it with much meaning, and promised her, smiling, Count Conrad's head as
a wedding gift. He had been closeted long with Giannotto; strangely
elated he had seemed, and Valentine shudderingly wondered what was in
the air.
That there was something she knew full well; Visconti was hatching some
stroke that would complete Della Scala's ruin. For some days she had
seen his purpose in his face, and to-day the alliance with the Pope
confirmed it.
She did not greatly care, she was too crushed with her own failures to
care much for the failure of another. She felt sorry for Isotta d'Este,
and bitter toward Count Conrad.
"But were I either of them, Prince Mastino or Count Conrad," she thought
in hot anger, "I would not _live_ to grace Visconti's triumph."
The sound of bells penetrated even into the hushed interior of the
church. As the service ended and Valentine rose to her feet, she heard
them burst into wild music; the dim, incensed air seemed troubled by
their triumphant throb, the gold tapestry to shake with it.
"Is it another victory?" murmured Valentine. The church had emptied, she
was alone in it save for two ladies kneeling motionless.
The monks swept out, with a swinging of incense and a low chanting. One
only remained, putting out candles about the altar.
Valentine closed her missal and turned to leave. The sun was streaming
through the gold and opal window in a dazzling shaft of light, it fell
over her face and blinded her for a second. The next, she looked round
to see the solitary monk behind her. His head was hidden in his cowl,
his arms folded, he passed her without looking up.
"Count Conrad is in Milan," he said, under his breath, and silently and
swiftly he was gone.
Valentine, hardly believing she had heard aright, gazed after him
wildly, then collecting herself, walked down the aisle, her brain on
fire.
Her ladies rose, in waiting, and under no excuse could she prolong her
stay.
"Count Conrad is in Milan!"
Did that mean that he would rescue her yet--was it Conrad himself who
spoke?
The thought was grateful to her sore, angry heart. She had not much
confidence in Count Conrad's skill nor his chances of success--still, he
was in Milan, he cared enough to have risked that, and she could wait.
After the dim church the sun was blinding, the crash of the bells
deafening. Valentine mounted her horse with a throbbing heart; that
whisper in the church had given her new life.
The soldiers formed up either side, behind and before; it would not have
been possible for her to drop even her glove unnoticed. She was riding
the streets of Milan as her brother's trophy, as his prisoner; every one
of those who bowed so humbly to her as she passed, every peasant her
guards thrust back from her path, was freer than she.
San' Apollinare was far from the palace, and for that reason Visconti
had chosen it. All Milan should see her ride to offer thanksgiving for
his victories.
"Surely there is more good news," said Costanza, as they crossed the
bridge that spanned the canal; "the air is full of rejoicing, and I have
seen many messengers spur past."
Valentine set her teeth, and looked between the spears of her escort at
the bright blue water beneath them. All the craft that covered its
surface were gay with flags, its depth reflected buildings hung with the
banners of the Viper.
"It fills the very air we breathe," shuddered Valentine, "the shadow of
the Viper."
Costanza glanced at her.
"I must confess," she replied, "I should be proud an it were my bearing.
To be a Visconti on such a day as this would please me well; and though
I am your friend, madama, I must say it."
"As do all the others," said Valentine, bitterly. "You are blinded by
splendor and power--you see no deeper than the skin!"
"Maybe," said the other lightly. "Yet am I glad the Duke hath triumphed,
and not Mastino della Scala, who is as sullen as a peasant, and a foe to
all display."
"And his wife?" asked Valentine in a low tone. "Have you no thought for
her?"
Costanza shrugged her shoulders.
"Methinks I have done much to show I have! But she is a prisoner of war,
and must take her chances like another. Were it the Visconti's wife in
such a case--she would not be a prisoner long! Let Mastino della Scala
tear her from his foe himself--let him do as Visconti did when the Lady
Graziosa was in danger."
"Hold thy tongue," returned Valentine angrily. "You talk as a child--you
know not what you say."
"I only know this," retorted the other, "I would _I_ were the Lady
Graziosa," and she looked defiantly at Visconti's angry sister.
"For shame, Costanza," said Valentine. "Remember yourself."
They rode in silence till, at the turn of the street, another splendid
cavalcade crossed theirs. It was the Lady Graziosa and her suite. Tisio
Visconti and d'Orleans were in attendance; she rode a white palfrey.
The sun lay tenderly in her soft hair; her green dress was covered with
pearls, and round her throat she wore the emeralds Visconti had promised
his sister, the first jewels in Italy, robbed from Della Scala.
Valentine noticed them, she noticed Graziosa's happy face, the joy she
took in the homage paid her, in Visconti's success that so galled her,
Visconti's sister, and a sudden purpose rose in her eyes.
She smiled sweetly on Graziosa, and rode up to d'Orleans; the Frenchman
remarked with pleasure how she outshone the Duke's betrothed. The deep
blue of her velvet robe made her skin appear of dazzling fairness, her
hair was like burnished gold, her mouth like a red flower, but her eyes,
for all her smile, as dangerous as Gian Maria's could be, as mad, almost
as wicked.
"We are well met, my lord," she said, smiling. "Have there been even
greater victories?"
"I know not, lady; they say something of Lucca having fallen," returned
d'Orleans. "I have been escorting the Lady Graziosa to view the new
church--by the Duke's orders"; he added in a lower tone, "could I have
chosen my companion, it had not been she."
Valentine listened with downcast eyes, playing with the rubies at her
wrist. Her escort was grouped about her, and Costanza glanced aside at
her curling lips with some mistrust.
"The Lady Graziosa is happier and fair to-day," she whispered to her
companion, and Valentine overheard and smiled the more.
"And my brother, the Duke?" she asked.
"I have not seen the Duke all day," replied the Frenchman. "There is
talk of an embassy to the enemy--confusion and crowds----"
"You have been riding Milan to see the rejoicings?" interrupted
Valentine, and she raised her eyes to Graziosa once--the glance was not
pleasant--then she fell to playing with her bracelet again.
"Yes," said Graziosa innocently. "My lord bade me ride to the new
church."
She was very happy, and affection welled up in her tender heart, even
for the woman who had used her so cruelly--for she was Gian's sister.
With a timid gesture she held out her little hand to Valentine.
"Will you not ride back beside me?" she asked, pleadingly.
But Valentine ignored her hand and her request.
"Have you visited any other churches in your ride?" she asked.
"What other church in Milan should interest the Lady Graziosa?" asked
d'Orleans wearily, fearing to be sent back on some distasteful journey.
"I did not know--I thought there might be one--Santa Maria, close to the
western gate."
And Valentine looked straight at Graziosa, who paled beneath her tone.
"How should that interest me?" she faltered.
Costanza put her hand on Valentine's sleeve.
"Have a care," she whispered. "Not before them all, madama, for pity's
sake!"
But Visconti's sister took no heed; she gathered up her reins and
signed to her escort to move on.
"Of course," she said, "why should it interest thee?--there is nothing
there--it is only a small, mean church, where a poor, obscure traitor
lies on his bier." She looked around the startled faces with a bitter
scorn on her own. "Who has heard of him?--one Agnolo Vistarnini--killed
by the Duke's orders, killed by thy lover's orders, in the very hour
that ye betrayed him to him, Graziosa Vistarnini!"
She flung the words at her as if they had been knives, and if they had
been they could not have been more deadly. Without a word, her hand
catching at her throat, Graziosa sank from her horse, the scene in an
instant one of confusion.
"Dieu! what have you done!" cried d'Orleans, springing from the saddle
and raising Graziosa. "Who will answer for this?"
"She will not die of it," said Valentine, scornfully. "She will take
care to live--to be Duchess of Milan."
"Oh, shame! shame!" cried Costanza, and several echoed the cry.
"'Twas no gentle act," said d'Orleans, lifting Graziosa, "and heaven
save you now, Princess!"
"And our heads may have to pay for it," grumbled the officer who led
Graziosa's escort. "Men, see the Princess does not escape, or there will
no one of us live to save ourselves."
"Shame! shame!" said the Duke again, as Graziosa, white as death, was
laid in a litter. "You have done a mad thing!" And the whole fluttering
cavalcade whirled in startled confusion toward the palace.
Valentine looked after them, and there was no remorse in her face.
"You must answer to the Duke for this, madama," said the officer, "and
at once."
She turned her horse slowly, and at a quiet pace rode toward the
Visconti palace. Costanza began to weep.
"Nothing can save you now, mistress--why did you do it? Oh, why!"
"Count Conrad is in Milan!" was Valentine's answer to herself; and to
Costanza she said, coldly, "Do not fear for me. I am too valuable to be
meddled with. Even a Visconti would not dare to slay his sister before
the Frenchman's eyes."
They entered the courtyard in silence, the soldiers forming up close
around her. The cavalcade had ridden slowly, and there was no trace of
Graziosa's arrival. The palace seemed quiet. Valentine dismounted as
usual, and was mounting the entrance steps when de Lana advanced.
"I have a painful duty to discharge, Princess," he said. "You are my
prisoner."
Valentine went white: she had not expected this so swiftly.
"The Lady Graziosa is in danger of her life," continued de Lana.
"'Tis no fault of mine," said Valentine. "What do you want with me?"
Costanza clung to her, weeping loudly.
"Have done!" said the soldier, sternly. "Follow behind your lady. You
will follow me, Princess."
"Seeing I cannot help it," retorted Valentine, with flaming cheeks.
"Where is my brother? Where is the Duke d'Orleans?" She looked round
once; from somewhere there stepped forward two of de Lana's men and took
their places at her side. She moved up the stair, Costanza with her,
weeping with fear.
The corridors were empty, save for the soldiers at their posts. De Lana
opened the door of the Duke's apartments and stood aside for her to
enter, but Valentine shrank back.
"'Tis the Duke's orders," said de Lana, and he moved Costanza back. "You
will enter alone."
Then Valentine summoned up her courage, and when she had passed the
door, de Lana followed and stood beside it.
Visconti was at the table, behind him Giannotto, and at her entrance he
raised such a white, distorted face of fury, that Valentine quailed and
sank back against the wall.
"Ah!" said Visconti, "I have it in my mind to kill you, my sister. I
have it in my mind to give myself that pleasure--to kill you."
He rose as he spoke, and Giannotto drew farther away from him, glancing
at Valentine with a white amazement; the Duke was bordering on frenzy.
"Oh," cried Visconti again, "so you have no more wits than Tisio: you
think, because it suited me that you should wed with d'Orleans, that you
are free to flout me at your will!"
"Now be silent," breathed de Lana to Valentine, who leaned against the
wall beside him.
"You!" said Visconti, stopping before her. "You!--to meddle with me--let
me lift my finger and I can bring you lower than any slave in Milan!"
"Silence!" breathed de Lana again. But Valentine had too much of her
brother's own spirit. The madness of the Visconti rose into her eyes;
she straightened herself and moved forward defiantly.
"Aye, or you can kill me," she said, "as you have the others; but you
cannot make me humble before your wife out of the streets."
Visconti stood stock still, and Giannotto, glancing at de Lana, wondered
if she were to be murdered before their eyes.
Under the look in her brother's face Valentine stepped back again and
huddled herself against the wall: she saw Visconti draw his dagger--and
she hid her eyes--but motionless and without a sound.
"I have had enough of you," said Visconti, and strode down upon her in a
white madness of fury, forgetful of all else. "I will clear you from my
path--yes, as I did the others." Then he looked at de Lana, and
something in the soldier's face told him he would have to kill him
first.
"And as I will any who oppose me," he cried, furiously. "Am I not the
Duke of Milan? Take thy hand from thy sword, de Lana. Now we will settle
scores, Valentine." His hand was lifted, Giannotto turned his face away,
and de Lana had thrown himself forward, when a light knock on the door
close by broke the moment's silence, and Visconti's hand sank to his
side.
"Open!" he cried. "It is the messenger from the Lady Graziosa," and de
Lana, eagerly seizing the interruption, flung wide the door.
Visconti looked up and met Valentine's eyes, and she knew how near she
was to death.
"My lord," said de Lana, returning, "the Lady Graziosa hath
recovered--there is no fear of her life, my lord."
"Ah!" Visconti returned his dagger to its sheath, and Giannotto gave a
gasp of relief.
"Take my sister to her apartments, de Lana, and guard her well
there--and if any ask for her, say she is under my displeasure----"
The captain turned, glad to take her from the room alive.
"Will you see the messenger, my lord?"
"No," said Visconti, fiercely. "As long as she lives, what care I for
the messenger?"
The soldier seized Valentine's wrist and forced her, still reluctant,
from the room. She was conquered, not subdued.
"If Graziosa dies," said Visconti, turning to Giannotto, "she does not
live either. You have heard me say it.--She and her woman's venom!" he
continued, pacing the room furiously. "I should have swept her away
sooner--I would now but for the French, and the French shall not save
her the next time. He is a fool, Giannotto, who thinks that because a
woman is a prisoner she is powerless--let him remember her tongue."
"My lord, she may have thought the lady knew," faltered Giannotto.
"Silence!" cried Visconti. "She may have thought I wanted to give Isotta
d'Este her liberty! Ah, let her beware! Graziosa, too; why did she not
tell her that she lied? Had I not said he lived? Has she no spirit--no
dignity--to shame me by her silence and her moans!"
The secretary ventured on no reply. He fumbled with the parchments on
the table and drew one forward. Visconti's glance fell on it and his
rage calmed instantly; his eyes flashed with a changed expression.
"These are the terms we sent to Della Scala?" he asked, with a sudden
smile.
"Yes, my lord; terms I think that cannot fail."
The Duke sat silent a while, and the smile deepened to a laugh.
"I disturb myself for a woman's quarrels," he said at last, "and am on
the eve of winning Lombardy!"
"The Estes may already have detached themselves from Della Scala, my
lord," said the secretary.
"We will hope not. They will cling to the losing cause, and Mastino
della Scala, the stainless knight, himself shall betray them!" smiled
Visconti, with such cruel wickedness that Giannotto shrank.
"You stand so strong after your victories, my lord," he said, "you
might well crush them all by force."
"Only I do not choose that way of doing it," replied the Duke, still
smiling. "I will accomplish a bloodless victory. I will spend no
treasure, no time, and no men on this conquest, but I will win from it,
not alone Della Scala's towns, but his honor and his fame."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
UNEQUAL ODDS
For days the sun had risen and set in cloudless splendor, hanging
through the long summer day in a sapphire sky, flooding the beautiful
country with gold, making the air heavy with perfume and sense of
summer.
Mastino della Scala, standing at the door of his tent, hardly saw the
glory and the brightness, the splendor of the great chestnuts, all deep
green and snowy white, the proud beauty of the heaped-up flowers, the
vivid richness of the foliage; for his heart was too sore for the finest
sun that ever shone to ease it.
He had waited long, and waited hopelessly.
In the tent behind him, Tomaso and a page polished his armor. For once
Mastino was without it--yesterday he had donned it, and waited expectant
for the answer to the challenge he could not believe Visconti could
refuse. It was his fault to think the best of men, a fault that had cost
him dear when he had trusted Count Conrad, a fault that had cost him the
insult now of Visconti's answer to his message.
"I have tried everything, and in everything I have been outwitted or
betrayed. I am helpless, powerless. Will it last unto the end?"
The thought burned across Mastino's heart like fire.
"Would it last unto the end?"
The dazzling sun blinded him, the waving of the green made him giddy; he
lifted the flap of the tent and entered.
After the glare the dark and gloom were welcome.
The tent was large and bare, only the two boys in their quiet dresses
and the bright armor strewn over the worn grass, only these and Ligozzi
seated near the entrance watching Mastino with anxious eyes.
Della Scala could not speak to him. He avoided his eyes, he had talked
to him so often on this one theme. He could not meet his friend's eyes,
so often humiliated with failure, with nothing but fresh disaster to
speak of.
In silence he paced up and down the tent, Ligozzi's eyes following him
wistfully. He also did not care to speak.
Mastino had left the entrance half open, and a great shaft of sunlight
fell across the ground like a branch of yellow flowers.
And as Della Scala passed it fell upon him, showing clearly his erect
figure in its leathern doublet, his fine worn face and the unhappiness
in his eyes, his hands locked behind his back.
The next instant he had passed into the shadow again, and Ligozzi leaned
from where he sat and shook the covering into place. Twice Mastino had
passed, twice he had seen the look on his face, and he did not care to
see it again.
The tent was hot.
Tomaso and the page laid the armor down in silence, overawed by the
silent figure pacing to and fro.
Outside it was quiet too, only now and then the gallop past of horses or
the tramp of men as they moved from one part of the field to another.
At last Mastino spoke, stopping before Ligozzi suddenly.
"I have not told thee yet," he said, "but a messenger has arrived from
d'Este. There have been some slight successes with his army, and he
thinks that I should join him."
"And leave Milan?"
"And leave Milan. He thinks it is hopeless, now Rome leagues with
Visconti--he thinks it better to hold what we have nor risk it all by
careless daring--but I--I shall stay here, Ligozzi."
Ligozzi was silent; he knew d'Este's words were true; he knew Mastino
knew it also. There was nothing to be said.
"I shall advance on Milan," continued Della Scala. "If the d'Estes'
troops care not to join me, I will advance alone with my Veronese."
He sat down on the wooden bench, fingering with nervous hands his gold
belt and the dagger that hung there.
"Why dost thou not speak?" he said, after a moment's pause, suddenly
turning to Ligozzi. "Dost thou too think it hopeless?"
There was a wistful eagerness in his voice that struck to Ligozzi's
heart; he could not utter his thought.
"With waiting, my lord," he replied. "With new allies----"
But Della Scala cut him short.
"I see, Ligozzi, I see. I am a man wanting to be persuaded against
himself; yet do I still hope--against myself----"
"To rescue----"
"To rescue my wife, wouldst thou say?" flashed Mastino. "No, I do not
_hope_ that: that I _will_ do--in my soul I know it; but I still hope to
conquer in fair fight. What did the attempt at guile avail us? We were
betrayed; open force were better."
Ligozzi's anger rose at the thought of that betrayal.
"I would I had the slaying of the traitors!" he cried.
Mastino smiled sadly.
"What were we to her? She loved, perchance. I should have done the
same--for Isotta."
"Thou wert ever too gentle, my lord," returned Ligozzi. "Could woman
love _Visconti_?"
"She loved some one of her own creating, I trow," said Della Scala.
"Poor lady! the awakening will be her punishment."
Ligozzi made no reply. Mastino's point of view was not his: in his eyes
Graziosa was a hussy he would have liked to have the hanging of.
"In two days or a little more, when I have had my answer from the
Estes," said Mastino, rising, "I march on Milan."
"But in those two days?" questioned Ligozzi.
"Visconti seems to have ceased all sallies," said Della Scala; "and yet
I know not what this quiet means."
"It means his policy was ever caution," returned Ligozzi. "Of a sudden
he may----"
"He may do anything," cried Mastino; "he hath Milan and Rome and the
Empire to back him. Still do I hold many towns. Verona is strongly
fortified; I lie between him and Mantua. He cannot fall on those."
"He has Padua, Bassano, Mestre, and Chioggia," said Ligozzi.
Mastino struck his hand against the tent impatiently.
"I know!" he cried. "I know the odds are not equal! When I seek to
comfort myself, why wilt thou remind me, Ligozzi? What can I do? Nothing
but what I say: march on Milan. And mark me, Ligozzi; whatever befall,
if all desert me to a man, if d'Este fail me, I will not leave the walls
of Milan--alive, without my wife."
"I will not desert thee," said Ligozzi simply. "I will never desert
thee, my lord."
"I never doubted thee," returned Mastino impulsively. "Ah, forgive me if
I am harsh, for in truth my heart is very heavy; when I think of her--in
Visconti's power--it is terrible! terrible!"
He shuddered and put his hand on Ligozzi's shoulder, speaking eagerly.
"Such things cannot happen, Ligozzi, can they? It cannot be I shall
never see her again! God cannot mean that--though He take all from me,
though He humiliate me before my enemy, He cannot mean that! No!
Visconti is not leagued with Heaven: it cannot be! it cannot be!"
"No," said Ligozzi; "even Visconti would not dare to harm the Duchess.
Ye will see her again, my lord."
Della Scala turned away to the other end of the tent; it was plain to
him Ligozzi's heart was not in the comfort that he gave, that he thought
with the others that they would do well to fall back from Milan, join
the Estes, and hold the towns they had.
"But they do not understand," said Mastino in his heart. "I will never
go back alive--without my wife."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE VIPER
The Duke of Milan had sent a secret embassy to Mastino della Scala,
lying crushed outside Milan--a secret embassy he had long been
meditating. The master-stroke of his policy should be the Duke of
Verona's ruin, and his complete triumph.
And the moment of his sending was well chosen. The two days of which
Mastino spoke had passed. The answer from d'Este at Novara had been
unfavorable. His plans, he said, were to march back to Modena and
Ferrara, protecting that part of Lombardy, held now by Julia Gonzaga's
men alone, against Visconti; he would wait for his army to come up; he
would wait for Mastino, but not long; his duty lay inside Modena and
Ferrara, not outside the hopeless walls of Milan.
And Mastino had set his teeth, and taken his answer in silence.
That night there was a wild attack on the walls of Milan, so sudden, so
fierce, that it almost seemed as if the ramparts must fall before the
furious onslaught.
For five hours the Veronese and the defenders had struggled on the
walls. Twice Mastino had wrenched the towers of the western gate from
the enemy's hand; twice he had been driven back, leaving his dead piled
high. A third desperate attempt had also been lost, and Della Scala fell
back toward Brescia with frightfully diminished numbers, and mad with
the agony of final defeat. His cause seemed hopeless. And in the moment
of his hopelessness Visconti's embassy arrived.
"Give Della Scala one day to consider," Visconti said to Giannotto, who
accompanied de Lana on this mission. "An if he mislikes the terms, say
thou art to carry them to Ippolito d'Este."