic hand. Visconti leaned back in his
chair, watching him in silence.
The room was small and circular, hung with leather stamped in gold, and
furnished plainly even to bareness. A narrow lancet window, placed low
in the wall, admitted a subdued light, which fell upon the only spot of
color in the room, the suit of turquoise blue the secretary wore.
"A hundred thousand florins, to be paid in gold," repeated Visconti;
"and no more, Giannotto."
He rose and began to pace the room. Long habit and constant contact had
not lessened the secretary's fear of Visconti, nor mitigated the hate,
none the less intensified for being forever concealed under the mask of
cringing servility. But in Giannotto's dislike there was nothing noble;
it was merely mean hate of a sordid soul that grudged the success of the
bold crimes itself could never dare to undertake. Had the secretary been
in Visconti's place, there would have been as vile a tyrant, of equal
cruelty and far less courage.
The Duke moved to the window and stood there in observation awhile, then
turning, spoke to Giannotto with a smile. His eyes were a beautiful
gray, open wide, and just now lighting up a pensive, pleasant face. But
the secretary knew it too under a different guise.
"My sister's alliance with the Duke of Orleans gratifies my ambition,
Giannotto," he said, "and is well worth a hundred thousand florins. So
far the Valois have never married out of Royal Houses."
"Yet they consider themselves honored by this match, my lord," said the
secretary.
"They consider themselves well paid," returned Visconti. "Now, if I can
find a daughter of the Plantagenets for brother Tisio, behold us firmly
placed among the dynasties of Europe!"
Early in the fourteenth century, but no more than a meager fifty years
ago, before the last Visconti culminated the evil of his race, Matteo
Visconti, Gian Galeazzo's grandfather, had first firmly established his
family as lords of Milan, supplanting their rival the Toriani, who had
long reigned as magistrates-in-chief, and under Martin della Torre risen
to some eminence. Every year of the fifty since then had seen some
increase of territory, some fresh acquisition of power, till with his
last overthrow of Della Scala, the seizure of Verona, and the murder of
his father, already miserably deposed, Gian Galeazzo had planted himself
upon a level with kings.
Almost the whole of Lombardy was under his sway, and that sway extended
from Verceli in Piedmont to Feltre and Bellvino. Florence, lately
leagued against him in support of his deposed father, had been beaten in
battle after battle and was glad to escape, shorn of her fairest
possessions, and cherishing only her liberty.
All this Giannotto knew. Della Scala, Duke of Verona, had owned fair
lands and wide, Verona, Brescia, all now in Visconti's hands. The
secretary wondered, as he thought, how long it would be before the
triumphant Gian threw away the mere rag of respect, the mere mockery of
a title which bound him to the Empire, and became King of Lombardy in
name as well as power.
"And thou thyself, my lord," he said. "Thou wilt marry a Valois to thy
sister! Who will be thy bride?"
Visconti smiled. "These marriages are for ambition. Dost thou think I
shall marry for ambition? No, Giannotto, I have placed myself above need
of that. The alliances that make the Visconti one with the kings of
Europe are for Valentine and Tisio; I shall marry----"
"For love, my lord?" ventured the secretary, with a hint of sarcasm.
"Whom I please," said Visconti. "Which is not what Valentine is doing,"
he added with a smile.
"She may give trouble yet, my lord."
Visconti frowned. He thought of Conrad von Schulembourg, the brilliant
young German noble, who had been a favorite with him and all his court,
and had won the heart of Valentine Visconti; no favorite of his now. "As
for my lady sister," he said, "let her dare turn her eyes save where I
bid her."
His own grew ominous, and Giannotto shuffled uneasily.
A noise without broke the sudden silence of reflection. Visconti,
responding at once to what it meant, glanced a moment from the window
where he still stood, then swept down to the head of the table. He
leaned across to Giannotto, not that he valued any response that he
could offer--Visconti's secretary was no more to him than the chair on
which he sat, valued solely for his skill in letters--but his triumph
had to have its vent. "Hark!" he cried. "Listen to it, Giannotto! The
wealth of Verona is pouring into Milan! The spoils of Verona, Giannotto,
the treasures from Mastino della Scala's palace!"
Giannotto winced before Visconti's passionate joy.
"'Twas a man I hated, Giannotto--I would he had lived to feel it. The
only man I ever _hated_, because the only man I ever feared, the only
man who ever dared to despise me! But he has fallen, he is dead, his
wife is in my power, and in his fall he has placed me higher than my
highest hopes."
Carried away by his transports, he seized Giannotto by the arm and
dragged him to the window.
The secretary gazed into the courtyard, where a group of soldiers and
servants were busy conveying statues, gilt and silver plate, rich
tapestry, glass, china, and arms, from carts and mules into the narrow
doorways that led into the grim interior of the palace. They were
presided over by a major-domo in a black gown, who called out directions
in a shrill voice. To one side a few unhappy men, of note enough to have
been spared, watched in grim silence the unlading of the spoils that
came from the sacking of their palaces. The great gates stood at their
widest, and through them wound a long train of soldiers, some driving
before them groups of prisoners, tightly chained together, others
galloping in laden with plunder of all kinds, art treasures, blackened
as if by fire, banners and suits of armor.
"Ah, Giannotto, look," cried Visconti, "_Della Scala's_ collection,
_Della Scala's_ jewels. How my treasury will be enriched! Only one thing
mars it, that he should not be here to see!"
He turned from the window. Giannotto followed, cringing.
"Still, thou hast his wife, my lord," he said. Gian's eyes flashed
afresh.
"Isotta d'Este--ah!"